Dies the Fire

by S. M. Stirling

  Woburn looked sandbagged. "Hadn't thought about it in quite that way," he said. "Haven't had time, I suppose."

  Havel cut in: "Essentially, what Iron Rod's trying to do is charge you rent for living here, by making life impossible for people who won't knuckle under. You have to winkle him out of his fort. And you also need a standing force; full-time fighters, well equipped and trained."

  Woburn's eyes narrowed. "You asking for the job?" he said softly.

  The obvious drawback was that a standing force would be functionally equivalent to Iron Rod and his merry band, and might well end up with similar ambitions.

  Havel laughed and shook his head. "Emphatically, no!" he said. "We've got a destination further west. But you ought to think about raising some rangers or soldiers or whatever you want to call them. And if you can't afford it … well, think about whether you can afford Duke Iron Rod."

  Woburn took a deep breath; he looked relieved. "Thing is, Mr. Havel, I was wondering—"

  "Whether we could get rid of Iron Rod for you," Havel said. He looked at Ken Larsson, who nodded imperceptibly.

  "I'd heard that you did some work like that elsewhere," Woburn said.

  "Not on this scale, we didn't. I've got forty people I'd be willing to put into a fight," Havel said. "Forty-five if I stretch it and include some damned young teenagers. Getting into a stand-up toe-to-toe slugging match with the Devil Dogs by ourselves isn't on. I'd like to see the people who did that"—he pointed towards the sacked farmstead, invisible in the gathering dusk—"in hell where they belong, but I'm not going to get half my people killed to do it. And frankly, Sheriff, this is your fight and not ours."

  Woburn's face dropped. Larsson went on: "There are things we could do, though, as … ah, contractors."

  Condottieri, Havel thought silently. Which means, literally, "contractors."

  He nodded, as if reluctant. Ken Larsson took up the thread smoothly: "When I was studying engineering, back in the 1960s, I had a professor who taught us the history of the field. And until a couple of hundred years ago, what engineers mainly did was build forts and engines to knock 'em down. Now … "

  Chapter

  Twenty-five

  The warriors of Clan Mackenzie arrived on horseback for the joint muster with Sutterdown in the cool just after dawn, with a horse-drawn wagon behind them. Each wore jack and helmet, had spear in hand, bow and quiver slung across their back, sword and buckler and long knife at their waists; each carried three days' worth of jerky and crackerlike waybread and cakes of dried fruit in their saddlebags.

  The birds were waking as the stars faded, and the stubble-fields to either side were silvered for a moment with dew. Many flew up from tree and field at the rumbling clatter of hooves.

  At their head Juniper Mackenzie rode, in her rippling shirt of mail. Her helmet had a silver crescent on the brows, and the standard-bearer beside her carried a green banner with the horns-and-moon.

  The refugees from Sutterdown and its farms looked on—the ragged fighters grouped together, listening to a sermon from Reverend Dixon, and the families camped on either side of the road; she could smell the woodsmoke of their cooking fires and the boiling porridge—one thing the Mackenzies had in reasonable quantity right now and could spare for gifts was oatmeal.

  A loud Amen came from the Sutterdown men as the Mackenzies reached the encampment—and it was all men in the armed ranks, she noticed.

  Well, we had our ritual, Juniper thought. They have a right to theirs. People need faith in a time like this; if not one Way, then another. There are many roads to the same goal.

  She felt far calmer than she'd feared; increasingly so, with every hoofbeat that carried her away from home. Calm in an almost trancelike way, but her mind was keenly alert, and she felt as nimble as a cat. That was one thing she'd asked for at the ceremony last night, but she'd never led a war-Esbat before—against whaling and nuclear power stations, yes; for help in battle, no. She wasn't sure how it worked. There were certainly enough crows around today, bird of the Morrigan.

  The Sutterdown leaders waited to greet her, beside a table set by the side of the road. She threw up her hand and the column clattered to a halt; then she dismounted and walked towards them, leading her horse. Cuchulain padded beside her.

  "Whoa!" she said suddenly.

  She pushed back on the bridle to halt the animal as a small form darted out from the crowd; the mare snorted and danced in place, hooves ringing on the asphalt, trying to toss its head and failing as her grip on the reins just below the jaw calmed it.

