A Sterkarm Tryst Read online

  “He says—” Was there a smirk on Gareth’s wee face? “He says, ‘How many sweet strawberries grow in the salt sea?’”

  Patterson, not understanding, gave Gareth a long intimidating glare to gain time.

  Gareth shrank a little. “That’s what he said. You asked why his dog’s here, and he said, ‘How many—?’”

  Patterson turned his glower on Per Sterkarm, who, immune to it, smiled pleasantly before taking his horse’s reins, turning the broad of his back on Patterson, and walking away.

  Dismissed!

  Per Sterkarm-B

  Per led Fowl, still blindfolded, to where Sweet Milk crooned to his own mare, Blossom. Fowl shivered, but was almost calm now. He and Per trusted each other, and Fowl was slowly accepting that if Per didn’t fear this strange place, with all its loud, sudden noises, then neither should he. Cuddy, less nervous, trotted at Per’s side, glancing at the Elf-Carts, flicking an ear at a shout—but then looking up at Per with her tongue hanging over her teeth. So long as she was with Per, little else troubled her.

  Per, glancing down at her, wished he could be so trusting himself.

  Sweet Milk, Per’s foster father, didn’t smile at his approach, but then, Sweet Milk rarely smiled. He was a big man, taller and broader than most, and known for his long silences. He gave barely a nod toward Patterson and raised his brows slightly.

  “Ha!” Per said. “He asked why I brought Cuddy with me. I said, how many sweet strawberries grow in salt sea?”

  One stupid, pointless question deserved another. The grooves at the corners of Sweet Milk’s deepened in what was, for him, a laugh. He said, “I told thee.”

  “Ach,” Per said. “Without Cuddy, I’d have no better company than thee.” As if suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Fowl’s shoulder.

  Sweet Milk squeezed the back of Per’s neck. Behind them, in their own world, they’d left their people at feud and Toorkild Sterkarm dead, butchered by their enemies, the Grannams. Treacherously butchered.

  The Elves had tried to do the impossible and broker a peace between the Sterkarms and Grannams by marrying Per Sterkarm to Joan Grannam, daughter and heir of Richie Grannam, who called himself Laird Brackenhill.

  The Grannams’ smiles had fooled even the Elves; but in the darkness of the wedding night, they’d attacked, injuring many, including Per’s mother, Isobel. They’d killed his father, Toorkild.

  Per was The Sterkarm now, in his father’s place: holder of the Bedesdale Tower and the loyalty of the Sterkarm riders. If he could keep them.

  The murder of a loved one created a debt, payable only in blood. Per had repaid that debt, in part, by slitting Joan Grannam’s throat beside his father’s grave and throwing her body aside to rot unburied. Later, with the Elves’ help, they’d broken the Grannam Tower and had carried home the head of Richie Grannam’s sister.

  At that, Sweet Milk had considered the blood debt paid—but then, he hadn’t felt for his own father what Per had felt for his. For Per, against the enormity of his father’s murder, the Grannam deaths amounted to no more than a speck of blood on a sleeve. His anger fed his grief, his grief fed his anger, and both had sharp claws.

  The Elves had suggested a bargain. If Per led a ride through the Elf-Gate, and fought Elf-Windsor’s enemies in Elf-Land, then the Elves would help him destroy every last Grannam: every Grannam man, Grannam woman, and Grannam child who might otherwise grow up to breed Grannams. Per had accepted. For him, only when the last Grannam was dead would the blood debt be cleared.

  Sweet Milk loosed the boy’s neck. He thought that when all this killing was done, Per would be angrier and sadder than ever. But he knew that he would not listen. So, here they were. And Per was trying to joke, trying to lead, trying to show no weakness or weariness, when all the time, Sweet Milk saw, he wanted to sit down and cry for his daddy.

  Patterson

  As Per Sterkarm strolled away, Patterson saw dumb insolence in every line of his back.

  Before he could think what, if anything, to do about it, up breezed James Windsor, all oily quiff and tailored suit. Looking around at the men from both worlds, he said, “Victory within our grasp!”

