The Sword of the Lady c-3

by S. M. Stirling

  Dark wings beat above his head, their drumbeat the death of suns, the wind of their passage a surge of fire like surf on a shore whose sand was stars. Flames circled a single Eye. The sword moved, and men died; others crowded forward, blades lashing at him and weapons beating at the hinges of the door. Planes of black light shattered. He screamed, and the cry was the soul of grief from the Mother of All at the pain of Her children, a boiling ocean of sorrow and rage. ?Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy,? Ignatius whispered, and crossed himself.

  His hands and balance halted the horse before his mind was aware of the need, and calmed the beast?s skittishness at the harsh overwhelming iron stink of blood. The rear entrance to the Emergency Coordinator?s residence had been well guarded; the men wore the mail shirts and coal-scuttle helmets of the State Police, and the door on its massive hinges was panels of solid steel strapped and forge welded and riveted together into something that even a battering ram could only have dented.

  The Order of the Shield sent its knight-brothers where they were needed to succor the afflicted and rescue the weak; he had seen terrible things many times in his nearly thirty years of life, and he was just old enough to remember a little of the first year after the Change. This… ?How did they die?? Virginia Kane whispered. ?They killed themselves,? Frederick Thurston said; his voice was shocked into a machine flatness.?Or each other.?

  He pointed with his saber towards one pair locked together; it shouldn?t have been physically possible for two men to choke one another to death that way, but the swollen purple faces and bulging eyes were unmistakable. And the same smile was on their faces, the same as all the others.

  Ignatius mastered himself and swung down, his armor clanking. He was in the full knight?s gear of knee-length chain hauberk, coif and visored helm, plate greaves and vambraces, armored gauntlets on his hands and steel sabatons protecting his feet. The well-trained destrier stood stock-still as he dropped the reins, though its eyes rolled piteously and shivers went over its black coat. One young man still lived despite the wounds that leaked blood over chest and belly and groin; his hand was locked around a chain that held a silver crucifix, and his eyes moved towards the priest. ?What happened here, my son?? Ignatius said, going down on one knee in the sticky redness that covered the asphalt. ? He… came,? the young man gasped.? He… came.?

  Ignatius nodded. Now I know where the Corwinite diabolist is, he thought grimly. Trying the rear entrance. But first – ?What did he do??

  The dying man?s face jerked, and he began to sob; not with the pain, but as a lonely child might. ?He showed me myself,? he whimpered, then began to thrash.?He showed me myself! Oh, God, I?ll die and I?ll have to see him again-?

  Ignatius leaned forward, and locked the wounded man?s eyes with his, pouring his will through the joined gaze. ?He lied, child of God. No sin is beyond forgiveness if you accept Christ?s mercy. Throw yourself upon His love.?

  The priest felt something flow out of him… or through him, for it left him stronger, not weaker. A measure of sanity returned to the other?s face for a moment; he slumped, and whispered slowly: ?Bless… me… Father… for I have sinned.?

  Aloud he spoke the words as the boy died. Within himself, silently, he added: Lady pierced with sorrows, this man too was born of woman. Intercede for him, I beg. And for us all, now and at the hour of our deaths.

  Then he stood, looking up at the blank wall as he drew his sword and pulled on the leather strap to slide the kite-shaped shield around and onto his left arm. There were narrow windows running up the brick wall, one per flight, but they were covered with grills bolted to the frames. The ends of the bars curved outward in sharp points. ?They?ve gone through here just a moment ago, but they barred it behind them. We?ll have to go around to the front of the building,? he said crisply.?And pray we?re in time.? ?No, we won?t!? Virginia shouted.

  She snatched the lariat free from her saddle bow and brought her horse around in a broad circle across the street and down a little. The silver spreader-weight flashed in the faint, distant light of the gas lamps as she whirled it overhead, and the nimble quarterhorse sprang off its hindquarters and came pounding down the pavement at a gallop that struck sparks from concrete and echoed off the blank walls in rattling blows of sound. Frederick ducked in the saddle as it flew over his head, and then the loop settled over the bars of the first story grill as she sped past.

  A heavy whunk sound came, a whipcrack snap as the tough braided bison hide came rigid as a steel rod, and with it a scream of equine protest as the horse was thrown back on its haunches by the shock transmitted through the lariat snubbed around the high horn of the Western saddle-for a moment Ignatius felt a cold stab of fear that the beast would be flipped backward on its rider and crush her against the unyielding pavement.

