Thirty feet in front of him, in front of the trade house toward which he was running, he saw three Frenchmen in metal cuirasses and breastplates. They held muskets in their hands-or possibly the more complicated arquebuses. Strong-Arm knew two things almost at once: first, the three guns were pointed at his chest and they could almost not miss; and second, his tomahawk was not going to have any effect on the metal armor the Frenchmen wore.
Suddenly, he realized a third fact-and it made him stop short rather than hurl himself forward to a brave death.
Without doubt-because he could see the torn ear that was so well known among the Iroquois-the man standing in the front was none other than Samuel de Champlain. He was not an old man lying in a sick bed: he was armed and armored and aiming an arquebus directly at Strong-Arm’s chest.
Outside the settlement, Strong-Arm could hear shots being fired, and the howls of his Iroquois brothers as the bullets struck them.
“We have a word for this,” Champlain said to Strong-Arm, who stood before him unarmed, his wrists bound behind him. He spoke excellent Iroquois. “It is called an embuscade. Friends among the Montaignais told us that a war-party was headed for Trois-Rivieres-and so we simply waited for you to arrive.”
Strong-Arm did not answer. He was the only chief from the advance party still alive; Born-Under-Moon and Hawk-Brother and four of the other warriors had been killed at once; most of the warriors outside had fled when the Frenchmen on the palisade opened fire.
“Tell me,” Champlain continued. “Is there a reason I should not have you put to death?”
“I do not fear death.”
“That is your shame,” the Frenchman answered. “You have not accepted the light of the True Faith-so an afterlife of torment awaits you. Yet I would spare you this.”
“I do not believe in your True Faith,” Strong-Arm said. “What can your God do that mine cannot?”
“My God has preserved my life more than once,” Champlain said, and exchanged a glance with a black-robed priest who stood next to where he sat. The priest scowled at Strong-Arm; he stared back, unafraid.
“Why do you break the peace that my king has made with your Council?”
“We avenge past wrongs,” Strong-Arm said. “We wish to take back what is ours.”
“This is not yours. It is ours, by sacred treaty. You anger both your peoples and mine to break that treaty. The sachems of the Great Council would not think ill of me if I hung you by a rope until you were dead for violating that trust.
“But I will not do that,” Champlain said. “Much blood has been shed here. I will set you free, and send you back to your people to tell them the story of what has been done here. They will think me generous for having granted you your life, and will think me strong for having defended the place belonging to the Onontio. They can take that as a warning not to do it again.” He gestured, and a soldier stepped forward and cut the bonds that held Strong-Arm’s wrists.
Strong-Arm rubbed his hands to give them back their feeling, then took a single step forward. Three soldiers immediately stepped in his way, but Champlain waved them aside.
Orenda, Strong-Arm thought.
Warily, the soldiers stepped back. Strong-Arm took another step and reached out his hand to touch Champlain’s severed ear.
“Your God saved you at Sorel,” Strong-Arm said. “My father told me of this.”
“Tell your people that my God is strong, and that the Onontio is strong. And soon, with God’s help, he will be yet stronger. The other kings across the Great Water have yielded to him, and soon there will be no others to trouble you.”
Strong-Arm stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest. “How do I know that you tell the truth?”
“I have never lied to the people of the Five Nations,” Champlain said. “Unlike some who have come among you…spreading that which is false.”
“Such as?”
“Rumors of my death,” Champlain answered. “You went to war because you thought I was dying.”
Strong-Arm again was silent, but he began to understand. Someone had told Walks-In-Deep-Woods that Champlain was on his deathbed, and the wily old shaman had taken credit for it.
And Strong-Arm had believed it. Brave warriors lay dead because Strong-Arm had believed it, and had not heeded the words of the wise old chief Swift-As-Deer.
“I will bring your words to my people,” Strong-Arm said at last. “I will say to them what you say to me.”
And I will say more, he thought to himself. I will say much more.
6
Strong-Arm did not hesitate this time before entering the tent of Walks-In-Deep-Woods. The shaman sensed his anger and looked alarmed, but did not attempt to get to his feet.
“How may I be of service, mighty chief?” he asked, touching his thumbs to his forehead.
“Stand and walk,” Strong-Arm said. “Walk out of this camp and do not turn back.”
“I do not understand.”
“Understand this, you snake,” he said. “I shall burn this tent, and everything in it-including you — if you do not heed my words. You will leave the Oneida. Go wherever you wish. But if your shadow is seen in Oneida lands again, I will kill you. Slowly.”
Walks-In-Deep-Woods scrambled to his feet, perhaps realizing for the first time that Strong-Arm’s anger was genuine-and dangerous. In his haste he disturbed the blankets in his sleeping-place, and Strong-Arm saw something peeking out from under it: a bundle of paper, hidden among the other bits and pieces of the shaman’s art.
He pushed past the shaman, nearly knocking him off his feet, and picked up the bundle. “What is this?”
“It is-well, you see-”
“This is white man’s work.” He touched the pages in turn: there were many letters, and a single picture-of a man with the hair and beard of a Frenchman, next to a pattern…something familiar…
A banner. With the flowers of France.
“Can you read this? Is this your-your death medicine, old snake?”
“No. Yes. I-please, mighty chief!” he said as Strong-Arm grasped the necklaces at his throat and twisted them tight.
“You sent us to our death,” he said, and shoved Walks-In-Deep-Woods onto his back. The old man looked genuinely terrified now.
He took the papers and tossed them into the fire, then turned his back on Walks-In-Deep-Woods.
“Run,” he said. “Or burn. I do not care. I must go and tell my people the words of the great chief Champlain.”
“Champlain,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods managed. “He-he lives?”
Strong-Arm did not favor the old shaman with an answer, but left the tent.
After a moment, Walks-In-Deep-Woods could see the light of torches coming closer.
Eric Flint
Ring of Fire III
And the Devil Will Drag You Under
Walt Boyes
Georg Schuler groaned. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to still the pounding and stabbing inside his head.
“Aaaaah!” he groaned.
He opened his eyes, closed them again, and slitted them open. All he could see was a gigantic horse turd that his face was pushed into. He raised himself up on his arms, and slowly levered himself into a kneeling position. He had been lying face down in a puddle of slime and a large pile of horse manure, relatively fresh.
Worse, yet, it was morning. And from the noise from the street at the end of the alley, he was late for work.
