Douglas Niles - Circle at center

“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.

“I know it’s Valhalla,” Owen continued, “because it’s what the priests told me to expect. I went straight from the battlefield, my blood and my guts running across the dirt, and into the arms of a beautiful woman. If that’s not a warrior’s reward, then I’m a Frenchman!”

“My priests had it wrong,” Fionn said. “They spoke of a journey to a place of darkness, eternal chill.”

“As I learned of Mictlan,” Natac agreed. He looked at Owen. “So you must have had very wise priests?”

“Lucky, more than wise, I’d say,” snorted the Viking. “They were wrong about plenty-my comrades and my enemies should have been here, but there was only me. And this red-haired Celt.”

“I was here for two hundred years before Owen showed up,” Fionn explained. Natac realized that one of the druids had done something to the Irishman’s mouth-he no longer bled, and in fact had a full set of clean, whole teeth. “How long ago, now?”

“Last count we were five hundred years together,” Owen said proudly. “And the sheep-buggering fool has still never learned to fight!”

“Why, you-”

“The pretty girls who greeted you here,” Natac said quickly, interrupting the budding contest. “Where are they now?”

Both men shrugged and looked at each other, somewhat sheepishly.

“I don’t know,” the Viking admitted.

“The druid who was there to welcome me-I never saw her again,” Fionn said.

“Do you know why?”

“Never asked,” shrugged Owen. “There were plenty of others to take her place.”

Natac sat back, thinking. His mind fixed on a picture of Yellow Hummingbird, of a young girl going to her death at the hands of false priests, to feed the will of nonexistent gods. Then he thought of another sacrifice, that made by Miradel when she had brought him here.

The two bearded warriors were busy sucking on the wineskins that Fernie had brought. Natac caught Miradel’s eye, and asked her the question again.