Mary brooded again as she ate, hardly even noticing the second slice of the really excellent pie, lost enough that Ritva′s head came up a full half second before she noticed the light tread on the stairs below.
″Our host,″ Mary said sourly.
″Orch.″
Ritva sighed and shrugged. Nobody could really object to the term. There weren′t any bugs in the mattresses in their rooms, but they were stained, and there was a slight smell, and you could
hear
what went on below; she was fairly sure that a lot of the girls weren′t here voluntarily, or at least they cried and drank a lot when they weren′t working. Technically the two of them should be burning the place down and setting everyone free; that was a Ranger′s oath, to help the helpless and defend the weak, even if what they mostly did for a living was hunt and guard caravans and track down bandits.
But we have to get the Sword. Key to the Dark Lord and all that. I judge this host of ours to be a bad man, but one with some scruples about debt and obligation.
″Hi,″ Tancredo said, through the open door, blinking a little at the uniform stare he got.
He was about the same color as Fred Thurston but otherwise unalike, a slight wiry man in his thirties with a ready smile that didn′t reach his eyes. Ingolf had done business with him years before when he ran a salvage outfit; they both disclaimed friendship.
″OK,″ he said, leaning against the doorway. ″Look, I owe Ingolf. I owe him money and favors. So I′ve got that ship he wanted waiting at the docks in Dubuque. I don′t owe him my life, or my wife and kids′ lives, which is what tangling with Captain Denson of the State Police would mean. So you′re
not
going to do any crazy stunts from here, or from anyplace I own. Understand? Do you folks want to get on your way, or not? That′s up to you.″
There were vague hulking shapes on the stairway behind him, probably hired muscle. That didn′t bother Ritva; she had a high opinion of her companions, and an even higher one of herself. The problem was that Tancredo was their only defense against the State Police. None of them knew their way around Des Moines′ enormous dirty warren—and a walled city was a hard place to get out of.
″Excuse me, my son,″ a quiet voice said on the stairs. Father Ignatius beamed at them as he came into view. ″I fear we must move, my children, and quickly. Collect your gear.″
Usually Ritva felt a slight irritation when the Christian priest called them that, although she liked him well enough. He was only a few years older himself. And the more so when he assumed an authority only Rudi and Ingolf had in this band, since she was no part of his flock.
This time she beamed back at him.
CHAPTER SIX
THE WILD LANDS (FORMERLY ILLINOIS) CENTRAL PRAIRIE SEPTEMBER 1, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD
A horse whickered. Rudi Mackenzie grinned to himself in the hot prickly darkness. He lay in the big bluestem grass that blocked vision everywhere beyond arm′s reach; it was five feet tall hereabouts on this dry-soiled stretch of upland prairie, with dense-packed stems as thick as his little finger ending in a three-lobed end that looked a little like a turkey′s foot. The huge mass of dried grass smelled like the hayloft of the Gods, a dusty-sweet mellow odor that only cured grass had, but magnified by the sun-cured expanses that stretched to the horizon on every hand.
He grinned a little wider; about eleven years ago he′d had a very pleasant encounter with a girl named Caitlin in a Dun Mellin stack that smelled a lot like this, while he was there helping with the threshing. She′d been three years older than he, and you never forgot the first time.
And herself as sweet and bouncy as the clover that fine night, the Foam-Born Cyprian′s blessings on her for being patient with my boy′s clumsiness
, he thought.
He′d danced at her handfasting to Bram the Smith four years later, too; pranced and tumbled and leapt and spun with goat horns strapped above his ankles amid the other youths, to lead her and her flower-garlanded maidens to the dun′s
nemed
. Nowadays she was a hearth-mistress and High Priestess and a potter growing famous for her slip-glazed ware, and had a pair of little girls as pretty as two young jays and a baby boy at the breast.
And so to business. I′m seeing to their safety, and that of all the Clan′s hearth-homes, and more.
He felt alive at the thought, intensely conscious of himself and the moment. These were the things for which he had been made, the deeds that were his very
self
.