  Then there came a scream of shearing metal from above him; the half ton of fast-moving horse and rider had snapped the bolts that held the grid across. Ignatius ducked again as the buckled, twisted metal fell to the ground and landed with a nauseatingly soft sound on one of the murdered State Police troopers. ?Too small,? Ignatius said, his eyes on the gap; a little light leaked out of it, as if there was a lamp several stories higher. ?Without taking off my armor, at least.? ?Not for me!? Virginia said.

  She brought the horse up the stairs; it snorted and picked its way between the bodies with its ears laid back, but stood obedient with its forehooves on the topmost. The young woman from Skywater Ranch put her bowie knife between her teeth, kicked her feet out of the tapadero-enclosed stirrups, vaulted up to stand on the saddle and then jumped. Her gloved hands caught the frame of the window; for a moment she hung with her high-heeled riding boots kicking, and then she eeled her way through the narrow opening. ?Help her! God, gods, somebody, help her!? Frederick muttered.

  His face went stiff as a yell came through the window; a man?s voice shouting in alarm, and then in pain; and overriding it Virginia?s wild cry: ?Skywater forever! Yippie-kye-ey, motherfucker!? ?Get ready!? Ignatius said crisply.

  Frederick tumbled out of the saddle and reached for an arrow. Ignatius poised, light on the balls of his feet despite the sixty pounds of gear and fifteen of shield, blade ready over his head. There was a metallic clanking as the door swung wide, and the woman catapulted backward out of it-she?d pushed it open with a thrust of her shoulders, and turned the motion into a controlled tumble head-over-heels as a shete lunged for her.

  Snap. An arrow from Frederick?s bow flashed by, and then a crack as it slammed into and through the overlapping plates of metal-rimmed lacquered leather that covered the Cutter?s chest. His face went slack and he fell forward, the weapon spinning away. Another was on his heels, heavy curved blade raised and round shield up. ?Jesu-Maria!? Ignatius shouted from deep in his chest, and sprang forward crabwise, left shoulder tucked into the curve of the long western shield.

  His met the smaller round plainsman?s model blazoned with the rayed sun of the Church Universal and Triumphant. There was a hard thudding impact, and he grunted as his own weight and momentum overbore the other man?s charge. That rocked the soldier of the Sword of the Prophet back staggering on his heels, and the warrior-cleric?s blade came down. His lips drew back from his teeth as he felt the edge cleave leather and then flesh.

  God forgive him, he thought as he wrenched it back with furious urgency. And me. ?Back me!? he called to the others as he pushed through the door.

  He came in crouching a little so that the shield covered him from eyes to shin; he left the visor locked up for better vision in the dimness, but there was no part of him not covered except the narrow space between shield-rim and eyes. ?I lead. I?ve got the gear for this!?

  The two youngsters followed, arrows on the strings of their powerful recurve bows. The stairwell was dark, but not absolute blackness. It showed the shadowed outlines of two more Corwinites rushing down at him, and the faint light caught blue on the honed edges of their blades. ?Cut! Cut! Cut!? ?Jesu-Maria!? ?Skywater!?

  Then Thurston?s bellow; some d
istant corner of Ignatius? mind made a silent tsk sound: ?Ho la, Odhinn!?

  More feet were pounding on the metal treads above, the heavy ringing sounds of boots with iron heel plates and metal-strapped toes.

  We?re not enough, not with only three, Ignatius knew; he knew also that they must try anyway. Where are our friends? ?Can we kill?em?? Jake sunna Jake asked.?Please??

  Beyond him on the crest of a roofline two dark figures came to their feet and gestured urgently. They used the broad gestures of Battle-Sign, which was common to Mackenzies and Dunedain: Come quickly.

  Edain Aylward Mackenzie swallowed; the folk from the west- from Montival, he thought-had taught the Southsiders some of the formulas of courtesy, but this please wasn?t quite the sort of usage they?d had in mind.

  The Chief said not to hurt any of the town folk if I could help it. Now, can I help it, or not?

