″OK,″ he said, leaning against the doorway. ″Look, I owe Ingolf. I owe him money and favors. So I′ve got that ship he wanted waiting at the docks in Dubuque. I don′t owe him my life, or my wife and kids′ lives, which is what tangling with Captain Denson of the State Police would mean. So you′re not going to do any crazy stunts from here, or from anyplace I own. Understand? Do you folks want to get on your way, or not? That′s up to you.″
There were vague hulking shapes on the stairway behind him, probably hired muscle. That didn′t bother Ritva; she had a high opinion of her companions, and an even higher one of herself. The problem was that Tancredo was their only defense against the State Police. None of them knew their way around Des Moines′ enormous dirty warren—and a walled city was a hard place to get out of.
″Excuse me, my son,″ a quiet voice said on the stairs. Father Ignatius beamed at them as he came into view. ″I fear we must move, my children, and quickly. Collect your gear.″
Usually Ritva felt a slight irritation when the Christian priest called them that, although she liked him well enough. He was only a few years older himself. And the more so when he assumed an authority only Rudi and Ingolf had in this band, since she was no part of his flock.
This time she beamed back at him.
CHAPTER SIX
THE WILD LANDS (FORMERLY ILLINOIS) CENTRAL PRAIRIE SEPTEMBER 1, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD
A horse whickered. Rudi Mackenzie grinned to himself in the hot prickly darkness. He lay in the big bluestem grass that blocked vision everywhere beyond arm′s reach; it was five feet tall hereabouts on this dry-soiled stretch of upland prairie, with dense-packed stems as thick as his little finger ending in a three-lobed end that looked a little like a turkey′s foot. The huge mass of dried grass smelled like the hayloft of the Gods, a dusty-sweet mellow odor that only cured grass had, but magnified by the sun-cured expanses that stretched to the horizon on every hand.
He grinned a little wider; about eleven years ago he′d had a very pleasant encounter with a girl named Caitlin in a Dun Mellin stack that smelled a lot like this, while he was there helping with the threshing. She′d been three years older than he, and you never forgot the first time.
And herself as sweet and bouncy as the clover that fine night, the Foam-Born Cyprian′s blessings on her for being patient with my boy′s clumsiness, he thought.
He′d danced at her handfasting to Bram the Smith four years later, too; pranced and tumbled and leapt and spun with goat horns strapped above his ankles amid the other youths, to lead her and her flower-garlanded maidens to the dun′s nemed. Nowadays she was a hearth-mistress and High Priestess and a potter growing famous for her slip-glazed ware, and had a pair of little girls as pretty as two young jays and a baby boy at the breast.
And so to business. I′m seeing to their safety, and that of all the Clan′s hearth-homes, and more.
He felt alive at the thought, intensely conscious of himself and the moment. These were the things for which he had been made, the deeds that were his very self.
Besides which, this should be fun. The stealing part, at least. My totem is Raven, after all . . . and doesn′t that One love to carry things off? More, I′m doing it for Matti and my friends, and it is a relief beyond words to be moving, not just persuading and cajoling, the which is needful but drives a man mad!
The horse nickered again, more urgently, but he wasn′t particularly worried that the sleepy guard-riders would be alarmed.
If there′s one thing that a herd of any size will always produce, it′s that sound; the which is why it′s easier to steal forty horses than one. And it tells me everyone′s in position.
The night had become dense-dark anyway with the setting of the moon sliver several hours ago. Patches of high cloud ghosted across the sky, hiding the bright Belt of the Goddess, and denser black masses piled to the west with a flicker of distant lightning now and then, too far for even the faintest rumble of thunder. It was three hours past midnight, the time when old men died and sleep was deepest. But it wasn′t still. The cicadas were loud here, as loud as he′d ever heard them, and the tall prairie grasses made a peculiar sound not quite like anything he knew, a long hsssssss that swelled and died away as the ripples passed him by.
It′s like the sea, he thought.
