A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  The dozen men and women sitting across from her and her allies were all free-tenants or itinerants back home; it was simply too difficult for bond-tenants or peons to move around. Several were High Priests and Priestesses of clandestine covens; medieval Europe might not have had an underground cult of witches except in the perverted imaginations of the witch-finders, but the Protector's realm most certainly did. Others were simply those who were willing to take risks to get out from under the Association's gang-boss feudalism. All of the farmer majority were from the eastern side of the Valley, Molalla and Gervais and the others; the baronies north of the Columbia or west of the Willamette were simply too far away, and had had too little contact with the Clan.

  They were serious people; eight men, four women, all fairly well clad and well fed, but roughened and weatherworn by lives of hard outdoor work, and all over thirty though few were much older than her; the terrible years hadn't been kind to the elderly, or even the middle-aged. Juniper looked from face to face before she spoke: "Our sympathy you have—but sympathy is worth its weight in gold. I'm troubled, to be frank. On the one hand, now we face the full weight of the Portland Protective Association. Corvallis is with us this time, as well as the Bearkillers and Mount Angel, and we can match their numbers, but that is mostly ordinary folk against professional killers. If you were to rise behind them, our chances of victory would be greatly increased, but I must tell you frankly that there is not much hope of our defeating the Protectorate so thoroughly that they will be overthrown at home, at least not most of them. That could happen, but it is not likely. Our realistic hope is to beat them so badly that they will leave us alone."

  The underground leaders looked at each other. Their spokesman was an itinerant, one Rogelio Maldonado, a dark man with a red bandana tied around his hair and the raggedy-gaudy clothes that folk in his trade affected. His English held only a slight Hispanic lilt.

  "Lady Juniper, for what other reason than winning our freedom would we rise? We wish you well, we hope you win, but if we fight, it will be for ourselves and our families. I speak for all of us, not just those who follow the Old Religion, who have a special tie to you. But even they … "

  Juniper inclined her head. What reason indeed? she thought. There were times when the things she had to do as Chief troubled her sleep, but her responsibility was to her Clan … though also to right, and the Threefold Law.

  "If this is not a wonderful or a certain chance of overthrowing the Association, it is still the best you are likely to have. They have stripped the garrisons of every castle to the bone."

  Maldonado nodded in his turn; his thick-fingered hands, calloused and marked with burn scars, spread on the polished wood of a tabletop salvaged from a government office in Salem, the hands of a man who handled reins and rope, awl and waxed thread and solder. The frieze of carved ravens around the edge of the table was new, not very well carved but done with naive forceful-ness.

  "There is the word, Lady Juniper: castles. We might drive the soldiers and men-at-arms left behind after the arrière-ban back into the castles, they are few and not the best fighters, but we cannot take the castles. In the castle granaries is the harvest, and the seed grain. We will starve before they do, as it was in the days right after the Change, when Arminger held the grain elevators and cargo ships, and used the food as a whip to force submission. That is what made us obey him in the first place, as much as his fighting men. And that is without the field army ever returning … which you say it will?"

  "Some of it," Juniper said. "Even if we break them."

  "We thank you for smuggling us weapons, but still, we cannot face armored men-at-arms in open country as you can."

  Juniper nodded. "No. But if you control the ground outside the castles, even for only a short time, many of you could flee. We are willing to take in thousands, the Bearkillers likewise and Corvallis even more. Our harvest was good, and there is land here—and more southward, towards Eugene—fine land lying empty and waiting to be tilled."

  Another of the would-be rebels spoke, a thickset farmer with a gray beard: "That's wild land, grown up in bush. And if we run, we can't bring much in the way of seed or stock or tools with us, damn-all but what's on our backs. It would take us years to make farms, and more years to earn what we'd need to start, and we'd be laborers until then, maybe all our lives. Like peons."

  "No," Juniper said. "You would be free—a man can be poor, and yet free. Or possibly, if we damage them badly, you can force the Association members to give you better terms at home."