  The mob gathered ahead of him wasn?t large, only a hundred or so, though it loomed larger than you?d think in the darkened street and filled it from side to side-that cramped feeling was one reason he didn?t like cities. A milling churning mass of dark clothes and pale faces with a brabble of voices in the harsh clipped Iowan dialect. An ugly sense of menace, almost a scent, musky and raw, beneath the horse piss and coal smoke of the city.

  And the herd of strangers was between him and where he was supposed to go to help the Chief and his comrades. Down this street to the end, past a church, and to the big building on the square. It was past time he got there, too; something had gone wrong. ?Rudi-man says Iowa fuckers?re friends,? Jake added, his tone growing more dubious still.?Dese?re no friends.? ?Bionn gach duine go lach go dteann bo ina gharrai,? Edain muttered.

  That was something he?d picked up from Lady Juniper when she?d come to judge a dispute over straying livestock between his Dun Fairfax and the folk of Dun Carson that had almost come to blows. ?Wha thayt?? the Southsider said. ?That everyone?s a friend. Until your cow wanders into their garden,? he said.

  And I understand what Rudi meant. We can?t afford to make these Iowans think of us as enemies, or bloodthirsty savages. That?s the politics of it. The Chief?s in danger-that?s what I know of it. ?And this is the Chief?s business, not mine, deciding such matters,? he muttered to himself.?Or King?s business.?

  He knew more about cities than the Southsiders did-it would be hard to know less-but he didn?t like them beyond a day?s visit or so, even a small and friendly one like Sutterdown, half a day?s walk west of Dun Fairfax. Much less this alien monstrosity. The townsmen had sticks-not proper quarterstaves, but heavy enough to give a shrewd knock-and a few had knives; one or two carried short broad chopping swords, what these easterners called footman?s shetes.

  More than one had picked up rocks or bits of broken concrete or bricks. A ragged figure knocked a bottle against a building?s wall as he watched, and held the jagged stump in one fist. All of which was well enough for a brawl, but if he had to fight he was going to fight .

  Behind him and Jake the grown men-and the odd woman-of the Southside Freedom Fighters fingered their new hickory bows. Some of them were fidgeting, feeling penned in by the three-story brick buildings to either side, or by the distant glow of a gaslight at a corner and the constant grumbling mumble of wheels and hooves and Gods-knew-what that never seemed to stop here. Others grinned at the city folk, an expression that would have frightened the urbanites more if they?d known the wild-men better.

  Raising his voice:?You good people should give us the road, that you should. We want no trouble, our quarrel isn?t with you Iowa folk, but we?re ready to shed blood if we must.?

  One of the locals turned to the rest of the mob.?Remember what the Seeker said! The Prophet raises the lifestreams of his followers! The poor?n lowly are his and he?ll reward them.? ?Oh, sod all, that tears it,? Edain said.?The Cutters have been at?em.?

  I?m a peaceable man, sure and I am.

  His father had gotten any inclination to brawling for its own sake out of him early, on one memorable occasion with a whistling bow stave on the shoulders and the observation that any young gallybagger in his family who wanted hard knocks could get them at home without bothering the neighbors.

  But Da taught me never to back down when a fight was needful, so. The Chief needs me, and these Southside lads are depending on me to see them through, and those townsmen there are getting themselves into a real fight, whether they expected that or not.

  The thought made sweat break out on his brow; not the fighting, but the responsibility. ?And these fucks brought Eaters into Dubuque!? the Church Universal and Triumphant?s convert said.?Eaters! Chicago scum!?

  Behind the Mackenzie a snarl went through the tribesmen, as much felt as heard. The Southsiders really didn?t like being called Eaters, which was unsurprising since they?d spent their entire lives fighting those who deserved the name. Also in their legends Chicago was a lost paradise where their ancestors had been demigods, not to be mentioned with disrespect.

  We?ll have to go through them, and no holds barred, Edain decided. They asked for it, and by Lugh of the Long Spear and the Morrigan?s black host, we?ll give it them.

  And there was a certain relief to the thought. He was a peaceable man, but fighting was something he knew how to do. Talking with a bunch of strangers wasn?t. ?Yes, you can kill them,? he said.

