“Forth, Eorlingas!” she grinned.
The dozen Hraefnbeorg huscarles had clearly taken their inspiration from the Warrior Series Number Five: Anglo-Saxon Thegn. There was a copy in the library at Larsdalen too.
“What?” asked Deor, bringing his mare alongside.
She gestured at the knee-length mail-shirts and the gilded boars on the ridges of the conical helms. Deor himself had exchanged his leather jack for a shirt of gleaming scales. “The Rangers are going to love you people. You look just like the Rohirrim.”
“Do you think so!” Deor sounded pleased. “I found those stories in my father’s bookcase when I was small. They made a lot more sense than most of the books that were there.”
Thora snickered. “Just remember to refer to them as the Histories and you’ll do fine. Though Mithrilwood is well worth a visit, I must say.”
The valley began to open out. To the east, a tangle of willow mixed with oak and poplar and western maple marked the course of the river. On the other side mounds of underbrush showed where the ruined town had been. The occasional rusted vehicle, covered now with wild blackberry, had been pulled to the side of the road. Farther along, native shrubs were competing with tangled vines to which a few withered grapes still clung. From time to time they glimpsed deer and once some kind of horned beast that bounded off as if on springs, pursued by a tawny streak with a spotted hide whose scent made the horses snort and plunge.
“Cheetah—” said Godulf when the captain asked. “There was a Safari Park a little south of here. The rhinos couldn’t take the cold and the giraffes and the zebras got eaten, but the antelopes and the cheetahs survived. They do well where there’s open ground.”
“Up north, it’s tigers,” Captain Feldman grimaced. “They like heavily forested mountains just fine, and after the Change they developed a taste for men. When there’s a man-eater in a district, the local lord has to go after him. Sometimes the High King himself leads the hunt. He says it’s duty, but I suspect that he feels the need for an occasional challenge, now that the Cutters are gone.”
“Those were the foes you were speaking of last night—” said Duke Morgruen. “That was a great victory.”
“Thanks to the Lord of Hosts, it was indeed,” said the captain, “and a great evil banished from the world. I was in the Corvallan contingent there at the Horse Heaven Hills where we broke the Prophet’s army, with the field-catapults. A sailor learns that trade.”
Eyes distant for an instant, he added softly, “It was . . . a long day. Very long.”
“And now your king rules all their territories as well?”
“He keeps the peace.” Captain Feldman shrugged. “I’ve heard him say it’s more a matter of reigns over lightly than rules. We have pretty good communications via courier and the trains, but you can’t maintain the kind of Federal government we had before the Change. Each land is governed in its own fashion, whether that be the ways of the Seven Council Fires of the Lakota tunwan or the Faculty Senate and Popular Assembly in Corvallis, or the neo-feudalism the Armingers set up in the Portland Protective Association.”
“Norman Arminger?” asked Godulf.
“Blackthorn of Malmsey?” echoed Morgruen.
For a moment their eyes met with a shared speculation that held no hint of rivalry.
“I fought him at the eighth West/An-Tir War,” Morgruen said then. “He was an arrogant son of a bitch and a period-Nazi, but very, very good with the blade.”
“Yeah,” agreed Godulf, “I suppose he would survive.”
“He’s dead now. He was killed by King Artos’ father in Change Year Ten,” Captain Feldman said dryly. “Though Sandra Arminger . . . the Queen Mother—her daughter is High Queen Mathilda—is very much alive, up in Castle Todenangst. She ruled the Association territories, the Protectorate, for a long time after the Lord Protector died, and she’s still . . . very influential.”
Duchess Orsa laughed, a sound that seemed bitter and amused at the same time. “I’m even less surprised to hear that. That woman was always so twisty that she could have met herself coming down the stairs.”
“They call her the Spider of the Silver Tower,” Thora blurted; she’d heard her elders say the like more than once. Captain Feldman gave her an odd unreadable look and nodded.