  Patterson thought, Yeah, sure, when we’ve gone through there and lived rough for weeks, while you have it cushty back here; when we’ve yomped our arses off, and knocked over a few scallywags trying to kill us—yeah, after that we might have something you might call “victory.” Of sorts.

  They’d be armed with rocket launchers, going up against people armed with longbows. Their mission was terror: to destroy Sterkarm homes, animals, food stores, and the crops standing in their fields just before harvest, so that when winter came, they’d be starving in the cold open air. Hell yes, they were going to have a famous victory.

  But, hey, it was better than working. Some poor souls had to wade in sewers for a living. Imagine.

  2

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Andrea and Per May

  Per May closed his eyes and clung to his Elf-May. She had come back to him from beyond World’s End.

  His last memory of her had tormented him. She had shoved him from her and run back through the Elf-Gate into her own world of glass towers and countless carts that moved by themselves. He’d known he would never see her again.

  Nearly two years had turned since then, and the place where she’d torn herself from his heart was still sore. Other women only showed him more keenly what he missed. His bed was lonely without her, the lying down and the rising up, lonely. Longing was made of a stronger stuff than steel, it seemed. It never blunted or wore out.

  Earlier that day, he’d been rounding up cattle in the hill pastures, to drive them down to the home meadows before winter. Children had come running from the tower, shouting that the Elf-Gate had opened again and the Elves were back. On hearing this, his first thought had been of her. Not of the danger, not of his family, but of her. The memory of her had struck as hard and sudden as an arrow, making him catch his breath.

  He’d known it was wishful thinking. If the Elves had come back, it did not mean she had. He’d crushed down all hopes and thought only of business. It wasn’t hard to guess why the Elves had returned. Revenge. He’d burned their tower and raided their world.

  He’d led his men back to the tower, found fresh horses in the meadows, and rode out to search the hills for Elves. He’d even brought Elfie-Joe, who could barely stay in the saddle and suffered at every hoof tread. But Elfie knew the Elves, and could speak Elf. He would be useful.

  Per’s father, Toorkild, had ridden out before him, since word had come to the tower first. Per led his ride toward the place where the Elf-Gate had last sprung out of the air, going by long and curving ways, across streams, in and out of small valleys, by moorland paths.

  Two of his scouts had come cantering back with word of a woman, alone and seeming lost, dressed in Elvish clothes. They suspected a trap and so did Per. Elves could glamour themselves to any appearance, so this lone woman was surely, in reality, an armed Elf-man—or even a whole troop of Elf-soldiers.

  They had made a cautious approach to the small dale where the woman had been seen.

  Per called Elfie-Joe forward in case he was needed. And then the woman had called out, declaring herself the Elf-May, Andrea.

  Per’s breath left him. His greatest hope and fear, crying out in a woman’s voice he knew well. A trap! Between hope and fear, his heart beat on his ribs like a blacksmith hammering iron.

  Elfie-Joe proved his worth by calling out and asking the woman if she knew who he was. A test.

  There had been a long wait, smothering Per’s hopes. It was almost a relief. If Andrea had not returned, he could not lose her again. The deep silence of the hills fell back around them, so the snort of a horse was enough to make him jump.

  Then the
woman had cried out, seemingly excited, asking was that Joe?

  Why the delay? Had the disguised Elf used its far-talk to ask other Elves what it should say? But then the woman’s voice had called out in English, not Elf. “Air day thu, Joe? Be that thou, Joe?” And at the sound of that voice, speaking his language, Per’s body had known, even if his mind still doubted. His body set heels to his horse, sending it forward, seeking a way down into the valley. Behind him, with a creak of leather and a soft clopping of hooves, his men followed.

  He told himself he would not be fooled. He would ask this Elf what his last words to Andrea had been. He remembered them so clearly that the muscles in his face and throat twitched to them. If this Elf didn’t know them, then—

  As the ground sloped down, the woman came into view, her long light brown hair blown around her head and shoulders. A little closer, and he saw her face—and not its beauty only, but its expression, her being shaping it and looking out of it. His rising heartbeat knew. The impossible had happened. His greatest wish, which he had known was too much to hope for, had come true. She had given up the luxuries of Elf-Land and come back to him.