  The child was a girl, about six, her face smudged and long tow-colored hair falling over her grubby T-shirt. She wore jeans and sneakers, and she stood belligerently in Juniper's path with her chubby arms crossed on her chest; there was a shocked gasp from the onlookers as she spoke up in a clear carrying treble: "Are you the Wicked Witch?"

  Juniper laughed, and went down on one knee. That brought her head about level with the girl's; she'd long ago found that children generally didn't like being loomed over. Particularly by mysterious strangers, she supposed.

  "You're half right, little one," she said, looking into the cerulean blue gaze.

  It was like and unlike Eilir's at the same age; just as fearless but solid and direct, without the fey quality she remembered.

  "What's your name?"

  "Tamar."

  "That's an ancient and wonderful name, Tamar; a princess of long ago was called that. My name's Juniper, like the tree," she replied.

  Her other hand went out for a moment to calm the mother who was hovering, waiting to snatch her daughter back.

  "And I am a Witch, yes. But I'm a good Witch."

  "Then will you make the bad men go away?"

  "Yes, darling, I will do that. I promise."

  Tamar glanced to either side, then leaned closer.

  "Can you really do magic?" she whispered.

  "Why, yes I can!" Juniper replied, keeping her face serious. "In fact—"

  She'd been palming the half-eaten Snickers bar while she spoke; not without a pang, because they really didn't have many left. Now she produced it with a flourish, and the girl's eyes went wide.

  "—I can make chocolate appear."

  Tamar's eyes went wide as she recognized the silver-foil wrapping; she probably hadn't had any candy since right after the Change. But she restrained herself nobly; Juniper held the bar forward.

  "For you."

  Tamar took it eagerly. "Thank you," she said politely. Then her face fell a little: "But that wasn't real magic, was it?"

  "No," Juniper said, laughing. "That was just a trick. But I can do real magic, too. Real magic doesn't make rabbits disappear in hats or chocolate bars appear out of pockets. It does great and wonderful things, but they're secret."

  Tamar nodded gravely. "I hope you make those bad men disappear," she said. "They're really really bad. They chased us out of our house and they took my Mr. Rabbit and they hurt people and scared my mom and made her cry."

  "Then by spell and sword we'll make them go away, and get you back Mr. Rabbit, and your house," she said. "And none of them will make your mom cry again."

  Then she looked to either side as the child had, and lowered her voice: "Do you want to know a secret?"

  Tamar nodded eagerly, leaning forward herself and turning her head so that Juniper could whisper in her ear.

  "I can do real magic. And so can you."

  Tamar gave a squeal of delight, and Juniper rose, putting a hand on the small hard head to steer her back to her waiting mother; the woman snatched her up, but Tamar waved gleefully with the hand that held the chocolate bar.

  Juniper was still smiling slightly when she reached the Sutterdown triumvirate.

  "Sorry," she said. "But I couldn't resist."

  Sheriff Laughton nodded. "Tamar's my sister's daughter," he said. "Her dad was in Washington—D.C.—on the day of the Change. Thanks."

  Then he took a deep breath. "We're ready," he went on
. "But an awful lot depends on you."

  "And I'm laying the life of my people on the line," she said. "This is all of us, bar the children, the very pregnant, the nursing mothers and the sick. Our lives are riding on this, and the lives of our children."

  He nodded jerkily, and traced two roads on the map. "We'll draw them back to here." His face went distant for an instant, as if at some memory, and not a good one. "It's not easy, getting men to stop running—even if they know they're supposed to run in the first place."

  "As agreed, here," Juniper said, taking the meaning if not the reference, tapping the map in her turn. "And it's our best chance, Sheriff. We'll just have to hope the enemy are as arrogant and overconfident as they seem."

  * * * *

  There was a grassy hill not far east of Craigswood. As the sun set, Michael Havel and Signe Larsson walked to the crest. The lights of the town showed below them, soft with firelight and lantern light; the smaller cluster of the Bear-killers' camp was directly below, distant enough that the sound of voices singing in chorus was faded to a blur. Within their own scouts' perimeter, they could dress as they pleased; Havel found himself reveling in the light feel of the T-shirt, Levi's, and Stetson.

