Anasazi Exile. Eric G. Swedin

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      BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY ERIC G. SWEDIN

      Anasazi Exile

      Fragments of Me

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2012 by Eric G. Swedin

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For my Mom,

      Who gave me a love of reading novels.

      PROLOGUE

      1241 A.D, WESTERN EUROPE

      Hans swung the ax with quick blows, cutting away a strip of bark around the tree. Like the other men, he had removed his grey woolen shirt, folded it neatly, as his grandfather had taught him, and laid it on the grass. He enjoyed the cleansing feeling of sweat pouring down his bare back. Just as he had cut down men on the battlefield, this tree would soon die. The death of the tree would take longer as its sap slowly leaked away, the leaves wilted, and the wood grew dry. Baron Henri had chosen this place, near the river and a large meadow, for a new village. The people of his manor were fertile and the prayers of the priest had kept sickness at bay, so he needed the new village.

      Hans loved the baron as only a loyal man can. He had served his baron for his entire life—working his fields, tending his herds, following him into battle. The baron had always treated him well, even blessing Han’s marriage with a gift of two horses. True, the horses were old warhorses and one was almost lame, but they were horses nonetheless.

      He moved to the next tree, examined it for a moment to select his cutting place, and began swinging. Six other men from their village sliced at the trees. Two were his brothers, another his brother-in-law, two were cousins, and the youngest was a nephew. Just as he knew everyone in the village, he was related to most of them. Even the baron was a distant relation, a third cousin.

      At one time, Hans would have been in charge of this small party, a trusted lieutenant of the baron, but a blow to the head in a battle two summers ago had left Hans with chronic headaches and a sense that he had lost something. He could not even remember the details of the battle and sometimes wondered what had hit him. The haft of a spear? The flat of a sword? A rock? His wife told him that he spoke more slowly and didn’t always make sense. He no longer led men.

      The baron had decided that before the new village could be built, he wanted the trees removed and burned into charcoal. Killing the trees this summer would dry them out. Next summer the villagers would fell the trees and place them in a large hole to burn.

      A thunderclap shook the air, rustling the leaves of the trees. Hans looked up, puzzled; there were no clouds in the sky.

      “Come, come quick!” his younger brother yelled from the meadow.

      The cry did not sound like fear, just surprise, even wonder. Hans jogged with the other men out of the trees, taking care to keep the blade of his axe turned towards the ground. He had seen too many accidents to not constantly respect the ability of tools to hurt a man.

      His brother pointed to the sky. Hans squinted, surprised to see a thing in the air. He had only ever seen birds in the sky, so this must be a bird—but what a strange bird, all square, with short stubby wings that did not move.

      The thing grew larger as it came closer. Much too large to be a bird. Hans felt no shame as he joined the others in running back to the trees and crouching down behind a trunk.

      “What is it?” his cousin asked from behind a nearby trunk. His cousin crossed himself, lightly touching his forehead, chest, and both shoulders.

      Hans shrugged and looked back to find his fourteen-year-old nephew burrowing into the leaves and detritus of the forest floor, sobbing a prayer. Hans could understand the terror that dominated the youth—his own heart fluttered with the same fear—but six seasons of campaigning had taught him that fear was a tool, to be used, not to be surrendered to.

      The bird circled down to the center of the meadow, making a whispering sound no louder than an arrow in flight, hovering just a few feet from the ground. It was big, as big as the great hall of the baron, where a hundred people could squeeze themselves in. The air smelt funny, tickling his nose in an annoying way.

      A tongue dropped from the bird to the ground and a naked woman tumbled down it onto the grass. Hans was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open like that of an idiot.

      The bird lifted up towards the sky, leaving no sound in its wake. His fear rapidly subsiding, Hans ran into the meadow to watch the bird go. It faded into the blue sky faster than it should have, as if turning invisible. This was powerful witchcraft, a magic beyond any that he had ever heard of told by bard or priest.

      The men of the village followed Hans as he approached the woman. They fanned out, instinctively avoiding the error of clumping up. If they had to use their axes as weapons, they needed room to swing.

      The woman lay sprawled in the thick grass of the meadow. His wife was the only naked woman Hans had ever seen, and what lay before him was the most beautiful creation that he could imagine. Her flawless skin was pale white, and he wondered if she had ever been out under the sun. Had she lived her entire life in the strange bird?

      “What do we do with her?” a cousin asked.

      “Take her home.”

      “No!” shouted his nephew. “She’s a witch. She will curse us. We must destroy her.”

      A murmur of agreement swept through the collected men. Hans pressed his fingers to his temple. Another headache was coming on, the kind that left him half-blind and whimpering. He groped for words. “I think that maybe we should ask Baron Henri what to do.”

      The woman moaned and opened her eyes. To a man, every villager jumped back.

      The voice of his nephew grew ever more shrill. “We don’t have time. She awakens. We must kill her now.”

      The youth’s father stepped forward and raised his axe. He screamed to give himself courage and brought the axe down with all his might. The woman rolled to the side, her movement too sluggish to avoid the blade slicing into her side. Red blood stained the grass.

      Do witches have red blood? Hans wished he had paid better attention to the stories. One thing was certain: if she had blood, then she could die.

      Hans raised his axe and stepped forward, his kinsman joining him. A pang of sadness briefly crested in his consciousness; to destroy something so beautiful must be some sort of sin.

      He saw the fear in the woman’s eyes change to determination. She suddenly seemed energized and sprang to her feet. She lashed out with her fist at Hans, catching him in the nose. His face exploded in pain and he dropped his axe as he tumbled backwards. He was dimly aware that she had leapt over him and run for the forest.

      The other men cried out in frustration and chased after her.

      Struggling to sit up, Hans felt his gushing nose and noticed that it moved underneath his clenched fingers. It was broken.

      His kinsmen СКАЧАТЬ