The Scourge of God c-2

by S. M. Stirling

  The Seeker took them and studied them for an instant, then slowly licked each head. Graber controlled a grimace of distaste; there was something dirty about the gesture. He took them back reluctantly, and only because you never had enough-there were thirty-six shafts in a regulation quiver, and you could shoot them all off in a couple of minutes skirmishing.

  "By the Ascended Masters," someone muttered.

  It had been said softly, but the Seeker smiled; Graber wished that he hadn't.

  "By the Masters indeed," he said, and the smile grew broader. "Oh, we have learned much, and we shall learn so much more of Them!"

  "Do you have anything to say?" Graber asked neutrally. Technically I'm in command, but…

  The Seeker nodded, his eyes growing distant again.

  "There," he said. His arm stretched out, the hand like a blade, pointing precisely northeast. "There. The Son of the Bear… the Son of the Raven… where the weak are strong and the vanquished slay."

  Graber felt sweat prickle out on his face, more than sun and armor would explain. He looked at the Scout, and the lanky man shrugged and pointed more nearly straight north.

  "Mount," he said harshly. "We'll go for the spring and then track them from there. Until we reach it, water only for the horses."

  His under-officers sighed and shifted slightly with relief; the big canteens on the pack-saddles were nearly empty. The reserve on the men's belts wouldn't last long.

  "We'll push the pace now, and stop just long enough to water at the spring and fill our canteens. Change off with the remounts every hour, but no rest stops until dark."

  As he swung back into the saddle he racked his brain for what lay ahead. A string of small Mormon settlements at the foot of the mountains; General Walker had said they were to be mopped up at leisure, as troops became available. And one pass over the Rockies eastward, so obscure they hadn't bothered to garrison it. Would any of the levies be heading there on their way home? Possibly not…

  These misbelievers will not defile the homeland of the Dictations, he thought; the Prophet had given him this mission personally, and that was honor beyond price… and responsibility heavier than a mountain. By the beard of the Prophet, I swear it!

  PICABO, EASTERN IDAHO SEPTEMBER 12, CHANGE YEAR 23/2021 AD

  Edain Aylward Mackenzie heard Rebecca squeal in shocked alarm, and then a cry of rage and a smack like wet laundry hitting a rock. He whirled, his hand snapping to the hilt of his unfamiliar shete.

  They were in the Covenstead at the center of the town… no, the Saints called it a Meeting House. The center was a big hall lit by clerestory windows around the edge where the bright light of dawn showed. One half was full of pews, the second-oddly-equipped with basketball hoops and a recessed stage, and there had been big folding partitions that could close off one from the other. It smelled of wax and paint and lamp-oil and careful cleaning, or at least those had been the predominant odors until recently.

  One of the Cutters was rubbing at his fuzzy cheek. It was Jack, and his face looked as if it had been well and truly slapped. There were a dozen or so there, working on their gear or muscling bundles of loot out to the wagons. Some of them were grinning and haw-hawing-he'd noticed that young Jack didn't get much respect, despite being their leader's nephew. Others looked angry. Jack himself certainly did. Rebecca backed towards the Mackenzie, her cheeks flaming and visibly forcing herself not to rub where she'd been goosed.

  Edain elbowed by her; the sooner they were distracted from the Mormon girl, a woman of the vanquished enemy, the better. The men of Rudi's band-Ingolf's-were supposed to be from a friendly or at least neutral realm, protected by treaty. He pushed forward and thrust his face into Jack's.

  "Now, why would you be thinking you could get away with that, boyo?" he asked quietly. "The girl's not yours."

  Though maybe you can get away with it, if it comes to a fight with these shetes, some part of him thought.

  Not afraid, but considering as he would the weight of a billhook and the look of a hedge.

  If they don't all just mob me. But I'm thinking the curse of the Goddess is falling on you the now, and me Her instrument.

  He was a passable fair-to-middling swordsman… with the gladius- style shortsword and small buckler that most Mackenzies used when things got too close for the bow. He'd never had more than a little cursory practice with the weapon the Easterners had developed from the machete.

