″You can wake to the sound of the hunting horn
Dance skyclad in the gathering storm
In Solstice time blood runs to the rod!
It′s just the coming—″
Rudi—no, Artos—flung his arms high, the blade of the spear glinting like ruddy flame, and as if the gesture had called it forth the worshippers roared:
″—of the Horned God!″
He sprang onto the altar.
″He will call you out, make you sweat
Give you a blessing that you′ll never forget
So revel in the chase and let your hot blood run—
″For blesséd are we children—
of the Horned One!
Blesséd are we children—
of the Horned One!″
The Coven answered, swaying forward together, stretching out their hands to the tall shape of the Wild Huntsman:
″We call you forth as we make our way
Waking your power every day
Guide us true in the Hunt this night
And maybe even later—in the Great Rite!″
The masked figure threw back his head and bellowed laughter.
″You can wake to the sound of the hunting horn
Dance skyclad in the gathering storm
So revel in the chase and let your heartbeat run
But you best be ready, pretty-doe one
You best be ready when the Horned God comes!″
The spear lanced out again, as if it were pointing at her. It was impossible, but she knew it was true even if Rudi had no idea she was there; and from the point fire seemed to crinkle every tiny hair on her skin.
″He will call you out, make you sweat
Give you a blessing that you′ll never forget
So revel in the chase and let your heartbeat run
″For blesséd are we children—
of the Horned One!
Blesséd are we children—
of the Horned One!″
Even then she didn′t quite lose control of herself; she eeled backward with a lifetime′s skill before she ran blindly, half sobbing. And when folk about the work of the Sheriff′s steading stared at her she made herself walk into the lamplight, smile and nod.
Odard looked up in alarm as she came into the chamber the travelers had been given as their common room. His questions died as she sat.
″Just . . . play, would you, Odard? Remind me of home.″
″As your Highness commands.″
He bowed deeply and sat, taking up the lute. The clear notes rang in the night, drowning all the sounds of the wildwood where it rested like a great feral beast, beyond the walls and laws and rules of men.
″I wish we were home,″ she said at last.
He kept his fingers moving on the lute, and his face averted.
″The problem is, your Highness . . . I think things may be going badly at home, too.″
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CENTRAL OREGON RANCHERS′ ASSOCIATION TERRITORY EAST OF BEND, OREGON JANUARY 22, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD
Signe Havel cursed quietly beneath her breath, and spat to clear the alkali dust from her mouth. It was futile; the cold morning wind that snapped the dark brown banner with its snarling crimson bear′s head beside her blew more back into her face, along with a little dry snow from yesterday′s thin fall. The sun was far enough over the horizon now that a squint and the shade of her raised visor did well enough to show the huge rolling landscape that opened out before her. Gray-green sage, a frosting of white snow blown in numberless little crescents against the sides of brown dead bunchgrass, the slightly darker brown of bare soil, aching-blue sky . . .
She was a tall fair woman a little past forty; the face under the raised visor of her sallet helm was still beautiful, in a fashion now slightly harsh. The sixty pounds of Bearkiller cavalry armor—breast- and backplate of articulated steel lames, similar cover for upper arms and thighs, vambraces and greaves—didn′t bother her.
It′s about the only thing about this cock-up that doesn′t bother me very much indeed, she thought. But Mike taught me a long time ago that you have to look positive for the troops.
She′d kept all her skills up, enough that she wasn′t a handicap on a battlefield where command was her primary job, but she hadn′t taken the field for years. Most of the time she ran the civil side of Bearkiller affairs from Larsdalen—the core of which had been her family′s summer home even before the Change—and left active military leadership to her twin brother, Eric Larsson.
But most of the time we′re not scraping the bottom of the barrel and holding on with our fingernails, she thought bleakly.
And then, as she watched the skirmish half a mile away:
I haven′t forgotten how to do this. I also haven′t forgotten how much I dislike watching men die. Even strangers who′ve never done me any personal harm; my friends, even less.
It was a chilly winter′s day here up on the high sagebrush plains east of the Cascades, which introduced yet another of the discomforts of wearing armor—in summertime she′d have been roasting like a pig after a blòt in the suit of articulated plate, and now it made her sweat whenever she was active and then let the moisture in the padding beneath turn dank and greasy-chill as soon as she was still for more than a few moments.
Which right now is the least of my worries.
The enemy had thrown up the earthwork fort beside the old road bridge in less than a day; her own field engineers were lost in professional admiration at how swift and thorough it had been.
Damn them all, Signe thought. Hella eat them and spit the bones into Ginnungagap!
The foursquare earth walls appeared as if dug by a race of giant prairie dogs, with four low thick towers of prefabricated timbers at the corners, sheathed in steel plates and a broad abatis covered in angle iron and barbed wire. The United States of Boise′s flag flew over it; since they considered themselves the United-States-of-America-full-stop they used the Stars and Stripes. Which her husband, Mike Havel, had always considered slightly blasphemous for any of the thousand-and-one successor states in the ruins of the world left by the Change.
At least Lawrence Thurston had really believed in restoring the United States. His parricide son, Martin, just wanted to be Emperor, as far as the reports could tell.
