The Sword of the Lady (51 page)

That was more tactful than usual with the blunt-spoken Sheriff; it was probably also partly true. Even unskilled hands could always be found useful work—if nothing else, they′d free craftsfolk from routine chores like woodchopping. Not to mention the substantial golden sweetener he′d provided to pay for room, board and instruction in arts like weaving and cheesemaking, literacy and frequent baths. If they returned in the spring—

When,
he told himself firmly.
When we come back in the spring. I′ve no choice, now that I′ve taken oath on it.

When they returned the Southsider noncombatants would be far closer to something civilized. Enough that founding their own dun in Mackenzie territory would be feasible, with a little more teaching from volunteers there.

″And I′m gonna be busy this winter myself,″ Ed Vogeler said. ″It′s our visiting season, and we visit hard. There are important men who′ll listen to me.″

″And women who′ll listen to me,″ his wife put in, a little to his surprise.

He glanced at her and nodded. ″You′ve opened my eyes, Mr. Mackenzie. And Father Ignatius, and all of you. Ingolf too, of course. These maniacs have to be stopped.″

″Good, because to do that we need the
Sword
,″ Mathilda said, her voice clipped. ″We need to get going. The snow′s deep enough now. And the sleds are ready.″

She shot a glance towards Samantha, whom she seemed to have taken in dislike.

Now, is it more annoying to be suspected of what you
have
done or what you
haven′t?
She′s been intolerable lately
, Rudi thought
. The best traveling companion you could want through battle and hardship, and now we′ve found safe haven for a while, and she′s . . . well, I′d ask her if she was under the Moon′s domain this week, did I want to enrage her even more!

″You′d better wait until there′s some clear weather,″ the Sheriff said.

A little reluctantly, Rudi thought. He′d been perfectly honorable, perfectly correct in his hospitality, and once his doubts were overcome full of zeal for their cause—but keeping a party their size fed all winter would be a bit of a strain even for a man of his wealth and power.

″I′ll leave you to it,″ he added.

The other Readstowners made their good nights as well, all except Pierre Walks Quiet and Samantha the housekeeper. She smiled at Jake:

″I′ll have a Moon School running for your people too.″

He nodded vigorously. ″Gotta get good with the spooks, yeah!″

″And here′s the list of the last supplies,″ she said to Rudi, and handed him a paper. ″Some things I wasn′t sure we could do before you left.″

He scanned down it. ″Blueberry turnovers?″ he said. ″Good, I′m sure, but—″

She smiled. ″Concentrated food value. And they keep well frozen.″

Then she stood, stretched, and said: ″And now for the farewell. Farewell to you all!″

They said their good-byes, a little puzzled; those of the Old Religion bowed their heads slightly at her sign of blessing. She extended a hand . . . and Edain, smiling a bit bashfully, took it.

″Some good-byes take longer than others,″ she said, and pulled him to his feet. ″Merry met, merry part, and to all a good night before it′s merry met again!″

A ringing silence fell as they left the room.

″Well, well,″ Ingolf said meditatively. ″So
that′s
why he′s been so carefree lately.″

Rudi coughed and decided on another slice of the pie; with ice cream this time.

He glanced at Mathilda and raised a brow. She looked back boldly enough, but slowly a blush rose from her neck to her bold-featured olive face, turning it a dusky rose. Then he relented and made a gesture with one hand, one they′d used together since they were children:
It′s all right
.

She nodded and looked away. Rudi returned to the pie.
And you′ll never know just how
much
I was tempted,
acushla!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

″You are
sure
the weather will be bad, Master Dalan?″ Major Graber of the Sword of the Prophet asked.

The High Seeker smiled. The snow here was falling straight and thick, cutting visibility to a gray blur in the dim sunlight of a winter′s afternoon. It gave the air an odd muffled quality, as if everything had been wrapped with thick soft cloths.