  Of course, there's no reason for you to know that, he thought, and stared at the blue-eyed Montanan, his own gray eyes as flat and cold as his father's.

  Not many men cared to face Samkin Aylward in that mood. Garbh was beside him, growling slightly and eyeing the Cutter in a way that was quite obviously focused on where to bite first. Jack split his attention between the two threats and took a step back.

  "Mister, you'd better collar your she-dogs-both of them," he said, his own hand on the hilt of his weapon. "We of the Church Universal and Triumphant don't take back-talk even from our own free women, much less slave bitches."

  Someone spoke sotto voce behind him: "Yeah, that's why Jenny chased you round the bunkhouse with that frying pan last Messenger Day and you were hollering about how sorry you were."

  His voice rose to a falsetto squeak: "Oh, please, darli n ', don't hit me no more. I promise I'll be good!"

  "You shut the fuck up, Lin!" Jack snarled, truly furious now.

  He drew the long curved sword at his hip and pointed it at his comrade, then swung around to face Edain once more. The broad point-heavy slashing blade was quivering a little from the tightness of his grip as he spat out:

  "Look, mister, you owe me for what your she-bitch there did. You can pay in coin, or lend her to me long enough to teach her manners, or I'll take it out of your hide!"

  With an effort at self-control: "I'll even pay you for her time, though you rightly should pay me for properly breaking her in."

  "Is it that you're after calling me a pimp the now, boyo, or just a coward?" Edain said flatly; he could feel the sweat trickling down his flanks, but nothing showed on his face. "Well, every man chooses his end, they say. If it's the day you want to die, just say so. For if I draw my blade, I'll cut your throat where you lie begging."

  Jack's face twitched slightly; there was another haw-haw from behind him. He'd backed himself into a place where he had to fight or lose credit, and Edain had just upped the stakes to life and death.

  First time I've ever done that, he thought. In cold blood.

  "Hey, fellahs, no need to get all bloody about the bitch," one of the Cutters said. "It ain't worth it. There's plenty more of them. They don't grow shut."

  "Maybe Jack wanted this 'un because the others hit him with a frying pan," another added, which got more laughter. "Hell, you know, I'm getting tired of 'em all. I'll be glad to get back home and see a woman who's glad to see me."

  "There's one as is, Artie? News to me," one of his comrades said, and they laughed again.

  They were all a little more casual than Edain would have expected, and less inclined to take their comrade's part. Mackenzies rarely fought one another beyond a behind-the-barn punch-up now and then. It was against the law, for starters, and if someone was hurt badly a priestess might curse you or your dun outlaw you. The PPA allowed duels, but under an elaborate formal code and only between Associates.

  These are wild men, he realized. Guts and skill at arms are everything to them. And they're away from whatever law they have at home, and used to killing from this war they've been having. That works for me now. If I win, that is…

  A thought struck him. It was a risk… but less of one than meeting the other man with cold steel. Mostly less for Rebecca; if he lost a fight, she'd be in the Cutter's hands.

  "Or we could try a bit of a game, if you're man enough for it," he said.

  "Ah, dang it to the Black Void," one of the spectators said. "I was lookin' forward to a fight. All this lying around eating and sleeping soft and screwing's got me feelin
' bloody."

  "Game?" Jack said suspiciously.

  "We'll shoot for her," he said. "Bow against bow."

  The Cutter visibly restrained himself from speaking. He looked at the longbow across Edain's back, and his eyes narrowed in thought. Archery was a skill that had spread far and fast after the Change-most rural areas had had at least a few hobbyist bow-hunters who suddenly found their pastime deadly serious business. Bowyers had been rarer and more precious than gold. Edain's father had been a hunter and student of the English longbow from his childhood-it was an old family tradition of the Aylwards-and Western Oregon was full of good yew, which grew like a weed in the understory of the great mountain forests.

  But these Easterners were horsemen, raised in the saddle in an empty land. Bows meant to be used from horseback were the only kind they knew, short powerful recurves modeled on pre-Change hunting styles but far heavier on the draw. Those complex constructions of laminated sinew and wood and horn needed months to make and were the single most expensive things most cowboys would own.