He′d heard something a bit like this once while he single-handed a ketch off Newport, the Corvallis sea town, on a day when the Pacific whitecaps marched from the farthest horizon to his boat′s bow. A seal had swum alongside for a while, and sometimes heaved itself up for an instant to peer over the gunwale at him with great brown eyes. He′d bowed back gravely, and laughed as it dove away with a flick of the tail that shot cold saltwater into his face and made him nearly luff as he came about on that tack.
Yes, it sounds like waves. And the breeze is picking up.
″I don′t like having to rely on the Southsiders, Chief,″ Edain said quietly—whispering′s sibilants carried farther than the tones of ordinary speech. ″Sure, and they′re good-hearted and brave, but Tamar′s favorite team″—his elder half sister was well known as a trainer of oxen—″knows more about the which of the where.″
″At sneaking through the dark, they′re skilled enough,″ he replied. ″They′d have been dead long ago else.″
A glance at the stars to confirm his inner time sense, and then:
″Now.″
They both rolled to their feet, their longbows in their hands. The arrows they needed were stuck point down in the sod, and Rudi flicked open the improvised beechwood firebox with the tip of his bow. Air struck the banked embers within, and they glowed for an instant beneath the covering of white ash with a hot dry smell. He set one of the arrows to the string, and dipped the lump behind the head into the coals; the ball of frayed wild flax soaked in oil flared up immediately. Then Rudi turned and shot, the fire-arrow′s point up at a forty-five degree angle as he sank into the draw inside the bow, using the backside-down posture best for distance work. The ball of flame traced a red line through the night; three more were in the air before it struck.
″And there′s a sign that′s sayin′: Hurrah, we′re here! Tasty and fookin′ edible and doing ye the great favor of cookin′ ourselves!″ Edain grumbled beneath his rhythmic grunts of effort as he shot.
″Last one!″ Rudi said.
Between them they′d sent sixteen flaming missiles westward into a tin derbox fanned by the dry warm wind. The arrows traveled a little less than three hundred yards each to make an arc—they were lighter than a battle shaft, but the bundle of burning matter made them less well balanced and too thick to cut the air efficiently. Now they turned and trotted eastward with the wind at their backs, stooping a little—more than a little, in Rudi′s case—to keep the tops of their helms below the level of the grass.
It was surprisingly hard to push through, especially in the dark; the grass itself was thick, and there was a dense understory of knee-high forbs and thistles. Once an ancient tangle of barbed wire caught at his foot, but it was rusted through and crumbled when he tugged. Garbh seemed to have an easier time of it, bounding silently at Edain′s side. It was her check and quiet growl that alerted them, an instant before the thud of hooves.
″Ssst!″ Edain said; that brought her quivering-silent.
They split to either side and froze, kneeling and laying down their bows. The rider was coming at a trot; he had a short spear in his hand ready to throw, and he was standing in the stirrups and peering at the growing red glow to the west, blinding his own night vision. The two Mackenzies moved like the twin jaws of a spring-steel trap; Edain grabbed the man′s foot with both hands and flung it upward. Taken by surprise, the Knifer catapulted to his right as if jerked by elastic cords.
His startled yell broke off at its beginning in a croak; waiting, Rudi grabbed the back of the man′s greasy leather tunic, slammed him to the ground with stunning force and struck behind his ear with the blade of his other hand. Then he stepped back with a
grimace and picked up his bow again; for one thing he didn′t want the man′s lice to be able to jump ship. And while it would be easy enough to finish him, perhaps wise . . .
Perhaps he wasn′t a bad man, by his own lights; and like as not a woman and her children would mourn him. Now let him live or die as the Powers and his own fate decree.
″Earth must be fed,″ he murmured.
Edain gentled the horse. He′d been a competent rider when they set out, since the Aylwards had a pair of mounts—unusual affluence for Mackenzies, who usually kept their working stock for plows and wagons and walked or rode bicycles themselves. More than a year of constant travel on horseback and caring for a series of local remounts had made him an expert; he had his plaid wrapped around its head, and was stroking it with one hand and keeping a firm grip on the bridle with the other. Rudi took that over immediately—he wanted the best archer with his bow-hand free. He did take an instant to undo the girths and let the pad saddle and its blanket slide off, and he snorted in silent disgust at the sores and saddle galls beneath.
