Dies the Fire (87 page)

A signaler put his cowhorn bugle to his lips and blew.
Huuu-huuu-huuuu,
the weird dunting bellow echoed back from the hills. A banshee squeal answered it; this time they had
four
bagpipers. They stayed hidden, but all along the hillsides on both sides of the road Mackenzie archers shed their war cloaks and stepped forward, bows in their hands.

The sudden appearance and rustle of movement combined with the eerie keening of the pipes to make them appear more numerous than they were; imagination painted scores more behind them in the trees. Aylward watched as the ranks eddied and milled, heads twisting this way and that—and behind them again. The baron beside the banner of the Lidless Eye drew his sword.

Well, I can read
your
bloody mind, mate. Neck or nothing, a charge is the only way you're getting out. Got to put a stop to that.

Swift as a thought, he drew the string to the angle of his jaw, the heavy muscle bunching in his right arm, then let the string fall off the balls of his fingers. The cord went
snap
against his bracer; before the sensation faded the next was drawn, and the next, and the next. Pale and gray and directionless, the light was still good for shooting; he could see the slight glint as the arrow hit the top of its arc, and anticipate the sweet smooth feeling you got when you knew it was going to hit. . . .

The bagpipes and the rustling and clanking of his own men must have masked the whistle of cloven air. The first arrow smashed into the face of the Protector's baron beside the nose. The steel point and six inches of the shaft came through just behind the hinge of his jaw, sending him turning in place with a high muffled shriek. The second hit him in the upper chest, made a metallic
tink!
sound as it broke two metal rings and sank almost to the feathers. The third struck between his shoulder blades as he continued the turn; that ended with his knees buckling and the armor-clad body falling limp with a thud and last galvanic drum of feet on the pavement. The conical helmet rolled away, its strap burst by the force of impact.

Aylward flung up his bow. The bagpipers fell silent, and the Mackenzie archers stood motionless, their bows up, the pointed-chisel bodkin heads of the arrows aimed down at the dense mass of men on the road. The silence was so profound for an instant that he could hear the sheet metal of the helm ring on the asphalt of the roadway.

His own mind could paint what came next; the whistling of the arrow-storm, the hundreds of shafts arching out and down, the punching impact on armor and flesh and bone, the screams of the wounded and dying . . .

And those laddies
don't
know that most of us can't shoot as well as I, or draw a hundred-pound stave. So their imaginings will be still more vivid and unpleasant.

A Mackenzie beside him raised a white cloth on the butt-end of a spear and walked forward, gulping a little as crossbows were leveled. He got to within talking distance of the men grouped around Arminger's standard, but when he spoke he pitched his voice to carry to the whole group:

“You'd better surrender,” he said, keeping his voice neutral—getting their hackles up was the last thing he wanted. “I'm authorized to offer you your lives, food for the winter and homes for you and any families you had back at the fort—for everyone not guilty of war crimes.”

The second-in-command swallowed and looked up from where he'd been staring, at the leaking corpse of the baron. Blood pooled under the slack arrow-transfixed face and spread; there was an astonishing lot in a human body, and it looked worse when it spread on a watertight surface like this. The fecal smell of violent death was muted by the chill of the air, but nonetheless final and unpleasant for that.

A bugle sounded from the northeast, and the clopping roar of hundreds of hooves on pavement. Every face in the Protector's force turned over their shoulder as the Bearkillers came in sight. They pulled up four hundred yards away, their armored bulk and their horses filling the roadway from verge to verge; heads swiveled back to the silent longbowmen on either side, ready to shoot.

Aylward hid his grin. The expression felt far too carnivorous to let into the negotiations.

 

 

 

“You can see we've treated our prisoners well,” Juniper Mackenzie said. “And you can see that you can't fight us all—we're on both sides of you.”

She was close enough to the western wall of the castle at Upper Soda for the troops who lined the gatehouse and ramparts to hear her plainly. The air was still and cold in the bright day, and her voice had always been bigger than you'd think to look at her. They stirred and murmured along the fighting platform behind the sharpened logs; she could hear the buzz of their voices in the intervals between her sentences, and see the twinkle of sunlight on edged metal. She was
almost
close enough to see expressions.

Unfortunately that put her well within crossbow range, not to mention that of the great dart-casters and ballistae. The men beside and in front of her—unarmed prisoners from the eastern castle, at once witnesses and shield—knew that too. Their sweat stank of fear, and her stomach turned a little at the smell. Then the baby kicked, and she gave a little
whoosh
of effort as she kept herself erect and forced her hands away from the gravid curve of her stomach.

Yet it heartened her. “Just look!” she said.

Memory filled in what lay behind. The University militia had come tramping in step; it was even more impressive when they fanned out across the grassland to either side of the road. Three hundred long pikes, moving in bristling unison like the hair on some steel-spined porcupine's back; as many crossbowmen to either side; flanking those her own clan's archers, moving to the wild skirl of the pipes and the hammering of the Lamberg drums, shaggy in war cloak and kilt and plaid, voices roaring out:

“And to be sure,” she murmured softly to herself, “the trebuchets and catapults are impressive, too, in their own way. And Mike and Aylward on the other side with their merry bands.”

