Lewis & Glark | Time Traders | Book One | Chapter 11
Lewis was led by two guards down into the small town in the valley he had seen from the rise. They had slid a hood over his head and lead him into one of the buildings, through many doors and down many hallways, into a small room. Having been bound and battered into submission more quickly than would have been possible three weeks earlier, he now stood sullenly surveying a man who, though he dressed like a Boreal trader, persisted in using a language Lewis couldn’t understand.
“We do not play as children here,” one guard finally spoke in words Lewis could understand. “You will answer me or else others shall ask the questions, and less gently. I say to you now — who are you and from where do you come?”
For a moment, Lewis scowled at him, his inbred antagonism to authority aroused by that contemptuous demand, but then common sense cautioned. There was no reason to let them continue to beat him until he was in no shape to make a break for freedom when and if there was an opportunity.
“I am Lew of the traders,” Lewis returned, eyeing both guards with a carefully measured stare. “I came into this land in search of my kinsmen who were taken by raiders in the night.”
The guard who had asked him the question smiled slowly. Again he spoke in the strange tongue, and Lewis merely stared back at him. His words were short and explosive sounding. His smile faded and his annoyance grew as he continued to speak.
The other guard ventured to interrupt, using the familiar Boreal language.
“From where did you come?” he asked. He was a kind-faced, slender man, not like his companion, who had roped Lewis from behind and subdued his resistance in a very short struggle.
“I came to this land from the South with my people,” Lewis answered. “This is a new land with furs and the golden tears of the sun to be gathered and bartered. We traders move in peace, and our hands are raised against no man. Yet in the darkness, there came those who would slay without profit, for what reason I have no knowing.”
The quiet man continued the questioning and Lewis answered fully with details of the past of one Lew, a Boreal merchant. Yes, he was from the South. His father was Lern, who had a trading post in the warm lands along the big river. This was Lew’s first trip to open new territory. He had come with his father’s blood brother, Assha, who was a noted voyager, and it was an honor to be chosen to accompany one such as Assha. With Assha had been Maarn, one who was also a far trader, though not as noted as Assha.
Lewis had practiced these fake responses over and over back at the base, both in fake interrogations by Glark, and my himself in front of a mirror. At first, it was odd talking about his father in this fake past, as Lewis’ own real father had abandoned him, his Mother and brother when he was little. But over time, he had gotten used to it.
From the reactions of the guards, they seemed to be buying his story as real.
“”For how long have you known Assha?” the quiet man asked.
Lewis continued his yarn. Assha had come to his father’s post the winter before and had stayed with them through the cold season. Lern and Assha had mingled blood after he pulled Lern free from the river in flood. Assha had lost his boat and trade goods in that rescue, so Lern had made good his loss this year.
Detail by detail, Lewis told the story. In spite of the fact that he provided these details glibly, sure that they were true, he continued to be haunted by an odd feeling that he was reciting a tale of adventure which had happened long ago and to someone else.
“It would seem that you are indeed Lew, a Boreal trader,” the quiet man said. He turned to the other guard and presumably said the same thing in the foreign tongue.
But the other guard looked impatient and angry. He approached Lewis, turned him around roughly and sent him toward an interior door with a shove. The guard doing the shoving added a few words with a stinging snap that seemed to be a threat or warning to the quiet man.
Lewis was thrust into a small, adjacent room with a hard floor and not even a skin rug to serve as a bed. Since the quiet man had ordered the removal of the ropes from Lewis’ arms, he leaned against the wall, rubbing the pain of returning circulation away from his wrists and trying to understand what had happened to him and where he was. Having spied upon it from the heights, he knew it wasn’t an ordinary trading station, and he wanted to know what they did here.
He also hoped that by some stroke of luck, Glark and Maarn had found their way here, and that he would soon find them.
As the sun set, Lewis’ captors opened the door only long enough to push inside a bowl and a small jug. He felt for those in the dusk, dipping his fingers into a lukewarm mush of meal and drinking the water from the jug. His headache dulled, and from experience Lewis knew that this bout was almost over. If he slept, he would awaken with a clearer mind and no pain. Knowing he was very tired, he took the precaution of curling up directly in front of the door so that no one could enter without arousing him.
It was still dark when he awoke with a curious urgency remaining from a dream he couldn’t remember. He sat up, flexing his arms and shoulders to combat the stiffness which had come with his cramped sleep.
He couldn’t rid himself of a feeling that there was something to be done and that time was his enemy. Now awake, having rested, his previously blurry notion was now an urgent mandate. He must find Glark and Maarn. The three of them could surely discover a way to get out of this village.
He had been roughed up, and they were holding him prisoner. But Lewis believed that this wasn’t the worst that could happen to him here, and he must be free before the worst did come. The question was, How could he escape? They had taken his bow and arrows and dagger.