″Yes,″ he said. ″The butterfly has beaten its wings. That thunderclap echoes across continents.″

Graber nodded.
I do not know what that means, and I do not wish to know.

″Hail Maitreya!″ he said aloud.

The rolling land here was not totally unlike his home; no high mountains, of course, or any open range, but endless conifers a little like the foothill forests. The cold and snowfall didn′t bother a man reared in the Bitterroot country and the Valley of Paradise; he had a good buffalo-hide robe over his armor and gambeson, thick wool trousers, and for the rest the Sword of the Prophet were trained to welcome hardship. A true man transcended the material with the stuff of his
atman
.

There had been a village here before the Sword of the Prophet came. Of sorts, patched-up pre-Change houses and sheds built of salvage and scraps of timber; and they had kept most of the buildings that still had roofs intact, so there was shelter and to spare for his men and even for the horses, and food enough for both if they were careful—
he
didn′t need to keep seed grain for next year, unlike the former inhabitants. Not enough for the two hundred or so savages who′d drifted in over the past week, but they′d brought their own supplies. Their low domed brushwood shelters stretched in little dribs and drabs through the snowy woods, avoiding the open spaces that had been tilled ground and pasture.

He scowled a little as a scream came from one of their camps. The men of the Sword hadn′t killed all the original dwellers, but the newcomers were seeing to that. He′d ever hesitated to do what was necessary, but he didn′t do it for sport.

″The storms will continue,″ Dalan said. ″And it will be very cold, much colder than usual for this time of year. Air will flow south from the Pole.″

″Good, High Seeker,″ Graber said. ″But they are still likely to bypass us unless we can get the savages—″

″The Bekwa, most of them are called. Those clans have been drifting in here from the east, in the last few years. And there are some of the local clans here now too.″

″Get the Bekwa in order, so that we can use them to scout. Surely they are not servants of the Ascending Hierarchy?″

″Some of them are. The missions have reached very far. But the Masters are ever-watchful for all of us, you realize.″

″Of course, High Seeker.″ That was standard doctrine—all religions had hints of the Truth. ″I can′t even speak their absurd language, though. And what English they know is hardly better.″

″I can speak their language. In more ways than one. Come.″

Graber followed him; he made a small gesture with his right hand to keep any of the men from trailing along, thinking his full armor and the fact that he
could
call on his troops enough. He didn′t fear the Bekwa, anymore than he would so many rabid dogs—but he wouldn′t take chances with a pack of rabid dogs, either. Since he had to work with them, showing fear would be the worst mistake of all. The buildings quickly dropped out of sight in the silent, steady downfall of the snow. There
were
dogs, not mad but vicious enough; they ran barking and snarling at the two Westerners, until Graber thought he would have to draw his shete and beat them aside with the flat.

Then they stopped, staring at Dalan; their bristling fur fell flat. Some whimpered and fled with their tails tucked between their legs. Others fawned on the High Seeker, scattering only when he kicked one. They walked between the shelters of the savages then. Smoke lay in a haze, trickling from cooking fires under little thatched covers, or through holes in the tops of the shelters. It had a bitter tinge, and even in the cold there was a stink that made him wrinkle his nose. The warriors squatted and watched from the entrances of the huts, or from cruder lean-tos, following the two outsiders in silence. Some were Injun; others looked like white men. They all had something of the same feral menace, eyes staring from under falls of tangled or braided hair.

Not quite
complete
savages
, he thought.
Not like the Eaters we saw in Illinois closer to the dead cities. They should be useful, if they don′t kill and roast us all.

What wool clothing they had was tattered enough, probably looted, but they had well-tanned leather gear of their own making, and their weapons—hatchets, knives, spears, short recurve bows—were reasonably well fashioned when they weren′t salvage. Nor did they look so starved and rickety . . . though some of them grinned at him with blackened teeth filed to points. After a few minutes they passed out of the encampment, and then came to a circle of the domed huts set about with poles bearing the standards of the tribes gathered here—one had the rayed Sun of the CUT; others included the withered worm-eaten head of a wolf, and several skulls.

