Tales of Downfall and Rebirth

by S. M. Stirling

  Two men waved back the rest and walked up to her. Colin strained his ears. “Too bad for you, girlie! Wrong place wrong time, lots of wrong men. And we’ve a few hours to kill, anyway . . .”

  “Andy, just ’cause Rick nivir attacked in the day, dun’t mean we can’t. We should just take this piece of ass with us and use it there. We’re almost there.”

  “Dubya, we still alive and a gang ’cause Rick knew his business.”

  “He isn’t alive anymore and it was one of these critters killed him . . .”

  “Shut it!”

  Colin gasped. It wasn’t Sean; the hair was too long and redder than the teacher-accountant’s, but the resemblance . . . From the distance he could see the shock hit Aisha, too. “We can go on nibbling at the edges, but we need to get into Stronghold if we mean to live much longer. Rick and Sean made the plan and we’re following it.”

  “Alasdair, you’re a dummy. Sean’s not here and Rick’s dead and I want this piece of ass!”

  The one called Dubya leered at Aisha. “You are black, but comely, O ye daughter of Jerusalem . . .”

  Colin wasn’t aware of thinking . . . of planning, of deciding as he set fire to the grass rope he’d laid to reach the pile of dry tinder; then he was swinging down the scree, recklessly letting the rope run through his hand, the palms of his climbing gloves heating up fast. He landed on the road behind the group of men and dropped the line, stripped off the gloves and ran, full tilt forward.

  “Alasdair! Alasdair!” he yelled.

  The men spun around, reforming in front of Aisha, swords, crossbows, clubs out and ready. He skidded to a halt, panting harshly.

  “Where’s Alasdair? Sean sent me!” He looked up and down the road and complained, “Any road, you aren’t supposed to be here. It’s not noon yet and you’n’s supposed to wait till three to get into position! I been running and running, trying to find you!”

  He made his voice petulant and whining. He grabbed a stone up from the ground and tossed it up. Caught it, tossed it, caught it, and waited, waited, waited for the baited hook to catch.

  “Alasdair! Sean sent me!”

  “How’d he know your name?”

  That was the one called Andy, sullen, angry and suspicious. Then Dubya’s voice said, “Sean said the brat was fighting his da a lot. He thought maybe he could get the kid to open the doors when the time was right. I heard him telling Rick and Al.”

  “That’s Alasdair to you! Let the boy through, maybe he is going to help us, and if he isn’t, more pain to him.”

  Colin gulped and grabbed another stone and lofted it up and began to juggle as he walked forward. Close up Alasdair didn’t look that much like Sean, after all. He was older, a lot older, and a deep knotted scar cut across his left cheek. Colin snatched up two more stones, bending his juggling wheel from horizontal to vertical and back again.

  “Sean said you were an idiot with those stones and joking around. Put ’em down.”

  Colin snatched them out of the air, and carefully piled them up on Llama-Dama’s pack and bowed extravagantly, left hand on his homespun linen shirt, right hand waving in a complicated pattern before coming to rest on the short-sword hilt by his side.

  Then he laughed, happy, and a little cruelly. “You’ve got Aisha! Good for you! She is mine, you know.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” said Alasdair, his ice-blue eyes narrowing.

  “That was my price.” Colin stepped around Llama-Dama, grabbed Aisha and kissed her soundly, holding on and grabbing her breast. Her first startled stillness gave way to angry shoves and a clout on the head.

  He laughed again, meeting her eyes. “Give over. Me da dun want you and I do. You’ll be my little slave girl and happy for it, too, if you want Dhugal to survive!”

  He bent back fast away from the second blow and snapped up and hopped back, landing on Alasdair’s boot with all his weight. “Sorry, sorry!” he gasped, leaping back and jostling Dali-Llama who promptly put his ears back, crouched and spat, spraying indiscriminately as usual. The Sherries yelped and scattered. Colin turned, looking completely aghast. And noted that Aisha had moved the rocks off Llama-Dama’s back to the back fold of her kilt.

  Alasdair grabbed him, yanking him around, and put a fine-bladed knife right under his eye. “What’s this about Sean?” he asked. “He was supposed to go back to the hold and convince the McClintock to ask for help from the Rogue River Valley levees, not come out and attack right away.”

