Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume XIII

The inlet was quiet, the dark water calm. Gerbald was not to be found. Damnit! Pam went to the spot where they had found the bird snare. To the left the inlet opened onto the wider lake. To the right the sliced West Virginian hillside made a flat edge along the water's edge. There was a new looking boot print on the muddy shore headed toward the hill and Pam remembered Gerbald saying they had gone in that direction. Up we go.

Keeping well away from the unstable edge Pam followed what she thought might be the possibility of a trail. A scuff mark here, a bent branch here-she began to feel like a genuine Davy Crocket. A sincere regret that she had disdained the ownership of a firearm as an adult filled her, she had been such a promising shot as a youngster. A Winchester rifle would have provided a wealth of comfort at the moment. She used Grandma's walking stick to impatiently bash a clump of scratchy brush out of her way. Quiet now Pam, you are going to let the birds know you're here. An image came to her of murderous looking cartoon birds: crows, vultures and evil-eyed eagles sharpening wicked battle axes with feathered hands; nearby a fire with a big Pam-sized cook pot bubbled. Birdwatching. A nice safe hobby. Too bad they don't have gator wrestling in these parts, I could use the relaxing change of pace.

Pam came to the corner of the lake, a jumbled landscape where the hardwood forested West Virginia hilltop abruptly adjoined a pine covered German ridge. The trail seemed to continue to the hard left along the ridge top past the rim, there were signs of recent skids on the still mostly bare soil of a steep two meter tall elevation mismatch. Pam slid down it into Thuringia proper. The ghost of a trail continued roughly northwards away from Grantville into brooding pines. Pam felt a momentary thrill of fear. Okay, I've never been here before and I've left home territory. There are killers and rapists out there, and I'm looking for someone who is looking for them. I must be crazy and I better be careful.

Pam walked slowly through the Thuringian forest, listening for the sound of movement or voices. She stayed low and wary, not wanting to be seen or heard. There was no more rushing to stop Gerbald, this was now… What, a rescue? Hardly! She certainly wasn't the cavalry coming. Why didn't I call the police, tell them what's going on? It had never occurred to her to do so. Too late now. Doubt threatened to turn her back; she fought it, willing it away. This is something I have to do for Gerbald and Dore. That was reason enough for the risk.

The ridge curved sharply away east, the lake forming another inlet below her. Pam stopped to think. How am I ever going to find seasoned woodsmen who don't want to be found? A breeze wandered through the pine branches, it felt good. Voices came with it; the voices of men. .. angry men. Pam froze. After listening very carefully Pam thought she knew which way they were coming from. She slowly made her way in that direction. At least they're upwind of me, I'll take that break.

She soon found herself crouched under a bush watching three men arguing loudly in German. Realizing one of them was Gerbald her heart leapt. She forced herself to stay in hiding instead of rushing to his side, instinctively sensing that would not be a good move. There were two exceptionally scroungy-looking characters standing in front of a dilapidated shelter. Two earthen walls were covered by an incongruously bright side of aluminum sheeting, obviously filched from the outskirts of Grantville. Objects hung from a length of twine across the shack's opening; dead birds and small animals. Pam's heart wrenched as she recognized a Baltimore oriole and a redhead duck drake next to a fox pup. A fury began to kindle within her. There were many other items lying about the decrepit shack; a child's bicycle, a coil of rusty chain, a gas can. These men were thieves at the least.

The shouting had resumed. Gerbald was gesturing angrily at the stolen goods and the hung carcasses. She could only catch about half of his rapid fire German, it wasn't the Thuringian dialect and she guessed that every other word was an exotic blaspheme or bloodcurdling curse. The two dirty men glowered at him, she saw that one lightly held the heft of a sizable axe and the other had a long knife stuck in his ragged belt. The murderous crow and vulture. They were unmoved by Gerbald's fiery lecture but not willing to challenge him either. She had never seen Gerbald like this. He was furious, his voice a thundering avalanche of icy shards and unstoppable boulders. Although his stance seemed relaxed Pam knew he was coiled to pounce, one hand eagerly gripping the hilt of his prized katzbalger shortsword. This is what Gerbald looks like when he's going to war.

The harangue continued. It occurred to Pam from watching the demeanor of the two ruffians that they had experienced Gerbald's rage before. These were once his men! He must have commanded them back when they were all soldiers! Pam nodded slowly at her revelation. I wonder who's in command of them now?

A hard, heavy boot placed itself firmly on Pam's bottom where she squatted. With a mighty upward shove it sent her sprawling face first out onto the scrabbly ground in the hut's clearing, in full view of Gerbald and his former command.

"Well, we have guests I see!" a sneering voice announced in false friendly tones from behind her. The man's German was slow and clearly spoken, undoubtedly for her benefit since she was clearly dressed as an up-timer and would be unlikely to understand anything but the simplest language. Pam kept enough wit about her to hang on to her walking stick as she rolled quickly to the side. She regained her feet in a ready crouch, backing carefully away from the man who had kicked her. The evil eyed eagle had arrived. Gerbald quickly hid his look of unhappy surprise at Pam's presence, but the unpleasant newcomer had seen it well enough. He continued in taunting tones.

"So, Gerbald, you have found yourself a woman amongst these American witchfolk. You are doing well, she is a fine improvement over that old potato you used to keep. That old sack wasn't even good for birthing! Tell me, I have wondered what these Grantville she-devils must be like, I have heard they think themselves the equal of any man. When you have your way with her does she howl like a wild creature? Has she taught you some new sins?" Pam gazed at him with a mixture of disgust and disbelief

Gerbald's face went radish red with wrath. He snarled. "She is a sister to me, Kurt, so stop your filth. Your mouth is a pit full of shit and rotten puss. One more word and I'll shut it for good." Gerbald was advancing toward this Kurt creature, the two men he had been haranguing forgotten. Pam feared the look in Gerbald's eyes nearly as much as she feared the three evil men. She noticed, much to her terror, that the first two had readied their weapons and were quietly in step a few yards behind Gerbald. The leader of their flock had returned and now they were emboldened. Gerbald was outnumbered three to one. Well, I'm here, too…

"Oh, your s ister! Well in that case, I must surely taste such delight for myself!" Kurt gave a sharp nod to his two cronies who now rushed at Gerbald. Gerbald, no fool, knew they were coming from behind but Kurt was already lunging toward Pam, one hand reaching to grab her, the other pulling a shortsword from its scabbard. Pam knew he would go for Kurt at all cost to prevent the man from touching her, ignoring the approaching threat. Men. Some tacticians they are. A rage had been building in Pam as well, enough to match Gerbald's-maybe more. She had to prevent Kurt from taking her hostage so that Gerbald wouldn't end up with an axe in his back thanks to his heroic foolishness. She took a step back, planted both feet, gripped the walking stick like a baseball bat and let fly the mightiest swing of her life, shouting in German: