Tales of Downfall and Rebirth

by S. M. Stirling

  Hamish had decided, from the traces left, that no more than ten or fifteen men were involved. But ten or fifteen men, awake and systematic and well led could easily slaughter a hamlet of ten or fifteen households . . . eighty or ninety people, most dead in their beds or at the very threshold of their homes, and from the state of the animals, just before or at dawn. Farmer folk often were up betimes, doing their routine chores, and none of the Dells lost had shown signs of the early chore work.

  The moon rose in a blaze of glory, looking as wide as Stronghold, silhouetted against the rough terrain. Colin watched eastward, and was rewarded. There was a fire to the east, possibly several from the smoke trails across the face of the moon. They would have done better to camp cold, he thought. But, unless Sean is one of theirs and they expected him to join them; they’ve no idea they’ve been rumbled. Time to warn Mickleson’s and trap the trappers.

  He yanked his tousled hair back into a neater ponytail and slung his rope around a rock and began to descend by the tricksy moonlight to the trail down by the river. At least, when the dogs start barking I don’t have to worry that they’ll warn the Sherries I’m arriving, and I don’t have to sneak through a line of heartless murderers—I hope. Colin was tired after a full half day of scaling up and down the mountain screes, so he took extra care with the descent. He finally reached the Illinois River Road, the NF-4103. The river brawled and leapt to his left as he set forward at a slow trot.

  The moonlight made his path difficult; hard-edged black shadows making him hop and skip over obstacles that weren’t there, and stub his toes on hidden ones. The road’s pavement was deteriorating from years of neglect. A broken leg, or even a twisted ankle could kill him.

  He trotted up to Mickleson’s, one of the largest of the Dells, amid a chorus of angry dog barks and shouts and torch lighting.

  “Quiet, quiet!” he yelled, feeling ironic.

  Mickleson waved a pine knot close to his face, furious. Colin thought that the reflected flame wasn’t making the man’s face redder and puffier than it really was.

  “Put that damned boy in the lockup and Hamish can spring him when we’ve got the time to send and let him know where his stupid little Loki is!”

  Colin grabbed at the torch and doused it on the ground. “Quiet, you dafties!” he said, keeping his voice down. “And less noise and flame!” He dodged a sudden heavy fist, jumping behind the man.

  What do I do now? he wondered. The jokester’s all well and good, but it’s backfiring the now.

  Two men grabbed him from behind and yanked him back, one covering his spluttering mouth.

  “Rory, Rory, be calm!”

  Colin started violently. Aisha? What’s she doing here? Oh, damn! Aisha! Here!

  She talked softly to Rory Mickleson. Colin relaxed himself and felt the hold on him loosen. He didn’t pull free. After a few more seconds the Dell’s commons were moonlit again, just a few horn lanterns, and the dogs under control. At a sign from Rory Mickleson, the men let go.

  “Aisha, what are you doing here?” he blurted out.

  His father’s fourth . . . or second wife—depending on how you counted she could be his first since she was the only one living he’d married in a formal, official ceremony, five months after the Change—was barely visible in the darkness. She came to stand beside him. “I had to bring special supplies for Rory’s wife. But she died and he’s got some problems, so I stayed.”

  Colin looked over to the far side of the commons and spotted the llama pack team Aisha generally used when she was wandering about the Westmark, pastured with the Dell’s sheep, alpacas, and llamas.

  After a minute of trying to put too many pieces of data in order, he settled on the most important. “Rory, ’tis sorry I am to hear that Susan’s deid, th’ now. Tha’s terrible news. But we’ll all be deid by the second dawn, do we not work hard tonight and tomorrow. There’s a mess o’ Sherries camped back a matter of a league or two and they’ve just wiped out RoeDell. I’ve sent news to my faither, but it’s a question if it’ll get through. Problem wi’ these narrow mountain trails is how easy ’tis to interdict communications.”

  Rory Mickleson scowled at him and then waved irritably. “Everybody, back to yer cots. Danuel, Robby, Maire, and Devra, wi’ me in t’ Hall. You too, Aisha.” He grabbed Colin by the arm and hustled him up to the grandiosely named “Hall.”

