The Scourge of God c-2

by S. M. Stirling

  Matti took his hand. "We're all on a journey towards that," she said stoutly.

  He shook his head slightly. "Let's not play with words, you and I, my heart. I'm the Sword of the Lady; my blood is my people's ransom, the price paid for their hearths and their happiness. That's my… fate, my weird. It's a hero's death, to be sure-but I'd rather it wasn't so soon. A hero's life makes a fine song, but the living of it is another thing altogether. It's one thing to risk your death in battle, or a hunt or even climbing a tree… it's another to walk a path with only one ending, every step a pace closer. Most men run from death…"

  There was a long silence. Then her hand moved on his forehead again. "You could-"

  Another pause. "I could what?" he said. He laughed faintly, and then stopped because it hurt. "Matti, I wish I could run off with you and start a farm somewhere, seeing your face every morning, and die at eighty-six with our grandchildren about us, and in between no worries but the weather and the day's work."

  Her hand squeezed his. "Me too, Rudi. Oh, God, how I wish we could!"

  "But I can't. My fate… is. All I can control is how I meet it-whether I can make it mean something."

  "Your father's did," she said.

  Rudi nodded. "But my father didn't believe in fate; he laughed at it and at the gods. He didn't know the story he was in-and I'm thinking that made it easier for him. I must walk the road with my eyes open, and renew my consent to it every moment."

  Something splashed on his hand. He turned his head; she was holding his hand between both of hers, tears falling silently. With an effort he freed himself and cupped his palm against her cheek; she turned and kissed the palm.

  "Och, darlin', all men are born fey," he said. "It's your part in this I regret even more. For I know now that a long life would be sweet with you, and if you and I are together, it will be to your sorrow."

  Mathilda took a long breath. "I don't believe in fate," she said. "We make our own. Well, there's the will of God, but that's not the same thing."

  Rudi sighed. I have to tell her, he thought. But I don't have to work to convince her. Honor's not that demanding a mistress.

  "Right now the only path you've got to walk is the one marked recover y. Or health! " she said, and he could feel her pushing foreknowledge away.

  "Now, that's true, and there's no doubting it." He closed his eyes.

  Strange folk, Christians, he thought. Aloud: "Would you mind singing that song for me again?"

  She nodded, and began; there was a quaver in her voice at first, but it strengthened into the soft melody:

  "Oh, Ladies, bring your flowers fair

  Fresh as the morning dew

  In virgin white, and through the night

  I will make sweet love to you

  The petals soon grow soft and fall

  Upon which we may rest;

  With gentle sigh I'll softly lie

  My head upon your breast."

  Very quietly, he began to sing along with it, more a suggestion than real sound:

  "… And dreams like many wondrous flowers

  Will blossom from our sleep

  With steady arm, from any harm

  My lover I will keep!

  Through soft spring days and summer's haze

  I will be with you till when

  As fall draws near, I disappear till spring has come again!"

  He closed his eyes and smiled. "Ah, that was a breath of home. Now tell me of your problems and worries, my heart's friend."

  She laughed softly, that gurgling chuckle he'd always liked. Not even the fact that it was her mother's laugh could hide the warmth in it.

  " My worst problem is boredom," she said. "I've been sparring-"

  This time his sigh was pure sea-green envy. To move again!

  "And reading in the library here, and talking with the monks, and sitting with Mary a little-she's recovering fast, now."

  "How are the others taking it?"

  "Pretty well. Odard…"

  Rudi chuckled; as he did, he felt sleep coming over him, fading the world-the low shsshs of snow against the window, the muted howl of the wind, the low friendly rippling sound from the closed stove.

  "Odard's not a bad sort," he murmured drowsily. "He's just a bit of an asshole at times."

  His eyelids fluttered downward. He felt Matti bend to kiss him lightly on the forehead, but her last words faded away.

  "Actually, the problem is that he's a lot less of an asshole these days."

