Joel Rosenberg 02 The Sword And The Chain

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Ahira didn't turn around. "No."
Karl switched to English. "Hey, it's me, remember? James, are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just don't like it when the boat jerks around."
Another bump swung Karl around, sent his hands flying back toward the railing
as the ship rocked once, then fell still, grounded. Aeia and Rahff exchanged
indulgent smiles over Karl's poor sense of balance.
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Look, kids, when you've got a couple hundred pounds of mass to carry around,
it isn't as easy to keep upright as it is for you.
But never mind. Let them have a few private chuckles. He scanned the shore,
trying to see if there was anyone or anything in the dense greenery. Nothing.
Canness had said that the locals would meet them, but
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"Karl?" Ahira's voice held a hint of amusement.
"Yes?"
"Don't turn around for a second. I've got a question for you."
Karl shrugged. "Sure."
"This shoreline looks like Hawaii, no?"
"I was thinking Polynesia."
"Hawaii's part of Polynesia, Karl. And this is the same thing. Not Diamond
Head; it looks more like
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Lahaina. Palm trees, sandy beaches, almost no rocks, warm, blue water, even
though it's fresh and not salt."
"Right." Karl started to turn.
"Hold it a moment,"
the dwarf snapped. He chuckled. "Now, given all that, when the natives show
up, you wouldn't be surprised if they were paddling dugout canoes outrigger
types would you?"
"It wouldn't surprise me at all."
A similar environment would tend to produce similar artifacts. The simplest,
most convenient road and hunting ground, for that matter would be the sea. If
the Mel didn't have the resources to build large sailing ships, they would
build canoes. And if they didn't have animal skins or birch bark to build the
canoes with, they'd have to make dugouts. Dugout canoes were inherently more
unstable than other sorts therefore, outriggers. All logical.
"Is that what this is? The natives have dugouts?"
"It makes sense to you, right?"
"Right."
"Then turn around and tell me why their canoes look like miniature versions of
Viking longboats."
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Karl turned.
Three canoes floated in the lagoon's mouth, each five or six yards long, with
an outrigger mounted on the port side, each manned with by oarsmen.
And each with a wooden carving of a dragon's head rising from the prow.
After checking on Carrot and Pirate in the hold, Karl climbed back on deck. He
gathered Ahira, Aeia, Chak, Rahff and Tennetty around him, keeping the group
well away from Ganness and the three sarong-
clad Mel, who were busy at the bow, haggling over the price of Melawei copra
and Endell steel.
The locals spoke Erendra with a curiously lilting ac-cent, far different from
the flat half-drawl of Metreyll or the clipped speech of Pandathaway. A
familiar accent. . . .
"Hey, Karl?" Ahira looked up at him.
"You hear it, too?"
"I sure do. You got any explanation of why these folks talk like the Swedish
Chef?"
Chak frowned. "It might help," he said, scowling, "if you would either teach
me this
English of yours, or just keep your conversation in Erendra. At least when I'm
around."
"Good idea." The dwarf nodded. "I'll give it a try."
Karl gestured an apology. "We were talking about the accent these Mel have. It
sounds familiar. Like something from home."
"Home?" Rahff shook his head. "Not my "
"Our home." Karl waved his hand aimlessly. "The Other Side. A region called
Scandinavia." That was very strange. Differences between here and home were to
be expected; he had grown used to them. On the other hand . . . coupled with
the dragon-headed canoes, the familiarity of the local accent was vaguely
frightening. It had to mean something.
But what?
It couldn't be just a transplanting, as had happened
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didn't look like Scandinavians, not at all: Their hair was black and straight,
their skin dark; they had slight epicanthic folds around their eyes.
Chak shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. I thought you were the only
ones to cross over."
"That's what I thought, too."
The largest of the Mel, a deeply tanned, broad-shoul-dered man in a purple
sarong, walked over. His lined face was grim as he stopped in front of Karl,
planting the butt of his leaf-bladed spear on the deck in front of him.
"Are you from Arta Myrdhyn?" he asked, his accent still sending chills up and
down Karl's spine. "Has he sent for the sword?"
Karl shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't under-stand."
The Mel gave a slight shrug, as though that was the answer he had expected,
but it had disappointed him nonetheless. "Avair Ganness," he said, "says that
you are a man from a land strange to him. He says that your name is Karl
Cullinane, and that you are someone for whom the slavers have offered a large
reward.
Is this true?"
I'm not sure whether it's the slavers or the whole Guilds Council that's
offering it, but you're close enough.
Karl nodded, gesturing to Chak to take his hand off the hilt of his sword.
This didn't sound like a prelude to an attack. And even if it was, the Mel
still in the boats were too far away; Karl, Tennetty, Chak, and Ahira could
easily handle the three spearmen on board. "Yes. It's true."
"And why do they hunt you?" The Mel's face was flat, unreadable.
"Three reasons. First: I freed a dragon that Pan-dathaway kept in chains.
Second: I lulled slavers and a wizard who hunted me for doing that. Third: It
is my . . . profession to kill slavers and free slaves." And
The Guardians of the Sword
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