  An hour later Colin scowled and gave it up. Mickleson would have his way, and in his Dell he ruled. Loyalty he owed to Hamish McClintock and the clan, but not obedience. Having wrung Colin dry of all the information and speculation he had, he had made his decisions and formulated his strategy.

  “You and Aisha make tracks for Stronghold at dawn and tell t’ laird,” he instructed, reddened eyes glaring, bitten lips cracked and bleeding a tad more. “I’m not having you risk yersel’s in my bragle. Yer no loss as warriors, neither, but as couriers . . . mebee you can get Hamish and the affinity out here and catch them, slaughter them, and we’ll be done with their threat.”

  The lanky Dell chief turned away from them and gathered his seconds in a huddle over a relief map in the far corner.

  Colin sighed. “But I told you, I already sent a courier . . .” he said to the man’s back, and softly.

  “Are you hungry, then, Colin?” asked Aisha.

  “I’d take it kindly, if you’d feed me,” he answered. She took him out to the refectory and found bread, cheese, and jerky, with some nuts and clean cold water. He ate watching Aisha fuss the kitchen back into order.

  “Susan’s going to be missed,” she observed. “Rory’s not a bad man, but he was always . . . a man to let women’s work rest in women’s hands. And Susan would have no second in her own home. And the girls were caring for their mother and not the house, not to mention, they’re all young.”

  Colin nodded, enjoying her voice. She’s the only person who isn’t trying to sound like a second-rate BBC historical around here. I wish Da hadn’t . . . well, but I don’t either. He sighed and Aisha laughed suddenly.

  “Dear Colin, you’ve been a good boy with the world turning upside down on you twice and three times. And a good friend to me. What’s the sigh for?”

  And in the gloom of the kitchen, with the friendly low glow from the banked hearth it was suddenly easy for Colin to say, “I wish Da’d nivir left you when Esther came back pregnant that winter. And you with child.”

  “Esther’s Shona is as much your sister as Dhugal is your brother,” said Aisha, a measure of reproof in her voice.

  He struggled to express himself . . .

  “It, it jest warn’t right!”

  “No, Colin, it wasn’t. It wasn’t right that Esther had to bear a rape child, or suffer the cruel march south to return, under the slave’s yoke. Life isn’t right . . . many times. Your father loves Esther. He cared and cares for me, but Esther is the wife of his heart. I’d rather a cold bed than a shared bed. Esther would have said nothing had Hamish honored the vows he spoke to me, believing her dead.”

  She drummed her fingers on the table, lightly. “But I wouldn’t have been happy, either. No, sometimes you get lemons and even lemonade isn’t possible, so you sip the sour and accept it.” She put her work-roughened dark fingers over his hand for an instant, eyes black in the gloom of the kitchen, skin well nigh invisible.

  Colin sighed. He’d fallen in love with Aisha this last year, her dark skin, slender, aristocratic face, patient kindness, and the riot of curly black hair ravaging his adolescent heart. She was—had been—his father’s wife; it was icky! And she was abandoned and beautiful and . . . Colin squelched the thought.

  “We’ll be leaving the morn, then? I’m not too easy in my mind. Moonset is after sunrise, so we’ll have no dark hours before dawn to creep past the Sherry camps.”

  “I don’t know, Colin; it doesn’t feel right. Are you sure they’ll surround the Dell tomorrow?
And attack at dawn the next day?”

  “No,” he said, baldly. “It’s what they’ve done before. But they’ve not, to our knowledge hit two Dells in two days. So, I don’t know.”

  “Aisha? Colin?”

  “Here,” called Aisha.

  Rory walked into the refectory. “Dennis isn’t back,” he said. Colin watched him fidget with the ironmongery hanging in the fireplace.

  There’s a man not as confident as he was showing to his seconds.

  “Of course, you’ve yer aun place here, Aisha, and always welcome. Colin, ye kin bunk with the boys over in t’ tower. But . . .”

  “Who’s Dennis? And where and why is he missing?”

