Dies the Fire

by S. M. Stirling

  "A thousand?"

  "Yes. All armored, all well-armed, and with abundant supplies. And—"

  She gave a few details of what had happened in Lebanon, and even the tough cattlemen winced.

  Hutton nodded: "That's the type he hires on. We've all done some killin' since the Change when we had to—"

  Everyone nodded, matter-of-factly or regretfully.

  "—but the Protector, this Arminger, he likes to kill for fun. Figures the Change means he can act like a weasel in a henhouse, and we have to swallow it."

  Several men swore; the one with the cigarette just narrowed his eyes.

  Juniper went on: "We and our neighbors got a fair number of refugees from there. The reason you didn't hear about it was that the Protector's men sent a big gang east on bicycles, up Route 20, what you might call a bicycle blitzkrieg. They went right through Sweet Home—not much left of it, anyway, between the fighting and the fires—and up the highway across the pass. They pushed as far as east as Echo Creek, not a day's travel from Springs."

  A rancher stirred. "We heard about that, but not the details. Couldn't make head nor tail of what we did hear. Figured we'd look into it when things were less busy."

  Juniper nodded to Hutton, and he gestured Astrid forward; he had to add a sharp word before she noticed.

  "Now, we've been sending scouts through the Cascades since spring, talked with Ms. Juniper's folks here now and then. She asked us to see what we could see. Here's what the Protector's boys have put up at Echo Creek."

  Astrid came forward with an artist's portfolio book, unzipping it and taking out a thick sheaf of drawings, done with pencil and charcoal. There were more amazed oaths.

  "What is that?" the rancher asked.

  Aylward and Chuck Barstow looked at each other, and Chuck made a gesture; the Englishman answered:

  "It's a castle. Early type, Norman motte-and-bailey; there's one near where I was born, or at least the mound's still there if you look. You dig a moat, use the dirt for an earth wall, put a palisade on top of that, and you've a bailey. Then do the same thing inside the bailey—only a smaller, much higher mound, with a great tall timber tower on top as well as a palisade; that's the motte. You can do it fast, with a couple of hundred men working; the Normans used them to tie down territory they'd taken. Each one's more than a fort—it's a base for raiding parties, or for collecting tribute and taxes and tolls."

  He pointed to two of the drawings. "The buggers got clever there with the location. See, the eastern one is at the western end of a bridge—so it commands the bridge, and they've got this section here that they can take up, like a drawbridge. Same thing mirror image over on the western end of the pass. And they've got some refinements added—metal cladding on the tower."

  Hutton nodded: "We could get by easy enough, sneaky-like, but you couldn't take wagons or big parties that way.

  Most of the old-fashioned bandits in between, they got chopped or ran, 'part from a few we met."

  Juniper let them pass the drawings around and talk out their first fright and indignation.

  "We Mackenzies have sources inside Portland—our coreligionists who got trapped there."

  She nodded to another guest, a square-faced blond woman with a teenage daughter; they'd both been quiet, and concentrated on eating.

  "This is the Protector's opening move for what he has planned next year; he wants to cut off the Willamette from the eastern part of the state."

  Luther Finney spoke for the first time: "Arminger took over a lot of food in Portland; it's a major shipping port, even off-season. He drove out most of the people to die; but he's got enough to feed what's left for a year—feed an army. After that he's going to need farmers; only he's calling them serfs, and guess who he's got in mind? And I hope none of you Bend folks think he'll stop this side of the mountains."

  "What can we do?" one of the ranchers asked, alarmed. "We'll have to get the CORA"—the Central Oregon Ranchers' Association, the nearest thing the eastern slope had to a government nowadays—"to hold a plenary meeting … "

  Hutton snorted. "What we've got to do, is work fast. It's going to get mighty cold up there and soon."

  Juniper sighed, and the fiddles in the background swung into "Jolie Blon." The dancers' feet skipped over the close-cropped turf …

  And how many of them will lie stark and sightless soon, with the ravens quarreling over their eyes?

  The "Twa Corbies" had always been one of her favorite tunes. She didn't know if she could ever play or sing it in quite the same way again.