  She lifted a hand. "I am not saying this is very likely, or that fleeing your homes is not a counsel of desperation."

  Those old enough to remember the times before the Change also remember the dying times just after it, she thought. She did herself, and the early Clan had been far more fortunate than most. They remember the bandits and the Eaters, and the raw terror of starvation. On the other hand …

  "In another ten years, or twenty, doing anything will be much harder," she said.

  They nodded. The farmer stroked his beard. "Yeah. My own grown kids hate the castle-folk, right enough. But they don't … the old world isn't real to them; they get bits from movies or TV confused with what really happened, Captain Kirk with President Clinton, and things like elections aren't even fairy tales. They don't hate them the way I do. And the bastards don't let us have schools. I try to teach the kids in the evenings, but it isn't the same."

  Juniper sighed. "I can only ask for your help, not require it," she said. "You must consult your hearts and each other."

  A woman with burning eyes spoke: "My village will rise, as soon as we hear the knightboys've marched. We're just not going to put up with it any more! Rapes, beatings, never enough to eat, working every day until we drop down with exhaustion! They don't even obey their own laws, and those are bad enough!"

  "Mine won't rise," another said. "We … I remember my youngest dying in the first Change Year, and sneaking away to bury her so nobody would dig the body up to eat it. Things are bad but my children are alive … and I have a grandkid born this year."

  "We've got to work together!"

  "We can't work together, not when we've got to sneak around, and … well, you know as well as I do. Some people tell the Associates things—or the priests, it's the same thing."

  "Please!" Juniper said, and the budding argument died. "As I said, it's your decision. We will try to give as much help as we can, whatever you decide to do."

  Astrid exchanged a few words with Eilir in Sign, then spoke herself: "We Dunedain Rangers will help smuggle more arms to those who wish them. We moved much captured equipment from Mount Angel up into the hills after the battle there this spring. If you want it, talk to us afterwards—individually, to reduce risks. And we're too few to be of much use in the great battles, so we'll be able to send small parties north to guide fugitives, and do as much as we can to protect them. We've done that before, on a small scale. Perhaps we can do it now on a greater one."

  Juniper leaned back and let the talk proceed. Her gaze stole to the altar, and the figures there; the Mother was a simple, stylized shape in a blue robe, but the Lord was shown with Coyote's grinning face. She closed her eyes a moment in prayer; wishing for the cunning of the one, and the compassion of the other.

  Because I must lead all my people out to war, she thought. Help me!

  Somewhere out in the burgeoning wilderness beyond Dun Laurel's walls and fields, a coyote howled in truth … or was it a wolf?

  Castle Todenangst, Willamette Valley, Oregon

  August 30th, 2008/Change Year 10

  Norman Arminger looked down from the Dark Tower and smiled with pride at the iron might his word had called into being. He knew he must be doll-tiny on the balcony to the vast host stretching along the east-west roadway to the north of the castle, but the roar of sound that greeted his upraised fist was stunning even at this distance. Blocks of gray-mailed troops stretched to either side across the rolling countr
yside, a long glitter of summer morning sun on their spears and lanceheads, flashing from the colors of banners and painted shields, blinking as bright on the river behind them as it did on edged metal. The surging wash of voices gradually focused into a chant rippling across miles: "War! War! WAR! WAR!"

  The smile was still on his face as he turned from the little balcony and into the War Council's chamber. Armored nobles and officers waited around the great teak map table, helms under their arms or on the wood as they looked down, memorizing the last details of their tasks. The black-mailed knights of his personal guard stood around the walls of the big semicircular room, motionless as ever. And the Grand Constable was stuffing some papers into a leather pouch.

  All but the guards turned towards him and bowed; he waved a hand in permission, and the groups began to break up and file out. Renfrew waited for the last.

  "We're about as ready as we could be," he said when they were alone except for the guards. "Ninety-two hundred of our own men, twelve hundred from the Duchy of Pendleton, and a siege train that'll make any wall sit up and take notice … except Mount Angel, of course; we'll have to starve that out."

