Shadows in Time--Chapter One

approximately 1636 words

Shadows in Time

Chapter One

September 25, 1066
Conner McCoy
Stamford Bridge, Yorkshire, Kingdom of England



         In the end things must be as they are and have always been.
                   --Neitzsche

Temporal Special Agent Conner McCoy squatted behind the still-warm body of an English knight’s dead battle horse.  A Viking warrior, panic glinting in his eyes and blood drooling from his battle axe, raced past him. A trio of howling English yeoman chased after the warrior. 

         A dozen meters away, the victorious English King Harold stood astride the shuddering body of the Viking pretender, Hardrada, who lay with an arrow through his windpipe. 

         Harold raised his broadsword and impaled the Norse king’s torso.  Then the sword rose and he struck again.  And again, over and over.

          Conner's stomach roiled at the stench of the battlefield. The flat, coppery smell of blood mixed with the fetid aromas of excrement and urine.  Englishmen and Vikings alike writhed and screamed on the bloodied winter wheat. Suffering and death made equalis of victor and vanquished.  The survivors either fled in panic or exulted in victory. But the dead and dying, for them it was all the same.

         Conner heaved a relieved sigh.  Hardrada's death spelled the end of the Viking invasion of England.  The stage was set for King Harold's defeat in three weeks at Hastings.  History was safe.  He'd observed what he’d come here to confirm.  Despite the dangers the temporal simulators had warned of back in 1942 at Wisconsin Control, the battle had come off without a hitch.  No Deviation rose up to erase the future and replace it with Bog knew what.  Praise be to Saint Peter’s toes. Time to join the fleeing Vikings. Time to disappear into the woods and back to the future--a future still safe from Deviation.

         A muscular Viking warrior collapsed next to Conner, panting, his wild eyes scanning the carnage.  “’Tis an evil day, my brother.”

         Despite the chaos that surged around them, relief flooded Conner’s heart at the sound of Knut’s voice.  He shouted, “Praise be to old One-Eye that you still live.”  He clasped the other’s wrist. “Freya will get her fill of warrior souls, today, for sure.” 

         Knut panted and his gaze lurched across the bloodied field.  "Aye.  Cursed Loki worked his evil this day."

         Conner pulled off his battle helmet. Maybe he could persuade Knut not to waste his life in a pointless last stand.  “Come with me, my friend.  The battle is lost.” He nodded to a copse of trees on a nearby hillock.  “Once we enter yon woods, we can give these English fools the dodge.”

         "Nay, we should rally to Prince Orre and the fleet at Riccall.  Maybe all is not yet lost.”  He returned Conner’s grip.  "We will again drink together and spit in death's face."

         A battle horn sounded and mounted horsemen appeared from over a hill north of the killing field.  The black Raven's banner of Hardrada's house flapped in the wind. 

         Knut's grip tightened on Conner's wrist and he rose to a crouch.  "Look at that.  It's Prince Orre himself and the warriors guarding the fleet.  We could win this day yet."  He gripped his battle axe and started to rise.

         Conner pulled him back down.  "Knut.  Look about you."

         The English thanes, twice in number to the newly arrived Vikings, already formed a battle line to charge Orre's forces.  The only foot soldiers still standing were English.  All of Hardrada's original army was dead or in flight.  Nearby, a dog snarled and sniffed at a dead Viking.  An English housecarl stripped the hauberk off another Viking who had a mortal wound to his gut. The man shrieked in agony and his arms flapped at the English scavenger. In turn, the Englishman cursed him for bleeding and then slit his throat.

         Conner whispered, "It's over, Knut.  Orre's cause is noble, but 'tis death's folly.  The English will rip them like a dog rending a rat. Don't be part of that slaughter. 'Tis time to save yourself and return to Norway to live and fight another day." 

         Knut's chest heaved and his nostrils flared, but then the English charged and Orre fell.  Knut's head drooped. "You're right, my friend.  I think--"

         Hot blood splattered across Conner’s face, and an arrow grew from Knut’s throat. Conner pulled Knut to him and crooned, “No, no, no, not you my brother.” 

         Knut's eyes bulged.  His breath gurgled. His wound sprayed blood. 

         Grief raged and tears smeared Conner's vision.  Five years they'd been bondsmen and more.  Much more.  Conner always knew it would end.  That was the way of life for Timekeeper agents: a lover's embrace was ever fleeting no matter how sweet.  But he'd imagined it differently with Knut, that it would be a glorious parting. A fight for love and glory and then, when Time calls, the heroes part.  But not like this. Not agony and death in mud. 