“Her Majesty is known for her . . . ah . . . very keen intelligence. It’s said she was the one who proposed that California be called the Province of Westria when it’s reclaimed . . .”
For some reason the three older local nobles all laughed at that.
“The same King Artos who now claims California . . .” said Eorl Godulf thoughtfully.
“In theory—” Captain Feldman smiled. “But you needn’t fear he’ll come marching in any time soon. Even if the High King wanted to impose one system on everybody, helping the places that were hit worst by the war to get back on their feet is enough to keep any ruler busy just now. His rule is to confirm anyone who’ll swear allegiance to him and the Great Charter in their own lands and local law and customs; he says that is Montival’s strength. But one of these days he will send colonists to the empty spaces down here, and they’ll be glad to have allies already on the ground.”
Thora nudged her horse closer to Deor and grinned. “All the better for you. King Artos’ sept totem is the Raven, and they say that She who the Mackenzies call the Crow Goddess claimed him when he was a boy. I expect he’ll call you folks at Hraefnbeorg his kin!”
Presently the course of the river veered away from the highway. To the east, forest rose above what had been a sizeable town. On the bank of the river she could see what looked like a tannery and a mill. To the west, tilled fields reminded her of the heavy cultivation around Corvallis, with plots that lay fallow alternating with those that were being plowed and those in which the winter wheat had already been sown.
Gray figures moved in the fields. As they got closer Thora realized that it was not the people but their garments that were all the same—rough gray woolen smocks on both men and, she thought, women too. Since all of them had their hair cropped close it was hard to tell. She glanced ahead, where Duke Morgruen was talking to Captain Feldman about wine, and edged her horse closer to Deor’s.
“Are those the duke’s workers?” After a quick glance, most kept their eyes on the ground, but a big fellow with Hispanic coloring straightened, glaring, and Thora recoiled from the rage she saw in his eyes.
“You joked about Morgruen’s thralls at the cove, but this . . .” She shook her head. “Are those neck rings made of iron?”
He nodded. “Sometimes a man escapes to us, and our smith has to cut it off. We hide him at an outlying hold till his hair grows.”
“Deor—this is wrong!”
He turned to her, eyes wide. “Do you feel the evil too? For the past few miles I’ve been wanting to turn my horse and head for home. I . . . sense things sometimes. Even before I saw your ship my heart was pounding though I didn’t know what I was waiting for.”
Thora’s indignation had been at the injustice. Clearly Deor meant something different.
“Does that happen often?”
“All the time when I was little—one reason, I guess, my mama tries t’ protect me. Then I learned to get it under control by chanting the runes. But here”—he signed himself with the protection rune—“it’s all around us. I never felt anything quite this bad before.”
He was staring at a stand of trees, no, at the rising ground on the other side of the river where a fortress of yellow stone squatted toadlike atop the hill. “Guildengard . . .” he whispered.
Thora was familiar with castles. This one had a curtain wall with four towers and a gatehouse, surrounding a keep. A good siege-train with artillery could take it down, but clearly they had never had a modern war here. Compared to Gervais or Molalla it was a minor fortress, but crude as it was, it menaced the valley.
“I think my father would like to free them,” Deor replied soberly. “But if Guildengard and Hraefnbeorg fought in earnest we’d destroy each other, and only cannibals and the wild men would remain in this land.”
She nodded. Deor might feel dread, but outrage was burning in her belly, kindled by the glance of the man she had seen in the field.
* * *
“At least once a year I send a party down to the dead cities.” Morgruen gestured with the hand that was not holding his wine. “There’s still a lot of good stuff to be had . . .” He pointed a ringed finger toward a corner where bolts of bright fabric leaned against the wall. The previous room had been full of brown boxes inscribed with the faded printing of the olden times. Deor wondered why one would make towels out of paper, and what Huggies were for.
“Even Lady Orsa can’t wear all that,” hissed Thora, “and he’s certainly not using it to clothe his household—why is he saving all those things?”