  He’d thrown down his lance, dismounted, and run and jumped down the slope to her, thrown his arms around her and hugged, with thankfulness, her warm solidity. Her head fitted, as if made for it, into his shoulder. The wound she’d made when she tore away from him was sweetly healed, as if filled with honey.

  For there’s sweeter rest

  On a true love’s breast

  Than any other where …

  She raised her head from his shoulder and he kissed her, becoming more eager as he tasted her. He grappled her to him as if they wrestled and his mouth gulped at hers.

  You are blackberry’s white flower,

  Raspberry’s sweet flower

  And best herb in excellence for sight of mine eyes …

  He would have lain down with her then and there. If, then and there, he could have stepped outside his world, stepped into Elf-Land, and spent three days with her while a thousand years passed in his world, he would have. But behind him came the tread of horse’s hooves and the creak of saddles. He heard Sweet Milk say “Sterkarm!”

  One word with many meanings. His name, Sterkarm, calling him to attention. A reminder that he was Toorkild’s son and leader of this ride. A battle cry and rallying call: a reminder of their danger.

  Raising his head from Andrea’s hair, Per looked dazedly at the gray sky and green hills, dulled now that summer was almost over and winter cold not far ahead. He saw his men coming around them, some still mounted, some leading their horses. “Leave some for later, tha glutton,” Ecky said.

  Sim said, “No time for hunting hare now.”

  Per looked up and saw, as he knew he would, Sweet Milk’s large blue eyes looking down from under his helmet’s shadow. Sweet Milk’s heavy gaze said everything, without his mouth needing to open.

  Per gripped Andrea’s shoulders hard. “What dost here?” Even as he spoke, he looked at her loved face, her mouth, her eyes, and wondered how he had lived through the time without her.

  And even as he spoke, she clutched at his arms and said. “Listen! I’ve come to warn thee. I must tell thee that—”

  “Elven be back,” Sim said, and laughed at her astonished face. “Aye, we ken.”

  “How—?” Andrea said, and seemed astonished. “Oh … ‘None gan in Bedesdale without Sterkarms’ ken.’” They’d taught her the boast during her time with them. It was true. Everywhere in Sterkarm country were armed men on horseback, guarding cattle. Those men, said another proverb, could hide themselves, horse, lance, and all, behind a grass blade. Children roamed the hills, too, tending geese or sheep or foraging for fuel. On seeing any unusual sight, such as armed strangers, any of these would ride or run with the news to the nearest tower or bastle house.

  “We be on Elven’s trail,” Per said. “Dost ken where they be?”

  Andrea shook her head, looking about at the slopes and sky in bewilderment. Per hugged her close again, in amusement and recognition. She’d never had the sense of direction he’d learned from childhood. Away from a well-trodden path, she was lost.

  “Per.” Sweet Milk’s voice held a warning note.

  “A horse for Entraya!” Per said, and when she protested that she couldn’t ride, he said, “Ride tha shall! Tha mun stay with us.” A man led a spare horse forward but before he reached them, Per grappled Andrea in another bear hug. “Oh God’s Teeth, I’m gladdenned tha’rt back!”

  3

  16th-Side A:

  Near the Bedesdale Tower

  Isobel Sterkarm

  Isobel, hearing her name called, stopped and looked around. The damp, chill wind blew her hair about her face.

  “Lady! Lady Eye-so-bel!” The lads ran up the hillside to her, surrounding her, dancing with excitement. “Lady, Per be with Elven!”

  “What?” Isobel had enough on her mind without silly lads bringing her silly tales. “Away with tha blethering.”

  It seemed no more than an eye blink ago when there’d been a sudden shouting and trampling of running feet in the tower’s alleys. Then her husband, Toorkild, yelled for his jakke and helmet.

  Meeting her on the narrow tower stairs—he coming up, she hurrying down—he’d bundled her along with him, saying find his boots, find his gear. The Elves had been seen, and he had to ride.

  And Per, her son, he was out in the hills, too. She hadn’t seen him go, hadn’t been able to hug him and wish him a safe return. Word was he’d ridden in from the meadows, found fresh horses, and led his men away.