         Conner could help.  Maybe even save Knut, despite his wound.  He chewed the side of his mouth.  It was against the rules.  It might even cause a Deviation.  He fingered the hasp of his broadsword.  He had one and only one nanodoc injector on this mission, and it was to save himself, not a temporal.  But he couldn't let Knut die, not like this, in agony. 

         Determination tightened his mouth.  He unscrewed the hasp of his broadsword and pulled out a metal tube the size of a ball-point pen.  He held it against the side of Knut's neck and pressed. It gave a little chuff and left a red spot on the skin.

         He lay Knut flat and murmured, "My friend, don't try to talk."  He used his shield as a pillow for Knut's head and stroked his brow.

         It was probably hopeless. The nanodocs could handle almost any infection. They could even handle most trauma, but severe wounds usually took multiple injections, and Conner had only one. Knut's wound…well, at the least, the 'docs would ease his pain and make his last moments more bearable.  If they saved his life, so much the better.  Conner would know in a few minutes.

         Another volley of English arrows thudded about them.  Two struck the dead horse. Three more buried their points in the ground.  But one vibrated in Knut's eye socket and exited the back of his skull.  Dark blood pooled onto the shield and puddled on the ground.

         Conner squeezed his eyes shut. "Farewell, my friend."  He touched two fingers to his lips, then to Knut's.

         Time to go.  He stood and scrambled toward the woods.  English war whoops sounded behind him. He redoubled his pace.  Fifty meters.  Thirty.  Ten.  He was going to make it.

         A Viking knight emerged from the woods, riding an enormous horse. Foam frothed the lips of his mount.  Hooves thundered. The knight's charge threatened to trample  Conner.  He spun about to avoid the knight's advance and ducked.

         Another volley of arrows buzzed through the air. Sudden agony flamed in his side. He stumbled to his knees and clutched where pain flared. An English arrow penetrated his hauberk and his lower-right abdomen.  Gut shot. 

         The knight reigned in his horse and lifted his broadsword in silent salute before galloping off toward Orre's already doomed warriors.  The knight's silver-gray helmet glowed in a sudden sunbeam that highlighted the sigil emblazoned on its side. 

         Shock sent electric tingles zinging down Conner's back.

         He was wrong.  Horribly wrong. That sigil screamed this was a Deviation of unthinkable proportions.  He had to report in, at all costs.  The future, the world, depended on it.

         His English pursuers shouted again.  He gasped and struggled to his feet. They were still fifty yards away, lumbering toward him.  First things first. He had to reach the woods.

         He stumbled into the shadowed woodland.  He clutched his side. A trail of blood streamed where the arrow jutted from his hauberk.  His throat burned and his heart raged in his chest.  The warm fall sun sent sweat cascading down face and burning into his eyes.  The English yeomen chasing him whooped. More arrows thudded into the trees around him. 

         Conner halted and leaned against an ancient aspen, trusting that its nearly two meter girth would shield him.  A red deer hid in the underbrush nearby, shivering in fear, its eyes wide upon him.  His trembling fingers fumbled with his Timepiece, disguised to look like an iron cross.  Hurry.  He had to hurry.  Good thing he'd preset the damned thing.

         An arrow whizzed by his ear and slammed into a nearby tree trunk.  The deer bolted in flurry of branches and leaves.  God's nails, that was close. 

         He stroked the cross and a brilliant hologram erupted out of its center.  The safe house in 1942 Chicago would have to do.  There would be a medkit there with more nanodoc injectors, and Control was just a couple of hours away by train. 

         He gestured inside the hologram, pushing virtual buttons of his timepiece. The hologram ballooned , twisted, and flowed over him. 

         Blood spurted from his wound. Nausea gripped his stomach.  He gagged and vomit spewed forth.  Blood and vomit both froze mid-flight in the brightening glow of the time field.  God. Jump jeebies hadn't made him hurl since he was a newbie, decades ago.  Another arrow thudded, this time into the temporal field.  The light pulsed and hummed before the field trapped the projectile.  It hung there in midair, along with the blood and ejecta from his stomach. His skin prickled with a thousand electric needles. The field shrieked in escalating octaves.

         Soon he'd be safe in 1942. In Chicago.  If he lived. 

         He had to live.

         What he'd seen was too important. He had to report in.