  Mary rose from the refectory table and wobbled a little. Ingolf stepped in, not reaching for her but putting his steadying presence close enough for her to grab if she had to. The corridor outside was a lot darker and colder than the dining hall; it was a relief to get to the room the two young women shared, which had its own stove. He helped her into bed and pulled up the blankets while Ritva opened the iron door, tossed in a couple of chunks of wood from the basket and then closed it and adjusted the flue. It was an air-tight model based on a pre-Change type, and it could keep the little room at something they all considered good enough-though he'd noticed back home that older people thought that range of temperatures a bit cool for comfort.

  There was a heating element on top for boiling water, too. Ritva put the kettle on, and added herbs when it began to jet steam; the willow-bark tea eased the ache and itch of her sister's healing wound.

  Time to do my bit, Ingolf thought, and took the lute from a corner and tuned it. And hell, I'm bored.

  Winter was the stay-indoors season at home too, but there was always enough to keep the dismals at bay: making things, fixing things, looking after the stock, practicing with arms, some hunting now and then, and the Sheriffs and Farmers visited back and forth, having the leisure and the means for it. Sometimes they'd get sleds and go for a long trip down the frozen river…

  And there's making music and telling stories, he thought with a wry smile, and went on aloud: "Like a song?"

  Mary smiled and relaxed. "Something from your home," she said.

  He started in on one: "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," and then "Northwest Passage." Then he passed the lute to Ritva; she was only passable at playing, but had a fine singing voice, and she did one of the Dunedain songs. He didn't get more than one word in three, but he had to admit that the language was pretty as all hell.

  "Tell me more about Readstown," Mary said, when the tune-from something called the Narn i Chin Hurin -was finished.

  "Readstown?" Ingolf said, surprised. "Well, it's in the valley of the Kickapoo. The Injuns named it that before white men came there, and it means goes here, then there. That's one twisty river! Just about the right size for a canoe, most of it, but it gets bigger as it goes south and joins the Wisconsin. Sometimes the cliffs close in, and you're between these walls of red sandstone covered with moss, and other places they open out, and the fields go rolling away to the woods and hills and the forests-"

  He could see it as he spoke; the flame of autumn on the ridges, the silk of the cornfields yellow with October; the smoke rising from the chimneys of strong stolid yeomen, the smell of the dark, damp turned earth behind the oxen in spring… the ache surprised him, and he was glad to fall silent.

  Ritva was reading from the Histories-the Creation of the World, which was more interesting than the Bible version-when Odard came in.

  They all looked up at him; a drift of cold air came in with him, and he was wearing his outdoor gear-quilted wool pants and a sheepskin jacket with the fleece turned in, and a hood with a flap that hid most of the face. Snow dripped off him as he triumphantly set the basket he carried on the table at the foot of the bed. It was wrapped in a thick blanket and tied with string; he couldn't get the knots undone and stood blowing on his fingers near the stove while Ingolf picked them free.

  "Well, well, well!" the Richlander said, as a savory smell followed the unwrapping; there were a couple of heated bricks in there too, to keep things warm.

  His mouth watered. He liked meat too,
when he could get it. The Kickapoo was good livestock country, the forests there were thick with game, and he'd been raised a Sheriff's son, after all, in a family who were lords of broad acres and many herds.

  "BBQ pork sandwiches," the Portlander nobleman said. " And some fried chicken. And…"

  He pulled out four beer bottles, pre-Change glass with modern wood-and-wax plugs.

  "Not everybody's a Buddhist around here," he said triumphantly. " And not all the Buddhists are as pure about it as the monks and nuns. There were plenty of them at Ford's Cowboy Khyentse Bar and Grill down in the town."

  "You must have been hungry, to go outside in that," Ritva said.

  The window vibrated in its frame to illustrate her point, and there were trickles of cold air despite all the thick log walls could do. Odard peeled himself out of his integuments with an effort and then stacked them outside the door-the room was big enough for two beds, but not much more.

  "They've got a pathway marked with poles and ropes," he said. "I wouldn't have tried it otherwise; Saint Dismas couldn't find his way through that, and it's getting worse. I'm not going to complain about all the rain in the Black Months back home ever again!"