Sure, and I stand corrected. He was a bad man, and bad cess to him as he makes accounting to the Guardians of the horse-kind!
That was illogical; the Southsiders weren′t much better. These wild-man tribes didn′t really raise horses; they caught mustangs, broke them crudely, and used them until they died. Which wasn′t all that long given the general fragility of equines.
An animal that can die because it can′t puke needs humankind to look after it. But the Horse Goddess gives Her sons and daughters to be our helpers and our friends, not machinery.
It made him feel a bit better about clouting the Knifer and leaving him in the path of the fire, the more so since he′d given his Freedom Fighter hosts a few pointers on the care and feeding of the beasts.
The horse was getting upset again; the smell of fire was starting to grow. So was the light. He could see a little better now, with red flame licking up like a new sunset. Bits and pieces twisted into the air, drifting up and then followed by others moving faster even as he glanced. Then he could see the tips of flames, redder than his mother′s hair, as he first remembered it when she bent over him with the sun behind her turning it to floating copper. Tips of flame, and others skipping ahead where the wind blew it. A crackling roar began to build, not the deep sound wood made burning, but lighter—almost a hissing, like a serpent of fire.
″Like the snakes of Surtr,″ he said. ″Now, this calls for careful judgment; we want the fire to be on our very heels. A moment . . . and another . . . and let′s go!″
He tossed Edain′s plaid back to him and let the horse run—bolt, rather, neighing in panic, which was entirely understandable now that the fire was visible. With any luck at all the guards would just assume that it had thrown its rider. According to the Southsiders, nobody hereabouts used fire arrows—they′d had to have the concept explained to them.
Rudi whistled, two rising notes and one sustained. Epona trotted up like part of the darkness with Edain′s roan gelding following, its reins secured to a loop on the big mare′s war-saddle. She didn′t like coming closer to a fire—she was a horse, however unusual—but she did it. The roan followed perforce, despite the way its ears were laid back and its eyes rolling and its body covered in fear-sweat. The reins were strong solid leather, but Epona′s dominance over the other beast′s dim instinct-driven mind was stronger still.
She was the herd mare, and it would take a much closer brush with the fire to generate enough squealing panic to cancel that. His advisors on the gentle art of reaving horses had always used a mounted man to hold the raiders′ mounts and bring them up at this point, but Epona could do the job just as well.
″Working just like Red Leaf said it would.″ Edain grinned, as he unlooped the reins.
Neither man mounted; they turned the horses and loped beside them, holding on to a stirrup leather to smooth their pace. It made running through the thick grass much easier. Epona′s breast parted the tall whippy stems, and with a hand linked to her solid weight he could lift himself past obstacles that caught at his boots, bounding along as if each step was off a trampoline.
″Horse-stealing being their national sport, so to say,″ Rudi replied as his long legs swung along. ″The Sioux would be doing this hanging under the horse′s belly.″
″And that would be showing off, if you ask me, fine folk though they are.″
This June past they′d spent some time in a hocoka of the Lakotas, as guests of Itancan-Chief John Red Leaf. It had been a brief period, if eventful—fights with pursuing troops of the Sword of the Prophet, hunts that included an unexpected little brush with some ex-Texan lions, buffalo stampedes, a sweat lodge ceremony, and another that ended with them being adopted as Strong Raven and Swift Arrow.
But they′d also gotten quite a few stories on the theory and practice of horse theft as the lords of the High Plains managed it these days, it being their pastime and delight. He′d adapted one technique of theirs for this night′s work, but a look over his shoulder made him hiss between his teeth. The fire was a lot higher than anything you could get up in the short-grass country, and a lot hotter, and it was coming along faster. Faster than they were moving. Unfortunately their Sioux friends had been quite clear that you didn′t mount up and silhouette yourself against the fire until you absolutely had to.