“For some future that’s only in his head? Or maybe for replacement wall hangings? I think mice have got at some of the ones in the hall.” He gave her a doubtful glance.
Dinner had been served in a chamber hung with lengths of multicolored silk, even the ceiling, with paintings jostling for space on every wall. The beefsteaks were tough and the vegetables overdone. Deor could tell when food had been prepared with care, and there was none here. When he tried to pay his respects to the house wight he got only a resentful turmoil in return.
“These are your trade goods?” asked the captain.
The huscarles had been given a feast of their own in the barracks with the duke’s men, and were probably having a better time. The food might be uninspired, but there was nothing wrong with Morgruen’s wine.
“Some of them, certainly,” Duke Morgruen smiled, “but some must be saved for our own needs. When I have enough land under cultivation to support my city we’ll need supplies.”
“A city? And who will live there?” Godulf said sharply.
“Are you afraid your farmers will run away to join me?” Orsa tipped her head to one side and gave a tinkling laugh. “No, we shall breed up our own folk. And then the High King will say who is worthy to rule this land.”
“A populace bred from your slaves?” The eorl’s tone sharpened, and he turned to Captain Feldman, who had gone very still. “And what will this High King you have been praising think of that?”
Deor’s skin prickled suddenly.
“Before we fought the Cutters, before the High Kingdom, we fought the War of the Eye against the PPA, and the serfs were set free,” Thora burst out when Captain Feldman did not reply. “There is no slavery in Montival. It’s one of the few laws the High King enforces in all his lands, it’s in the Great Charter that any who wish may leave their own land for one that will take them in, even if they must leave with nothing but the clothes on their backs.”
The sense of danger deepened. Duke Morgruen blinked, then took another sip of wine. For a moment he rolled it on his tongue, then he swallowed and smiled.
“Oh, we will not have slaves either, by the time Montival is able to concern itself with what we are doing here . . . You must understand—these were wild folk when I took them in, cannibals or the next thing to it, not worthy to be classed as men. First they must learn discipline. Orsa, my dear—” he beckoned to his wife. “I fear our guests are growing weary. I believe you had a dessert in mind? Some of those butter cakes you do so well? Why don’t you see to it now? In the meantime”—he turned back to the others—“in the next room, we have machine parts and tools . . .”
* * *
By the time the tour brought them back to the silk-lined room it was growing late. Thora’s neck was stiff with tension despite the wine. Why hadn’t Captain Feldman said anything about Montival’s position on slavery? Was it because he saw a chance for profit here? She would not have thought he could be tempted, but she was a Bearkiller. How would she know what a Corvallis merchant might choose? Eorl Godulf didn’t look happy either. Her military instinct told her to leave, but Captain Feldman continued to chat with their host with every appearance of bland unconcern.
As they settled back around the table, Orsa returned, followed by several children and a young woman with black curls. They carried trays of dark brown cupcakes still warm from the oven, drizzled with honey, and topped with crumbled walnuts. They were all in the same shapeless shifts, but they looked considerably better than the thralls she had seen in the fields. Thora’s mouth watered as a spicy, buttery scent filled the room.
“Do I smell molasses?” exclaimed the captain. “We’ve begun to import it from the islands, but I never expected to find any here!”
“And chocolate—” Duchess Orsa’s eyes gleamed. “From a warehouse in Oakland. We’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
As the servant held out the tray, Thora realized that what she had taken for a smudge of dirt on the young woman’s cheek was a bruise. A good figure gave some shape to the rough shift she wore. It was none too clean, but at least she was not collared like the thralls. As Thora reached for a cupcake, it seemed to her that the woman started to shake her head.
“Just set the tray on the table, Mousey—our guests can help themselves.”
As the Duchess spoke whatever had been in the woman’s eyes was replaced by fear. The tray clattered as she set it down, bowed and hurried from the room.
