The Protector's War

by S. M. Stirling

  About a hundred of the local farmers had turned out to help; twice that, with their families. The ones who were staying had already departed. They carried plundered weapons and war harness to hide carefully in hollow trees and bury under convenient rocks, along with the bowstaves and arrowheads the Mackenzies had brought and a good bit of the taxes-in-kind that had gone into the train's cargo. Practice in stolen hours and lonely places wouldn't turn them into expert archers, or men-at-arms either for that matter, but it would be a great deal better than nothing. The rest were packing loads for themselves and the captured horses from the cargo of the wagon train; that was food, mostly, in the form of double-baked hardtack biscuit, smoked sausage, jerked beef, bacon and hams, along with sacks of beans and dried fruit and desiccated vegetables. Rowan still stood near the smashed-in barrels of liquor, wine and brandy, beer and whiskey. That hadn't made him popular, but she wasn't going to add drunkenness to the difficulties of getting the unorganized locals moving in the right direction.

  Some locals stacked railway ties crisscross in a long baulk of creosoted timber, ten feet high, that would serve as a funeral pyre for the Mackenzie dead, and serve the double purpose of wrecking the rails beyond repair as they softened and bent in the heat.

  "Field rations," Juniper said, watching a ragged bond tenant stuff pieces of tough salty ham into his mouth as he worked; his jaws moved with the mechanical persistence of a water mill. "And headed for the Protector's main stores in Portland, where he can shift them by road or rail or water. Field rations for an army in the field."

  "Right enough. Convenient for us, though," Aylward said, resting his arm on a pivot-mounted heavy crossbow the baron's men hadn't had time to use. "But what are we going to do with those two?"

  He jerked a thumb at Mathilda and Chaka, where they sat with their arms around their knees, sullen amongst the surviving prisoners—a few heavily bandaged men-at-arms, a glowering priest, some clerks and personal servants. Three trios of Mackenzies guarded them, as much to protect them from the revengeful locals as to prevent escape.

  "That is a question," Juniper said.

  On an impulse she climbed down from the car's observation platform and walked over; there was a very convenient little folding ladder along the side. It reminded her of the private railway cars very wealthy men had had, back in the Gilded Age.

  Robber barons once again—literally, this time, she thought, and went on aloud: "And what should we do with the lot of you?"

  The priest had been on his knees, praying; he stood as Juniper approached. "We shall remain steady in our faith, even if you sacrifice us to Satan," he said, holding up his cross. "The Holy Father has said—"

  Juniper giggled and then suppressed the guffaw that followed. Several others didn't, and the lanky man in black clericals and dog collar glared. He was young as well, with the light of fanaticism burning in his eyes.

  "Padre, I'm afraid you'll not be granted opportunity for martyrdom the now," she said dryly, hoping someone wouldn't make a stupid crack about wicker men and mistletoe—it encouraged cowan superstitions.

  "Ransom, of course," Mathilda said, standing herself and crossing her arms on her narrow chest; her manner was older than her face, in a way that reminded her a little of Rudi.

  She was glaring too, and doing a rather better job of it than the priest. Underneath the armor and padding they'd removed—a quilted-silk gambeson of all things—she wore a black T-shirt and jeans, tucked into polished riding boots. She was slim but not skinny, with the coltish all-limbs look of preadolescence, a tomboy air and no trace of fear at all.

  Perhaps she doesn't believe the bits about human sacrifices.

  "My father will pay whatever you ask," she went on. "Then he'll come and take it back with the sword! And if you dare to hurt me, he'll kill you all!"

  "Let me see your hand," Juniper said, extending her own.

  The girl glared for a moment more. "I'm not shaking hands with you!"

  "Good," Juniper said dryly. "For I wasn't offering to. Show your hand, or I'll have one of my clansfolk march you over, young lady."

  The hand confirmed a guess: callus around the rim made by forefinger and thumb. "Swordsmans' hand," they called it these days. It was just starting with the youngster, but there. Which said interesting things about the girl, and possibly even more interesting things about her father and her father's attitudes and plans.

  "I'm not interested in the tyrant's gold, girl," Juniper said, releasing her.

