A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  "Epona!"

  Rudi shouted it, a trumpet-call of rage and joy. The horse dropped to all fours and trotted over to him, and he threw his arms around her neck, lost in the grassy scent as she nuzzled him against her side.

  Tiphaine leapt even as the horse attacked, landed rolling and came erect with her sword back in her hand; she whipped it through a quick figure eight as Joris rose. Rudi took two steps back, leapt himself, grasped the big horse's mane and pulled himself over her withers. And shouted for sheer exhilaration as he felt her move beneath him: "Free! Free!"

  Joris Stein had his own sword; he shook his ruined shield free and drew his dagger with his left hand, wincing a little as he forced the wrenched muscles to work. He dropped into stance.

  "You know," Tiphaine said in that cool voice as she walked forward, "I never liked you, Joris. And you've just come onto my land, slaughtered my vassals, threatened to cut my girlfriend's throat and tried to kill a little kid I was ordered to guard."

  She smiled a slow, stark smile. "But hey, you know what they say—all's well that ends well."

  "I'll see you rot in Hell!"

  "Undoubtedly. But we won't meet there today, I think. Usually it's just business, but I'm going to enjoy this. Let's get it on."

  "Go, Epona, go!" Rudi called. "Find them!"

  * * * *

  Astrid Larsson trotted up the hill. The wreckage of the fight was on either, side; men dead, men wounded and moaning or trying to patch their injuries. A trained eye could see how it had gone—the charge, the volley of crossbow bolts and then the savage running scrimmage up the winding pathway, the defenders failing one by one. For the last fifty yards it had been one defender, and her eyes went a little wide as she read the evidence of scuffed soil, bodies, sprays of blood on the trunks of the thinly scattered Douglas firs, a sword left where a desperate dying stroke had driven it into a trunk as deep as the blood-channel down the middle of the blade. The heavy iron scent of slaughter was as familiar as the sap and musty scuffed earth and duff of the forest floor. Eilir pointed with the tip of her bow, moving from one sign to another, and John Hordle's lips shaped a low whistle.

  Then Astrid's head snapped up at the rapid thudding of hooves. It was very steep here for a horse, even one as agile as her Asfaloth or her soul-sister's Cele-broch; that was why they'd dismounted a ways back. Alleyne gave a shout of exultation as Epona halted and pawed the earth with one hoof, but the face of the titian-haired boy on her back was strained and set.

  "Follow me," he said. "Quickly!"

  "Wait—" Astrid said, but the big horse turned in place, graceful as a cat, and plunged away back uphill.

  The four looked at each other. The rest of the Dunedain were beating the woods all around … and there was no choice at all. They bent their heads and ran up the forty-degree slope, banishing exhaustion by an act of will. The trees thinned still more, turning to an open meadow that tilted from steep hillside to sloping plateau, blue distance opening around them as they passed from the shadows of the trees into knee-high grass starred with flowers and dotted with prickly Oregon grape. There were more dead men, more wounded, and two figures that still fought—one in armor, the other in white linen and black leather, with pale hair swirling around her shoulders. As the Dunedain approached the armored man reeled back, his sword turning circles in the air as it flew away from a wrist half severed by a drawing cut.

  The blond woman's sword moved with a speed that only those themselves experts could follow. The man screamed and screamed again.

  "That's for finking out Lady Sandra," Tiphaine d'Ath said in a panting snarl as she struck in a blurring flurry, every blow lethal but none instantly so. "That's for risking the princess. That's for trying to kill Rudi. That's for hurting my girl, you son of a bitch!"

  The man tottered and fell to his knees, moaning and clutching at his wrist.

  "And this is for the character in that stupid fucking book!"

  He tried to scream once more, but the sword transfixing his throat through leather and mail had cut the voice box, and his eyes alone spoke as the blood swelled through his mouth and clenched teeth in a growing tide. When the blade withdrew with a twist he fell and beat his mail gauntlets on the ground for an instant, then slumped limp. Grass and blue lupine waved in to hide most of the metal-clad shape.

  Tiphaine d'Ath, Astrid thought, and felt herself smile as she raised her bow. Rudi back with us and you here to kill. This is a good day!

