Dies the Fire

And the bear's wounded paw flashed towards him. He threw himself backward, releasing the spear, just as the tips of the claws struck.

When Havel came fully back to himself, he was chiefly conscious of a stabbing pain in his neck. Shortly after that he became aware that blood was pouring down his face, but he ignored that until he checked that he had movement in all his fingers and toes.

Then, slowly, he put a hand to his face. Light came back when he pushed back a flap of skin that was hanging over his left eye; when he had it in place, he knew there was a bad cut ru

The bear lay about seven feet away, very thoroughly dead; only a vet with time to do a dissection could have told what killed it, between the spear and the arrows and the ax that stood up like an italicized exclamation mark from its back, with the heavy blade buried in its spine. Blood still trickled; he couldn't have been out for more than a few seconds.

Will Hutton knelt on one side of him, Signe on the other. He let his head fall back; which was a mistake, since lights swam across his eyes.

"Eric?" he croaked.

"Fine," Hutton said, resting his hand on Havel's and moving it gently away from the younger man's wound. "Banged up. Bump on his head. this of yours goin' to need some stitches, though. Angelica, she kin handle it."

"Don't forget the aspirin," Havel croaked, and Hutton laughed.

"You are one tough mother, got to admit it," he said. "Cojones too. Ain't never seen a man move so fast."

"Ask the bear," Havel said. He rolled his eyes towards Signe. "Good shooting."

"It was closer than a target and bigger," she said. "Are you all right?"

"Hell, no," he said honestly. "This hurts like grim death and I'm seeing double and I'd puke if I had the strength. I'll live."

She blinked at him, frowning, then trotted away. He looked past her at Astrid, who stood beside her father and Hutton's wife and daughter, wringing her hands on her bow as if she were trying to strangle it.

"Come here," he said to her. "I can't shout-if I try, my head will fall off."

She obeyed, kneeling close to him. Signe came back on the other side with a bucket of water and a cloth; she had pills with her too, and he took them as Hutton raised his head with one strong hand. Then she began to sponge at the blood on his face. It felt so good he was reluctant to tell her to stop, but there was something to be done first.

"OK, kid," he said to Astrid, touching Signe's wrist gently for an instant to halt her.

He found he could move his arms, but only if he concentrated on it and didn't try anything difficult.

"Did that bear just light out after you, or did you shoot it unprovoked?" he asked the younger girl.

Astrid blinked, looked away, and then looked back. "I shot it," she whispered.

"What did I say?"

"Shoot anything but bears and cougars, Mike."

"Right." He put out his hand; she didn't resist when he took her bow. "This was a toy, back before things Changed. It isn't anymore. It's a weapon. You don't play with weapons. Understood?"

She nodded.

"And that was a dangerous wild animal. You don't play with them either. Understood?"

"Y-yes, Mike."

He went on: "Two inches closer and that thing would have ripped my face off. You understand that? And your brother and sister could have been dead too, easy. You understand that?"

She was crying now, but she nodded again.

"OK, you don't touch this again until I think you can use it responsibly. You want to be treated like a grown-up, you gotta earn it. A hunter doesn't take stupid chances, or shoot at all unless it's a clean kill."

He handed the bow to Hutton. "And don't let her on a horse again until I say so, either."

He let his head fall back. Signe leaned over him, sponging at the blood again; vaguely, he could see Angelica Hut-ton coming up with some sort of kit under her arm. The pills couldn't have been aspirin, either, or the concussion was worse than he'd thought, because he was begi

"This ain't fucking Middle-earth," he said-or thought he did.

Blackness.

Will Hutton looked at the electric grinding wheel, pursing his lips. It was normally bolted to a long plank; he put it on sawhorses and secured it with C-clamps when he had that kind of work to do. The motor was useless, of course, and he'd disassembled it, leaving the wheel and the driveshaft. It might not work, but he didn't have anything better to do right now; they couldn't move until Havel recovered.

"Needs a flywheel," Ken Larsson said, beating his gloved hands together-the early mornings were still chilly, and his breath showed in white puffs as he squinted at the remains of the machine.

For a high-and-mighty executive, he makes a pretty good hands-on man, the Texan thought.

"Right," he said. "Truck wheel, I think. Drill and mount through the hub?"

"Yup. And the fan belt from your semi would do for the drive-we take the wrecked bicycle-"

His face went blank for a moment; the bicycle had been ridden by one of the bandits who killed his wife. He swallowed, while Will looked aside to allow him a moment's privacy.

"- mount it backward-fan belt around the rear wheel once we get the tire off. Then someone pedals, and you got yourself a grinding wheel."

They both turned and looked at Eric Larsson where he sat throwing stones into the Lochsa. Not far away Astrid and Lua

"Boy needs exercise," Ken said.

When Havel woke again, he felt completely drained; not in much pain-an itching stab along his scalp wound, a throb in his neck, bruises elsewhere-but weak as a kitten. Something smelled wonderful close by, though.

Gradually the picture came clear. He was lying on a bed of pine boughs, with a canvas cover over him, rigged like a tent to the side of the Huttons' RV. Blankets and the mylar sleeping bag and a low fire in a round bed of stones with a sheet-metal reflector kept things comfortably warm- warmer than he would have been inside the vehicle, with its heaters not working.

Not far away was a horse with its head down, pawing through the long dead grass for the first of this year's shoots, and then eating the natural hay when it couldn't find any.

There was a pot over the fire, and the good smell came from there.

"What's that?" he said-croaked, rather. "Christ Jesus, I'm dry."

Signe Larsson was not far away, silently practicing knife strokes against a small lodgepole; she wore clean jeans, her high-tops, and a big man's shirt of checked fla

"About two days, right?" he said, reaching up to touch his forehead.

The long wound across forehead and scalp had been stitched in a small neat style, but he'd have a spectacular scar.

Just like Tarzan 's, he thought to himself.

He'd been a Burroughs freak as a kid, and had spent much of the early eighties pretending the forests of the Upper Peninsula were the ape-man's jungles. He'd enjoyed the Mars books almost as much, although it put him off a bit when he realized that since Dejah Thoris laid eggs, John Carter had essentially been doing the nasty with a giant bug.