  There were plates in the basket too; they loaded one for Mary, and then dug into the rest themselves. Ingolf took a long drink; the beer went well with the rich spicy sandwich, and he'd missed both-they made a noble brew back home, and Sutterdown, Dun Juniper and Boise had all had maltsters of note. This was different, bitter with something that wasn't hops, but it was definitely beer and welcome after weeks of water and milk.

  Mary managed to get one of the sandwiches down-they were little loafs split lengthwise-and a few bites of the chicken as well. The beer on top made her sleepy fairly quickly, and the two men packed up the remainder and stole out into the dim chill of the corridor as her sister tucked her in.

  "Thanks, Odard," Ingolf said, and extended his hand.

  The Portlander's brows went up, but he took it. "No trouble," he said.

  "Hell it wasn't," Ingolf said, grinning. "It's the better part of a mile to the village-and you're not as used to this sort of weather as I am."

  He considered the younger man carefully. The slanted blue eyes weren't as guarded as they usually were.

  Funny. Most times when you've fought by a man's side and traveled with him, that's when you get to know him. Not with Odard. But this. .. this is a little surprising.

  "Let's say I've had plenty of time to think," Odard said, as they walked back towards the male side of the monastery's guest quarters. "And plenty of distance and deeds to get some perspective on things back home."

  "Yah," Ingolf said. "I had the same feeling after I left Readstown. It all seemed sort of… small, after a while."

  "Did you ever consider going back?" Odard said curiously.

  "Nah. I missed it-the place, most of the people-but it wasn't home anymore, after my father died."

  "Ah," Odard said; there was nothing mysterious to him about the plight of a younger son, though he wasn't one himself. "I envy you. My father died in the Protector's War, when I was around eight. I don't remember him well."

  Ingolf fell silent for a long moment, remembering the way his father had looked towards the end-the haunted set of his eyes, as his memories went back to the time right after the Change. His son didn't remember the terrible years well at all; he'd been around six, and all he could recall was how frightening it had been that the adults were so terrified. Readstown had been a little rural hamlet surrounded by dairy country and mixed farming. They hadn't been hungry… but there had been a fair bit of fighting with starving refugees. His home was just close enough to the cities that they'd have been overrun and eaten out if they hadn't fought, after they'd taken in every soul they could; he remembered his father cursing the Amish around Rockton because they wouldn't help, and the whispers about the raid…

  "Mine was… a man who did what had to be done," he said.

  Odard's mouth quirked. "So was mine." After a hesitation he said:

  "You're sort of… fond of Mary, aren't you?"

  "Yah," Ingolf said, his gaze turning inward for a moment. "Didn't realize it, really, until she got hurt." He shrugged. "You were there when Saba died… well, I realized when Mary came back that she could get hurt whether or not we were together."

  Odard nodded and set a hand on his shoulder for an instant. " I realized that she might not be there to tease," he said. "The twins and I have been sort-of-friends for a long time. But on this little trip, sort of won't do, will it?"

  They turned a corner-the monastery was really a series of buildings along the hillside, some pre-Change, some built since or heavily rebuilt, all linked together with covered walkways. From the thickness of the bracing timbers overhead, most of them got buried deep every winter. This time they nearly ran into Mathilda, probably returning from Rudi's bedside.

  "Princess," Odard said, with that funny-looking bow. "How is he?"

  "Better," she said, and made herself smile. "But still weak; he's sleeping now. That infection nearly killed him… What's that?"

  Ingolf offered the basket. "There's still some of the chicken left," he said.

  "Mother of God!" she said, and her hand darted in. "Thass so guudf!" she went on, her mouth full of drumstick.

  It was good, Ingolf thought. The batter isn't quite like anything I've tasted before.

  "Thanks, Ingolf!" she said after she swallowed.

  "Thank Baron Liu," Ingolf said. "He's the one who waded through the snow and back to get it."

  Little cold drafts trickled around Ingolf's neck as he said it. The stoutly timbered roof over their head was shingled and then covered in thick sod, but even so you could tell that the storm was building.