  The Association warrior stood and let her breathing slow, eyes flicking from face to grim-held face, seeing implacable Fate in each. Then she spread her arms, sword and dagger held loosely, the spring breeze flicking wet elflocks of her pale hair around her face.

  "It's a good day to die," she said, preparing for a final leap.

  "No!"

  A girl Astrid didn't recognize sprang in front of Tiphaine, trying to cover her body with her own; she was full-grown but younger than Astrid herself by a few years, wide blue eyes desperate, long black hair falling past her shoulders.

  "No, don't hurt her!" The girl's hands moved in signs. "I'm with the Coven, you've got to listen to me—don't hurt her!"

  The drawn bows remained unwavering; at this range any of them could shoot past without injuring anyone but their target. Astrid's eyes flicked to Eilir, and she nodded—the claim was true, then. That didn't mean they shouldn't dispose of so dangerous an enemy, of course.

  "She saved Rudi's life!" the young woman went on.

  "She did," Rudi said, calming Epona with a hand down her neck. "Twice."

  Mathilda nodded vigorously, laying down a crossbow far too big for her. "She did! Joris was going to kill him! Tiphaine jumped and got her sword between them and Joris missed, but then he nearly killed her too."

  That's different, Astrid thought as Tiphaine urged the black-haired girl aside.

  "Go see to the princess, sweetie," the noble said to her. "These people and I have unfinished business."

  Astrid closed her eyes for an instant. Threefold, she thought with a sigh of regret, and lowered her bow. The others did as well, Hordle with a low almost-grumble of protest and a roll of his eyes.

  "Tiphaine d'Ath," the Lady of the Dunedain said. "I owe you nothing for your friend Katrina's death; that was honest war. But we do stand greatly in your debt for saving Rudi. Take a life for a life then, and count us quits. I am not eager to deal out death in judgment."

  Their eyes met for a long instant, ice gray to silver-blue. Then the Protectorate noble shrugged; she drew her sword blade through a cloth and sheathed it.

  "You can't have the princess back," she said carefully. "Not while I'm alive to guard her."

  "We don't want her. Lady Juniper's orders are to leave her in her mother's care. You're not in a position to make conditions, though, are you?"

  The other's lips quirked a little. "Oh, I was going to challenge you to single combat. Now, that would have been interesting."

  "Yes … " Astrid said, with a momentary pang. Like Eowyn and the Lord of the Nazgûl before the walls of Gondor. "Except that I wouldn't have accepted. Duty would forbid."

  "With its shrill, unpleasant voice." Tiphaine bowed her head slightly and sighed. "It's time to let Kat's ghost go, I suppose. Take the brat, then. He's a good kid, but sort of spooky … and that horse is worse. And a favor for a favor; you'd better hurry. I got one of my men out before the fight started, and there'll be a rescue party heading this way fast."

  The Dunedain nodded, and silently turned to go. Rudi took his hat off and waved it at Mathilda. "See you, Matti!" he called, and then whooped as the great horse pirouetted and followed.

  * * * *

  As the hooves faded in the distance Tiphaine took a deep breath, suddenly conscious of how distant shrieks of pain cut through birdsong and the sough of wind through forest and meadow. Some of them would be her men, and the others should be given mercy.

  "We'd better get to work," she said, turning towards the head of the trail. "We might be a
ble to save some of the wounded; Joris and his merry band didn't have time to finish them."

  Mathilda nodded, standing silent and forlorn, staring after the path Rudi and his rescuers had taken. Delia cried silently into her hands.

  "Hey, sweetie, come on," Tiphaine said, touching her on the shoulder, urging her forward. A hug wasn't really practical, considering what coated her hands and face and much of her body. "Work to do."

  Delia looked up. "I told them all about the castle, and where Rudi was—"

  "Yeah, but they weren't the ones who tried to kill us and him, were they?"

  "I betrayed you!"

  "Funny, I could have sworn you just now jumped between me and four drawn bows," Tiphaine said gently. "And you stayed, when you could have gone with them. Just don't deliver any intelligence reports on me in future, OK?"

  "I'm … I'm a witch."

  "I won't tell Father Peter if you don't."