  To Jack the Mackenzie weapon probably looked like a simple bent stick, the sort of awkward makeshift primitives without real bowyer's knowledge would improvise. His uncle wouldn't have made that mistake, but…

  Jack is n 't the sharpest shaft in his family's quiver, I'm thinking.

  "Well, if you're that anxious to lose the bitch, I'll take you on," Jack said, confirming Edain's estimate. "Rounders or rovers or at the bull's-eye?"

  Then he grinned slyly. "I'll even sell her back to you for forty-five dollars… later."

  Edain nodded, but the audience groaned. "Ah, hell, it's not even worth gettin' up to go watch you two shoot," one said.

  "Did anyone ask you to come along, Lin?" Jack said. " I didn't hear it. Sitting on your ass sucking on a jug's more your style."

  The lanky brown-haired one named Lin snapped his fingers. " I know!"

  "You don't know much," Jack said.

  "I know an old story," Lin said enthusiastically, " 'bout a cowboy that got in Dutch with this Bossman, so the Bossman made him shoot an apple-"

  The Cutters cheered and clapped when he'd finished; evidently they thought that a lot more entertaining than a simple shooting match; they were making bets as if it was a settled thing before the story was fully told. Rebecca sucked in her breath sharply. Aylward the Archer's son felt his skin go pale, and clammy with cold sweat.

  He wouldn't have expected one of these grass-country men to have heard of William Tell.

  "I don't know how long we've got," Ritva murmured.

  Or is it Mary?

  Rudi couldn't tell while he stood looking down southward on the little town of Picabo. He was half a mile north of the town wall, and several hundred feet up on the scrub-covered slopes of the hill. From this distance it still looked the pleasant place it must have been once.

  For one thing, you can't smell it, he thought grimly.

  Here there was nothing but the clean warm wind, and the scents of rock and dirt and sage. His half sister was behind him, and close enough that they could talk, but she was invisible beneath the lip of a ravine. To any casual observer in the town-and he'd noticed that at least one Cutter was always in view wherever he went-he was simply looking out over the valley of Silver Creek and the long plains beyond.

  "It's not a place I'd linger of my own will," he said.

  "Bad?" she said.

  "No, it's a merry place, like an inn where you'd be glad to get your feet up and have an ale and a song in good company. Well, if you don't mind rape, plunder, murder and the stink of rot and the flies crawling over your face and your food. Tell me more."

  "We're not sure, but…" the young woman said. "We backtracked and watched our trail, and… it's possible there was someone there, scouting around our campsites."

  "Possible?" he said; he'd hoped they'd broken contact with the Cutters in the lava country.

  "If there was, they were really, really good at not being noticed. More of… a feeling… than anything definite. We didn't want to take more than a few hours to check."

  Rudi's eyebrows went up. He wouldn't care to try playing dodge-the-scout with Mary and Ritva working as a team. They'd had very careful training from experts all their lives, natural talent, and for their age a lot of experience in varied types of country. Aunt Astrid kept her Rangers busy.

  "There was only one, though, if there was one. He could have been a wandering hunter being cautious, but I didn't like it. Meanwhile, Ritva-"

  Ah, so it is Mary. Someday I'll be able to tell the difference without looking close.

  "-found where the other people who cut their way out of this Picabo place were. Hiding half a day's travel north of here; they had a hideaway in the hills, with a deep tube well and some caves, and supplies. There are about thirty; all men, say twenty fit to fight-the rest are badly wounded."

  "Ah, that explains something," Rudi said, doing a little mental arithmetic.

  Explains the men with the fires under their heads. But presumably they didn't talk… probably Jed Smith didn't know the right questions to ask. Brave of them to attack, but foolish… Still, in their place…

  "The Cutters are pulling out of here tomorrow," he said.

  "Hit them at dawn?" Mary said.

  "No, they'll be expecting something then, or at least sort of expecting and taking precautions. Their leader, Jed Smith, is too shrewd by half. Here's what we'll do-"

  He finished and she repeated the salient points back to him. Then she cleared her throat.