The cavalry deployed around it to protect the construction were mostly Pendleton rancher levies, light cavalry armed with bow and slashing-sword, few with any protection beyond a bowl helmet and steerhide jacket. And a platoon′s worth of the Sword of the Prophet, elite troops of the Church Universal and Triumphant out of Corwin. Boise′s theocratic allies were armored in lacquered leather and chain mail, and unlike the ranchers and their cowboys they used both lance and bow.
Which was supposed to be our Bearkiller A-list′s monopoly, she thought. There aren′t as many enemy horses as there were yesterday, when I decided we couldn′t take them on. That′s because the fort′s finished today. Do we get anything by winning this action? But if we just retreat every time they run up a fort, why not surrender right away?
The Bearkillers had ranchers′ retainers with them as well, men and the odd woman from the CORA, the Central Oregon Ranchers′ Association. The two forces of light horse were skirmishing, loose knots of horsemen galloping and exchanging arrows that twinkled as they reached the top of their trajectories and plunged downward. Now and then a man would fall, or a horse. A clump of riders would drive in to the rescue, and light broke off the honed edges of the swords as little squads cut and stabbed at each other, saber against shete. One such rescue party got a little too close to the new fortlet, and there was a deep unmusical tunnnggg-whap! sound as the heavy truck springs that powered a murder-machine on one of the towers cut loose.
″Shit,″ she said flatly.
The ball from the six-pounder scorpion was too fast to really see save as a streak until it was nearly to the target. Distance mercifully hid the details, but she thought it smashed a man′s
head off; certainly he rode on for a dozen paces before toppling. The others exploded outward like a drop of water on a hot greased skillet; one of them paused a second to swing the unhorsed comrade they′d first come for up behind him. The dead man′s horse followed the rest of the war band with the stirrups bouncing loose.
″The High One receive him, and the valkyr bring him the mead of heroes,″ she murmured, and signed the Hammer with her was.
″And that one who rescued his friend is a brave man too,″ her son Michael Jr. said.
He′d filled out and shot up as he turned sixteen, and though he was taller now he looked more like his father than ever—save that his hair was fine and corn yellow, rather than Mike Havel′s coarse black mane. That meant Michael Jr. also looked more like his half brother Rudi, a thought which made her force herself not to scowl; they were both exceptionally handsome young men, straight-nosed, with square dimpled chins and high cheekbones. Mike had the brand of the A-list between his brows, despite his youth. He′d won it by bravery on the field, at the Battle of Pendleton last year, and the privilege of carrying the lance that bore the Bear-head flag.
The lance was perfectly functional. Bearkillers didn′t bring empty symbols to a battlefield.
The mounted trumpeter on her other side was also close kin, her twin brother Eric′s son Will, and also young for his task. A field-force commander′s signaler had to get things right. That branch of the family was Catholic; he crossed himself. Both the youngsters wore only mail shirts and leather armguards over their brown uniforms. Not even Bearkiller thoroughness went to the hideous expense of refitting fast-growing teenagers in a new set of plate armor every year. It had to be tailored like a fine suit of clothes.
″Signal execute retreat,″ Signe said.
His brown face was solemn as he raised the trumpet to his lips and blew the six-note call the regulation three times.
″Now let′s see if the CORA boys are still fixated on being ornery independent cusses of sure enough cowpokes by goddamn, or whether they′ve finally learned to do what they′re told,″ she said.
They had; the whole hundred-odd of them started to fall back at a hand gallop, turning in their saddles to shoot. The Pendleton cowboys pursued their outnumbered opponents, yelling and whooping and bunching up, which was almost instinctive in a situation like that. Signe′s lips peeled back from her teeth in a she-wolf grin as they approached a certain point and her hand rose. The forces of the realms allied in the Meeting at Corvallis were stretched thin. She had thirty A-list lancers with her, no more, and the lower your numbers the less the margin you had for error.
I don′t have any at all.
The retreating CORA riders passed over a low ridge, and towards a section of sparse grassland dotted with sagebrush that looked no different from a hundred thousand square miles just like it in this part of the continent. The CORA horsemen weren′t trying to lead the enemy towards her; reckless or not, the pursuit wouldn′t come anywhere near the A-listers. Not within charging range of armored lancers on armored horses; not so close that they couldn′t disengage on their more lightly burdened mounts and pepper the heavy horse with arrows from a distance.
And . . . yes, one or two of them were starting to look at the ground ahead suspiciously. One stood in his stirrups to shout something. Beside her Will put the instrument to his lips and took a deep breath.
″Wait . . . now!″
Her arm chopped downward. Will′s bugle call rang out instantly, loud and sweet. The CORA horse-archers split left and right as the sagebrush erupted. A hundred Mackenzies sprang up from where they′d lain prone beneath their war-cloaks since they′d crawled forward in the middle of last night. The cloaks were mottled coarse cloth sewn with loops that held sage and bunchgrass; they fell aside to reveal kilt and plaid . . . and brigandine and helmet and well-stuffed quivers of clothyard shafts fletched in gray-goose feathers.
It was cold last night. Better them than me!