  Rory glared at Colin. “Ye’ll ha’ yer faither’s inches soon eno’, and probably your faither’s brains, though I dun see no sign they’s there, just the yet. Any yet—so, Dennis is our shepherd and he an’ his dog have been after finding a missing sheep flock. It’s but a bellwether and three ewes and their lambs.”

  “There aren’t many places for them to hide,” observed Colin.

  “It’s coming up on midnight, Rory,” said Aisha.

  Colin shot her a glance; something had changed in her voice. Clearly Rory had heard it, too. He moved behind her and pointed her at the banked fire. “Midnight, the witching hour, black witch. Tell me what you see . . .”

  Call her black witch? Colin wasn’t sure which noun offended him more and opened his mouth to protest and shut it. Aisha was in a trance and Colin had seen Belle at Selmac Lake go into a trance and prophesy truly; he went very still and shuddered a bit.

  I didn’t know Aisha tranced.

  Rory held Aisha’s shoulders gently and pressed; the black woman collapsed to her knees, folding gracefully, arms wrapped around her forehead resting on her thighs. She rocked slowly and Colin heard her words, whispered to the floor.

  “They argue; they argue. Their leader is gone. They are splintering, splintering, splintering . . .” Aisha reared up, her eyes wide and blank. “They will destroy my new home, before it is even offered to me . . .”

  She fell over and Rory scooped her up.

  Colin made a move and then held back. Rory nodded at him.

  “Not too useful, the now. But she did that for Susan months ago. And what she said was true. I’ll put her to bed with Tracey and Danetta. And you’re damn well leaving at dawn! The both of you; clearly they’ll attack! Even if they break into splinter groups, splinters kin be deadly.”

  Colin paced around the refectory for a few minutes more. Aisha’s words itched at him, and the missing shepherd and his sheep. Finally he found the outer door and walked into the silent night. Silver moonlight poured down, the small bright disk high in the night sky. There were meadows across the river and both up and down the river where the animals might have wandered, Colin turned and turned.

  It was late; he was tired and if there were men hiding in the trees around the commons and by the other cots across the river and up and down the trail, he couldn’t see them and finding them would be impossible. A huge yawn cracked his head open, straining his jaw joints. Llama-Dama and Dali-Llama were at pasture at the edge of the trees. He curled up against Llama-Dama and fell asleep. Even for the son of Hamish McClintock, it had been a long day. His last thought was to wonder if Robin had made it back to Stronghold and Hamish was mustering the rescue.

  * * *

  The night was bright with moonlight, but the corridors of the outer keep, inky black. Late as it was, no light gleamed out of the narrow windows above. Sean felt a faint movement of air on his cheek. He moved his hand abruptly and the hulking shadow paused.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “Bloody if I know! Why the hell didn’t you just kill her on the trail?”

  “Couldn’t get close enough to her, damn it!”

  “Things going bollocks-up real fast. Is it worth it to stay?”

  “You can’t; that boy—Derek—he’s dead as a doornail. You just had to kill! We needed you in the muster—and now you’ll be hanged at dawn before ever himself leaves with his kilted clowns. I must stay, or give up the whole plan. And I won’t! Stronghold is mine!”

  The angry swearing of the man hidden in the shadows grew in volume. “Can it, Malc—Quiet! You don’t want anybody finding you. I’ll try to distract the guard and you sneak out. Get over toward Mickleson’s as fast as possible; moon’s up. The boys’ll be camped out ’bout a league short, where the trail cuts narrow over the Illinois River. I don’t know who’s in charge. Rick bought it at RoeDell and Andy sent for Dubya and his guys and Warren and his’n were scouting south of the Illinois River.”

  One soft, heartfelt curse answered him.

  Sean walked out into the practice ground, through the forest of pells and targets and on over to the great gate and lounged against the postern, fumbling behind his back.

  “What’s up, Teach?” asked the on-duty McClintock.

  “Nothing much, Sam, nothing much. Been looking for young Robin MacRoe. I was out most of the day, but there’s a note on my desk saying she wants to talk with me.”

  “Haven’t seen her since she left with the boy midmorning.”