  "Glad to see you happy about it, Conrad," Arminger said jovially.

  "I'm not, my lord Protector; any victory will be at heavy cost. But if we're going to do it, this is the way to do it. They'll have about our numbers, with the contingent Corvallis sent, but our men are superior in a stand-up fight, in my opinion. If we break their main army, it'll split up—it's a coalition, an alliance. Then we can reduce them one by one."

  "Exactly," Arminger said, thumping him on one mail-clad shoulder; it was like whacking a balk of seasoned hardwood.

  "There is one thing," Renfrew went on, and Arminger felt his smile die a little. 'We've been receiving reports of internal disorder. Attacks on supply wagons, even a few cases of arson—tithe barns and manors torched in the night. Perhaps some of the light cavalry—"

  "Conrad, Conrad, that's why we build all those castles—even if they're ferroconcrete instead of real stone. Nothing a few farmers or Rangers can do can really hurt us. You were the one talking about concentration of force. I'm not going to detach any troops until we've beaten the main enemy army and laid Mount Angel under tight siege."

  "Yes, my lord Protector. That was the strategy I called for this spring."

  The shaven head bent and the hideously scarred face was hidden for a moment. One thing he'd always found a little irritating was how the white keloid masses made it hard to read the Grand Constable's expressions, and his voice was very controlled. They were silent save for the rustle and clink of their armor as they walked over to the elevators.

  Arminger grinned to himself as the operator cranked the doors closed and pulled the cord that ran through floor and ceiling, ringing bells far below where convicts waited in a giant circular treadmill. The lurch and then the smooth counterweighted descent were like something out of the old world. His amusement was at a memory; the first time he'd ridden the elevator, Sandra had concealed a couple of musicians on the roof over his head and had them do a creditable imitation of elevator music from pre-Change days, Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman." He'd nearly jumped out of his skin …

  Renfrew snorted laughter when he mentioned it, though of course he'd been in on the joke beforehand.

  "It's the look on your face I'm remembering, Norman," he said.

  The exit was in the ground-floor chamber, a great circular space used for dances and speeches, cocktail parties and meetings of the House of Peers, with the Eye set into the floor in mosaic. Today it echoed to the tramp of the guards as they fell in and followed him out onto the broad semicircle of steps facing the inner courtyard. The castle staff drawn up there cheered him; Pope Leo and the clergy were down at the castle's main gate, waiting for their moment, smells and bells at the ready. What halted him was Sandra in her light cart, and the closed four-horse carriage that would take Mathilda away for the duration.

  She left her mother's side and began to run to him, then stopped and came on at a pace of stately dignity. Arminger composed his face to the same solemnity, hiding the burst of pride he felt. My little girl's growing up, he thought. Soon she'll be a great lady, another Eleanor … or Mathilda. That thought was prideful itself, but a little painful as well; soon she wouldn't be a little girl, either, and that perfect trust would be gone.

  Mathilda went down formally on one knee for an instant, taking his hand and kissing it. "God give you victory, my lord father," she said; but she kept hold of the hand as she rose, and walked at his side as he came over to her mother.

  Who may be a little irrational wanting to send Mathilda farther from the fighting than Castle Todenangst, this is the strongest hold in the realm, he thought. He looked into the brown eyes of his wife, as always seeming secretly amused. On the other hand, maybe she isn't. Best to trust Sandra's instincts.

  He shoved aside the memory of a time a few months ago when he hadn't trusted her instincts. That had been a screw-up … and the sight of the Baronet d'Ath heading the escort that would take his daughter west brought those memories forcibly back. Perhaps Sandra had made that appointment to rub his face in it … but he'd earned a little of that. And Ath was sufficiently distant to be away from the main action in this war, which would be on the eastern side of the Valley, and its seigneur could be trusted not to take too much advantage of having the heir to the Protectorate behind her drawbridge.

