“Why do you break the peace that my king has made with your Council?”
“We avenge past wrongs,” Strong-Arm said. “We wish to take back what is ours.”
“This is not yours. It is ours, by sacred treaty. You anger both your peoples and mine to break that treaty. The sachems of the Great Council would not think ill of me if I hung you by a rope until you were dead for violating that trust.
“But I will not do that,” Champlain said. “Much blood has been shed here. I will set you free, and send you back to your people to tell them the story of what has been done here. They will think me generous for having granted you your life, and will think me strong for having defended the place belonging to the Onontio. They can take that as a warning not to do it again.” He gestured, and a soldier stepped forward and cut the bonds that held Strong-Arm’s wrists.
Strong-Arm rubbed his hands to give them back their feeling, then took a single step forward. Three soldiers immediately stepped in his way, but Champlain waved them aside.
Orenda, Strong-Arm thought.
Warily, the soldiers stepped back. Strong-Arm took another step and reached out his hand to touch Champlain’s severed ear.
“Your God saved you at Sorel,” Strong-Arm said. “My father told me of this.”
“Tell your people that my God is strong, and that the Onontio is strong. And soon, with God’s help, he will be yet stronger. The other kings across the Great Water have yielded to him, and soon there will be no others to trouble you.”
Strong-Arm stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest. “How do I know that you tell the truth?”
“I have never lied to the people of the Five Nations,” Champlain said. “Unlike some who have come among you…spreading that which is false.”
“Such as?”
“Rumors of my death,” Champlain answered. “You went to war because you thought I was dying.”
Strong-Arm again was silent, but he began to understand. Someone had told Walks-In-Deep-Woods that Champlain was on his deathbed, and the wily old shaman had taken credit for it.
And Strong-Arm had believed it. Brave warriors lay dead because Strong-Arm had believed it, and had not heeded the words of the wise old chief Swift-As-Deer.
“I will bring your words to my people,” Strong-Arm said at last. “I will say to them what you say to me.”
And I will say more, he thought to himself. I will say much more.
6
Strong-Arm did not hesitate this time before entering the tent of Walks-In-Deep-Woods. The shaman sensed his anger and looked alarmed, but did not attempt to get to his feet.
“How may I be of service, mighty chief?” he asked, touching his thumbs to his forehead.
“Stand and walk,” Strong-Arm said. “Walk out of this camp and do not turn back.”
“I do not understand.”
“Understand this, you snake,” he said. “I shall burn this tent, and everything in it-including you — if you do not heed my words. You will leave the Oneida. Go wherever you wish. But if your shadow is seen in Oneida lands again, I will kill you. Slowly.”
Walks-In-Deep-Woods scrambled to his feet, perhaps realizing for the first time that Strong-Arm’s anger was genuine-and dangerous. In his haste he disturbed the blankets in his sleeping-place, and Strong-Arm saw something peeking out from under it: a bundle of paper, hidden among the other bits and pieces of the shaman’s art.
He pushed past the shaman, nearly knocking him off his feet, and picked up the bundle. “What is this?”
“It is-well, you see-”
“This is white man’s work.” He touched the pages in turn: there were many letters, and a single picture-of a man with the hair and beard of a Frenchman, next to a pattern…something familiar…
A banner. With the flowers of France.
“Can you read this? Is this your-your death medicine, old snake?”
“No. Yes. I-please, mighty chief!” he said as Strong-Arm grasped the necklaces at his throat and twisted them tight.
“You sent us to our death,” he said, and shoved Walks-In-Deep-Woods onto his back. The old man looked genuinely terrified now.
He took the papers and tossed them into the fire, then turned his back on Walks-In-Deep-Woods.
“Run,” he said. “Or burn. I do not care. I must go and tell my people the words of the great chief Champlain.”
“Champlain,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods managed. “He-he lives?”
Strong-Arm did not favor the old shaman with an answer, but left the tent.
After a moment, Walks-In-Deep-Woods could see the light of torches coming closer.
Eric Flint
Ring of Fire III
And the Devil Will Drag You Under
Walt Boyes
Georg Schuler groaned. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to still the pounding and stabbing inside his head.
“Aaaaah!” he groaned.
He opened his eyes, closed them again, and slitted them open. All he could see was a gigantic horse turd that his face was pushed into. He raised himself up on his arms, and slowly levered himself into a kneeling position. He had been lying face down in a puddle of slime and a large pile of horse manure, relatively fresh.
Worse, yet, it was morning. And from the noise from the street at the end of the alley, he was late for work. Georg staggered to his feet, and wound up braced against a wall. He wiped the manure off his face with his hand, and wiped the hand on his already sodden shirt.
“I smell like shit,” he muttered aloud, “which is just wunderbar, and I feel like it, too.”
Georg waited until the world stopped spinning, and then walked unsteadily to the mouth of the alley. The bright light from the sun caused him to stop, close his eyes and wait until they adjusted. His head throbbed.
“Let’s get it over with,” he announced to the uncaring passersby who were giving him wide berth on the street.
“Schuler! Komm hier, schnell! ”
So much for sneaking into work, Georg thought. He turned and walked to the office door from which the bellow had come.
“ Ja, Ich komme,” he said to the tiny office’s occupant. “Yes, boss, what did you want?”
“The innocent act won’t wash, Schuler,” Gerhard Mann said, looking him up and down. Mann was a huge man, well over six feet, and brawny. He had been a blacksmith until he read about up-timer production techniques and realized that one of the biggest needs in Magdeburg for a long time to come would be nails. Mann just barely fit behind the desk, and as he stood, he knocked some papers to the floor.
“You’re hungover, you’re still drunk, you’re covered with horseshit, and you are full of it, too. This is the third time in a week you’ve showed up late like this. Here’s your final pay. You’re fired.”
Mann threw some coins at him, and Georg scrambled to pick them up off the floor. He didn’t bother to argue. Besides, Mann was right. What did the up-timers say? What was their word? Loser, Lo-oo-ser. That’s it. Well, I am.
Schuler headed out the door, turned down the street, and looked for the nearest Bierstube. Ah, there was one. Since he had money, he might as well drink it.
He walked into the place, and went up to the bar. The tavernkeeper looked at him, as he walked down the bar toward Georg.
“You stink. Let’s see your money.”
Georg slapped a coin on the bar.
“There. See, I have money! Bier, bitte! ”
“Fine, but you stink too much to have in here for long. I’ll give you one beer. After that you leave.” The tavernkeeper palmed the coin, and moved to a tap. He filled a stein and set it down in front of Georg.
“Drink up, and then get out.” The tavernkeeper turned away, moved to the far end of the bar, and began drying drinking cups.
Georg upended his beer, downed it, and turned toward the door. There was a commotion outside, and what sounded like music. Georg headed outside, and stopped stock still.