  Colin looked at the knife, going cross-eyed trying to see nearer and his hands made an aborted movement to toss a stone up.

  “Shut it!” ordered Alasdair. “No more jokes.”

  Colin nodded and let a little whimper escape, leaving his eyes crossed as he looked up.

  “Sean got back yesterday and got caught coming in. He had a bloody knife on him and he said it was a dog he’d killed up trail. M’ da did’n believe him, but he had to go see to Derek . . . Robson done kilt the boy; he just took a few hours at dyin’, and Sean went to let Malc go and the McClintock caught him and . . . kilt him, him and Malc both.”

  Alasdair frowned. “So why you coming to me now? Just lay low and yer da’ll nivir know you’d thought o’ taking his place.”

  Colin grabbed up a stone and tossed it in the air. Alasdair batted it out of his reach.

  “Answer!”

  “Me da questioned the both of them before he shoved them off the wall with a noose round each neck. He knows, and he knows my price. He’s pretty mad. Not to say, rip-shit furious. I got out, just ahead of three crossbow bolts and Greer Tennart’s longbow arrow.”

  He stared into eyes colder and more deadly than Sean’s. “Sean—Sean told me he’s led the Sherries, has since you guys escaped Sheridan, way back Change Day. Now he’s dead, I guess yer the new laird.”

  Alasdair gave a bark of laughter, and slapped Colin. He stumbled sideways from the force, the flat salt taste of blood all over his tongue. From a crouch, he looked up, cowering away from the angry man.

  “I’m the boss of the Sherries if anyone is!” Alasdair was practically snarling. “Not Dubya, not Andy, not Sean. Rick and I, we know how to lead a guerrilla troop. We got the experience in El Salvador. Sean was just my little brother . . . got us all in hot water.”

  Colin nodded, eager to keep them talking. He could feel Aisha fading back toward the mountain slope, the llamas screening her. He spat redly into his hands and glared up at Alasdair.

  “Bastard! Didn’t need to hit so hard. I’m only repeating what Sean tol’ me. He said you was bank robbers and he kilt a man.”

  Colin could feel the men around him paying attention, their eyes on Alasdair. He stood cautiously, holding a few pebbles in his hands.

  “And if he hadn’t kilt the guard and shot the cashier, we wouldn’t have landed in federal prison for . . .”

  Alasdair shook his head, scowling. “You behave like a good little boy and I’ll use you to bribe your paw to open Stronghold to us after we take out this Dell. Been blocking us from Gold Beach for years, he has.”

  “Dun need to bribe me da. There’s a back way in. Only four people know it.”

  Alasdair drew in a satisfied breath. “Good . . . good . . . An easy way in, and you to kill your father in his bed.”

  Colin moved as Alasdair looked up, a puzzled frown growing on his face. The click of the stones brought his eyes back and he slapped a stone out of reach. “Fool boy! Why do you do that?”

  “Nervous habit . . . but it riles m’ faither something awful.”

  “Well, it riles, me, too. Stop it!”

  Colin let the rocks fall. It looked random, but he saw one smack Andy’s right elbow. There was a satisfying thunk and he suppressed a grin.

  “So what’s the plan?” he asked, wishing he could sneak a peek at Aisha or his improvised beacon.

  Alasdair
slapped at him again and Colin swayed out of the way with a yelp that landed him against the man called Dubya. He danced away, with a sharp belt knife hidden in the folds of his great kilt, leaving a slice through the man’s webbing belt. One good tug at the sword and it would all fall apart.

  Alasdair clapped his hands once and the seething mass of men quieted.

  He pointed at Colin. “Quiet, you!”

  “We’ll split, soon. As soon as the bank is shallow enough, Dubya and his seven will cross over and hide around the place they call CrossCot. Remember, we don’t attack until dawn. It’s the best way to make sure we don’t get caught.

  “Andy, you and me’ll go up this slope and I’ll lead my six against the Hall while you take your ten to the place they call Table Meadow and . . .” Alasdair looked north and east and they all froze. Colin’s dead tree was burning merrily, spewing up a thick column of smoke.