A piper was with them, and the harsh, hoarse squeal of the drones wailed out. As it did the long yew bows came up, bent into beautiful shallow curves, and began to snap. Arrows flicked out in a sudden ripple, thirty a second at point-blank range into a bunched target; a target of horses completely unprotected, and of men with nothing more than boiled leather or the odd mail shirt. The charge of the Pendleton men shattered like a glass bottle flung at a castle wall as men and horses went down in a thrashing, screaming tangle, and now—
″Sound charge!″ she called.
The trumpet sang, high and sweet. The A-listers′ deep shout of Hakkaa Palle! rang out as the lances dipped and the big horses began to move away from her in a mounting rumble of hooves. Tactical doctrine specified a two-deep staggered row for this. Sheer lack of numbers meant a single line.
″Hakkaa Palle! Hack them down!″
They started slower than a ranch-country quarterhorse; sometimes she thought those were crossbred with jackrabbits, and the Bearkiller mounts were carrying the armor of their riders and their own on neck and chest as well. But their long legs were fast enough when they got going . . . and the Pendleton cowboys were too tangled with their own dead and dying to react quickly. The arrow storm stopped as the Bearkillers struck. Five minutes later the enemy were running hard, but by then far fewer of them were able to move.
The CORA horse-archers rallied behind the Mackenzies and slid back around to their right, to the north and as close to the fort as they could get without being back in artillery range. That put them on the flank of any attack by the block of the Sword of the Prophet waiting under the fort′s cover.
They weren′t moving. It wasn′t cowardice.
It′s iron discipline, she thought. Damn. We were supposed to be ahead in that, too.
The Pendleton men still outnumbered the Bearkillers by three to one, even after most of the A-list fighters had speared one enemy out of the saddle in the first onset. That was about as important as fresh eggs outnumbering ball-peen hammers, though; now the backswords were out, armored riders on tall barded horses working in drilled teams. The eastern cowboys stood the melee for moments only, just long enough to look for a way out. Most instinctively broke southward away from the Bearkillers . . . which meant they had to cross the front of the Mackenzies again, as the A-listers left them to the longbowmen.
Even at this distance and over the sound of the ″Ravens Pibroch″ she could see the grins of the clansfolk, and hear them shouting cheerful bets at each other as they drew and tracked the moving targets and loosed. A superficial acquaintance with Mackenzies could leave you with the impression that they were a friendly, musical, fanciful, harmless people. Signe Havel had been dealing with them almost as long as there had been Mackenzies, and she knew that stereotype was about three-quarters right.
The last bit was a very bad mistake, though. Lethally bad.
Three more of the enemy squeezed out northward and made straight for her in a triple plume of dust either just trying to get by, or out for some revenge on the party under the enemy banner. They grew swiftly from doll-size to real men on real horses, close enough to see the fixed snarls of terror and rage, the thin reddish beard of one, the bleeding slash along another′s cheek.
″Heads up, troopers,″ she said to her son and nephew, drawing her sword and sliding her round shield onto her arm.
Will slung the trumpet around over his back and pulled the recurve bow out of its saddle scabbard before his left knee; his other hand went back and twitched three arrows out of his quiver, putting one on his string and the other two between a forefinger and the bow stave. They all signaled their horses forward with thighs and balance, walk-trot-canter-gallop; an A-lister usually didn′t touch the reins in battle.
Three deep breaths and everything left her mind but the now. The cowboys drew closer with shocking speed, strings of foam and slobber running from their horses′ jaws. The men were nearly as wild-eyed, their shetes in their hands. None of them had any arrows left in their quivers—most of these co
w-country men were fine shots, but the sort of organization that brought ammunition forward during a fight wasn′t their long suit. Beside her Mike Jr. was riding with perfect form, shield on arm and lance slanted forward at forty-five degrees, held loosely. The popping fluttering rattle of the flag increased as the wind of their passage cuffed at it.
Will′s bow snapped, once, twice, the boy bracing himself up in the stirrups of the heavy war-saddle as he drew and loosed. The cowboy opposite him ducked below the first shaft as it wasp-whined by his face. That put his collarbone right in the path of the next; there was a wet crack sound of parting bone audible over the pounding of hooves, and he pitched backward off his horse.
Signe gave her opponent the point, sword extended at the end of her outstretched arm like a lance, but he threw himself to one side just in time. She wrenched her sword up and over to rest behind her back for an instant as they flashed past. Tunng and the heavy shete′s backhand stroke hit it hard enough for the blow to wrench at her hand, just over the spot where there was a gap between the flare of her sallet helm and the upper edge of the backplate.
Her horse reared and crow-hopped three times on its hind legs as it killed its momentum in response to her signals. It whirled as it came down, eyes bulging, huge yellow chisel-teeth bared as it snapped at the cow pony. That agile beast had already wheeled and put its master within chopping range; he struck at her three times in fewer than three heartbeats, overarm and forehand and backhand.
Tung. Crack. Tung.
One blow caught on her backsword, one glanced off the surface of her shield, another on the sword, and this time it slid down to hit the guard and numbed her hand again. She had no time to strike back. The man was shrieking as he hewed at her, half her age and quick and strong . . .
The Sword of the Lady Page 35