“Will she never come?” muttered his son Arrow.
Lockridge felt strained near breaking. He had no guarantee of success. One energy gun could scatter a host, and the thing that weighed in his hand was matched against two.
Feet thudded from Avildaro. A dozen Yuthoaz burst into view out of the fog. Their weapons were aloft and their faces furious. At their head ran Hu.
I’m not goin’ to kill you this time, Lockridge thought with a shiver.
The Warden jarred to a halt. His pistol lifted.
The same weapon flared in Lockridge’s grasp, upon itself. Red, green, yellow, deathly blue, fire sleeted. The Yuthoaz flung themselves on the Britons, who scattered back in supernatural dread.
“Koriach!” Hu shouted above the crashing energies. “They are Rangers!”
He did not know Lockridge in the man who confronted him. And within this hour, he would lie dead before the Long House. Lockridge stood frozen with the terror of it. Hu stepped closer. A Yutho howled and swung his tomahawk. The hillman who had spoken of oaths fell before him.
That broke Lockridge’s paralysis. “Westhaven men!” he yelled. “Strike for your kindred!”
Arrow bounded forth. His bronze sword flashed in the fires, drove home and came back bloody. Hawk took a blow on his helmet, which belled like his own laughter as he struck. Their brothers, Herdsman and Sun Beloved, rallied to them; and so did the rest. They outnumbered the Battle Axe men. Short and unmerciful was that fight.
Lockridge drew blade on Hu. The Warden saw his troop go down, lifted off the ground, and was lost in the mists. Above the war in the fields, he could be heard shrieking for Storm.
So she took another route. She’s out yonder, Lockridge thought. “This way!”
He came onto the meadows. A chariot careened by, aimed for a line of his men. Trained by him, they stood fast until the wheels were almost upon them, then parted, and smote the chieftain from the sides. Masterless, the horses ran into twilight and were lost. The Britons charged those Yuthoaz who followed on foot. To Lockridge it was all a shadow play. He hunted for Storm.
Over the stricken field he went with his band. From time to time he saw a piece of the battle. A Yutho dashed out the brains of a Westhaven warrior, and was cut to pieces by an Iberian. Two men rolled in the mud like dogs, seeking each other’s throats. A boy named Thuno sprawled in blood, eyes turned empty to the hidden sky. Lockridge hurried past. His scabbard slapped his leg. Helmet and corselet grew heavy upon him.
After some part of eternity, he heard cries. A group of his people loped by, lips set against panic. He hailed their leader. “We met her, at the edge of town,” the tribesman gasped. “Her flames slew three before we could get away.”
They had not bolted, though. They were following his instructions to retreat and seek another opponent. Lockridge sped the way they had come.
First he heard her voice: “You and you and you. Find the clan’s chiefs. Have them come to me. I shall abide here, and when we have conferred and brought some order into our ranks, we shall destroy these sea bandits.” Her voice was husky and lovely.
He advanced into the clouds. They seemed to part, and she was there.
Several Yuthoaz were at her side. Horses stamped before the one chariot, where Withucar stood with halberd ready. But Storm was alone, ahead of them. She had thrown no more than a tunic across her huntress body, and the moon crescent on her brows. The hair gleamed wet in what light remained, the countenance was vivid with life. He fired on her.
She was too quick. Her shield went up. Rage upon rage, the energies spent each other in flame.
“Ranger,” she called across the roaring fearsome beauty of rainbows, “come and be slain.” Because he wore his diaglossas, for the first time in many years, Lockridge understood. He moved nearer.
Her Valkyrie face broke in horror. “Malcolm!” she screamed. His sons egged on their men. Sword, spear, and tomahawk flew free.
From the edge of an eye, Lockridge saw Withucar swing his long axe down upon Hawk. The boy dodged, sprang up onto the chariot, and stabbed. Withucar’s half-grown driver cast himself between the blade and his lord. As he crumpled, the chief drew a stone knife. Hawk could not pull his weapon out in time. He threw arms around the redbeard. They tumbled off and fought by the wheels.
Elsewhere, the Westhaven men closed. They met brave, skilled foes who stood fast, shield to shield, blow for blow. Battle shocked the darkening air.
“Oh, Malcolm,” Storm sobbed, “what has time done to you?”
He could only be remorseless, advance on her with gun in one hand and the other one free that should have held a sword. At any moment she could flit off like Hu. But her men were being driven back by greater numbers. She retreated with them. Lockridge could not get to her, in the ruck that boiled around. When a space opened briefly between them, he and she made defence, and flames crowned her. Otherwise the grunting, panting, bestial struggle held them apart.
In among the huts they moved. The Long House appeared, black above roofs.
Abruptly, Arrow and Sun Beloved crashed through the Yutho line. Their feet spurned the men they had killed. Whirling about, they cut from behind. Their folk poured through the gap. The fight broke into knots, back and forth between those humble walls.
Lockridge saw Storm before him. He leaped. So bright grew the radiance that they were both momentarily blinded. His hand chopped in a many-coloured darkness. She cried in pain. He felt her gun spin loose. Before she could take off, he had dropped his own weapon and seized her.
They went to earth. She fought with hands, nails, knees, teeth, till blood runneled down his skin. But he pinned her beneath his weight and metal. The dazzle cleared from his eyes. He looked into hers. She lifted her head and kissed him. “No,” he choked.
“Malcolm,” she said, her breath quick upon him, “I can make you young again, immortal, with me.” He voiced an oath. “I’m Auri’s man.”
“Are you?” She lay suddenly calm in his grasp. “Then draw your sword.”
“You know I can’t do that.” He got up, removed her belt, helped her to her feet and kept her arms pinned behind her back. She smiled and leaned close.
The fight had ended around them. When they saw their Goddess taken, such of the Yuthoaz as still could threw down their axes and fled. Wounded men ululated on the earth.
“We have the witch,” Lockridge said. It sounded in his ears like a stranger talking. “Now only her warriors remain.”
His sons approached, glaives ready. He felt ashamed of being no happier than he was to see Hawk with them. He let Storm go. Bruised, smeared, and captive, she looked imperially at them all and said, “Is this the destiny you want?” But she spoke in English.
Lockridge couldn’t meet that gaze, he dropped his own and sighed, “It’s the one I’ve got.”
“Do you imagine for a minute you can escape revenge?”
“Yes. When they don’t hear from you, of course your spies will come to learn what happened. They won’t find you. They’ll hear about a raid where you evidently perished: not Ranger work, as far as they can tell from the confused native accounts, just an attack by an ambitious chalcolithic chief who’d heard Jutland was in trouble and saw his chance and was so lucky that stray arrows got you and Hu before you could drive him off. More than ever, your successors will think this is a bad period to meddle with. They’ve got plenty to do elsewhere and elsewhen; they’ll leave us alone.”
Storm stood quiet a while. “You read shrewdly, Malcolm,” she said at last. “What a hero you could be for us.”
“I’m not interested,” he said without force.
She straightened her garment until it clung. “But what will you do with me?” she murmured.
“I don’t know,” he said in his trouble. “As long as you’re alive, you’re a mortal danger. But I . . . I can’t hurt you. I’m so thankful you came through this business that—” He blinked hard. “Maybe we can hide you someplace,” he said roughly. “In honour.”