  “Where’s the woman? She did that! Find her and kill her! Knew that piece of black ass was going to be trouble!”

  Colin tensed as one of the men yanked on Llama-Dama’s leading rein, lifting a knife. The llama’s ears went back, she gave her gobbling screech and rammed the man in the chest, knocking him down. She jumped on him and stomped a few times for good measure and set off down the road at a brisk trot. Dali-Llama followed posthaste, spitting in one man’s face. Colin searched the mountain scree, but Aisha’s brown and gold and black plaid blended in just as well or better than camouflage and he couldn’t spot her.

  The men were milling, now, trying to sort themselves into the groups Alasdair had named. Colin faded back, away from the three leaders, hoping to get away and follow the two llamas. He stooped and grabbed some more egg-sized stones for good measure, looking right and left. Climbing the scree was possible, but he was sure Aisha was somewhere on the slope, so having a dozen men struggling up the unstable surface wasn’t a good idea. Jumping over the side to the riverbank was another possibility that didn’t make him feel very confident. Forward to Mickleson’s was out.

  He faded down the road, faded again, behind him were five Sherries, two, none. “Grab the boy!”

  He turned and ran all out after the llamas’ thudding steps. He could hear the men baying behind, like a pack of dogs . . .

  That’s good! Dogs they are; vicious, unprincipled poorly trained scavengers! Nothing like the well-trained brutes that guard our Dells and Stronghold.

  Colin suddenly realized that llamas don’t sound like kettledrums . . . or lambegs. They have feet that patter and nails that click. He ran harder and came skidding round a spur to see his father at the head of a mass of men and women.

  Behind him he heard Alasdair screaming, “Leave the boy, leave the boy! We’ve got to hole up at Mickleson’s!”

  He didn’t wait to see if pursuit stopped. Pell-mell he ran for his father’s banner: four white and black Tudor roses on a purple background with a silver sword, slanted left-lower corner to right upper. The llamas pulled up and danced uneasily in front of Hamish McClintock. Colin dashed up and grabbed them by the shoulders.

  “They’re going for the Mickleson’s! And Aisha’s up on the mountain somewhere.”

  “Get off the trail and let us pass. We’ll take them down once and for all. Sean said there were twenty at RoeDell.”

  “You did smoke him! The dirty liar! They’re forty of them just down the trail.”

  “Your girl, yon Robin did that. Smart lassie . . . and heir to the Dell. Derek died at Matins, poor lad. So, after Sean opened the postern for Malc, I socked him in the heid . . . and the guard shot Robson like the mad dog he was.”

  Colin tried to laugh, but the swollen cheek from Alasdair’s blow hurt, and all he could do was grimace. He pulled back, happy to let his father and the seventy men from Stronghold go forward.

  He followed, leading the llamas. “Aisha is going to kill me anyway, but if I bring you back to her, she might do it fast instead of torturing me,” he observed to Dali-Llama, who snorted his disbelief.

  Against the Wind

  by Lauren C. Teffeau

  Lauren C. Teffeau

  Lauren C. Teffeau was born and raised on the East Coast, educated in the South, employed in the Midwest, and now lives and dreams in the Southwest. In the summer of 2012, she attended Taos Toolbox, a master class in writing science fiction and fantasy. When she was younger, she poked around in the back of wardrobes, tried to walk through mirrors, and always kept an eye out for secret passages, fairy rings, and messages from aliens. She was disappointed. Now she writes to cope with her ordinary existence. Her work can be found in a variety of speculative fiction magazines and anthologies. To learn more, please visit laurencteffeau.com.

  GULF OF ALASKA, SOUTH CENTRAL ALASKA

  OCTOBER 2, CHANGE YEAR 0/1998 AD

  It had been a day full of anemic sun and salt breeze. Perfect for sailing. And salvage.

  As the Windfall crossed the swirling line where the electric blue waters of the Prince William Sound met the slate gray of the gulf, Mitch told the kids to stay alert.