  Signe was dressed similarly, except that she wore a flannel shirt over her "No Whaling" T-shirt, with the tails tied at her midriff.

  They both carried their backswords and shields, of course; by now that was as instinctive as putting on shoes. They leaned them against a lone pine that marked the crest, spread their blanket and sat, elbows on knees, watching the sky change from salmon pink and hot gold to green shading into blue as the sun dropped below the jagged horizon.

  "Pretty," he said.

  Signe turned her head and grinned at him; at close range, he noticed how the down-fine gold hairs on her skin stood out against the golden brown of her tan, like very faint peach fuzz.

  "You're supposed to say but not as pretty as you," she said.

  "I suppose that's one reason I'm still single, not saying silly stuff like that," Havel said, smiling back. "I mean, you are pretty; you're beautiful, in fact. But you aren't a sunset."

  "So, is this our first date?"

  "Well, if you don't count fighting cannibals together—"

  They shared a chuckle, then sat in companionable silence for a while.

  "They seem like nice people," Signe said. "The Woburns, I mean."

  Havel nodded; dinner had been pleasant. "Nice to eat at a table again, too."

  "Yeah!" A pause. "You know, this is a very pretty area, too. Looks like very good land, as well."

  He turned and looked at her; she'd laid her head on her knees, and the last sunlight gilded her hair. He replied to her unspoken question.

  "No, I don't think settling down here after"—he nodded towards the outline of Cottonwood Butte where Duke Iron Rod laired in his monastery-cum-fortress—"we take care of him would be a good idea. Doable, perhaps … but not a good idea."

  "There's a lot of vacant land, good land, with good houses and fencing already in place. And they'll be grateful; we could help them set up their defenses."

  He nodded. "Gratitude is worth its weight in gold."

  She thought about that for a moment and then made a growling sound and hit him on the shoulder.

  "You are the most cynical man I've ever met!"

  "I was a blue-collar kid," he grinned. "And then a grunt. Dirty end of the stick all the way. Cynical I can do in my sleep. No, the main reason is up there."

  He nodded north. "This was all Nez Perce land once. They haven't forgotten—Running Horse told me more than he intended, I think. What's more, you're right, it's good land and well watered, about the best farming country in Idaho that doesn't need to be irrigated. Much better than anything the tribe have left. Give it a generation or so … well, I wouldn't want to leave my kids that sort of war as an inheritance."

  "Oh," she said. "And I suppose the Protector would be after us too, if we knocked off his local boy. And Sheriff Woburn might cause problems."

  "Bingo, askling," Havel said. "You're not just a pretty face, you know?"

  She hesitated. "Mike, do you like me?" At his raised brow, she went on: "I mean, I think you do—we get on better than I ever have with a guy … but then … "

  He leaned back on his elbows, plucking a grass stem and chewing on the end; it was sweet as honey.

  "Didn't think you'd want to be bothered with men hitting on you for a while, judging by our last try."

  She looked down at his face. "Better not let anyone else hear that," she teased. "It might spoil the great, ruthless Lord Bear's reputation."

  "Hmmphf." He hesitated in his turn. "Well, if you want to know the absolute truth … The other problem's been that while I do like you, I'm in charge here. Had to be really sure you reciprocated, you know?"

  "You're a gentleman, and a gentle man, in your way, Mike."

  "Within limits," he grinned; his arms came up and encircled her.

  * * * *

  "Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Lord—oh, shit, I'm sorry!"

  The messenger turned and dashed back down the hill, standing looking ostentatiously away thirty feet down-slope.

  Mike Havel looked down into Signe's face. A little of the glaze went out of her eyes; then she wrapped arms and legs around him.

  "If you stop now, I'll . . . I'll make sure you never can again!"

  "Come back in ten minutes!" Havel shouted.

  Signe giggled again and bit him on the shoulder; Havel gave an involuntary yelp, loud enough for the messenger to hear. They could hear his floundering retreat.

  "Ten minutes! You unromantic beast!" Signe said, running her heels up the backs of his thighs. "Where were we?"