  When the talking was done for the night and she took the guests up to the Hall, Hutton fell into step beside her.

  "By the way, Mike wants to ask you a favor."

  Juniper's eyebrows went up. "Yes?"

  "He'd like Astrid to stay here until this problem with the highway's solved."

  Juniper looked behind her. The other Bearkillers were leading their horses up; Astrid had two, lovely dapple-gray mares with wedge-shaped heads and dark intelligent eyes, their tails arched and manes dressed with ribbons, with silver-chased charro-style saddles and tack. As she watched, the girl handed the reins of one to Eilir. Her daughter went blank for a moment, then gave Astrid a spontaneous hug, and another to the horse. The animal nuzzled at her, and accepted an apple with regal politeness.

  "You'll be looking after it yourself, remember!" Juniper signed, smiling at her daughter's delight.

  "That's Astrid for you," Hutton said dryly.

  "Generous?"

  "Sort of, if you don't mind it goin' off 'round corners. That there horse and saddle was supposed to be a diplomatic gift from the outfit for you."

  Juniper laughed. "In that case, I'd have to put it in the common pool. But Eilir will enjoy it more; she's entranced with horses. Myself, I like them well enough, but … "

  "But you ain't a teenager," Hutton said dryly.

  "I don't think having Astrid around for a month or so will be any great hardship," Juniper said. "But why exactly does Lord Bear want it so? Doesn't he like the girl?"

  "He likes her fine—says he always wanted a sister," Hutton said. "And I do too, like she was my own. But … well, the girl's a handful, and we've got somethin' coming up where she might . let's say she had a hobby befo' the Change that would sort of expose her to danger."

  Aha, a mystery! Juniper thought; she recognized a don't-ask-me-now as well as the next person. And an opportunity . it would be well in years to come to have a good friend of the Mackenzies among the Bearkillers, I think.

  "I'd be delighted to put her up," she said aloud. "We can say she's an envoy; she'll like that … at least, Eilir would if the positions were reversed . Didn't Mike say Astrid's prone to whimsy and romantical gestures?"

  "Lady, you got no idea." He hesitated. "Thing my Angel wanted to ask?"

  "You have a personal angel?" Juniper replied, interested. "That talks to you?"

  Hutton grinned wearily; he'd had a very long ride, cold and wet and dangerous.

  "Don't we all, ma'am? Sorry; I forgot we'd just met, y'all were so friendly-like. I mean Angelica, my wife. When she heard you folk were Witches, she wanted to know if you're a hexer or a healer—she comes from down around San Antonio way."

  Juniper nodded. "Ah, you mean whether I'm a bruja or a curandera, then, in her terms. Definitely a healer, Mr. Hut-ton. Definitely."

  But sometimes a healer has to cut.

  * * * *

  Mike Havel whistled softly as he looked through the binoculars up the route of Highway 20, where it wound upward into the eastern slopes of the Cascades.

  "Oh, my, they do like digging, don't they?"

  A cluster of Bearkiller fighters kept watch, but he rode among the commanders of the allied force; the Bearkillers, the Mackenzies, and the CORA.

  Sam Aylward grunted and passed his glasses to John Brown, the CORA delegate. The road was at three thousand feet just east of Echo Creek, and November was getting definitely chilly. Now Havel was glad of
the warmth of his padded gambeson, and of the horse between his thighs; he'd added good wool hiking pants. When it started raining— or snowing—they were all going to be very, very miserable in tents. A while after that, people would start getting sick.

  While the Protector's men sit fat and happy in nice warm barracks. We can't even really besiege the place because we can't get around it. Christ Jesus, did these ranchers have to go take a poll of all their cows before they could do what was fucking obviously the one possible thing to do? The only result being that we lost a month of passable weather to do it in.

  "We aren't going to get into that by walking up and pissing on the gate, that's for sure," Brown said.