  The Southsiders surprised him by falling into ranks as they?d been taught; given how little time there had been for instruction and how their blood was up he?d expected a pell-mell rush. They set arrows to their strings and waited. Then one started a chant; it made him start to hear it in their slurred speech rather than the Clan?s lilt, but there was a raw menace to the sound in the shadowed, crowded night. It came like a breath of mountain and forest, the wildwood come stealing home into the walled town: ?We are the point We are the edge We are the wolves that Hecate fed! ?We are the bow We are the shaft We are the bolts that Hecate cast!? ?Wholly together…? He whipped an arrow out of his own quiver and drew past the angle of his jaw.?… let the gray geese fly.. . shoot!?

  Thirty bows snapped. The whistling sound of the arrows? passage was oddly magnified by the buildings on either side. The light was bad, and the Southsiders weren?t even middling archers yet by his exacting standards. Against a bunched, unarmored target less than a second?s arrow flight away it didn?t matter much. A score of men went down, screaming and thrashing and clawing at the iron and wood piercing them, or silent and still. ?Again! Shoot!?

  Another volley. Many of the townsmen turned to run, but the long shafts slashed down out of the darkness at them, the arrowheads glinting at the last second as the honed edges of the triangular broadheads caught the light. ?At them!? Edain shouted.

  The Southsiders swarmed forward, throwing down their bows and sweeping out knife and hatchet. They had no order at this yet or formal training to the blade; but they had a dreadful bounding agility, and each aided the other in a unison like a pack of wolves slashing at an elk. Their catamount screeching echoed from the buildings; it was actually much like the Mackenzie battle yell. After a moment the only sound from the Dubuque men was panic flight, or the moans and cries of their hurt. ?Leave their wounded!? Edain snapped; he?d stayed back and shot, something he didn?t trust anyone else here to do in this dim light and when friend and foe were at close quarters.?No need to finish them.?

  One knifeman ignored him, jerking up the chin of an Iowan trying to crawl away and preparing to cut his throat. Edain tossed him backward with a snatch and grab-he wasn?t more than average height, but his shoulders and arms were broad and thick-and cuffed him silly with a forehand and backhand slap. The man almost lunged at him, but then the mad light died out of his eyes and he grinned sheepishly despite the blood running from his nose and lips, abashed as a child caught with his hand in the nut jar. ?Get your bows and follow me!? Edain snapped.?We?ve work to do yet.? ?Screw this,? Ingolf Vogeler said.?It?s too long-we have to get going.?

  Jack Heuisink hissed between clenched teeth.?Leading a band of armed men to the place the B
ossman?s staying isn?t real healthy,? he pointed out.?Particularly as the Heuisinks and the Heasleroads aren?t what you?d call friendly. Unless there?s already an attack.? ? Something?s gone wrong, Jack-?

  He stopped as a knock came at one of the warehouse windows: tap, then tap-tap, then tap.

  Three strides took him there. When he opened it a face was hanging there upside down. All he could see besides the dark cap was the strip of skin across the eyes… and one of those was missing. ?Denson?s dead and the Cutters are headed for the Bossman?s quarters,? Mary Havel said.?They?ll be there before you. Hurry! Edain and the Southsiders and Ignatius and Fred and Virginia are on their way.?

  The last of the State Police troopers who?d turned went down in a thrashing tangle on the floor as Rudi landed a drawing cut behind one knee; Odard made a quick downward smash with the lower point of his shield, and the curved metal rim hit bone with an ugly crunching sound. Mathilda covered Rudi for a moment with hers, and a spear point scored across the surface, leaving a bright scratch through the paint that covered its metal sheath. The impact rocked her back; she had to use shield and sword in a blur of movement as two more thrust at her unarmored body.

  When men fought with no regard at all for their lives, they died quickly… but the last of them had forced Rudi back into the room. An unarmored man couldn?t just slug it out; he needed room to take advantage of his height and quickness.

  Two soldiers of the Sword of the Prophet shoved through in that instant, too quickly for any of the westerners to stop them. They weren?t berserkers of any sort, and they were in good armor, their round shields up under their eyes. Rudi leapt forward again; he could feel the ache in his muscles and the hard straining as his lungs sucked in air, but the riastrad that was the gift of the Crow Goddess made it seem distant, unimportant. His body would serve his need, until it dropped dead. A shield?s frame cracked under the edge of his sword, and the arm beneath it broke, but then he had to whirl and parry a cut at his leg. He gave back, and more men crowded in One of the little pauses that happened in most close-quarters fights fell; the three from the west stood together, panting. Rudi recognized Major Graber, the man who?d been after them since Idaho.