The Protector's War

by S. M. Stirling

  "Yes, you did," the soldier said glumly. "And we believed you all along. The problem is, our homegrown idiots are just going to say that means they're right to bend over backward—or forward—to avoid making the Protector angry." He held up a hand. "Yeah, I know, Mike, that means they hope he'll break his teeth on you guys—or at least eat them last. And that's truly, deeply stupid. But it's so."

  Havel grunted sourly and looked at Loring. "So, you'd estimate he can put about ten thousand men into the field?"

  "Allowing for minimal garrisons in the rest of his territories, yes," Loring said. "If you don't mind me asking, what can you call up to fight him?"

  Havel looked at his wife. "The Outfit's got about twenty-three hundred militia," she said. "Infantry—pikes, crossbows, archers. And we've got some field catapults and a siege train."

  "Plus the A-listers," Havel said. "Three hundred of them. Lancers and horse archers—you've seen them in operation."

  Sam Avlward SDoke: "We Mackenzies've eot about twenty-two 'undred; that's everyone who can pull a useful bow. No cavalry, but we can get some help from over the Cascades—the Central Oregon Ranchers' Association."

  Havel snorted again, louder this time. "CORA couldn't organize a fuckup in a whorehouse, pardon my French—every rancher over there thinks he's a king. They make Corvallis look like a miracle of discipline. Sorry, Pete, Ed."

  Juniper Mackenzie made a gesture. "Still, we can count on some help from that direction. The ranchers who've fought with us against the Protector before will turn out, and some others who want to stay on our good side, and if the CORA isn't good at deciding things itself, at least it won't stop them. Say five to eight hundred, depending on the season and what he's doing up along the Mount Hood country, and what they have to guard against on their frontier with Pendleton—that war's a blight on the whole neighborhood.

  "Light cavalry," she went on, looking over at Loring. "Bows and swords. Very mobile, and fine scouts."

  Aylward looked at his ex-commander as well. "Ranchers and their cowboys," he said. "The ranches are like hamlets these days, they took in a good many of the townsfolk who survived the Change. It's very… decentralized over there, so the CORA as a whole doesn't have to vote for war. The ranchers aren't what you'd call well organized, but they can fight well enough by bits and pieces, as it were."

  "Which gives us maybe six thousand against his ten thousand," Havel said, breaking a cookie in half. "And apart from my A-list, ours are part-timers, and his are all full-time fighting men, all well equipped. OK, say he has to leave some at home to keep the farmers under control; it's still not good odds, particularly since about two thousand of his are knights and men-at-arms—heavy cavalry and damned hard to stop. And he's got a better battering-train than we do, and we've got a lot less in the way of fortifications. Besides which, standing siege would let him destroy everything we've spentten years building up."

  Everyone looked at the two from Corvallis. Reluctantly, Peter Jones spoke: "We could put seven thousand in the field with a general call-up. But that would require a coun-cil resolution and a referendum vote, if our own territory weren't invaded."

  "Ah, participatory democracy," Loring said, his tone neutral.

  Edward Finney flushed slightly: "When the people Who're going to fight do the voting, they really mean it!"

  Which was true, but didn't entirely make up for being late to the party.

  "He's still not going to attack before the harvest," Signe Havel said. "The logistics are bad otherwise."

  "If he's planning on some sieges he'll bring—"

  Loring sat back and let the others argue; he was the stranger here, and thought himself lucky to be allowed to listen in, despite the pleasant informality of arrangements. Instead he watched the faces. A man—or a woman—could lie to you with words, but it was harder to deceive a third party—particularly about character.

  Yes, our Lord Bear would make a good friend and a very dangerous enemy, he thought. Just the man for a sudden deadly blow with no warning.

  He recognized the type; Sam Aylward was another, solid noncommissioned officers, perfectly capable of running a company and of seeing that lieutenants didn't mess things up too badly before they learned their trade. Both capable of a good deal more under the right circumstances.

  And young Lord Bear has come a long way… I suspect most dynasties were founded by men much like him. Wit enough, even if he's no genius, but willpower to spare. Not half so dangerous as his wife, though, I would venture. Beautiful to a fault, yet she reminds me a bit too much of Queen Hallgerda. And I rather think she's a good deal more intelligent, not to mention personally formidable. Mr. Havel is welcome to her.