Besides which, this should be fun. The stealing part, at least. My totem is
Raven
, after all . . . and doesn′t that One love to carry things off? More, I′m doing it for Matti and my friends, and it is a relief beyond words to be
moving
, not just persuading and cajoling, the which is needful but drives a man mad!
The horse nickered again, more urgently, but he wasn′t particularly worried that the sleepy guard-riders would be alarmed.
If there′s one thing that a herd of any size will always produce, it′s that sound; the which is why it′s easier to steal forty horses than one. And it tells me everyone′s in position.
The night had become dense-dark anyway with the setting of the moon sliver several hours ago. Patches of high cloud ghosted across the sky, hiding the bright Belt of the Goddess, and denser black masses piled to the west with a flicker of distant lightning now and then, too far for even the faintest rumble of thunder. It was three hours past midnight, the time when old men died and sleep was deepest. But it wasn′t still. The cicadas were loud here, as loud as he′d ever heard them, and the tall prairie grasses made a peculiar sound not quite like anything he knew, a long
hsssssss
that swelled and died away as the ripples passed him by.
It′s like the sea,
he thought.
He′d heard something a bit like this once while he single-handed a ketch off Newport, the Corvallis sea town, on a day when the Pacific whitecaps marched from the farthest horizon to his boat′s bow. A seal had swum alongside for a while, and sometimes heaved itself up for an instant to peer over the gunwale at him with great brown eyes. He′d bowed back gravely, and laughed as it dove away with a flick of the tail that shot cold saltwater into his face and made him nearly luff as he came about on that tack.
Yes, it sounds like waves. And the breeze is picking up.
″I don′t like having to rely on the Southsiders, Chief,″ Edain said quietly—whispering′s sibilants carried farther than the tones of ordinary speech. ″Sure, and they′re good-hearted and brave, but Tamar′s favorite team″—his elder half sister was well known as a trainer of oxen—″knows more about the which of the where.″
″At sneaking through the dark, they′re skilled enough,″ he replied. ″They′d have been dead long ago else.″
A glance at the stars to confirm his inner time sense, and then:
″Now.″
They both rolled to their feet, their longbows in their hands. The arrows they needed were stuck point down in the sod, and Rudi flicked open the improvised beechwood firebox with the tip of his bow. Air struck the banked embers within, and they glowed for an instant beneath the covering of white ash with a hot dry smell. He set one of the arrows to the string, and dipped the lump behind the head into the coals; the ball of frayed wild flax soaked in oil flared up immediately. Then Rudi turned and shot, the fire-arrow′s point up at a forty-five degree angle as he sank into the draw inside the bow, using the backside-down posture best for distance work. The ball of flame traced a red line through the night; three more were in the air before it struck.
″And there′s a sign that′s sayin′:
Hurrah, we′re here! Tasty and fookin′ edible and doing ye the great favor of cookin′ ourselves!
″ Edain grumbled beneath his rhythmic grunts of effort as he shot.
″Last one!″ Rudi said.
Between them they′d sent sixteen flaming missiles westward into a tin derbox fanned by the dry warm wind. The arrows traveled a little less than three hundred yards each to make an arc—they were lighter than a battle shaft, but the bundle of burning matter made them less well balanced and too thick to cut the air efficiently. Now they turned and trotted eastward with the wind at their backs, stooping a little—more than a little, in Rudi′s case—to keep the tops of their helms below the level of the grass.
It was surprisingly hard to push through, especially in the dark; the grass itself was thick, and there was a dense understory of knee-high forbs and thistles. Once an ancient tangle of barbed wire caught at his foot, but it was rusted through and crumbled when he tugged. Garbh seemed to have an easier time of it, bounding silently at Edain′s side. It was her check and quiet growl that alerted them, an instant before the thud of hooves.
″Ssst!″ Edain said; that brought her quivering-silent.
They split to either side and froze, kneeling and laying down their bows. The rider was coming at a trot; he had a short spear in his hand ready to throw, and he was standing in the stirrups and peering at the growing red glow to the west, blinding his own night vision. The two Mackenzies moved like the twin jaws of a spring-steel trap; Edain grabbed the man′s foot with both hands and flung it upward. Taken by surprise, the Knifer catapulted to his right as if jerked by elastic cords.