The others were already eating, and the last tray was beginning to look rather empty. Thora bit into a cupcake, savoring the rich mix of flavors. They must have scavenged a gourmet supply store, she thought as beneath the robust flavor of the molasses she recognized spices and a hint of herbs. Deor was chewing blissfully. She had noticed that he had a sweet tooth, and desserts were not part of most meals.
By the time they had finished, the children had brought in straw pallets covered with a motley collection of cloth. Guesting at Hraefnbeorg had felt like visiting another part of Montival. Guildengard was like something the Questers might have encountered during one of the less pleasant parts of their epic journey. However the coals were glowing gently in the fireplace, and it had been a long day. The others were already rolling themselves up in their draperies. Eorl Godulf looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him, and Deor, the pig, had collapsed almost immediately and was beginning to snore.
“I’ll take the first watch,” Thora announced, placing her arms handy and settling herself with her back against the wall. Through the silk hangings she could feel the stones. Perhaps they would keep her awake. She felt oddly twitchy, though she knew that she was tired.
Captain Feldman raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that’s necessary? They clearly want to impress us, even though I wish you hadn’t said—” For a moment he frowned, then shrugged. “Probably doesn’t matter. We’ll talk about it on the way back.”
“Sir, the only reason I’m here instead of in the barracks with the rest of our escort is because I’m a woman. They probably thought my sword was just for show, but you hired me as a marine. Let me feel useful, okay?”
“Knowing when to let an expert do his—or her—job is one reason I’ve lived so long.” The captain smiled. “But I’m sure everything will be fine . . .”
* * *
Thora roused from evil dreams with the sense of movement in the room. Shadows moved between her and the dimming coals. Her head was pounding, but beneath the pain she realized that her heartbeat had accelerated. The cupcakes, she thought. They were laced with something—might have been weed. The stuff had made her paranoid the one time she had had it before.
“Sleepin’ like babies! Get the boy first—Her ladyship wants ’im safe
’n sound . . .” came a whisper, and someone else cut short a laugh.
Her heart was racing; she fought to move leaden limbs. The men carrying Deor passed her as others bent over the captain and the eorl. Thora settled her bowl helm on her head and sucked in breath.
“Awake! Ware foes! Captain, danger! Wake up now!”
Someone turned with an oath. Thora staggered to her feet, unhooking the buckler and bringing the sword up to guard. A shape blurred toward her and her buckler clanged as it deflected a blow.
“Ho La Thor!” she yelled, and lightning drove the last of the drug from her limbs. A grunt told her that Captain Feldman was up and fighting, and an oath in what sounded like Anglo-Saxon came from the spot where Deor’s father had lain. She lunged, felt the point of the blade catch in someone’s mail. He yelled and reeled aside as it drove in. She twisted, jerking her blade free as a shape loomed over her, ducked, thrusting up the buckler, and rolled aside.
“Thora, run! Get help!”
“Get the bitch!” The gruff voice clashed with Captain Feldman’s cry. “That’s an or—” the captain’s last word ended in a groan.
For a moment she wavered, every hero tale she had ever heard battling every lecture on military necessity. They had taken Deor. She was outnumbered, Eorl Godulf and the captain were about to be captured if they were not already slain. She could do nothing here. Weeping with rage, she put all her strength into a slash that half severed a man’s arm and ran for the door.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs to the yard she wavered, trying to remember where they had lodged the Hraefnbeorg men. A waxing moon gave just enough light to see. From the barracks built against the northern wall she heard shouting and then the kettle-mending clash of arms. Light flowed through an open door; a man reeled through, blood spurted crimson as two others cut him down, then went back to rejoin the fray. No help there. Their escort must have been drugged too.
Where else could she look for allies? Bearkillers were expected to use their heads for more than something to hang a helmet on. The woman the Duchess had called “Mousey” had tried to warn her, and the thralls had an even better reason to hate their master.
Tales of Downfall and Rebirth Page 63