  "How's Ingolf?" she asked casually.

  Aha, Rudi thought, but carefully kept the smile out of his voice and off his face.

  "Better," he said. "It helps him to have work to do-and he's been doing a good job of it. I couldn't have carried it off in a thousand years, not without a lot of experience I haven't had."

  "Well, you'll be twenty-three in December, Rudi. You'll have a chance to accumulate it."

  He nodded, and thought: If I'm not laying stark for my totem bird to eat my eyeballs fairly soon.

  "I'd better get back," he said. "It wouldn't look good for Ingolf's assistant to be absent through all the bargaining."

  "Manwe and Varda watch over you, Rudi," she said soberly.

  "And the Lady hold you in Her wings, and the Lord ward you with His spear, my sister," he replied softly.

  Then she was gone; there wasn't a noise, just a feeling of emptiness, and perhaps the staccato chuck-chuck-chuck calling of an oriole was a little louder. Rudi rose smoothly, his sword scabbard in his left hand, and half slid down the slope; there was a click of rock and sliding earth- he wasn't trying to be quiet. Epona greeted him at the bottom with a snort, throwing up her head from where she'd been grazing, and then trotting over. He caught at the saddlebow and vaulted up as she passed, giving her a friendly slap on the neck as his feet found the stirrups. They needed no conscious signals; she turned her head towards the village gate and floated into a canter, taking a rail fence with a bunching of the great muscles between his thighs, and landing with a deceptive thistle-down softness.

  She pulled in her pace as they approached the gate. Rudi wrinkled his nose, and Epona snorted through hers; she knew what that smell meant. There was enough of a breeze to make it more tolerable than inside the wall, though. The Cutters had the captives they were ready to sell there, together with bundles of other loot, and the women's tools and goods of their making-cloth mainly, but also some handicrafts. Ingolf had been running them through their paces, questioning them sharply on their skills.

  "Lifestreams of the Masters and the hearts of the Men of Camelot, but that's a purty horse!" the Rancher said as the Mackenzie cantered up.

  "Not just her looks, either," he went on, and listed her points. "You or your kin have any of her get?"

  "Back home in Newcastle," Rudi said, inclining his head respectfully. "A stallion at stud, and a colt."

  The good manners were acting, of course, but Rudi felt an unpleasant moment
of empathy with the man; he had to, when someone appreciated Epona so knowledgeably.

  Which gives me the crawls, the man being so detestable otherwise, he thought. Yet what man is all of one piece? He may be a loving husband and kind to animals and concerned for his folk.

  "I wouldn't use her as a riding horse, not on a long dangerous trip or for war," Jed said, shaking his head. "Waste of a good broodmare, you ask me."

  "We've a good stud, back home in Newcastle," Rudi said with a shrug.

  The Mackenzies were passing as Ingolf's young cousins-Ingolf and Rudi were about the same height and build, and all of them not so different in coloring or cast of features that they couldn't be close kin. Supposedly they dealt for a family business, farms, smithies and weaving workshops, and livestock-which latter made them respectable enough for a Rancher to deal with as near equals.

  "I'll say you do! If only you could bring some up our way, I'd give seven, eight hundred for a stallion colt out of her, if the sire was anything."

  The Cutters were all passionate horsemen and horse breeders; Jed would have been content to talk over Epona for longer yet, and drop some heavy hints about buying her, though there wasn't the slightest doubt he knew she was well past mark of mouth. Ingolf cleared his throat.

  "Don't mean to hurry you, Rancher, but…"

  Jed sighed. "Yeah, we got to get goin'. All right, you want them to strip down?" He jerked a thumb at the captives. "It's not as if they were respectable."

  "I'm not buying them for their looks," Ingolf said, shrugging. "It's their work I'm interested in."

  Jed slapped him on the shoulder. "You're more sensible than most men your age," he said; he was perhaps a decade older than Ingolf's twenty-eight.

  Which means he was fourteen or fifteen when the Change came, Rudi thought suddenly. I wonder what sort of lad he was. And what might he have been, if the old world had not died in an instant.