They nibbled cold chicken and crusty bread and quaffed spring water. When they had finished, Jerry took Ariadne’s hand in his, and they looked at each other with doubtful smiles. Her decision was coming— the way to Mera was open, and the children could not go, wherever the children now were. She would come to Mera, obviously. He would take her to the house of the Oracle. What then? She would refuse to stay without the children. He did not even know if he could go with her, back to the real world, did not know if that was permitted— did not know if he could bear to give up Mera. Surely there could be no greater sacrifice than that, and surely it would take a terrible love to need it.
Three enormous Percherons were hobbled nearby, and the picnic was just ending when a distant cannonade announced the return of Killer on a fourth, cantering back up the valley. He threw himself off, narrowly missing the food, and there were more hugs and more kisses— and an instant feeling that now things were about to happen.
“Have you spoken again to the Oracle?” Jerry asked and saw an invisible visor drop over Killer’s face.
“Briefly,” he said. “And?”
Killer glanced around, and everyone was listening. “We can pack up and prepare to go,” he suggested, and his tone hinted that there were other possibilities.
“How close are they?” demanded Tig, whose great square beard and shoulder-length ringlets were strangely black in this Outside sunlight, not blue as Jerry usually saw them.
“About thirty minutes,” Killer said, “just around the next bend. Twelve of them.”
“Twelve of who?” Jerry asked, noting the gleams in the men’s eyes.
“Soldiers,” Killer said. “Your friends. We strangers at the shrine have been reported, so they are coming to collect more Minotaur fodder.” His teeth gleamed as he returned grins from Tig, Sven, Jean-Louis, and Marcus.
Jerry looked apologetically at Ariadne. “Not more fighting?” she said in dismay.
“What do you mean ‘more’?” Killer snapped. “We haven’t had a decent brawl in ages. Right?” Right, said everyone else.
“There are only twelve of them,” he continued, “and there are… six of us?” Jerry sighed. “Six of us,” he agreed.
Killer chuckled and thumped his shoulder and headed for the wagon to unload swords. Jerry turned to Ariadne. “I have no choice,” he said quietly. “Killer has the wand. They will fight whether I go or not. I can’t let five friends go against twelve, now, can I?” She shook her head and said she supposed not.
Killer came around then, handing out scabbards with huge and heavy bronze swords. He paused to give Carlo a contemptuous stare. “I still have to settle with you. It will have to wait until after this, though… unless you would care to join us?”
“Just a minute, friend Killer,” Jerry said firmly. “I made a truce with Carlo, and we’re not back to Mera yet.” Killer glared at him, threw down the swords, spread green wings as he put fists on hips. “I was not a party to any truce,” he said truculently.
Jerry knew he must not lose his temper; with Killer that was always a mistake, and the others were all listening. “I had the wand at that time,” Jerry said.
Killer frowned and gave a very small and very reluctant nod. Then the familiar devilish glint came into his eye. “If I give you my promise not to settle with this Carlo maggot, then will you keep the promise you gave me?”
Jerry had to think back to that night at the cottage— his promise to Killer had been for when Ariadne and the children reached Mera safely, so it was not valid and would never be. He glanced around at the ring of puzzled faces and down at Carlo, casually stretched out on the grass, his brown face distorted by those hideous swellings where Jerry had clubbed him, still looking as though they had been caused only a few minutes before. This was one way to make reparation.
“Whatever you want,” he said, and Killer’s teeth flashed in triumph. He glanced down at the kid. “You are forgiven, then, maggot,” he said and turned away.
“You have a spare sword?” Carlo asked, and Killer stopped and turned around slowly. “Yes. Ever used one?”
“No,” Carlo said, climbing to his feet. “What about armor?”
“Just shields. We don’t need armor against bronze, the clothes’ll do.” Killer’s eyes were shining— a new recruit?
Carlo studied him for a moment. “Can I try one against you, just so I’m sure?” Killer was rarely at a loss for words, but for a moment the challenge silenced even him. He looked at Jerry out of the corner of his eye. “Can I trust him?”
“No.” Then Jerry wished he had not said that, for it only made matters worse. True, the Meran costume was safer and certainly lighter and more comfortable than any armor ever made in the Bronze Age, but injuries were possible, and to stand still for a free sword stroke from a potential enemy would be the act of a maniac. Slowly Killer stooped, picked up a sword, pulled it from the scabbard, and handed it hilt-first to Carlo. He folded his arms under his cape and braced his shoulders. “Anywhere but the eyes,” he said and waited.
Carlo tried a couple of trial swings, scowling at the weight. “Head all right?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
Ariadne took Jerry’s hand, and the circle of onlookers grew even more tense.
Get on with it! “Fine,” Killer said.
Carlo shifted his grip and tried again. “Is it all right to use two hands on this thing?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Killer said. His forehead was getting shiny.
The swordsman glanced around. “Stand back and give me room?” The onlookers backed away, all frowning angrily… and with no warning at all Carlo swung the sword one-handed, in a sunbeam flash aimed at knocking off Killer’s cap. The sword bounced, Carlo staggered, and Killer dropped to his knees with a grunt, the cap still on his head. Then Killer was up, rubbing his neck and looking dazed; Carlo was flexing his fingers and frowning.
“It’s seven then?” Killer asked.
The boy shrugged. “Bug off,” he said, threw down the sword, and walked away.
And Killer’s face went bright red as the onlookers first gasped and then burst into roars of laughter.
Jerry was puzzled. He had still not worked out what Carlo was or what happened in his head, not even after three days in a dungeon with him. And that had been no beginner’s first attempt with a sword.
“Carlo?” he said, and Carlo stopped and looked around. “Please?” Jerry said. “We’d like to have you with us.”
The boy stared at him for a moment, looking puzzled. Then he shrugged and nodded to Killer. “Okay— seven,” he said.
Killer forced a smile and held out a hand. Carlo ignored it, stepping by him to pick up the sword and buckle on a scabbard.
“Awful weapon,” he remarked to Jerry. “I’m better with a machete.”
Jerry lay in the bottom of the wagon with the five others, while Killer drove it down the track to meet the Cretan militia as they came slouching around the bend. The whole affair seemed a quite unnecessary and very stupid piece of bravado, as Graham Gillis had pointed out vehemently when offered a part. He had stayed with the women and ignored Killer’s sneers, which probably showed that he had more real courage than Jerry did.
Then the wagon reached the soldiers; as the leader shouted for it to halt, Killer cracked his whip over the team. The wagon lurched forward, the soldiers scattered, and then the Merans leaped down from their wooden horse, the Greeks among the Trojans.
It was short and relatively bloodless, as Jerry had known it would be; the Cretans were not fighting for faith, farm, or family and had no yearning for glory. The nine survivors fled off down the valley, strewing armor and shields behind them. Two others were handed a towel and told to make bandages out of it, being within translation range of the wand, then left where they were while the Merans loaded their booty in the wagon and prepared to head back to the encampment. The Cretans, Jerry recalled, had been a peace-loving people. One of them was dead, killed by Carlo.