  A curled trumpet sounded through the hills from the north, a harsh urgent scream: We're comings! We're coming!

  "Good," Tiphaine murmured. "They'll have medical supplies and a doctor with them."

  And soon Joris' head will be off to Castle Todenangst pickled in a tub, with a report nailed to it which ought to cover my ass fairly thoroughly at court unless the Lord Protector wants to break with Sandra, which I doubt. And Rudi's going back home, probably Mathilda too, and the war will start again after harvest, but there's the summer to live through first. And for the first time in a while, I'm actually looking forward to that.

  "You're not angry? You don't want to punish me?" Delia said doubtfully.

  Tiphaine grinned, tired and triumphant. And most of all, I'm still alive.

  "Well, if you insist, I could spank you a little," she said.

  And administered a gunshot slap to the appropriate location. Delia yelped and leapt, startled back into functionality.

  "Come on. Get that cloak and start cutting it into strips."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Near Larsdalen, Willamette Valley, Oregon

  August 22nd, 2008/Change Year 10

  "Last one!" Michael Havel yelled through a mouth dry and gummy and far too full of chaff.

  He turned with the wheat sheaf on the long, slender tines of the pitchfork and did what had given the implement its name originally, pitching the thirty-pound weight of grain and straw up onto the canvas conveyer belt, heads-first. The air around the machine was full of dust and powdered chaff, the harsh dry smell of it, and of the canola oil used to grease the metal parts.

  Then he stepped back and stretched, feeling the good-tired sensation of hard-worked muscles, leaning on the six-foot shaft of the fork, blinking at the sun—it was still six hours to sunset, and they'd gotten a lot done today.

  And it's a relief to do something besides another round of practice with the saddle-how or that goddamned lance.

  Off twenty feet to his right six hitch of horses walked in a circle, pulling a long bar behind them. That turned the upright driveshaft on its deep-driven socket base, and the big flywheel attached to it; a great leather belt stretched off to another on the side of the threshing machine in front of him. Six yards of engine rattled and clanked and groaned on its truck-wheel mounting, giving off a mealy scent of grain and hot metal. The sheaves disappeared up the conveyor belt. Chaff and straw came out one long spout pitched high towards the top of the great golden mound of it already there. Threshed grain poured out of another, into coarse burlap sacks that turned plump and tight as they filled. Teams labored there in disciplined unison; some dragged the full sacks aside, some sewed them shut with curved six-inch needles and heavy hemp twine; others shouldered the sixty-pound bags and ran to heave them into wagons for the horses to haul away towards the granaries.

  One month's bread for an adult in every sack, Havel thought with satisfaction, scraping sweat off his forehead with a thumb and flicking it at the yellow stubble underfoot. All nicely stowed away where nobody but us can get at it.

  Signe was working there, the needle flashing as she fastened a sack with a neat, tight stitch, and the muscles moving like flat straps in her arms. Threshing was dirty work; bits of chaff and awn flew through the air like thick dust. There were two currents of thought on how to handle it, besides the kerchiefs most kept over their mouths. Some bundled up, and endured what got beneath layers of clothes and chafed; that also made the heat worse, of course, and it was near ninety today—very hot for the Willamette Valley, though he could swear the weather had warmed up a bit since the Change. Havel's wife followed the minimal-clothing-frequent-washing-down school, and was wearing an ancient pair of faded cutoffs and a halter, her skin tanned honey-brown, the curve of her full breasts and her strong shoulders liberally specked with chaff and bits of straw sticking to the sweat, her eyes turquoise gems in the sweat-streaked mask of her face. She caught his eye on her and looked up, grinned, touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip in promise, then darted forward to claim the last sack.

  I'm not the only one looking, he thought happily; the male who didn't give Signe Havel a second glace was either very gay, or nearly dead. But I am the one who gets to sleep with her tonight.

  A cheer went up all across the great sloping field as the threshing machine's tone changed, and the last grain slid out of the spout in a dying trickle. This was the Larsdalen home-farm—he could see the vineyards start where the land rolled upward a bit west and, just barely, the towers of the gate over some trees in the distance; hills swelled upward on either side, and the Coast Range showed along the edge of sight. Most of the people working this stretch of land dwelt behind the wall there; they'd just harvested a good bit of what they'd eat over the next year as bread and biscuits and pie crusts and beer. There were dozens of them, too, even Aaron Rothman and a helper over there under the infirmary tent, dealing with the cuts and bruises and sprains that went with farming.