  The two from Corvallis had the harassed look of good men doing their best in a situation that they knew was beyond them. Sam Aylward—he looked a little different, and not just because he was nearly a decade older. He didn't seem as detached as he would have been at a briefing before the Change; the matter at hand obviously touched him in more than a professional manner.

  He's more settled, Loring thought. He was always a fine soldier, but a bit lost out of uniform. Glad to see he's found a home. And we could have used him back in England after the Change.

  And then there was Juniper Mackenzie. He noticed that she spoke little, but tended to quiet arguments when she did, and help keep people focused. And her voice was interesting in itself, softly musical, the American accent he'd always found rather harsh and flat softened by the trace of a brogue.

  West-Irish, at that, I think she said. Fine figure of a woman, too. Pretty in a colleen fashion, but with character too—someone interesting has been living in that face. Friendly, but I suspect there's a volcano of a temper under that red hair as well.

  He'd known Witches before; a good few had survived in England by geographical accident or prescient flight to somewhere remote—two dozen had hidden out in the New Forest, evaded the mobs by some cascade of miracles, and greeted the king's men when they came surveying. Juniper seemed to have her feet planted more firmly in the earth than most of the breed that he'd met. At that moment she looked up and met his eyes; there was a slight jolt that left him blinking, and then she winked at him. He hid his smile, smoothing down his mustache with a finger, then bent his attention back to the discussion. When it ended, she cleared her throat.

  "That leaves the question of where to keep Mathilda Arminger." At Havel's quick glance she went on: "Come now, Mike, it's not as if it would stay a secret for long, wherever we put her, sure. You can hide people in a city, but those days are gone, and all we have are villages where everyone knows everything about everybody—we could scarcely chain her up in a cabin in the woods. Too many saw her at that fight in Molalla's territory, for what happened to stay secret for long. Too many of my folks and his."

  Havel exchanged another glance with his wife. "She's got to stay somewhere safe, at least."

  Juniper nodded. "That leaves either here or Dun Ju-niper—unless Corvallis would like to keep her, as neutrals?" The two emissaries of the city-state made quick fending-off gestures, and Loring hid another smile.

  "Well, then, Dun Juniper for the present. It's out of the way, and as strong as any of our holds, and farther from Protectorate territory," Juniper said, with a trace of reluctance in her voice. "Though if anyone would care to volunteer to take her off my hands…"

  Signe Havel nodded slowly and unwillingly. "For now that's the best option, yes," she said.

  "Sure, Signe, and we can reconsider later if it seems wise," Juniper agreed. "From what I've heard back, she's not the sweetest-tempered guest ever received in my Hall. But moving her across the valley would be far too risky…"

  Hmmm, something there, Loring thought. But there's something about Lady Juniper's voice that makes it hard to stay angry with her, I think.

  "Yeah, it would be an invitation to a raiding party," Signe conceded. "She'd better stay at your place for now."

  A little surprised at himself, Loring spo
ke: "It might be a good idea to give her some additional guards. I and my son and John Hordle have more than a little of experience at clandestine operations between us, before the Change and after it. And we'd like to see a little more of the neighborhood, since we seem likely to settle here at the last."

  "Good idea—" Signe and Mike Havel's voices tripped over each other. Havel cleared his throat and continued: "Very good idea. Arminger has some sneaking-around-the-woodshed types himself."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dun Juniper, Willamette Valley, Oregon

  May 31st, 2007 AD—Change Year Nine

  So, what's this Sir Nigel like? Eilir asked.

  She looked around one last time to check that everything was in place. The sun was setting to her right, westward; the sky there bright towards the Coast Range, while the snow peaks of the High Cascades on her left were touched with a last touch of crimson, and a first few stars bloomed in the purple above. Birds sang towards evening, under the murmur of voices and the eternal sough of the forests above.

  From what Mom writes, he's quite a man, she went on. Sam thinks so too of course. It's enough to turn me against him, almost.

  "I only saw him for a few minutes. He's nice enough, for an old guy, I suppose… sort of like Theoden, if you know what I mean," Astrid replied.