  "That was good of you, Odard," Mathilda said.

  He shrugged. "Mary's appetite needs tempting," he said. "And a very good night, Your Highness."

  "You must not overstrain yourself," Dorje said.

  "Sure, and I thought you Buddhists were given to disciplining the flesh," Rudi Mackenzie said. "Mind you, I haven't met many. And I'd go mad if I had to lie still any longer, the which would do my healing no good whatsoever or at all. I've enjoyed our talks, but I need to move !"

  Dorje smiled as they walked slowly down the swept flagstones, their breath showing in white plumes in the cold dry air. Rudi judged he would have been egg-bald even if the monks here didn't shave their heads, and a little stooped, but even erect he would barely have come to the young Mackenzie's breastbone. There was absolutely nothing frail about him, though; he was comfortable as a lynx in the sheepskin robe and saffron over-robe and sandals despite the chill, and he was obviously suiting his pace to the convalescent's capacities. You could still see the shadow of the strong young mountain peasant in him.

  The white Stetson hat had seemed a little odd at first, but by now he was used to it; doubtless it was an offering to the spirits of place.

  "Here we teach the Middle Way," Dorje said. "When the Buddha first sought enlightenment he attempted fierce austerities of hunger and pain, but he found they did not aid him. The starving man and the glutton are both slaves to their belly's need; if the glutton is worse, it is because he is self-enslaved."

  They came to a bench and Rudi lowered himself carefully to it; the wound in his back had stopped draining and was closing, but it was still sore. He thrust aside worry about the shoulder.

  And Fiorbhinn could drub me with a feather duster right now, to be sure, he thought.

  The pine-log pillars to their left had little lines and crescents of snow in the irregularities of the polished wood; beyond it was an open court, and in its center the image of a man carrying a white lotus-a wooden carving and none too skillful by Mackenzie standards, but the sincerity of it shone through nonetheless.

  The land beyond fell away in terraced slopes to the valley floor below, with bleached barley stubble poking through the snow where the winds had eaten it thin. A frozen river shone like a swordbla
de in the bright sun, twisting away with a lining of dark willows and leafless cottonwoods. Beyond rose mountains, scattered with pine woods but bare blazing white at their peaks save where the dark rock bones of earth showed through. Smoke rose from a cluster of log cabins and frame houses in the middle distance, and a horseman was riding downward towards them. The snow of the roadway creaked under his horse's hooves, and the clank of a scabbard against a stirrup iron echoed; the whetted steel of his lance-head cast painful-bright blinks.

  "I thought Buddhists were pacifists," Rudi said

  He took a slow deep breath of air leached of all but the ghosts of scent-a little woodsmoke and pine sap, and a hint of a sharp herbal fragrance-before he went on.

  "As a general rule, at least. The which I am not, obviously… though if the world would leave me and mine at peace, sure, I'd oblige them gladly. But if a warrior's presence offends against your faith. .."

  "Obviously it does not," Dorje said.

  "And I'm afraid that grateful as I am for your help, and your wisdom, you're unlikely to convert me!"

  Dorje took the younger man's hand in both of his, turning it over so that the sword calluses showed:

  "I have been assured by those wiser than I that a brave man, though he slay, and though he slay his many, is as a god in contrast to the men and women who are restrained from slaying only by cowardice. If the one who will not take life for any reason is higher on the Way than a warrior, then they are lower; just as he who fights for justice and to shield the weak is higher than he who fights for plunder or for pride."

  He patted Rudi's hand before he released it. "I do not judge the necessities of your life or the karma you have chosen. But here, at least, you may be at peace for a little time."

  It is peaceful here, Rudi mused. It's nice to have time to stop and think for a bit, with all the… external things stripped away!

  As he did the sound of a bronze bell came through the cold air, still sounding a little strange; he knew now that it was because it was rung by a log hung beside it in rope slings, rather than by a clapper.

  "I was raised to be a warrior, but I've seen enough of war lately that it disgusts me, so. Not so much the fighting, but the… waste of it, the things that are broken that should not be."