″That moment being at hand,″ he muttered to himself, inaudible under the Epona′s hoof falls and panting, and the crackling white-noise roar of the flames.
Then shapes moved in the middle distance ahead, horses amid an area of grass trampled down where they′d fed and rolled. The herd was up now, awake and beginning to be frightened from their sounds. The Knifer guards were running from one beast to another, frantically yanking the slipknots on their hobbles free; others already mounted snapped crude whips in their faces to keep them from bolting as soon as they were freed.
They were utterly focused on their work; the seventy mounts here represented years of work, and to lose the herd would be a catastrophe for all their tribe.
The which they deserve, for not leaving the Southsiders in peace. It′s not as if they were so crowded here that they need to fight each other for land, like two wolf packs in the same valley. Still, I′m glad I′ll be free of them after this night. I have no wish to be the ogre their mothers frighten children with.
The last of the restraints came free as Rudi watched, and the three men who′d been removing them raced for their own horses, looking over their shoulders with their eyes wide in terror. One checked as he ran and opened his mouth to yell warning as he finally picked out the two Mackenzies beside their horses.
″Now!″ Rudi said.
He grabbed for the bridle of Edain′s horse with his free hand. There was no possibility of sparing these men.
The other Mackenzie had four arrows out and gripped between his forefinger and the riser of his bow, and another between his teeth, with most of its length off to his left. He brought his bow up and shot that one first, almost spitting it onto the string, and then the others in a ripple of effort so swift and sure that the second had just struck when the last flew free. The flickering light behind them was tricky; only three of them hit. One slammed into the chest of the man who′d seen them; the other two punched the riders out of their saddles. Then Edain leapt and scrabbled aboard his mount, cursing as the beast crabbed sideways between his hand on the reins and its impulse to run free.
Epona had already started moving. Rudi bent his knees between one stride and the next and vaulted as he ran, dropping into the saddle in a way that would have been painful if his thighs hadn′t caught the weight of his body before his crutch slammed into the leather. His sword came out, but shadowy figures were already in among the horses; the last of the Knifer herd guards were down or had fled. Jake′s gap-toothed grin shone a little in the light of the fire.
″Got ′em, Rudi-man!″
″And let′s go!″
The half dozen bes
t riders of the Southsiders were on either side of the three-score-and-ten horses, whooping and swinging lengths of braided cord. The snapping and the noise kept the panicked horses bunched; Garbh ran at their heels, snapping now and then to keep them focused. They were letting them run southward—exactly what the Knifers′ own herdsmen would have done, with a grassfire coming. After a few moments they angled westward as much as they dared; the main camp of their foemen was to the east. And probably dissolving in chaos right now, as everyone scrambled to get out of the fire′s way, though they were by a slough with open water even in late summer.
Probably they′d all wade out into it, carrying what they could. The flames were twenty feet high now, dreadfully bright. They raced forward in a flickering wave, a dancing front of red and gold that towered farther yet into the air in a wall of sparks. The roar was like all the hearth fires on the ridge of the world added together, with the forges of the smiths thrown in; he eyed the end of the line of fire to his right, judging just where it would pass.
He also thought he heard screams of rage from the savages behind; it was possible that they′d seen their horses disappearing, not in a scattered spray but in a solid mass of plunging heads and tossing manes. Or they might have heard the whoops of the Southsiders, who were calling pleasantries of their choice; they all had their new bows slung over their backs, worn through loops beside the equally new quivers in the Mackenzie fashion. Rudi grinned and added the keening ululation of the Clan to the chorus.
And just to be polite to the folk who′d taken him in and taught him this plainsman′s trick—
″Kye-eee-kye!″ he screamed. ″Hoo′hay, hoo′hay! The sun shines on the hawk and on the quarry!″
″Hand and hand seven!″ Jake called to Rudy, pumping a clenched fist with one finger extended towards the Knifer camp.
″Seventy,″ Rudi replied, and the Big Man of Southside repeated the word several times to lock it in his memory.
The Sword of the Lady Page 13