  Unlike, for example, Alexi. Or Jabar, who still cherishes hopes for his son I've decided to frustrate.

  "Lady d'Ath," he said, as she too knelt and kissed his hand. Like all her gestures, it was impeccably smooth. "We give you a great trust. It is good of you to volunteer for it, sacrificing glory and advancement in this war for the benefit of the Association."

  Her smile surprised him a little. "Caring for the princess is a pleasure, not a duty, my lord Protector," she said; her voice wasn't quite the cool falling-water sound he remembered from past years; it had more resonance in it, somehow. "And I'm content with the good estate you've given me. Let others have their chance at glory and reward now. I've taken a new motto for my House of Ath: What I have, I hold."

  He nodded, beginning to turn away.

  Conrad spoke: "I wish we had your menie with us, d'Ath. They've improved drastically since you took the fief."

  "Despite the losses," Sandra cut in yes, she was needling him a bit.

  "Dad, Mom, why can't I come along too?" Mathilda said suddenly. "Mom's going. With Lady Tiphaine to guard me, I'd be safe behind the army. If I'm going to … I'm going to have to go to war, someday, right?"

  Arminger laughed aloud, and repressed an impulse to tousle the reddish-brown hair above the fearless hazel eyes.

  "Yes, you will, Mathilda, but not quite yet. For now, you have to do as your mother and I say. And when I win this war, I'll bring you back the world for a toy!"

  Her stiff decorum broke for a moment, and she threw her arms around his armored chest. "Just bring yourself back, Daddy!"

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon

  September 3rd, 2008/Change Year 10

  "Folks, we got a problem," Mike Havel said. "We've got to step back and look at the bigger picture instead of getting caught up in the details."

  He looked around the table under the awning. Abbot Dmwoski was silently telling his beads. Apart from that, the leaders were looking at him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or two; none of them were what you'd call the nervous sort.

  "Well, we've got a murtherin' great battle to win," Sam Aywlard said after a moment.

  "No, that's not it. We've got a great murdering battle to fight, and that's the problem."

  Havel took a deep breath and pointed northward, across the rolling plain, blond stubblefields and pasture drowsing under the August sun, the stems of the cut wheat glittering in a manner that had already given the former Elliot Prairie north of Mount Angel its nickname with the
thousands assembled there. The enemy encampment was just on the edge of sight; mounted scouts from both sides patrolled the empty fields between, adding their mite of dust to the smells of dirt and not-very-clean bodies, frying onions and hay and sweating horses, smoke and leather, sun-heated canvas and oil and metal. He waved aside some flies; no way to avoid them, with so much livestock in one spot.

  "Arminger's there, with just over ten thousand men. We're here, with just over ten thousand too."

  He pointed skyward. "He's got aerial recon, and we don't, so we're not going to turn somersaults and come down on both his flanks at once; this army doesn't have enough unit articulation or triple-C to do that sort of thing anyway. This is going to be a slugging match, toe-to-toe, last man standing wins. We've got more infantry and it's better, but he's still got about twenty-five hundred knights and men-at-arms, plus the light horse, and they outnumber our cavalry by six, seven to one. So we're talking our pikemen … and pike-women … walking forward with a rain of napalm bombs landing on their heads, to say nothing of the dartcasters and crossbows, and then facing the men-at-arms."

  "We've beaten his cavalry before," Eric Larsson said defensively.

  "Yeah, brother-in-law of mine, we have, when we managed to make him or whatever goon was in charge do something spectacularly stupid. Or when they underestimated what riding forward into an arrowstorm from our Mackenzie friends was like. That's not going to happen here; for one thing, Renfrew's in charge of that army and he's not stupid. The monks and the Clan made him retreat last time, but nobody's ever managed to sucker punch him. All Arminger has to do is walk up to us and start hitting us with a hammer, and he's a pretty good hammer-hammer general; Conrad Renfrew's better."