  The deadbolt moved smoothly back; the postern door wanted to swing open. Sean stilled it and then walked forward, still talking, talking, talking—distracting the guard, listening for Malc’s heavy tread and the sound of the postern door swinging open and shut.

  He never saw the fist shoot out of the darkness—only felt the star-spangled pain as it slammed into his temple.

  * * *

  In the brisk chill of the predawn Colin came suddenly awake as Llama-Dama surged to her feet and gave the gargling, squeaky attack scream of her kind. Colin could see the mountain silhouettes to the east; the sky above pale with the approaching dawn. He screamed as hard as he could as the mountainside was suddenly alive with the disciplined movement of camouflaged men.

  “Rory! Rory! Turn out the guard!” His voice cracked.

  Curses; he could hear curses from the slopes and more from the cots around the commons. Dali-Llama butted him in the chest and he fell over onto the hay they’d been sleeping in. Even as he struggled up, Llama-Dama stepped backward and put one leg and all her weight on his breastbone.

  Doors banged—torches flared—the Dell’s adults poured out, armed and ready . . . Colin turned his head and caught a glimpse of the men coming into the Dell. He reached up, trying to shift the llama’s foot off his chest. Something was off; if only he could see! Or move!

  The clash of weapons, scurrilous yells, a few screams of fear or agony. Colin pounded on the llama’s leg. Suddenly Llama-Dama moved forward and let him up. He grabbed her around the neck, hanging on and gasping in deep breaths. The commons were crowded with men and women, weapons waving, ropes being tied . . . Colin counted and then looked again. He’d gotten a fairly close look at the men who’d marched past him on the trail, yesterday.

  These weren’t them and they’d come from the west, not the east where he’d seen the smoke plumes last night.

  Splintered . . . she said they were splintered, he thought. Only eight of them, and the camo is hunting camo, not the battle camo from yesterday. He backed up, toward the trees, hoping Rory wouldn’t see him and order him down. He was only a few trees in when he heard a chant, “Chop! Chop! Chop!” and on the heels of the chant the meaty whack of an ax landing.

  Rory Mickleson wasn’t one to waste any time on judging bandits.

  Now does that help them or hurt them? he wondered. It’s May; river might be deep enough to toss them in and expect it to take them to sea by Gold Beach. If they keep the bodies and the rest o’ them come late today . . .

  He bit his lip, scanning the steep hillside, wondering where he could hide for the day—or should he go back and remind Rory that the danger was to the east? It was all very well to say any decision was bette
r than none, but this time . . . he worked his way east, slowly, hoping to get a better idea of what was waiting for the Dell.

  Hours later he’d worked his way several miles east, without ever staying on the road for many steps. He bitterly regretted the lack of a proper breakfast. The jerky and hardtack and cheese in his pack had mostly been eaten the day before, and the leftovers hadn’t made a dent in his aching hunger.

  He finally found the perch he wanted. If there were more men coming in from the west, they were going to follow the road until they could spread out near the settlement. From here he could see the southwest road for nearly a mile; more than enough warning.

  He glanced back toward Mickleson’s and froze. Aisha was walking down the road, leading her llamas. He looked forward—saw movement, men marching, and felt Rock! Hard place! He waited, the hardest thing he could do, trying to come up with a strategy that would leave Aisha alive.

  Me a hero would be a great bonus, but not necessary at all, at all.

  The next twenty minutes felt like an hour. He couldn’t stop Aisha without the Sherries seeing them. The most he could hope for was that she knew they were there and this was a deliberate strategy to smoke them out.

  He looked and judged and looked and judged until he was sure he would be right above the meeting ground. He set about gathering pine mast and broken branches, building a little fire up against one of the trees that had burned halfway and died in the Change year.

  He was some yards west of the meeting when it happened a little later. There were almost thirty men, double what he’d seen the previous day. They surrounded the slender black woman and her llamas, shouting and shoving. Aisha stood with a llama on either side and they bobbed their heads, punching two of the men in the chest. Colin grinned fiercely . . . Go kill a couple for me, Llama-Dama! he cheered silently.