  Sorta complimentary that his boyfriends always look like me, Havel thought, watching a black-haired young man carefully opening an autoclave that sat over a small, hot fire and handing the instruments within to the doctor. Weird, but complimentary.

  The Family was out in force well: Ken Larsson here with a couple of his apprentices, keeping the machinery in working order; Eric over there keeping the horses going …

  His daughter Ritva came up with a ladle of water. Havel rinsed out his mouth, spat, coughed, spat again, then drank three dippers-full and poured one over his head.

  "Oh, to hell with it," he said, and took the bucket from her sister Mary and upended it over himself, glorying in the way the wash of coolness spread across his bare torso; he was stripped to the waist save for the checked neckerchief.

  On the whole, life is pretty damn good.

  The girls laughed and ran back towards the water cart. Other children helped with that, or keeping birds off the grain; ones a bit younger just ran around shouting with the dogs, or minded the toddlers and infants lying on blankets in the shade of the trees along the road. A mist of dust lay above the road's gravel, as more loaded wagons headed up the gentle slope towards Lars-dalen. Still more folk busied themselves with cooking over open fires and portable grills, and setting up the long trestle tables; as Eric shouted whoa and the big draught-horses stopped a waft came from there, smelling of roasting meat and French fries in oil, and loaves and pies brought down hot from the Larsdalen ovens and cooling on racks covered in muslin. There were big tubs of sweet corn boiling, too. That was one of his favorite foods and a rare seasonal treat, hard to grow to seed in this land of mild summers, and his mouth watered at the thought of it. Someone tossed him a peach, and he bit into it, letting the juice run down his corded neck. There was a creek across the road and the field there, too. They'd all go and splash themselves clean before they sat down to dinner.

  Hello, Grandpa, he thought; his grandfather Väinö had bummed around as a teenager back just before Pearl Harbor, working harvest gangs in the Dakotas and Minnesota, a few years before combines compl
etely replaced older methods. This is a lot like the stories you used to tell—except no steam traction engine to run the thresher, of course.

  A ripple went through the crowd. Havel's head came up as well, and his eyes flicked towards where the weapons were stacked. But it was a single rider coming down the road from the east, the white road smoking behind the galloping hooves. He swerved and took the fence, a young man in mail vest and helmet, a Bearkiller scout-courier.

  "Lord Bear!" he said, pulling up in a spurt of clods and dust. "Dispatch!"

  Havel sighed, reversed the pitchfork and stuck it in the dirt, and took the envelope. When he looked up from reading it he saw three dozen sets of eyes on him, amid an echoing silence where the Chi-KA-go! of a flock of quail was the loudest sound.

  "All right, folks," he said. "We're in for a fight, but we knew that was coming.

  Arminger has called up his men, ban and arrire-ban, with the rally-point as Castle Todenangst, for no later than two weeks from now. So there's no reason at all not to enjoy the supper … but first, I'm going for a swim."

  Dun Laurel, Willamette Valley, Oregon

  August 23rd, 2008/Change Year 10

  Dun Laurel was the newest of the Clan's duns, a village of a hundred and twenty souls surrounded by a ditch and palisade, northwest of Sutterdown and established only last year. The Hall at the center of it was a smaller copy of Dun Juniper's, done in frame and plank rather than logs, but it also had a conference-room-cum-office on the loft floor, with a hearth and altar on the northern wall. It still smelled of sap from new-cut wood, as well as the bunches of rosemary and lavender and sweetgrass hanging from the rafters overhead, and the alcohol lanterns showed only a beginning made on the carved and painted decorations Mackenzies loved. The location near the northwestern edge of the Clan's settled lands, and the relative newness, made it the best place for Lady Juniper to meet the delegates from the Protector's territory. The sun had set, and they would leave before it rose, slipping back into the tangled scrub and tall grass with Mackenzie or Ranger guides.