in the center of the clearing was the strangest house Natac had ever seen. It was made of wooden timbers-he could see that much by the ends of logs jutting from the corners. But the walls had been overlaid with large animal pelts to make a large, apparently weatherproof enclosure. Smoke billowed from a wide stone chimney, and the yard nearby had been divided into sections by pole fences. Several bizarre animals grazed or lolled within these separate sections.
Natac was about to ask about those creatures, when he was startled by a booming voice emerging from the woods at the clearing’s edge.
“Fionn! You sheep-buggering Irishman! Come out and defend yourself!”
“That’s Owen-and it seems that we’re too late.” Miradel sighed. “Or else they’re still drunk from the night before.”
“That’s a human?” asked Natac. The man who swaggered into view was huge, easily head and shoulders taller than the Tlaxcalan. His face was obscured by a thick, shaggy pelt of yellow hair, which darkened to brown as it extended across his torso and well down onto his legs. Some kind of armored shell covered the top of his head, an inverted bowl that was the same dark color as the iron Natac had seen in the villa. Owen bore a staff that was taller than himself, and as stout around as a man’s wrist.
“I said come out, Fionn-you cow-loving son of a mare!”
“Owen?” The one called an Irishman emerged from the house. He was as big as the other warrior, and similarly shaggy-though his hair was like the red of tarnished copper. He wore a cap of leather, and carried a thick cudgel. “You faerie Viking! Why are you back-did you run out of little boys down at the fjord?”
Fionn was trailed by a pair of females who wore diaphanous gowns and clung to the big man’s arms as if to hold him back. Natac saw that Owen, too, had brought women with him, a trio of maidens who now ran out to follow him across the field.
“Those are druids?” asked the Tlaxcalan.
“Yes-as I said, some of my Order enjoy warriors.” Miradel looked at him through narrowed eyes. “No doubt you, too, will eventually have your pick.”
He looked away, unwilling even to consider her words.
“We’d better wait here for a while,” Miradel said. “But watch-you might find it interesting.”
“Those are both men?” Natac pressed.
She nodded. “They are humans from a different part of Earth than Mexico-but yes, they are of a people who are cousins to you and your own.”
He shook his head in disbelief, half expecting to feel the ground shake as the two warriors approached each other. Owen had his staff raised, while Fionn swung his club back and forth, holding the narrow end in both hands.
“Liar!”
“Bastard!”
“Faggot!”
“Blackguard!”
The insults flew thick and loud, and Natac lost track of who was hurling the epithets. And in another moment it didn’t matter as the pair flew at each other, wooden weapons whistling through the air. Fionn’s club smashed Owen’s iron hat with a loud clang, while the staff landed with stunning force on the Irishman’s knee. A fist flew, bloodying a nose, and then came the loud crack of wood landing against a skull.
It was Fionn who went down, and Owen straddled him, ready to drive the staff into his foe’s belly. But somehow the supine warrior found the leverage to flip the Viking over, and by the time Owen landed, Fionn was on top of him, twisting the Viking’s massive leg around. Natac winced as he imagined the pressure, the pain-and then there came a loud snap of bone. He gasped, knowing that such a break, even if it did not result in a fatal infection, must cripple a man for life.
The Viking, his leg jutting at an unnatural angle, shrieked as Fionn rolled off him and stood. “Do you yield?” he asked, snatching up his club and raising it.
“Yes, by Thor-I yield!” snarled Owen through clenched teeth.
Immediately the druidesses gathered around the injured man. One woman stood with her arms spread, spilling something like water over the wounded man. Two more knelt at each side, stroking the mangled limb. By the time Natac and Miradel had reached the bottom of the slope, the Viking’s leg had been straightened. The astonished Tlaxcalan watched as Owen lurched to his feet and stood on the limb with no apparent limp. “That was a good twist, there, at the end,” he admitted grudgingly to Fionn, who beamed in triumph.
“What? Who’s this?” asked the Irishman at the sight of the two new arrivals.
The druidesses gasped in unison, and one of them advanced hesitantly. She was staring at the old woman, and finally asked: “Miradel?”
“Yes, Nachol, it is I.”
Immediately the woman called Nachol, who was a tall female with long hair the color of spun gold, blanched, then came forward and wrapped the older druid in a tearful embrace. Natac stood by awkwardly, conscious of the two warriors looking him over and at the same time wanting to ask Miradel a thousand questions.
“You went against the will of the council,” Nachol was saying. “Why?”
“I had no choice,” Miradel answered. “The threads of the Tapestry showed me that.”
“When?” The golden-haired druidess relaxed her embrace and was joined by several other women who looked at Miradel with expressions mingling awe, pity, and sadness. A few cast appraising, accusing, or suspicious glances at Natac.
“Two nights past.”
“And the spell worked,” said a dark-haired, diminutive druidess, inspecting Natac archly. “You have brought Nayve another warrior?”
“Warrior?” The word was a hoot of amusement, uttered by Fionn. “More like a boy, I should say. Owen, maybe she brought him here for you!”
“Watch your tongue, you Celtic fool!”
Fionn threw his head back and laughed heartily. Owen’s burly fist flew, smashing the open mouth. Natac saw teeth fly and watched the druidesses scamper out of the way as the two men were at it again, crashing to the ground, rolling back and forth with a barrage of smashing fists and jabbing knees. Miradel sighed, the younger women stood around wringing their hands, and blood spilled from both men.
“Druids brought them here, as well?” Natac asked. Miradel nodded. “For this?” he pressed.
“No-you will learn soon enough that we have no control over these men, once they are brought here. We tried to reason with them, but they have learned to do as they wish to.” She looked at him strangely, and he knew she was wondering if he would prove to be as intractable as the two burly men still rolling around on the ground.
In that instant he was embarrassed for his race, for his whole world. He would not give her cause for regret.
He picked up the staff that Owen had dropped in the first bout. “Warriors of Earth!” he cried out as the two rolled close. Plunging the end of the shaft between them, he used his knee as a fulcrum and pulled, easily levering the men apart. “Why are you fighting?” he asked.
“Why?” Owen blinked, speaking through puffed and bleeding lips. “Because-because it’s what we do! As well ask why we breathe, why we eat!”
“We figh’ ’cause his ances’ors s’ole the women of my ’ribe,” growled Fionn, his words mushing through the mouthful of broken teeth.
“Stole your women-and your land, too!” Owen retorted with a laugh. “Not that you Irish would know what to do with good land if you had it!”
‘Women and land-my people have fought for those things, as well,” Natac said conversationally. “But here- this place they call Nayve-it would seem that there are women and land enough for all warriors.”
Owen scowled, and squinted at Miradel. “She told you that ‘Nayve’ poppycock, eh? Don’t listen, boy-this is the warrior’s paradise, called Valhalla, and I’ve been here long enough to know that!” He turned to the short, dark- haired druidess. “Fetch us some wine, Fernie-I’m working up a thirst here.”
The woman quickly ran into the house as Natac settled himself on the ground, squatting sociably with the two hairy men.