  The fort—castle, Havel told himself—was mostly reddish brown dirt, and then light-brown log palisade above that, stout ponderosa logs with their bases set deep amid rock and poured concrete; the whole of the earthwork was covered in a dense net of barbed wire secured by angle-iron posts driven deep into the soil. The mound that bore the tower was just behind the wall, northward from the east gate; starting high, the thick-walled timber structure had a hundred feet of vantage over the bridge that spanned Echo Creek.

  About twenty feet of the bridge's pavement had been removed from the western edge, leaving the steel stringers exposed. A notch in the earth wall held the fort's gate, a massive steel-sheathed timber structure with a blockhouse over it; a drawbridge winched up by woven-wire cables covered the gap in the bridge when it was down, and reinforced the gate when it wasn't.

  Right now it wasn't, and he could see the tiny figures of men walking on the parapet above, behind the heavy timbers. The morning light glinted on edged metal as they moved.

  The wind down from the heights had a tang of iron and ice in it, along with the cold scent of pine and damp earth. He looked from the steep heights of Echo Summit to the north, across the little valley's flatlands to Browder ridge five thousand feet above to the south; both were timbered, but not densely—stands of Ponderosa and lodgepole pine for the most part, interspersed with scrub and open meadow. The creek tumbled down from the north, crossed the prairie—making a little U-shape with the bridge at its apex—and then joined another, larger stream that flowed at the foot of the southern hills; both had water now, though they were dry most of the summer. The U gave the castle what amounted to a natural moat over nearly half its circumference to supplement the one its builders had dug themselves.

  The valley floor was sere autumn grassland; it had been called Lost Prairie once.

  Aylward snapped his fingers. "Bugger! The location looked wrong, but of course that's why they put it there!" he said, evidently continuing an internal argument. "No mortars! I've ruddy well got to get my reflexes adjusted to the way things are now!"

  Brown looked puzzled. Ken Larsson spoke without looking up from where he balanced a map board across his saddlebow.

  "My son-in-law will enlighten you."

  Havel nodded: "Before the Change, you wouldn't put a firebase—a fort—down on a low spot like that, not with high hills so close to either side. Death trap. Anyone could have put a mortar on the hills and hammered them there. We have to get a lot closer, a trebuchet is sort of bulky— and what we throw isn't explosive."

  The CORA leader's name fitted his appearance—his hair, eyes, and skin were all shades of that brown, and so were his rough outdoors clothing and wide-brimmed hat, and the horse he rode.

  "And they've got that wall and tower an' about two hundred men with crossbows," he said, and spat aside in disgust. "Got dart-throwers there, and something inside the walls that lobs rocks, and containers of gasoline; they can hit all the way from the south hills to the north. Our local council of the Association tried havin' a run at them before you fellahs arrived—didn't like the thought of 'em settin' up shop here—and they stopped us before we got started, so we yelled for CORA."

  And CORA insisted on talking about things for most of a month, Havel thought. God knows how long it'd have gone on without the Mackenzies. Though to be fair, with the way they're spread out meetings aren't easy.

  "Siege?" he asked. He suspected the answer, but …

  "Nope." Brown pointed south at the low gnarled mountains. "That's bad country, all wrinkled like an ol' lady's … ass."

  Then north. "That's worse. Oh, you could get around on foot, even take a horse, we got people who know the country real good … but it wouldn't be no damn use at all. This is the perfect place for a cork on Highway 20. And according to Ellie Strang, they've got plenty of food in there anyway. Enough to last to spring if they aren't picky."

  "Ellie Strang?"

  "She, ah, sort of works there. Local gal, not what you'd call respectable, but patriotic."

  "Be a right butcher's bill, trying to storm it, even if it weren't for that riverbed between," Aylward said.

  Will Hutton cantered up along the roadside verge; avoiding the pavement was easier on the horse's hooves, when you could.

  "Everything's ready, boss," he said to Havel. "Ken's people are champin' to get set up."

  The Bearkiller leader grinned at the others. "You know what Arminger's problem is?" he said.

  "He's a bloody maniac?" the Englishman replied.

  "No, that's our problem. His problem is that he thinks it's 1066 come again."

  The Englishman touched the bow slung over his shoulder, and looked at the Bearkillers' hauberks. "It isn't?" he said.