″Watch here,″ Dalan said to the Sword officer. ″This struggle will not be on the gross physical plane . . . but I may need protection.″

Struggle?
Graber thought.

His only outward reply was an inclination of the head. Slowly, men came out of the huts; men and a pair of women. Graber scowled at them—they were wearing trousers—but much service among unbelievers had hardened him to the sight of things forbidden. To be honest, the CUT hadn′t yet managed to purge even the homeland of such wickedness. Some of the newcomers looked hostile; one or two bowed to Master Dalan in fellowship. All were oddly dressed, with strings of beads, clusters of feathers, the feet of eagles, gear more arcane, or the tanned heads of animals worn as caps.

Several produced small drums and began to beat them with bone hammers, the sound falling flat and distanced among the snow: dum-dum-
dum
, dum-dum-
dum
. . .

There were a dozen of them in all. They began to dance, a swaying shuffling circle, in and out and around, through the screen of drifting flakes. He blinked as Dalan joined them, turning in place in the center with his arms stretched skyward.

Shamans
, the Sword commander realized.
They′re making magic.

He shuddered; that was unclean, by the CUT′s teaching. Master Dalan must have dispensation from the Prophet himself—of course, what the adepts among the Seekers did wasn′t
magic
, strictly speaking; it was powers conferred by the Secret Masters. The dance grew wilder, feet stamping and leaping. Then slower, barely moving at all. At last all squatted and knelt, the circle facing inward towards Dalan. Graber realized with a start that his heartbeat was running in time with the drums, and with a wrenching effort of will that made the sweat run down his flanks and his belly twist with nausea he forced himself to break that rhythm.

Hail Serapis Bey!
he told himself, chanting the mantra inwardly as he′d been taught in the House, until calm gradually returned.
Hail Serapis Bey! The Fourth Ray is with me. Hail Serapis Bey!

When he could focus on the world again he almost started and drew his shete; there were men around him, wrapped in bulky fur coats against the growing cold and the endless snow. A little older than the other Bekwa warriors, and better dressed, all with weapons in their hands.

War chiefs
, he thought, noting the array of scars—from the look of them, fighting infection wasn′t among their skills.
Waiting for . . . whatever Dalan is doing.

Some of the chiefs had torches with them, soaked with pine resin. The flames shed a ruddy tinge over the motionless circle, hissing as snowflakes fell into them. The drumbeat stilled at last. One of the drummers seemed to yawn . . . until the gape grew impossibly wide. A whining sound came from the gaping mouth, and an instant later blood sprayed out; and ran from nose and ears and eyes as well, like black tears. Another of the shamans jerked forward and then slumped with a limpness that Graber knew well—it was the sort that a man showed when he′d had his spine cut, or an arrow through the eye into the brain. Dalan held out his arms, as if embracing the shamans.

″I . . . see . . . you,″
he said.

The shamans blinked. It took an instant before Graber realized that they′d done it in unison, and even then he could not be sure. When they spoke it was a rustling whisper, in a synchronicity as complete as a Temple choir:

They rose. When they had sat it had been one by one; now they came to their feet like drilled soldiers. They turned to face the war chiefs, and blinked once more . . . at the same instant, every pair of eyes obscured and then open. And
something
looked out from behind those eyes, those faces blank and fixed as if they were formed from dough.

″Guerr!″
they cried in unison.

Dalan threw his hands skyward in triumph.

″War!″
he shouted.

Dalan staggered towards him, face blazing with exultation. ″They will fight, Major,″ he said.

″Good. Though even so . . . it′s a big country.″

″More than them, Major. More things than the tribesmen will make
war
.″

 

 

 

″Now, this is something of a sport!″ Rudi Mackenzie said. ″And a very good way to travel in a hurry, so.″