Running his hands over his body, Lewis inventoried what remained of his clothing and possessions. He unfastened the bronze chain-belt still buckled in his kilt tunic, swinging the length speculatively in one hand. A masterpiece of craftsmanship, it consisted of patterned plates linked together with a series of finely wrought chains and a large front buckle. Its weight promised a weapon of sorts, which when added to the element of surprise might free him.
His captors must be expecting him to produce some opposition to his captivity. It was well known that only the best fighters and shrewdest minds followed the network of traders’ roads. It was a proud thing to be a trader in the wilderness, a thought that warmed Lewis now as he waited in the dark for what luck would send. Lewis recalled from his training that luck in this time was associated with the god Babal, whose boat rode across the sky from dawn to dusk. Sweet corn and sweet-smelling amber were laid upon his altar for good luck. Lewis didn’t believe any of that nonsense. Still, for some reason he pictured the majestic Babal in his mind, rowing his boat, looking down at him and casting him a lifeline.
Lewis had an abundance of patience, which he had learned from the mixed heritage of his two pasts, the real and the false. He could wait as he had waited many times before, in many circumstances — quiet and calm — for the right moment to come.
Eventually, it came as clomping footsteps that halted right outside the door.
With the noiseless speed of a hunting cat, Lewis flung himself behind the door against the wall, where he would be hidden for that necessary instant or two. If his attack was to be successful, it must occur inside the room. He heard the sound of a bar being slid out of its brackets, and he poised himself, the bronze chain-belt hanging from his right hand.
The door opened inward, and a man stood in the doorway. He muttered something in the foreign tongue, and looked toward the corner where Lewis had arranged all his clothing except his kilt in a mass which might in the dim light of the room resemble, for the needed second or two, a man curled up sleeping. The man in the doorway took the bait, coming forward far enough for Lewis to send the door slamming shut as he himself sprang with the belt aimed for the man’s head.
There was a startled cry, cut off in the middle as the belt plates met flesh and bone in a crushing force. Lewis retrieved his kilt and tunic and belted it around him after he had made a hurried examination of the body now lying at his feet. He was not sure that the man was dead, but for sure he was completely unconscious. Lewis stripped off the man’s cloak, located his dagger, freed it from the belt hook, and snapped it on his own.
Very slowly, Lewis edged open the door, peering through the crack. As far as he could see, the adjacent room was empty, so he jerked the door open, and dagger in hand, entered the room. He closed the door, slipping the bar back into its brackets. If the man inside revived and pounded for attention, his own friends might think it was Lewis and delay investigating.
Lewis knew that the escape from the room was likely the easiest part of what he planned to do. To find Glark and Maarn — even if they were here in this town — in this maze of hallways and rooms occupied by the enemy was going to be far more difficult. Although he had no idea in which of the village buildings they might be confined, the one he was in was the largest and seemed to be the headquarters, which meant it might also serve as their prison.
Out in the hallway, light came from a torch in a bracket halfway down the hall. The wood burned, giving off a smoky odor, and for Lewis the glow was sufficient illumination. He slipped along as close to the wall as he could, ready to freeze at the slightest sound. But this portion of the building might well have been deserted. He saw or heard no one. He tried the only two doors opening out of the hall, but they were secured on the other side.
He then came to a bend in the corridor, and stopped short, hearing a murmur of low voices. He slid to the corner from which he could see beyond the turn. Mere luck prevented him from giving himself away a moment later.
It was Glark! Alive and well, apparently under no restraint, Glark was just turning away from the same quiet man who had interrogated Lewis. That was surely Glark — his Bulkon horns and massive frame, draped with his tunic and Boreal kilt. A familiar tilt of the head convinced Lewis, though he could not see his face. The quiet man went down the hall, leaving Glark outside a door. As he passed through it, Lewis sped forward and followed him inside.
Glark had crossed the room and was standing on a glowing plate in the floor. Lewis, compelled to desperate action by some fear he didn’t understand, leaped after him. His left hand fell upon Glark’s forearm, turning the Bulkon half around as Lewis, too, stepped upon the glowing circle of light.
Lewis had only an instant to realize that he was staring into the face of an astonished stranger.
The stranger’s hand flashed up in a blow that caught Lewis in the side of the jaw. There was a churning, whirling sickness which gripped and bent Lewis over onto the floor at the feet of the stranger. He held his head and it felt like his brain was spinning behind his eyes, as swirling waves of light and energy surrounded him.
The sickness endured only for a moment, and some buried part of Lewis’s mind accepted it as a phenomenon he had experienced before. He came out of it gasping, to focus his attention once again on the Bulkon standing over him.
A moment later and the Bulkon had kicked Lewis off the glowing plate into the corner of the room. A moment after that, the plate had lost its glow and the Glark’s double had threw open the door and had ran out of the room.
The sound of clomping footsteps propelled Lewis to stumble to his feet and move quickly for the open door. As he looked out into the empty hallway, he was dumbfounded. This wasn’t the same corridor, or even the same kind of corridor, he had passed through moments earlier. Instead, he entered a short passage with walls that had the sheen of polished metal and were sleek and cold to the touch. The whole place had the chill of river water in the Spring.