  * * * *

  Signe paused as she began to tie her bootlaces, looking at Havel out of the corners of her eyes.

  "Well, that sort of rushed things, didn't it?"

  "Yeah, it did sort of rush things. Goddamned embarrassing interruption, too."

  "You're an old-fashioned guy in some ways, Mike."

  "Backwoods upbringing," he said, buckling on his sword and jamming the hat on his head. "This had better be important."

  "Wait a minute," Signe said, fingers plucking. "Grass in your beard … there, got it."

  "Your hair is full of the stuff … hey, kid! The message!"

  She was running a comb through the dense yellow mane when the adolescent returned.

  "Mr. Hutton says to tell you there's a bad discipline problem with Waters, and you're needed pronto," the boy said, still facing away.

  "Tell him I'll be right there," Havel said.

  And in no very good mood. Billy boy, you have the worst timing of any man I've ever met.

  * * * *

  The crowd parted at the sound of hooves; Havel reined in, hearing murmurs of "the bossman" and "Lord Bear." He slid from the saddle and someone took the reins; possibly Signe, but he wasn't looking around right now.

  Several of the lanterns that hung before the family tents were lit; that and the fires gave plenty of light, but the people crowding around were flickers at the edge of sight, their faces uneasy.

  Billy Waters stood, looking sullen and flushed, two men holding him by the arms—both his neighbors. Jane Waters sat by the front flap of their tent in a boneless slump, her face covered with the red flush of incipient bruises, tears leaking down her face; her two younger children huddled near her, torn between fear and need for their mother's closeness.

  Reuben Waters was not far away, lying on his back while Pamela Arnstein worked on him. Her hawk-featured face was incandescent with fury; Havel felt it through his own anger as he knelt beside Waters's twelve-year-old son.

  "He was just woozy," she said. "I gave him something to make him sleep."

  She touched the boy's face gently, turning it towards the brightest firelight. Relaxation made the narrow foxy hillbilly-Scots-Irish face look younger than its twelve years.

  "See here? He's going to have a shiner, and th
is tooth is loose. Punched twice, I'd say. Those are a grown man's knuckle marks. All he needs now is cold compresses and rest. And a different father!"

  Havel nodded, walked over to Jane Waters, and crouched on his heels so that their eyes were level. He touched her chin with a finger, turning her left cheek to the light and studied the swelling marks of a man's hand.

  "Jane," he said. "Why don't you help Pam get your son to the infirmary tent?" She looked at him with dumb fear. "Jane, whatever happens, you've still got a place here—and your kids. Understand?"

  He helped her rise, and composed his face when he realized it was frightening some of the onlookers. The stretcher-bearers took Reuben off, with his mother walking beside him.

  "Angelica," he went on. "You've got some of those cookies left, don't you?" At her nod, he went on: "I think it would be a good idea if you and Annie took the kids— everyone younger than Astrid—and fed them some cookies over by the chuck wagon, and tell 'em stories. Tell 'em about Larsdalen."

  Their destination was assuming mythic proportions; he hoped the reality didn't disappoint too much.

  She nodded: "I'll get Sam to check Rueben over just in case and help with the kids."

  Rounding up the children wasn't hard; they all thought cookies and a tale by the camp's best storytellers was far more interesting than a frightening confrontation among the grownups.

  "Get all the adults here, except the sentries," Havel went on.

  That took a few minutes. He ducked into the Waterses' tent—normally something never done without invitation— and rummaged. The bottle he'd expected was still three-quarters full. It was Maker's Mark, first-class Kentucky bourbon, expensive as hell even before the. Change. There was another just like it, empty.

  "All right," he went on, when he brought the bottles out and held them up for the company to see. "Everyone here? Good. Now you, Fred Naysmith, you give me the details."

  The man holding Waters's left arm gulped, and stuttered. The Bearkillers' judicial proceedings were refreshingly simple, so far; a trial by a quorum of the adults, presided over by Lord Bear. Punishments were simple too. With fines and imprisonment impractical, they went quickly from "extra duties" through a mass kicking around that Pam called "the gauntlet" to "expulsion," which was equivalent to a death sentence.