  Decrepit, senile and playing sub to a bearded top in a dress? Eilir signed, and dodged a revengeful elbow.

  Most of Dun Juniper was gathered to greet the Mackenzie and her guests, and to celebrate victory. For some like Judy Barstow grief was uppermost, but since the Change people had learned death wasn't something that happened invisibly to old people in hospitals. Most were happy, and the walls were a blaze of flower wreaths as colorful as the gardens at the foot of the plateau beneath a bright blue sky scattered with white cloud. Even the meadows beyond seemed to celebrate, their green grass lavish with scarlet foxglove, white daisies, purple lupine and trembling sheets of blue camas flower; the year's colts ran up and down the fences and hedges, kicking up their heels at the excitement and noise. Eilir and Astrid stood before the closed gates with Chuck Barstow and a few others; the rest lined the walls, or stood beside the road, or waited inside. Astrid had a wreath of crimson penstemon in her hair; Eilir had her Scots bonnet on, with raven feathers in the clasp, but some of the flowers in the brooch that held her plaid.

  How come you didn't stay over at Larsdalen? Eilir went on. Not that I don't appreciate the company, but you have those horses you were working on.

  The approaching column turned from toy-tiny to human-sized as it rode westward down the winding gravel road through the benchland and towards the Dun. Her mother was there, and Sam Aylward, and three figures who must be the Englishmen, and an escort that included Rowan and Cynthia Carson. They were just close enough to hear Juniper Mackenzie throw back her head and laugh.

  Astrid went on: "What, don't you want help keeping an eye on the Little Girl from Udun?"

  She's improved, Eilir signed. Rudi's been showing her around and she's not sulking nearly as much.

  "Yeah… but Larsdalen is getting too crowded to stand," Astrid said. "Especially the big house. You know, with Signe's kids and Luanne's kids and Pam's two—euuu, at Dad's age!—and the staff and their kids and all. It'll be dull with the visitors gone… I've been thinking again we should find a place of our own, you know, a base for the Dunedain. Somewhere strategic, with good hunting and not too many people. Mithrilwood, for preference."

  Yeah, I love it here at Dun Juniper, but there are times it drives me crazy the way Larsdalen does for you, Eilir agreed in Sign. I sort of get nostalgic about the way it was here before the Change, just Mom and me and the dogs, even though I hardly remember it, really. Mithrilwood sort of reminds me of that.

  "Of course, it'll be a bit crowded anywhere, when we're not camping out," Astrid said with a certain resignation.

  You had to live behind walls with strong friends at hand, if you wanted to live at all; solitude meant deadly danger. "But not as crowded. And not as many kids, running all over the place and yelling and messing things up."

  "Wait till you've got some of your own," Dennis Martin said; he was there in peaceful kilt and plaid and flat bonnet, but he carried his great ax, and leaned on the helve.

  Astrid shuddered and rolled her eyes at his remark, but stayed silent.

  What's with the chopper, Unc' Dennie? Eilir signed.

  Chuck's weaponry was part of his role, but Dennis Martin Mackenzie usually didn't carry steel unless he was away from home, and a battle-ax was a lot less handy than a short sword anyway.

  "It's to hit Princess Legolamb here with, the minute she starts in with that 'He's just like Barliman Butterbur' stuff again," he said. "To hit her hard. With the sharp side. Many times. Brannigan, OK, you can call him goddamned Tom Benzadril and his wife is Hashberry, but leave me out."

  Astrid ignored him, except for a slight elevation of her straight nose and a sniff; Eilir snickered. The cavalcade was closer now. Some of them dismounted at the foot of the rise and came up the rise leading their horses, others riding slowly behind them; a few of the strangers looked up sharply as the Lambeg drums and bagpipes sounded from the gate towers. Eilir waved to her mother, feeling her face blossom in a smile and a load of worry lift. Chuck and Judy Barstow went forward with the welcoming-cup in its long silver-mounted horn; her mother gave each a brief sympathetic hug before she Invoked the God and Goddess and poured their libation. Eilir expected her to turn to them once more after that, but Juniper Mackenzie was laughing again, talking to the older man in the suit of plate-armor. Behind him…

  Oh, wow, this one's pretty! Eilir signed discreetly.

