The Corridors of Time by Poul Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

pretty miserable. But the
     troubles are real ones – hunger, cold, wet, sickness, not academic infightin’ and impertinent income tax forms – and I wonder
     if the rewards aren’t the only real ones too. If Storm guards this, sure, I’m with her.
    She said nothing for the next hour, and he felt no need himself to talk. That would have taken his mind off the sight of her,
     panther-gaited beside him, the light that was blue-black in her hair, malachite in her eyes, tawny down her skin until it
     lost itself in shadow between her breasts. Once there crossed his memory the myth of Actaeon, who saw Diananaked and was turned to a stag and torn apart by his own hounds. Well, he thought, I’ve escaped that – physically anyhow –
     but I’d better not push my luck too hard.
    This arm of the forest was not wide. They emerged by mid-morning. Now north and west the land reached low, flat, to a shimmer
     on the horizon. Grasses rippled in a breeze, isolated copses soughed, light and shade ran beneath the clouds. The trail widened,
     grew muddy, and wound off past a bog.
    At that place, abruptly, Storm halted. Reeds rustled around a pool, which was thick with lilypads where frogs jumped from
     a stork. The big white bird paid the humans no attention, and Lockridge’s new memory told him storks were protected, taboo,
     bearers of luck and rebirth. A curiously shaped boulder had been rolled to the marge for a shrine. From the top, each year,
     the headman flung the finest tool that had been made in Avildaro, out to sink as a gift to Our Lady of the Ax. Today only
     a garland of marigolds lay there, offered by some young girl.
    Storm’s attention was elsewhere. The muscles stretched out in her belly and she dropped a hand to her pistol. Lockridge stooped
     with her. Wheel tracks and the marks of unshod hoofs remained in the damp ground. Someone, perhaps two days ago had driven
     through these parts and —
    ‘So they have come this far,’ the woman muttered.
    ‘Who?’ Lockridge asked.
    ‘The Yuthoaz.’ She pronounced the name with an umlauted
u
and an
edh.
Lockridge was still mastering the technique of using a diaglossa, and could merely summon up now that this was what the local
     tribes of the Battle Ax culture called themselves. And the Ax of those sun-worshipping invaders was not the tree-felling Labrys:
     it was a tomahawk.
    Storm rose, tugged her chin, and scowled. ‘The available information is too scanty,’ she complained. ‘No one thought this
     station important enough to scout out intensively. We don’t know what is going to happen here this year.’
    After a moment, musingly: ‘However, reconnaissance certainly established that no large-scale use of energy devices occurredin this area during this entire millennium. That is one reason I chose to go so far back, rather than leave the corridor at
     a later date when the Wardens are also operating. I
know
the Rangers are not coming here. Thus I dared leave the corridor in the first year of this gate; it will be accessible for
     a quarter century. And – yes, another datum, a report recorded from a survey party out of Ireland, whose time portals are
     a century out of phase with Denmark’s – Avildaro still stands, has even grown to importance, a hundred years hence.’ She shifted
     her pack and resumed walking. ‘So we have little to fear. At most, we may find ourselves involved in a skirmish between two
     Stone Age bands.’
    Lockridge fell into step with her. A couple of miles went by in footfalls through the blowing grass, among the scattered groves.
     Save for an occasional giant, spared because it was holy, these coastal trees were not oak but ash, elm, pine, and especially
     beech, another tall invader that had begun to encroach on Jutland.
    As the trail rounded such a stand, Lockridge saw a goat flock some distance off. Two preadolescent boys, naked, sun-darkened,
     with shocks of bleached hair, were keeping watch. One played a bone flute, another