  She flushed, something Juniper could sympathize with, being a redhead herself and of a more extreme type. You couldn't hide it when the blood moved under your skin.

  "My father is not a tyrant!" she said. "He saved everyone from the Change!"

  "And mine is a good lord," young Chaka said, glowering in his turn. "He'll pay ransom for me and all his men here."

  There was muscle on his arms and shoulders already, fruit of an early start with the sword, and judging by his hands and feet he'd be a tall man himself if he lived.

  "It's true that your father's not so bad as some," Juniper said to the boy. "However, think about one thing—could we have done what we've done, without their help?" She indicated the farmers with a jerk of her head. "And think about why they were ready to help us. Ask your father about it, too, when you see him next."

  The boy sat again, as if someone had cut his strings; that jarred his head, and he put his hands to it. Evidently he'd taken more of a thump on the noggin than his friend.

  "Aren't you going to get him a doctor?" Mathilda asked scornfully.

  "Indeed we will, when our medicos have finished with the gravely hurt," Juniper said. "But you can rest easy, we don't harm children."

  That got under her composure a bit, and she nearly growled. Juniper hid a smile, and waved Eilir and Astrid over.

  This one's going to be trouble, she signed—with her back to the girl.

  The others moved so that their fingers couldn't be seen either; no sense in taking chances.

  We've got sixty civilians to move a day's march to the border and a fight if any of their cavalry patrols catch us, Eilir signed. What's the priorities, Chieftainly Mom?

  Getting those people home, Juniper said. But this girl could be very important politically. Arminger has no other child, and he dotes on this one, from what we hear.

  Astrid's mouth opened to reply, and then her head whipped up. "Nazgul!" she shouted, a huge, clear, bell-like sound, and reached over her shoulder for an arrow.

  So did everyone else, as the slender thin-winged shape of the sailplane banked over their heads. It was a standard pre-Change sporting model, whispering silent through the air overhead, although the Protector's eye on the wings was new, as was the shark mouth painted on the teardrop-shaped nose. Counterweight-powered launching ramps on hilltops could get the gliders well into the air, and the mountain-flanked trough of the Willamette was good soaring country.

  Juniper's voice tripped on Aylward's as they shouted: "Careful!" and "Ware the drop!"

  Arrows went soaring up if you shot into the sky. They also came down, pointy-end first, and traveling fast.

  Nobody bothered the first time the aircraft came down the line of the rail; it was at over a thousand feet, and probably moving more than sixty miles an hour. It came from the southeast and over the bridge, down to where the wreckage of the railcar lay, then,banked sharply to the right over the two wooded hills where the Mackenzies' local friends had hidden. The glide turned into a soar as it struck the updraft over the hills, turning, banking, sweeping upward in a gyre like a hawk circling for height… exactly like a hawk.

  "He'll see you, and report to the citadel, and my father's men-at-arms will hunt you down like rabbits," Chaka said.

  "Shut up, boy," Rowan growled, eyes on the sky as he laid his ax aside and pulled his bow from the loops beside his quiver.

  "He's coming back!" Aylward called. "Wants a closer look to be sure what's going on. Ready!"

  The glider pivote
d on a wing tip, pointed its nose on a downward slant, and came on as it traded height for speed; the pilot could do that safely now that he knew there was a source of lift in easy reach. Juniper felt her breath grow quick, and grabbed it with an effort of will. A flight of arrows went up from the Mackenzies grouped around the toppled railcar, and a groan from everyone watching except the two children, who cheered—the heads winked in the sunlight as they turned, well below the glider.

  "Ready!" Aylward shouted. "Nice no-deflection shot, now. Wait for it!"

  Juniper didn't bother to set an arrow to her bow; she just didn't draw a heavy enough stave to be useful at extreme ranges. Aylward kept his bow on his back, hands working deftly on the big crossbow instead, moving screws and sighting rings. The bow was a complete set of leaf springs from a truck; it needed a complex crank mechanism to pull the string back against two thousand pounds of resistance, and Sam would get only one shot…

  Tunggg-whack!