  Alleyne Loring was whipcord elegance in his leather-and-wool riding clothes, a smile lighting his face as he swung down from the tall black horse and looked around with his left hand on the hilt of his longsword, and a peacock-feather curling in the band of his broad-brimmed hat; the animal rested its head on his shoulder, and he stroked its nose absently. Medium tall, broad in the shoulders, narrow-hipped, moving like a cat… then he removed the hat and bowed to the images on the Dun Juniper gateway, shoulder-length golden hair swaying as he did, and politely poured out a few drops before he emptied the horn of the last small mouthful of wine.

  Eilir glanced sharply aside at Astrid. Her anamchara was standing before the gateway, motionless, sighing. The expression on her face…

  Oh, wait a minute, Eilir thought. The first time you ever show any interest, and it's one who looks like young Lugh come again? It's not fair!

  Astrid murmured aloud, but from the way her lips moved was probably not really aware of it:"… for he was young, and he was king, the lord of a fell people…"

  Alleyne Loring's eyebrows went up as he took in Astrid Larsson's tall elegant figure. Then he saw the details of white tree and stars on the black leather of her tunic, and his smile widened into a boyish grin.

  "Elen sila lumen' omentielvo," he said.

  You couldn't be Astrid Larsson's anamchara for near ten years and not know that tongue; besides, those were Eilir's favorite books, too, even if she kept a stricter grasp on the boundaries between fantasy and the common everyday world.

  He'd said: A star shines on the hour of our meeting. But even though she could lip-read Elvish, there was no Sign equivalent. Eilir felt her own lips compress in annoyance.

  He went on, upending the empty horn: "Si man i yulma nin equantuva?"

  Astrid laughed in delight and clapped her hands together: "That's a special-occasion cup, but there's plenty to eat and drink waiting in the Hall, and I'll be glad to get you a refill."

  This is not fair! Eilir thought. This is my home and you're the one who gets to talk to him about it. This is just not right!

  The young man noticed her and signed—slowly and clumsily: I'm sorry; I don't know much of this language.

  Eilrir made herself smile and returned a greeting. Not fair or right at all/

  "You've come a long way," Astr
id went on, as they all turned and fell into step into the interior of Dun Juniper. "You and your father and your friend."

  Behind them the outer gates closed for sunset with a slow soft boom that shuddered through the feet, and then the inner leaves. Lantern light blossomed within—from windows, from larger glass-and-metal lamps on the towers and from the ridgepoles of the log homes that lined the inside of the walls, and bright from the windows of the Hall. That turned the carving and color of beam and pillar into a fantasy of shadow and brightness, crimson and gold and green; the timbers of the eaves continued up above the peak of the roof, and the spirals on them curled deasil and widdershins, gilded by the last rays of the sun. The carved totem-heads at the ends of the rafters loomed over their heads—wolf and bear, coyote and raven and more.

  Alleyne checked a pace as the great building loomed up; his huge companion shaped a whistle.

  "Well, there's a sight, and no mistake," the bigger man said.

  "Like the hall of Meduseld," Alleyne said quietly.

  "Just so!" Astrid replied.

  Hey! My house! My mom's Hall! Eilir thought. That's where I live!

  "We haven't seen anyone from overseas since the Change, much less from England! You'll have a lot to tell us!" Astrid continued enthusiastically.

  "Si vanwa nd, Romello vanwa… England," he said, laughing again; his teeth were very white. Eilir's nostrils flared; he had a very pleasant masculine scent, clean and hard beneath the usual odors of horse and leather and woodsmoke.

  Another figure moved. Eilir started; she'd noticed the man—it was hard not to, since he was six-seven and broad in proportion—but only out of the corner of her eye. He waited until she was looking straight at him before speaking, which was a courtesy she appreciated.

  "Nattering on in Elvish again, is he?" he said; it was probably the sort of voice that felt like a bass rumble under your fingertips, if you touched his chest or throat while he spoke. "Bad habit of his… John Hordle's my name."

  You do Sign? Eilir asked; the lipreading was a bit more of a strain than usual, given his accent.