His startled yell broke off at its beginning in a croak; waiting, Rudi grabbed the back of the man′s greasy leather tunic, slammed him to the ground with stunning force and struck behind his ear with the blade of his other hand. Then he stepped back with a grimace and picked up his bow again; for one thing he didn′t want the man′s lice to be able to jump ship. And while it would be easy enough to finish him, perhaps wise . . .
Perhaps he wasn′t a bad man, by his own lights; and like as not a woman and her children would mourn him. Now let him live or die as the Powers and his own fate decree.
″Earth must be fed,″ he murmured.
Edain gentled the horse. He′d been a competent rider when they set out, since the Aylwards had a pair of mounts—unusual affluence for Mackenzies, who usually kept their working stock for plows and wagons and walked or rode bicycles themselves. More than a year of constant travel on horseback and caring for a series of local remounts had made him an expert; he had his plaid wrapped around its head, and was stroking it with one hand and keeping a firm grip on the bridle with the other. Rudi took that over immediately—he wanted the best archer with his bow-hand free. He did take an instant to undo the girths and let the pad saddle and its blanket slide off, and he snorted in silent disgust at the sores and saddle galls beneath.
Sure, and I stand corrected. He
was
a bad man, and bad cess to him as he makes accounting to the Guardians of the horse-kind!
That was illogical; the Southsiders weren′t much better. These wild-man tribes didn′t really raise horses; they caught mustangs, broke them crudely, and used them until they died. Which wasn′t all that long given the general fragility of equines.
An animal that can die because it can′t puke
needs
humankind to look after it. But the Horse Goddess gives Her sons and daughters to be our helpers and our friends, not machinery.
It made him feel a bit better about clouting the Knifer and leaving him in the path of the fire, the more so since he′d given his Freedom Fighter hosts a few pointers on the care and feeding of the beasts.
The horse was getting upset again; the smell of fire was starting to grow. So was the light. He could see a little better now, with red flame licking up like a new sunset. Bits and pieces twisted into the air, drifting up and then followed by others moving faster even as he glanced. Then he could see the tips of flames, redder than his mother′s hair, as he first remembered it when she bent over him with the sun behind her turning it to floating copper. Tips of flame, and others skipping ahead where the wind blew it. A crackling roar began to build, not the deep sound wood made burning, but lighter—almost a hissing, like a serpent of fire.
″Like the snakes of Surtr,″ he said. ″Now, this calls for careful judgment; we want the fire to be on our very heels. A moment . . . and another . . . and let′s
go
!″
He tossed Edain′s plaid back to him and let the horse run—bolt, rather, neighing in panic, which was entirely understandable now that the fire was visible. With any luck at all the guards would just assume that it had thrown its rider. According to the Southsiders, nobody hereabouts used fire arrows—they′d had to have the concept explained to them.
Rudi whistled, two rising notes and one sustained. Epona trotted up like part of the darkness with Edain′s roan gelding following, its reins secured to a loop on the big mare′s war-saddle. She didn′t like coming closer to a fire—she
was
a horse, however unusual—but she did it. The roan followed perforce, despite the way its ears were laid back and its eyes rolling and its body covered in fear-sweat. The reins were strong solid leather, but Epona′s dominance over the other beast′s dim instinct-driven mind was stronger still.
She
was
the herd mare, and it would take a much closer brush with the fire to generate enough squealing panic to cancel that. His advisors on the gentle art of reaving horses had always used a mounted man to hold the raiders′ mounts and bring them up at this point, but Epona could do the job just as well.
″Working just like Red Leaf said it would.″ Edain grinned, as he unlooped the reins.
Neither man mounted; they turned the horses and loped beside them, holding on to a stirrup leather to smooth their pace. It made running through the thick grass much easier. Epona′s breast parted the tall whippy stems, and with a hand linked to her solid weight he could lift himself past obstacles that caught at his boots, bounding along as if each step was off a trampoline.
″Horse-stealing being their national sport, so to say,″ Rudi replied as his long legs swung along. ″The Sioux would be doing this hanging under the horse′s belly.″