Of course, Lisera didn’t have a father standing by. She had them instead.
“Begone from here, you village rabble! You’re disturbing my customers.”
John turned to see an irritated merchant shooing away a pair of village children who’d made the mistake of lingering near his fruit stall. The kids’ mother protested hotly. “You have no right to call us such — this is our place of safety. The Chosen have decreed it to be so. We paid to come, and you should have long since departed!”
Similar quarrels had broken out in other areas. All in all, these merchants were a very different crew from the villagers. When one of the farmers gestured toward John in an obvious attempt to explain his Chosen status, the merchants displayed none of the obsequiousness that he’d witnessed at the inn. In fact, he was getting a definite vibe of resentment from them.
“I’m thinking that maybe we don’t want to advertise ourselves too loudly around here,” he suggested to Rodney, who blinked, unaware of the tension.
“Not quite as impressed by the Chosen as the villagers were?”
“Something like that.”
Any further conversation was cut off as the underlying noise level in the marketplace increased sharply. Storming in from all four entrances were men outfitted in leather uniforms, reminiscent of Wraith soldiers. The metal breastplate was an innovative addition, and the animal horns on the men’s helmets added a distinctly Norse twist. More attention-grabbing was the fact that each warrior carried a leather bola in one hand and a double-bladed axe with a long handle in the other.
John had three thoughts in response to this dramatic display. The first was that those axes looked damn heavy, and that the men wielding them were even more muscular than the villagers. The second was that unless the Wraith had brought can-openers with them, the chest armor was likely an effective deterrent to snacking. And the third was the vain hope that these guys hadn’t shown up because of his team.
Behind them, a sound signaled the reactivation of the transport, and an imperious but oddly pitched voice shouted above the clanking of metal. “Wraithcraft. There are Wraith objects among us!”
The pathways between the stalls cleared rapidly to let the warriors through. John turned back toward the opening doors of the transport and got a look at the person doing the yelling. Despite the gravity of the situation, he had to bite down hard to keep a smirk off his face. The guy, walking out of the transport ahead of an incoming bunch of yet more villagers, was the walking definition of ‘overdressed.’ The cape of striped fur fastened at his shoulder with an elaborate gold pin contrasted sharply with their generally grimy surroundings. On his head was a winged helmet and around his neck hung a thick gold chain, from which dangled a familiar looking pendant about the size of a child’s fist.
“Oh, man,” Ford said. “This guy dresses worse than a Goa’uld.”
Not having had the pleasure of a Goa’uld encounter, John didn’t have much of a basis for comparison, but it sounded good. There was a fair amount of déjà vu involved here. The thing around the guy’s neck looked remarkably like the personal shield device that Rodney had discovered their first week in Atlantis. Then, almost as an afterthought, it hit him: the crystal inside the pendant was glowing. Not green this time, but the same hue as the ‘gate chevrons.
There weren’t all that many coincidences in this galaxy, so this was yet another avenue they’d need to investigate. Later, though, for a whole new wave of panic was now sweeping across the marketplace.
“Wraithcraft!” bellowed the robed man, his hands waving furiously in the air. The timbre of his voice carried easily above the murmurs of the crowd, even as they grew in intensity. “Who defiles Dalera’s Citadel by bringing Wraith objects here?”
“They tricked us!” That shrill cry came from the same woman who had given John her gold coins only minutes before. The cynical part of his brain knew what was coming even before she stabbed one gaunt finger in his direction. “They are not Chosen. They do not wear the Shields of Dalera.”
“They must be Wraith disguised to walk among us,” accused another voice. “They have used Wraith trickery to penetrate the Citadel!”
Terrific. Help a few hundred people avoid a culling, and this is the thanks you get.
Ford sprang up from his position near Lisera to join his teammates, and John appreciated his instincts. Getting separated would definitely not help matters. “Hey, hold up a minute,” he tried to yell over the din, but that turned out to be a fairly useless effort.
People and voices swarmed accusingly around them. The Valkyrie-helmeted guy advanced, his features distorted into a snarl of rage. His axe-wielding buddies formed a barricade around John and his teammates that effectively pinned them against the nearby wall. Behind the row of axes, the merchants egged the warriors on, joined enthusiastically by some of the villagers.
“Did we or did we not just save those guys’ asses?” John demanded, tightening his grip on his weapon.
“Preaching to the converted, Major.” Rodney’s glib remark was belied by the unrestrained dread in his eyes. “A little on the mercurial side, these folks.”
“Kill them!” shouted a fisherman.
“Quarter them!”
Lesson learned, John thought as the axe-men edged closer to his team. Next time you come upon an Ancient device, assuming there is a next time, keep your hands to yourself.
Chapter Four
Comprehension struck, and Rodney fumbled with the switch on his radio. “Turn off everything!” He yanked the sensor from his jacket.
“What?” Sheppard called back, raising his P-90. “Okay, everyone, we don’t want any trouble here.”
Was it courage or idiocy that allowed the Major to sound so reasonable when they were about to be hacked to pieces by a crazed mob? Had to be the latter, right? “Turn off every piece of technology that you have. Life sign detectors, radios, everything.” Rodney cursed under his breath. He should have seen this coming. Hell, he halfway did see it coming, but halfway didn’t count, and where in blazes was the switch to this thing?
“Take care, Kesun,” shouted Balzar, backing away from the prostrate Lisera and the P-90 that Lieutenant Ford was pointing into his face. “Their weapons spit fire that passes through even hardened metal.”
“Blasphemy!” cried a cowering merchant. “Kesun is of the Chosen. He will protect us.”
Face screwed up in obvious confusion, Ford shot a swift glance at Rodney. “What’s the point in turning off our radios? They’re not working, anyway.”
“Turn off everything or we’re dead!” Rodney ripped out the tiny power pack of the sensor, and then, pulling off his backpack, scrambled through the contents. What else had he switched on, and what had possessed him to drag around all this equipment in the first place?
“Kill them!” A woman’s screeches spurred the warriors on. “Before they kill us as they killed my children.”
From the corner of his eye, Rodney could see the armed men advancing. This was not good. In fact, this was very, very bad.
“Do it.” Sheppard switched off his radio and the life sign detector with one hand, the other still aiming his weapon. The shouting increased. “We’re not Wraith, but we will defend ourselves,” he announced, his tone a deadly matter-of-fact.
Rodney was too busy ripping power packs and batteries from assorted equipment, Ancient and Earth related, to see exactly what happened next, but someone must have decided Teyla appeared the easiest target. That was an incredibly big mistake. The next moment, her legs and arms were flailing. An ornate blade passed mere inches above his head to bury itself with a solid ‘thunk’ into one of the timber columns. Then his ears were being hammered by the staccato noise of a P-90. Muzzle flashes lit the dank interior of the marketplace. He ducked low, crouching protectively over his pack. Maybe the instruments were currently useless, but they were valuable nonetheless. With access to Earth impossible until they found a ZPM, he wouldn’t be able to replace them any time soon.