Lewis came to the nearest door. He opened it and walked inside, shutting the door behind him. He turned and in front of him were banks of metal frames containing what looked like mainframe servers. The wall off to the side was covered in glowing screens with streaming data.
Lew of the traders marveled and stared. But Lewis Freeman realized then that what he was looking at were modern technologies that were not of this time.
The moment the human man sitting watching the screens turned and looked at him, Lewis lunged at him and quickly got him into a standing choke hold. The man was shorter than Lewis, and uttered some choked words in the foreign tongue. He struggled, but Lewis managed to drag him backward behind one of the banks of mainframes.
The tramp of heavy footsteps came from the corridor, and a man entered the room, crossing purposefully to the chair in front of the data screens. He sat down and drew what looked like a com-set over his head. His hands moved deftly across an input pad, but Lewis had no idea what he was doing.
The captive at Freeman’s side tried to stir, but Lewis’ arm around his neck pinned him quiet.
From behind the mainframes, Lewis took in every detail of the clothing and equipment of the man now sitting in front of the data screens. He was neither a shaggy tribesman nor a trader. He wore a dull-green jumpsuit with various decorations and modern gadgets sewn into it. And his hair was cut in a short, slick style.
Lewis’ eyes blinked as he experienced some dim memory. Odd as this man looked, Lewis had seen his like before somewhere. Where and when had he, Lew, ever been with such strange beings? And why could he not remember it all more clearly?
Boots sounded once more in the hallway, and another figure strode in. This one wore furs, but he, too, was no woods hunter, Lewis realized as he studied the newcomer in detail. The loose vest of thick fur with its hood thrown back, the high boots and the styling were not of any primitive fashioning.
And the man had four eyes. One pair were placed normally on either side of his nose, and the other two, black-rimmed and murky, were set above on his forehead.
Was this some race of off-world immigrants that had come to Telaan Six that Lewis wasn’t aware of? He had studied all the races that had been present on the planet at this period in time — and he didn’t recall any race that looked like this man.
The four-eyed, fur-clad man tapped the shoulder of the man seated in front of the data screens. They spoke together in a strange language while looking at the data on the screens.
With a jolt, Lewis’ captive wriggled with renewed vigor and at last thrashed free a foot to kick at the metal mainframe rack. The resulting clang turned both men around. The one sitting jumped to his feet, while the other brought out a laser gun.
A laser gun? Lewis’ mind reeled at his recognition of the weapon and of the danger it promised, even as he prepared for battle. He pushed his captive toward the men and threw himself in the other direction. There was a blast and an explosion of sparks and fire behind him as he ran behind the row of mainframes toward the door.
So intent was Lewis on escaping, and keeping a peripheral view of the other men, that he didn’t notice the third man that had arrived in the doorway. Lewis’ shoulder hit the newcomer in the ribs. He bounced back, and lunged instinctively at the man, hoping to get past him before the other men joined the fight.
Lewis fought grimly, his hands and feet moving in blows he was not conscious of planning. His opponent was no easy match and at last Lewis was flattened on the floor, in spite of his desperate efforts. He was turned over, his arms jerked behind him, and cold metal rings snapped around his wrists. Then he was rolled back onto his back, to lie blinking upward at his enemies.
All three men gathered over him, barking questions in the foreign tongue which he could not understand. One of them disappeared and returned with the Bulkon Lewis had mistaken for Glark.
“You are the trader prisoner?” The massive figure who looked like Glark leaned over Lewis.
“I am Lew, son of Lern, of the traders,” Lewis returned, meeting what he read in the other’s expression with a ready defiance. “I was a prisoner, yes. But you did not keep me for long, nor shall you now.”
“You have done yourself ill, my young friend,” the Bulkon replied. “We have a proper prison here for you, one from which you shall not escape.”
The Bulkon spoke to the other men, and there was the ring of an order in his voice. They pulled Lewis to his feet, pushing him ahead of them. During the short march Lewis used his eyes, noticing things he could not identify in the rooms they passed.
Lewis had lost his cloak back on the rise, and his tunic and belt back in the holding room. His kilt was the only thing covering him. He shivered more and more as the chill which clung to the sleek, metal rooms and hallways here bit into his body.
He was certain of only one thing about this place — he could not possibly be in the crude buildings of the valley village. However, he was unable to guess where he was and how he had come there.
Finally, they went past two armed guards, each holding laser guns, down a wide hallway. At the end were some data screens on the metal wall, and a round portal. The Bulkon tapped one of the screens which resulted in a loud clanking sound. He then turned a large metal wheel on the door, and pulled it open with both hands.
The cold that swept in was a frigid breath that burned as it touched Lewis’ bare skin.
© 2024 Zen Brazen — All rights reserved
Based on Andre Norton’s Time Traders (public domain)
