S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

The young man's big fist snapped out; the blow would have broken Havel's jaw and several of Eric's fingers, except that the ex-Marine jerked his head aside just enough to let it brush by his left ear; at the same instant he stepped in and swept his shin upward with precisely controlled force, then bounced back lightly, moving on the balls of his feet and keeping his own hands open.

"Kill number one, kid," he said, as Eric bent and clutched himself for a moment. "Or at least I could have ruined you for life. And never try to hit a man in the head with your fist. You'll break your hand before you break his head."

Eric was red-faced and furious when he straightened, but he didn't make the bull-style charge that Havel had half expected. Instead he set himself and whirled into a high sweeping kick; it was well executed, except for being telegraphed, and a little off because his right foot slipped in the squishy mixture of mud and pine needles underfoot.

Havel let his knees relax, and the foot swept over his head. His hand slapped up, palm on the other's thigh, and pushed sharply.

"Shit!" Eric screamed as he landed on his back, more in frustration than in pain.

Then: "Shit!" as Havel 's heel slammed down to within an inch of his face. The older man bounced back again, smiling crookedly as Eric rolled to his feet and backed slightly.

"Kill number two. This isn't Buffy the Dojo Ballerina. All right, let's finish up with the lesson. We haven't got time to waste."

Ninety seconds later, Eric Larsson wisely made no attempt to resist as the back of his head rang off the bark of a Douglas fir. Fingers like steel rods gripped his throat, digging in on either side of his windpipe, and he fought to drag air in through his mouth-the swelling had made his nose nonoperational.

Havel looked at him with the same crooked smile; there was a pressure cut on his cheek, but otherwise he was in-furiatingly undamaged.

"Kill number six. And you forgot one thing, kid," he said. "Never bring your fists to a knife fight."

Eric Larsson's eyes went wide as Havel stepped back; something silver flashed in his hand, and the young man looked down at a sudden cold prickle; the odd-shaped hunting knife was touching just under his ribs.

"Kill," Havel said. The knife reversed itself, lying edge-out along his forearm, then swept across Eric's throat with blurring speed. "Kill." A backhanded stab, letting the cold steel touch behind his right ear. "Kill."

Havel stepped back another pace; the younger man was chalk white and keeping himself from trembling by sheer willpower. He sheathed the knife and cocked an eyebrow, his expression cold.

"So, have we settled the 'Who's the big bull gorilla?' question?"

"Yeah. Noooo doubt about it, man."

"Good, because we've got things to do. Like saving your mother's life, saving your sisters' lives, saving your dad's life, saving my life, and last and way, way least important, saving your life. Got it, Eric?"

Eric nodded, massaging his throat. "Yeah. Definitely. Most definitely. All the way. One hundred percent."

Havel grinned suddenly, and extended a hand. "Actually. Eric. you're not bad at all. You're strong and you're fast and you're not scared about getting hurt. Get the right experience, and you'll be a dangerous man to meet in a fight. Are we square?"

"Square." Eric was obviously flattered by the man-to-man treatment and took his hand, starting to squeeze. Then he stopped abruptly: "Jeez, I hope I didn't break that knuckle," he said, wincing.

"Told you not to hit a man in the face with your fist," Havel said, wagging a finger. "Punch him in the throat or the balls, or grab any convenient rock and use that on his face. But don't sock him in the jaw unless you're naked and they've nailed your feet to the floor."

"Yeah, I see your point: actually, man, I saw too much of the sharp point. I wouldn't mind learning how to do that fancy knife stuff myself. Is it Ojibwa too?"

Eric picked up the bundle of gear; Havel liked that, and the absence of pouting.

"Nah, Karelian," he replied genially. "Force Recon refined my technique, but Dad taught me the basics of-he tapped the knife-"the puukko."

"Karelian?" Eric asked.

" Eastern Finland, or it used to be-where the poets and shamans and knife-waving crazies came from. Farther west you get Tvastlanders, who're so dull they might as well be Swedes like you."

"I'm Yankee on Mom's side-English."

"Well, I'm sorry for you and all, but wouldn't it be better to keep that quiet?"

They both laughed. He's not a bad kid, Havel thought, settling his pack on his back. They started west again, side by side. He's just high on testosterone and needed a thumping. Aloud he went on: "Anyway, like it says in the Kale-vala, real men use knives."

"The Kalevala?" Eric asked, frowning as he searched his memory for something that rang a bell, but not a very loud one.

" Finland 's national epic. That great big thing that sounds like Hiawatha, only you can't pronounce the names?"

"Now I remember," Eric nodded. "We've got a copy at home; every line sort of repeats? Dad has it with his saga collection; he used to read us that stuff when we were little kids- that's how Astrid got started on her schtick. The illustrations were cool, but I couldn't get through it. I can't remember anything about knives, though; I thought it was all witches and monsters and Santa Claus sleigh-trips with reindeer?"

"Yeah, the Old Country version could make sex sound dull, but the one my dad taught me was sort of modified; it goes-" He began to chant as they walked west along the trail:

"I am driven by my knowledge,

And my understanding urges,

That I should commence my fighting,

And begin my strong ass-whupping,

With a nice sharp slashing puukko."

Eric hadn't expected to be forced to listen to poetry, but a smile broke through his frown of puzzlement as the words sank in. Havel cleared his throat and continued, in the solemn singsong shaman-type voice purists always used for the real thing when the old farts got together at the Suomi-American Society meetings:

"Fists are just for wussie girl-men.

Swedes and Danes and pansy girl-men:

Come and let us fight together,

And drink potato gin forever,

Or maybe made-from-pine-trees vodka,

In the dreary land of Pohja.

Let us clash our knives together,

Let us slice and cut our fingers;

Let us stab a cheerful measure,

Let us use our best endeavors,

While the young are standing round us,

Of the rising generation."

Eric Larsson was beginning to stagger and wheeze with laughter as they walked; Havel made a grand gesture with the rabbit stick, declaiming:

"Let them learn the way of mayhem,

And of all our fights and drinking,

Of the booze of Vaindmoinen,

Of the knives of Hmarinen,

And of Kaukomieli's pointy puukko,

And of Joukahainen's broken bottle:

Of the utmost bars of Pohja,

And of Kalevala's boozing cock-hounds: "

He carried on through the younger man's laughter, remembering the way the sauna had run that night, he and his brothers and father howling out the verses in turn until the one reciting couldn't go on, and falling back on the scalding-hot pine benches.

"H ope Luther doesn't mind us dropping in past midnight," Dennis said.

Juniper snorted wordlessly, too tired to waste breath on speech as she pedaled her heavily laden bike along the rough patched pavement of the country road. She felt every jolt, all the way up her back. The muscles of her thighs burned and cramped; the day had wrung her limp as a dishrag, even after all the miles she'd covered on a bicycle over the years. Despite the chill damp of the air she was sweating under her down coat, and the straps of her knapsack cut into her shoulders.