She took another breath; beneath her plaid her hand moved in a certain sign, and her will poured into the words:

“All the world is full of dying,” she went on. “Why add more? We've food enough for all of you and your families”—the reports said about half did have their womenfolk and children along—“for the winter, and there's land and work in plenty, or we'll help you go anywhere else you will. We know the most of you did what you had to do to live; it's only your leaders who are evil. But don't you want to live like free men again? Don't you want to live without hurting anyone, live honestly without being surrounded by hate and fear? And to show we're honest, here are ten men who're your friends to tell you how we've treated them. Don't let the men who use you and abuse you silence them!

“Go,” she added in a normal conversational voice.

Ten of the prisoners trotted forward towards the gate of the castle. They'd volunteered—they must be brave men, and none of them seemed to be very fond of the Protector right now, or his barons. And she
didn't
think the baron of Upper Soda would dare order them shot down, or thrown into prison.

It's a cleft stick he's in, and nobody to blame but himself,
she thought.
Bionn an fhirinne searbh an bhfeallaire: the truth is bitter to the betrayer!

Actions had consequences. You didn't have to be in the Craft for the Threefold Rule to apply.

“You have until tomorrow morning,” she called aloud. “Be wise and make peace, and you'll see tomorrow's sun set.”

She turned and walked away . . . or waddled, as Judy would have put it. The rest of the prisoners crowded along behind her, until she spread her arms to remind them to hang back a little. Still, the distance to her buggy seemed eternal, the climb into it hard—even with Eilir and Astrid to assist, and as well try to catch the Moon with a spoon as keep them back! The whole party walked back to the safety of the allied armies. . . .

Armies!
She thought.
And aren't we getting grand! That Astrid has a talent for the grandiloquent, that she does!

Luther Finney waited with the others; he was the University Committee's man here, though not in command of their militia.

“Juney, you've got more guts than sense!” he scolded. “You shouldn't be doing that sort of thing in your condition!”

Juniper smiled at him. “Well, why not, Luther? I'm doing it for
him,
too.”

She laid her hand on her stomach and looked at Mike Havel. “What better reason?”

He nodded soberly. “And that was quite a speech, too,” he said. “I think—”

Everyone froze as her expression altered. “Oh, my,” she said, both hands on her stomach this time. “Oh,
my.
”

Dennis and Chuck were at her side as if by magic, supporting her elbows.

“I think someone should fetch Judy,” Juniper said. “This feeling's all too familiar.”

 

 

 

Exhausted, Juniper lay back against the pillows and looked down at the tiny crumpled face in the crook of her arm; amazed blue eyes looked back at her from beneath a faint fuzz of wispy red-gold hair. For once she didn't feel guilty about having a fair-sized tent all to herself; the baby needed warmth, and the Coleman stove and air mattress made it fairly comfortable.

“And my own battered, stretched, sore-isn't-the-word self can use a little comfort,” she muttered to herself.

Thank You,
she added to the image of the Mother-of-All on the portable altar in one corner of the tent. Incense burned there, sweet amid the canvas-and-earth scents and the underlying tang of sweat and blood.

Judy came back in, buttoning the sleeves of her shirt and yawning; she'd taken out the last of the soiled linen, and the birthing stool.

“Half the camp is still up,” she said. “The other half is getting up and asking for the news. You'd think nobody had ever had a baby before.”

“Born on a battlefield, poor mite,” Juniper said. “My little Rudi, my warmth in a darkling time.”

A voice coughed outside. Juniper sighed, weary but not ready to sleep just yet.

“Yes, yes,” she said.

Four men crowded in; Dennis, Aylward, Luther Finney . . . and Mike Havel. He was out of his armor and padding, looking younger and less strange—more as a man might have before the Change.

He was also carrying a tray; porridge cooked with dried apples and cherries, cream, scrambled eggs. Juniper's nose twitched, and she was suddenly conscious of a bottomless hunger, deeper than anything since the harvest.

Judy took the well-wrapped baby and handed him to Luther; the elderly farmer took the tiny bundle with the calm ease of experience as father and grandfather and great-grandfather.

As she helped Juniper sit up and fluffed the pillows, Judy launched a preemptive strike:

“Easy ten-hour delivery, nice bouncing six pounds, eight ounces baby boy, with all the limbs and facilities—including good hearing, by the way.”

The women's eyes met:
And you'd scarcely know he's nearly a month early.

“And a good set of lungs, as you may have heard earlier. He's eaten; the mother should now.”

The other men awkwardly admired the baby. The flap of the tent opened again as Eilir darted in with Astrid on her heels.

Mom!
she signed, her gestures broad with excitement.
Mom! Someone inside hit the baron on the head with an
axe,
and they're fighting each other—the ones who want to surrender have opened the gate! Chuck's going there now!

Luther Finney put the infant back on Juniper's stomach, careful even in his haste. Her arms took it, but her eyes held Mike Havel for an instant.

“Mike . . . keep my word for me,” she said quietly.

A silent nod, and he was gone. She sighed and lay back; a wail, and she put the baby to her breast.

“It's not the quietest of worlds, my sweetling,” she murmured, stroking his cheek. “But I'll try to make it the best I can for you.”

“
Y
eah, she's calling him Rudi—after her husband; he didn't make it through the day of the Change,” Mike Havel said.

They were all standing and watching with satisfaction as the long wagon train trundled west through the little town of Sisters and up Route 20. The wagons—everything from old buckboards from rodeo shows to post-Change made-from-anything makeshifts—were loaded high with the Bearkillers' gear, but all of it was on a solid foundation of plump grain sacks, usually two or three deep. It was eerily appropriate that Cascade Street was lined with false-front stores like something out of a Western movie; pre-Change pretense and makeshifts done after the Change in desperate earnest.