  The three-foot bolt of forged steel disappeared northward, its curved vanes twirling it like a rifle bullet. It moved far too fast to see more than an elongated blur, but Aylward's shout of satisfaction echoed the heavy flat plinking sound of the missile striking the light fiberglass of the glider. There was a reason he was known throughout the Willamette country as the archer.

  "Shoot!" he bellowed.

  The scout glider staggered in the air when the bolt hit, but it recovered quickly—apparently neither the pilot killed nor anything vital in the controls destroyed. It did lose a crucial three hundred feet of altitude.

  Forty bowstrings snapped against the leather and metal of bracers. They would have only one shot as well; the aircraft was doing better than ninety miles an hour, skimming less than a hundred feet up. None of them was used to shooting at targets moving that fast, either.

  All but two of them missed; Eilir, Astrid and Rowan would argue for the rest of their lives over whose shots hit. The glider nosed up, up and up until its climb passed the stall point, and then it fell like a fluttering leaf as the wings lost lift.

  "We'd best move, Lady," Sam was saying before the sound of the rending crash and the shrill cheers of the Mackenzies died. "He won't be reporting back"—they could see the pilot hanging limp in the broken canopy, and that was splashed red on the inside—"but when he doesn't come back on time, someone with his flight plan will have someplace to look."

  Juniper nodded, feeling oddly depressed for an instant at the sight of the broken glider, despite all the other fears and griefs of the day. It had been so long since she saw manmade wings in flight, and it was like a glimpse of the lost world.

  She turned to the two children. "Is Chaka here your friend?" she said.

  Mathilda stood proudly. "Yes!" she said. "I won't let you hurt him—and he's the son of my father's handfast man."

  Juniper hid a quirk of her lips. That was another word that the younger generation could use without the feeling of playacting she suspected even Arminger felt.

  "He doesn't look well, and a hit on the head is always chancy," she said. "It would be best for him to rest quietly, not be thrown over a saddle hog-tied. Will you give your oath not to escape or try to escape or give away our position, if I let him go? Leave him here for his father's men to find, that is."

  The girl's eyes narrowed. Even at her age, a lifetime being brought up at Arminger's court would have bred wariness. "Why don't you let me go too?"

  "You're not a fool, my girl. Neither am I. Make up your mind and do it fast."

  "Father said you were a tricky one, too," she said, surprising Juniper. Then she turned: "Father Rodriquez! Bring your Bible, quickly."

  Eilir, Astrid, she signed, while the swift ceremony was done. You'll each take ten archers, the wounded, and all the horses we've got, and half these refugees each. Get over the border as fast as you can; they'll be on our trail and we'll be loud and conspicuous. Eilir, you take the girl, and I wouldn't be expecting perfect trust from her just yet, promise or no. Questions? No? Then move!

  Sam Aylward already had the main column forming up. Juniper swung into the saddle, and waved to acknowledge their cheer as a shout ran down their ranks, marked by bows tossed into the air and caught with flourishes. Someone struck up the pipes, which was safe enough just now, and the rest began to sing as they swung out. Sam cocked an ironic eye at her as the old Jacobite song—highly modified—roared out.

  Well, people need songs, she thought defensively. And it's a great tune!

  Their clansfolk were happy with their victory, and some of the locals looked positively uplifted as the chorus sounded:

  "Wha wouldna fight for Juney? Wha wouldna draw the sword? Wha wouldna up and rally—At the sacred Lady's word! See the gathered Clan advancin' Witchblood hearts as true as steel—"

  Crossing Tavern, Willamette Valley, Oregon May 13th, 2007 AD—Change Year Nine

  "… and the rest of us headed west, dodging when we could and fighting when we couldn't," Juniper finished. "Eilir and Astrid both got their groups over the border to Mt. Angel—the good baron pulled out the usual patrols to look for us, you see. I suspect he wasn't looking forward to telling Arminger why his dear little Chaka was set free, while Princess Mathilda was taken prisoner."

  "That messenger, back when we were arranging for Crusher Bailey's last barn dance?" Havel said.

  Juniper nodded. "Little Miss Arminger is now safely ensconced in Dun Juniper, with a good many watchful eyes on her. And leading everyone a merry chase, from the report. Now we have to figure out what to do with her."