  Unlike the storm surges and eddies that ate away the edges of the mainland, the open sea had an energy all its own. Simple mistakes could turn deadly, especially out here. Only a few feet of fiberglass, metal, and wood separated his family from the expanse of the sea. As the snow-draped ridges of the Kenai Mountains faded into the distance, anxiety settled low in his spine. He manned the tiller, keeping the thirty-six-foot sloop pointed eastward.

  They were roughly five leagues off the coast, south of Montague Island, when his son Edward let out a cry, pointing starboard. “What do you think, Dad?” Eddie shielded his eyes against the afternoon glare off the choppy water and strained against the railing like an overeager puppy.

  Mitch raised his binoculars and inspected the deck of a marooned yacht. Some yuppie’s toy left to rot thanks to the diesel engine, the now-shredded sails just for show. The canvas fluttered and snapped in the breeze—a rippling sound like playing cards clipped to the spokes of a bicycle. The anchor had kept the boat in place. That a squall hadn’t sent it under was a miracle.

  Then again, that’s what Mitch was counting on.

  “No bodies on the deck,” Danielle said from her perch at the bow.

  “That doesn’t mean anything. We’ll anchor here and row over.”

  “Aww, come on, Dad.” Dani had her hand on her hip, the other hand clenching the jack line running bow to stern.

  Mitch knew both kids thought him overly paranoid, but it had served them well so far.

  “I’ll not risk the Windfall.” He turned back to Eddie. “Prepare to drop anchor.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” The twelve-year-old boy clambered across the deck and reeled out the anchor. The heaving waters greedily swallowed the metal links.

  “Dani, you—”

  “I know, I know. Dad, I got it.”

  Mitch suffered through the rolled eyes as she helped him adjust the sails so they could set the anchor. She did good work, which made her think she knew it all. Except patience and prudence. Which he didn’t have at fifteen either.

  Eddie helped him lower the dinghy over the side of the Windfall. He had a leg over the railing before Mitch reached out a hand to stop him.

  “No. Dani and I’ll go over first and scope things out.”

  “But I always stay behind.” His voice cracked on the whine.

  “We need you here as lookout. If things go to hell, you’ll need to get the Windfall ready to sail. That’s a huge responsibility. You know that.”

  Eddie slunk back onto the deck with a pout.

  “Tell you what. Next time, I’ll have Dani be lookout, okay?”

  Eddie brushed his sandy hair out of his eyes and gave him a reluctant nod.

  Mitch passed him his binoculars. “Make sure you—”

  Eddie looped them over his neck. “I won’t drop them, Dad. Even
if I did, it’s not like we don’t have four other pairs belowdecks.”

  Mitch frowned. “They’re for trading. And no excuse not to take care of what we have.”

  Dani finished securing the mainsail to the boom and joined them at the railing. He helped her down into the dinghy, and followed her in as she settled into the seat at the stern. Eddie passed them wooden oars and then the rope lead.

  Winds were maybe five knots at most from the north, but no guarantee they’d stay that way. Mitch scanned the western horizon and saw nothing that gave him pause. Still . . .

  “Keep an eye on the weather,” he said to Eddie. “If all goes well, we’ll pick you up after we drop off the first load.”

  Mitch pushed the dinghy off the fiberglass hull of the Windfall and fought the current with each stroke as he rowed them toward the yacht.

  “Easy now,” Dani called out when they were maybe a dozen feet out.

  He jammed the oars into the water, the drag slowing them down enough the dinghy bounced off, instead of slammed against, the hull of the yacht. Mitch searched the exterior and found a cleat off the rear deck for them to tie off the dinghy.

  He handed the oars to Dani. “Once I’m on board—”

  “Dad, I know.”

  He bit back a response as he levered himself onto the yacht. Water sloshed as the dinghy squeaked against the yacht’s transom. The metal railings sapped his hands of any warmth. When Dani passed the oars up to him, he barely felt the smooth wood.

  “Permission to come aboard, Captain.”

  So that’s how it was going to be.

  Dani’s voice always took on that grating quality of his ex-wife’s when she was pissed, which seemed like always these days. But, he supposed, teens were teens, even when civilization was crashing down around you.

  Mitch scanned the deck, his hand hovering over the hunting knife sheath that hung off his belt. After a moment, he relaxed. Still empty. The snapping, lacerated sails the only sound.