  Her son and her man. Her old mannie, her poor Toorkild, who was too old for this hard game and should be toasting his poor aching joints before the fire, not sleeping on hard, cold ground in damp hills. And her one living baby, though now grown so tall he looked down on her and lifted her up where she had once lifted him … He’d gone out among sharp edges and Elf-Pistols.

  But she had no time for worrying. Toorkild had left his people in her care. A straggle of them passed her, trudging along the track leading from the tower. Women, children, and old men, all shouldering packs, plodded beside loaded ponies and oxen, all on their way to the shielings, the hill pastures, where, for centuries, the Sterkarms had lived with their cattle through the summer months. They were not places easy for a stranger to find, and had always been places of refuge.

  Isobel counted them off as they passed. Had they enough food with them? Enough blankets? Oh, Toorkild. If he had to sleep out, he’d be so stiff next morning, he’d hardly be able to mount his horse.

  The boys still shrilled at her, and one dared to pull her sleeve. “What?”

  “Per rides with Elven!”

  “Sweet Milk, too!”

  One tactless lad said, “They took him prisoner, maybe?”

  Isobel stared at him, and he was sorry he’d spoken. But she saw they were not playing a prank. Fear squeezed her heart. If her Per was with the Elves, it could only be as a prisoner. “Be Elven so close?”

  “Aye, Lady. We’ll show you!”

  Isobel darted from them, toward the line of trudging people. Her kilted skirts, tied to her belt, exposed her lower legs, and the bundled skirts flopped about her as she ran. “Hurry! Elven be close!” Startled faces turned to her. Women called children and all bent to the journey with greater urgency.

  Isobel searched for her housekeeper and most trusted servant and, seeing her, waved. Yanet left the march to join her. “I leave thee in charge,” Isobel said. “Keep them moving! Now, lads—show me!”

  The boys scampered off, and she plunged after them, from the path into the scrub. Yanet called after her, but was ignored.

  The boys led her by steep sheep tracks, by headlong brown streams, and through wooded hollows. The tower was lost behind hillspurs. The bo
ys had Isobel crawl through heather to an edge where the ground fell away into a valley. Peeping over they saw, below, square, stinking, growling metal boxes inching over the land. Elf-Carts. Elves, armed with big Elf-Pistols, rode inside the carts and ran beside them.

  There were also horsemen, and Isobel’s eyes fixed immediately on one. A steel bonnet covered his hair, and the distance was too great to see his face clearly, but she knew him by his figure, and the way he moved in the saddle. It was as the lads had said: Her only surviving child rode with the Elves.

  As she stared, a big gray hound bounded from behind the horses. She knew the hound as she knew her son: Cuddy, who followed Per everywhere and slept beside his bed. Or had, before Elf-Windsor had killed her.

  Cold prickled through Isobel’s hair. This was Elf-Glamour. Their spells made her see a dead hound: Did that mean that Per was also dead?

  “What will we do, Lady?” The boys lying beside her quivered with eagerness to be doing.

  “Gan,” she said. “Catch a horse. Find Toorkild. Tell him.”

  The boys whispered, then two of them slipped down the slope and scampered away.

  Isobel knew she should go into the hills with her people, but her whole spirit yearned from her toward the boy she knew to be her son. He was beguiled, entrapped by the Elves. They would use him against his own.

  To the boy who had stayed with her, she said, “Break me a sprig of rowan.”

  He edged away, keeping low, to a small rowan that grew nearby, its leaves still green but its berries already bright, like drops of blood. It was a magical tree. A rowan keeps the witches—and Elves—from their ends.

  The boy crept back with a slender branch of green, gold, and red. “I thanked tree. Told it we had need.”

  Isobel took the twig and stood, her figure dark against the sky. The boy tugged at her skirts, hissing warnings. “Gan,” she said, and ran down the hillside toward the Elves, waving the sprig of rowan. The Elves would see her as a countrywoman, skirts kilted up for work. They wouldn’t fear her, and if she could touch Per with the rowan, there was a hope that it would break the enchantment. It was a tiny hope, but easier, for her, than turning away from her only child and leaving him in the power of the Elves.