  "That was really quite clever," Signe said. "Making her swear an oath like that—not that Daddy would care, mind you."

  Juniper nodded respectfully. "A game you grow up playing and play all your days isn't a game. It's your life," she said.

  "Will he care we've got his kid?" Havel said. "Much, I mean. He'll know we're not going to pull out her toenails or anything like that."

  "He'll know that, but I doubt he'll believe it, down in his gut," Juniper said shrewdly. "Since he wouldn't be so… squeamish… himself. And she's his only legitimate child. He's invested a very great deal of himself in being the founder of a dynasty and all that foolishness."

  Arvand Sarian had not given Lord Bear and his lady the same cramped room they'd shared with Kendricks the night before. Havel didn't know or care if this was actually Sarian's own bedroom; it was fairly spacious, looked on an interior courtyard of the ramshackle building, and had a good clean king-sized bed.

  Which is sort of ironic, when you think about it, he mused, leaning back against the pillows with his hands behind his head, unconsciously checking that the belt with his dagger and backsword hung just far enough away for an easy draw.

  The room also had an armoire with a good tiltihg mirror. Signe Havel sat at it, brushing out her long hair and looking thoughtful as the lavender-scented candle flickered beside her.

  "I wonder if it would be worth the trouble of dyeing it back to my natural color?" she mused, then glanced at him expectantly in the looking glass.

  "By the way," Havel said. "I'm very, very sorry. I screwed up. I'll never do anything like that again. Our kids are my sole heirs and I'll announce it whenever you want… that's eight hundred and seventy-two."

  Signe smiled at him over her shoulder. "I'm holding out for one thousand even, but you're only a couple of months short of it," she said. Then, thoughtfully: "I wish we were the ones holding Princess Mathilda."

  She used the title with less irony than he could have, but the thought was worth considering. He gave it a full fifteen seconds before he replied: "By Jesus, I don't! Worrying about Arminger's special-ops people swinging down the chimney every goddamned night with knives between their teeth isn't my idea of a quiet life. Yeah, it's an advantage having her on the whole, but the Mackenzies did the raid and we didn't, so they earned it. I don't think we could have done it."

  Signe smiled again; this time there was a twinkle of mischief in her bright blue eyes, if it wasn't just
the candlelight.

  "My darling, you are very intelligent, but there are times I doubt how far you look ahead. Let's put it this way. How old is Mathilda Arminger?"

  Havel frowned. "Born late in Change Year One, wasn't she? Come to think of it, Sandra Arminger must have been pregnant when I met them that—what was it—April."

  Which had been just before he met Juniper Mackenzie and fathered young Rudi. He winced slightly as Signe let him know she remembered with a glance.

  "Mathilda's going on nine; it was unplanned and delivery was by C-section, as you'd know if you'd just read those briefing papers I do at such vast expense of time and trouble. Now, who has a nine-year-old son that we know?"

  He stared at her, then snorted laughter. "Maybe I am an idiot, but I can't see Juney doing anything like… well, shit, you know her, alskling. The strongest argument in favor of the Old Religion I can think of is that someone that lacking in personal ambition ended up ruling a quarter of the

  Willamette—the gods must have been giving her a boost on the QV."

  Signe hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly: "Yeah, honey, I admit she might not think of it. But a fair number of other people might. Arminger or his wife, for example. I suspect that's why his little bitch was over where she was. Molalla is one of his strongest supporters—or was, before this. A get-the-kids-acquainted visit, I'd guess." A moment of thoughtful silence, then: "Why do you think Arminger hasn't come right out and called himself King Norman the First?"

  "Ummm… because it would sound so fucking stupid?" Havel said, chuckling. "I mean, unless he wanted people making Elvis jokes behind his back. The Protector is… in the building! Same reason I didn't call myself the Boss and get the Springsteen snickers. Not all his backers were those Society weirdos who like that sort of thing; a lot of them couldn't stomach him. Plenty of others already think all that pseudomedieval crap he goes in for is evidence of his not being the most stable chair at the table as it is."