Finally, though, I had written down all the letter equivalents and I couldn't put it off any longer. I stayed hunched over the parchment, my hands spread flat on the table, trying to grip into the plywood as I read the translated words.
H-e-y P-a-u-l g-e-t i-n t-o-u-c-h I-v-e I-o-s-t y-o-u-r address. Or, to give it the proper emphatic delivery: "Hey, Paul! Get in touch! I've lost your address!"
I could almost hear Matt's voice saying those words, and I swear my nails bit into the plywood. What kind of a lousy joke was this?
Friend? You call that a friend? First he leaves town without a word, and then he sends me this?
I was just realizing that he couldn't have sent it, when I felt the pain in the back of my hand.
"Damn!" I snatched it back, saw the little red dot in the center, then the big fat spider standing there with that big wide grin painted on its abdomen, and so help me, it was laughing at me. Anger churned up, but the room was already getting fuzzy. Still, I tried to hang on to that anger, tried to lift a hand to swat-the blasted thing had no right to ...
But before I could even finish the thought, the haze thickened, wrapped itself around me like a cool blanket, rolled itself up, and bore me away to someplace dim and distant, and I almost managed to stay conscious.
Chapter Two
When I came to, the mist was gone, and I felt amazingly well. I mean, I had never felt that whole, that healthy, since I was a kid-and I hadn't been aware of it then, of course. it was like waking up on an April day, with the air fresh and warming from the night's chill, and the sun painting the day in primaries as you watch, and knowing it's your birthday.
But it wasn't April, it was November, and I was inside Matt's apartment. Only I wasn't, I was out in the open-and it wasn't November any more, it really was April. Either that, or it was Florida. Florida, with mountains stabbing up from the horizon? And not gently rounded mountains, like the Appalachians, but jagged granite obelisks, with snow on top?
Of course, they were off in the distance. Close by, all I could see was a field of wheat, with two or three little hedges cutting it into odd shapes. Whoever lived here, they could use some lessons in geometry.
I was just beginning to wonder how I'd come here, when I saw the knight.
Well, I knew about the Society for Creative Anachronism, of course, but I also knew they didn't go in for tilting, and this guy was carrying one of the most authentic lances I could have imagined. Plus, he was riding a Percheron - and I don't know any SCA types who could afford the upkeep on a pony, let alone a beerwagon bronc. And, of course, there were the half-dozen men on foot behind him, all wearing more or less the same combination of brown and gray, with steel bands glinting on their hats and long spears in their hands. They raised a whoop and pointed at me. The knight turned to look.
He saw me and perked up right away-dropped the point of the lance to horizontal, aimed the warhorse at me, and kicked it into a gallop. Must have been the long hair and the beard. Mine, I mean. Either that, or he had something against blue jeans and chambray. His men raised another whoop and came pelting after him like children hearing the bells on an ice cream truck. I just stood there, staring at all that scrap iron and horse meat thundering down at me, trying very, very hard not to believe any of it.
Then I realized the tip of the lance had come close enough so that I could see it was sharp and made of steel, and I had to believe that much. I jumped aside. The rider tried to swerve, bellowing some nasty things, but his Percheron didn't have that tight a turning radius, and he went crashing into the underbrush.
Underbrush?
I whirled around and, sure enough, there it was, just stunted trees and bushes, a little thicket in the middle of all those fields, presumably where the ground was too poor to grow anything. Or maybe around a creek-I braced myself, hoping to hear a splash. Instead, I heard a crack that filled my whole head, along with a piercing pain. The scene went dark for an instant, then came back full of bright little shiny lights. I would have fallen down, but a big rough hand was holding me up by the arm while a voice guffawed, "He is nothing, only a scrap of skin and bone! Here, Heinrich, you try him!"
And I was spinning and staggering across the grass, dazed and amazed to realize I could understand the words, though I knew damned well they weren't English.
Then I slammed into something else meaty and with foul breath. He slammed a fist into my gut. I doubled over, my stomach trying to climb up my throat, and a huge bellow of laughter filled my ears. Then something hard slammed into my bottom, and I heard another nasty laugh. I moved my legs fast, just barely managing to catch up with my top half in time to keep from falling-but behind me, I heard an outraged shout. "It was not your turn, Rudolf! Remember your place!" Then I slammed into another wall of leather and sweat that made an evil laugh and pushed me back far enough so that I could see the fist swinging at me. Reflex finally took over, and I squirmed aside so that the fist hit my shoulder, not my head. It spun me around enough so that I could see Heinrich belting Rudolf one. Rudy went down to his knees and stayed there, rubbing his chin-and behind them, the knight was sitting his horse with his visor up, nodding and laughing. Then another tough snarled, "My turn!" and grabbed me. But another clunk grabbed my other arm and yanked back. I yowled, but I could still hear him bellowing, "Take a lower place, Gustang! I will not be forborne!" And he swung a quick left hook into Gustang's gut.
I couldn't believe it. Not only were they beating up a total stranger, just for fun-they were fighting over me, too, about the pecking order.
But the wrangling had taken just long enough for me to collect a little bit of my wits, and it was the part that held the memory of my karate training. What would I have told my teacher, if he'd been here?
"Sorry, Sensei, I was watching the scenery?" Sure. Time to remember I was a trained killer. I'd never killed anything larger than a mouse, of course, and that was only with a trap-but that didn't change the training.
I spun around, slamming into the guy who had my arm and snaking my leg around his in the process, shoving and kicking back. Down he went, and I spun to the next one, who was so surprised he was slow getting his guard up-only it wasn't a guard, he was just swinging at me, not even trying to block. I ducked and kicked, and he went down.
The other four finally woke up to what I was doing and fell on me with an outraged roar. I sidestepped, ducked, punched, whirled, and kicked, recovered and chopped. The adrenaline was singing, and if I was bruised and groggy, I didn't realize it. Two of them were down, and the other two hesitated, uncertain-at a guess, I decided they weren't used to having their toys play back.
Then the knight shouted and slammed down his visor-obviously time to restore a little order here. His men relaxed, stepping back and leaving it to Papa.
All the outrage I felt boiled up as I saw the Percheron plodding forward and beginning to pick up speed. This was no way to treat a stranger, at least one who hadn't even offered an insult! As the huge beast lumbered into a trot, I shouted, "What are you doing, jumping a stranger just going his way? Are you out of your brains, have you nothing but hay? Do you have any sanity? Any common humanity? You should feel what it's like to be crashed up this way! " The huge horse tripped. It tumbled. It hit the ground hard and rolled. The knight bellowed in alarm, and just managed to kick free at the last instant.
I stared.
So did his men.
Then somebody hissed, "Zabreur!" and the knight began to kick his arms and legs-he was on his back, trying to turn over.