  "Let my father-in-law-to-be tell it. He's the intellectual."

  Ken Larsson made a rude gesture with his hook before he spoke. "Look, Alien Space Bats may have stolen our toys—"

  Several men snorted laughter.

  "—but we're not eleventh-century people. We know how to do things they couldn't, including things that don't require powered equipment or electronics or explosives. Someone's done something to … "

  "Mucked about with," Aylward said helpfully. "Buggered for fair."

  " … those parts of natural law, somehow. But all the other parts seem to be working as usual."

  He held up his hook. "I lost this hand because someone cut it mostly off with a sword. But I didn't get gangrene; we had a doctor who didn't rely on eye of newt and dust from a saint's tomb. You expecting to lose many men to dysentery?"

  "Of course not," Aylward said, indignation in his tone. Then: "Oh. Well, bugger me blind. I see what you're driving at."

  "Yes. We can keep a camp clean, if not a city, just because we know why clean water is important. And the same thing applies to other tricks."

  Havel took up the thread: "Which I sort of suspect Arminger doesn't know much about. His interest in history stops about the time of Richard the Lionheart. I think he thinks it's been all downhill since then."

  Larsson grinned. "Why do guys like that always imagine they'll be the king and not the man pushing a plow?"

  "Plus his men are mostly frighteners," Aylward said thoughtfully. "Hmmm."

  "Yes, and frighteners aren't Norman knights, either; different motivations. Meanwhile, let's go have breakfast," Larsson said.

  The command group turned and cantered eastward down the verge of the road, eyes slitted against the rising sun; it got a bit warmer as the orange globe rose. The valley got wider as well; they turned off 20 and onto a local road that wound southward around a butte that hid them from the Protector's castle.

  There were over a thousand people camped on a long sloping shoulder of that rise. You could tell who was who easily enough. The Bearkillers' encampment was laid out in neat rows of tents and wagons—not too many of the latter, since this was an A-list expeditionary force, not the whole outfit. Surrounding it were coils of barbed wire, and mounted sentries rode the perimeter. The Mackenzie camp was further upslope, among the pines; less geometric, but taking advantage of the ground for shelter from the keen wind and prying eyes as well, tents in circles around central hearthfires.

  They'd brought their supplies on packhorses—the enemy controlled all the roads across the mountains—but they didn't loo
k as if they lacked for much.

  And as for the CORA men …

  Well, I've never really seen a gypsy camp, Havel thought. But I think that's how they were supposed to do it, pretty much.

  Every rancher-member of the Association had arrived as he—or in a couple of instances, she—pleased, and with what followers they could muster; and that ranged from four mounted men with their bedrolls to thirty or forty with a chuck wagon and a big pavilion tent for the boss-man and his family. They'd come with what they pleased too, which often meant as much of the comforts of home as they could carry. They'd also scattered themselves across a huge sweep of hill and down the tree-clad banks of Hackleman Creek towards the blue of Fish Lake, just visible now. Herds of horses and cattle moved in that direction as well.

  The smoke of their campfires wafted towards the riders, along with the sounds—a farrier's hammer shaping a horseshoe, the shouts of playing children …

  Havel's eyes met Aylward's. They'd only met the day before, but they'd already discovered a great deal in common.

  Shambolic, Aylward's lips shaped soundlessly.

  What a cluster-fuck, Havel's eyes replied.

  Brown seemed to catch some of the byplay. "Well, you've got some womenfolk with you too," he said defensively.

  "The only ones in our camp are in our support echelon, medicos and such, and some who're wearing a hauberk," Havel said bluntly. "And those all passed the same tests as everyone else on our A-list. The noncombatants and kids are all back where we've got our base set up."

  Brown flushed a little. "We're providing most of the men for this fight," he said. "And the supplies. We've got plenty of veterans, too."

  But no single one with enough authority to get you all organized, Havel thought. He didn't say it aloud, or let it show on his face; they weren't here to quarrel with the locals. Instead he went on: "Granted. And you've provided first-rate intelligence—"

  Or at least Ellie Strong has.