The High King of Montival

by SM Stirling

  “Can you obey orders, boyo?”

  A stiff nod. “Sir, yessir!”

  “Good. Here’s one. Kill me—or do your best.”

  Blank bewilderment met him. “You’re in armor and you have a blade by your side and a shield ready for your arm. Do your best to kill me, boy, or I swear I’ll paddle your backside with the flat of your shete here in front of all who know you until you run bawling for your momma.”

  Slowly Mark slid the blade out of its sheath, and the round shield with its brown surface broken by an orange wedge onto his left arm and then up under his eyes. He was frowning a little now, really thinking; Artos allowed himself a slight nod. The shete came up into the overhead point-forward-and-down position these easterners favored. It was the type of weapon you’d find horsemen using from the Rockies as far east as civilization went, based on the old tool whose worn-down name it had taken, but lengthened and slightly curved, sharpened all along the outer edge and a few inches back from the point on the other.

  Like most this had a circular disk-shaped guard and the hilt was canted against the curve of the blade; the whole thing had a look as if the agricultural tool side of its ancestry had had a brief fling with the sort of Chinese dao-saber found in the ruins of martial arts stores. At least in the mind of the smith who made it. The weapon was of fine steel, and sharpened to a good working edge too. Young Mark would be as tall as his uncle or father someday, and was nearly there now; that meant thirty inches of sharp steel in his hand already had an uncomfortably long reach.

  He frowned again, moved his feet to set himself, and then cut backhand and forehand hard and fast. Air whistled around the steel.

  Obeying orders, at least; he’s not pulling it, Artos thought, as he swayed his torso aside and let the cuts sail by, moving without apparent haste and his hands clasped behind his back. That would have killed me, right enough.

  The boy stumbled as the blade met air; then he recovered with an unconscious snarl and thrust directly for Artos’ breast in an extended lunge.

  Smack!

  The calloused palms of the Mackenzie’s large, shapely hands slapped together on the flat of the blade at its broadest section, just behind the point. The Readstown lad stood goggling for an instant, and Artos shoved his hands sharply forward with a flicking motion. The brass pommel of the shete smacked into Mark’s face.

  “My dothse!” he cried in a pained voice, clapping his hand to the organ.

  Blood leaked between his fingers. Artos heard his mother give a gasp, and his father and uncle what sounded like smothered chortles. He dropped the youngster’s shete, bounced the hilt off his foot to flick it head-high and snatched it out of the air. Almost in the same instant he dropped and pivoted on his left foot, his right shin raking out horizontally. It took the boy across the back of the knees, hard. He flipped into the air under the impact and landed on his shoulders and neck and head, driven stunning hard by the leverage and the forty-pound weight of mail shirt and shield. The breath went out of him in a bubbling wheeze, and again when Artos’ boot slammed down on the shield and pinned his arm against his chest under it. The stamp wasn’t hard enough to crack bone, but it was painful.

  The shete moved in a graceful curve and dimpled the skin under Mark’s chin, where the Midwestern-style mail shirt gave no protection. The young man grew very still, despite the blood running down over his nose and upper lip and sticking to his pathetic attempt at a mustache.

  “Now, think on this; a man in a pleated skirt just took away the sword of your armored self, killed you with it twice . . . and stamped the life out of you into the bargain. What’s the lesson of this?”

  “Dat I’m not’s gud’s you,” the boy wheezed, holding his nose and glaring.

  Artos withdrew his foot and the blade. “No, it’s that you’re not good enough to be a fighting-man, not yet. There are ten thousand men and more, and more than a few women—one of them your uncle’s wife—who could have done the same, or at least killed you in a more straightforward fashion. Up, boy!”

  Mark stood and braced his shoulders back. Artos grinned.

  “You’re no coward, at least. But guts without brains are soon spilled to be meat for coyotes and crows, lad. Understood?”

  A quick nod, and Artos went on:

  “So if you’re to be worth your food in my army, it’s as what my Bearkiller relatives call a military apprentice. I’m making you your uncle’s aide. That means you carry his messages, do his errands, pitch his tent, care for his gear—and your own—currycomb his horses, make up the fire and cook the rations and whatever else he can find for you to do, the which may include emptying the honeybucket. You do it with your mouth shut, your eyes and ears open to fill your empty head, and willingly. If he tells you to run like a rabbit or jump like a frog, you do that. Is that clear?”

  “Yeth, thir!”

  Artos leaned closer; the smile went out of his face, and one knuckle prodded painfully into the teenager’s sore chest.

  “And at the first sign of insubordination, the first whine, the first complaint, the first stupid buck-in-spring prank to prove what a big brave bold man you are, I will send you back home in your drawers, tied to a donkey with your face towards its rump.”

  He leaned closer still. “And don’t smile, because that’s the truth of it and I swear it so by my mother’s head and by all the Gods and by the oath of my people. Do you think I’m jokin’, boyo?”

  “No thir!”

  “Understood?”

  “Yeth, thir!”

  “Good.” He relaxed and offered the shete hilt-first, spinning it so the blade lay along his forearm. “Go see to that nose. It’s not broken, eh?”

  “I doan dink so, thir.”

  “Scoot then, lad! And as long as you remember your promise, we’ll all get along fine.”

  He turned away and let his grin grow; Ingolf returned it. Ed Vogeler waited until his son was out of earshot—barely—before bellowing laughter.

  “Some things a father can’t do. Thanks, Rudi. It’s a load off my mind.”

  “I took some of the piss and vinegar out of him, Ed. And he could grow into a fighting-man to match the best. But he’s young yet, and I can’t put him in a barrel made of steel plate—”

  A nod. “Ingolf explained that, und in goddamned detail. I still feel better about it.”

  “Men are weird,” Mathilda said with feeling, and Wanda nodded emphatically.

  “But . . . I feel better too,” she said to Ingolf and Artos.

  Her assistants finished removing the covers, and the civilians—and the troops, once they’d gotten out of their gear and freshened up—crowded around.

  Mary came up. “Enjoy it while you can, boys,” she muttered, as she took a plate. “It’s hardtack and stewed mule soon enough.”

  “Exactly what I plan to do,” Artos said.

  Now that the focus of work was gone he felt that cold emptiness in his middle again; one way to fill it was with food. Body and spirit were one. You could work from the one to the other. He loaded his plate with slices of cured ham, cold roast beef, pickles, dabs of mustard and horseradish, chicken, potato salad, spring greens, rye bread with butter, pumpernickel and white loaf, and half a dozen kinds of cheese, and added a mug of a dark bitter beer. The dried-apple and cherry pies and pastries tempted him back again.

  “How are they?” he asked his half sister. “Otter in particular and the Southsiders in general.”

  Ritva was off ahead of them all; as much to avoid Hrolf Homersson, he suspected, as because scouting was her specialty.

  “Otter’s asleep. I got her to take some lettuce-cake tea. I talked things over with Samantha—”

  Who was the Vogelers’ housekeeper, and unofficially and semiclandestinely a priestess of the Old Religion, which had a small presence here. It wasn’t identical to what Mackenzies practiced, nor yet to the eccentric Dúnedain version, but there was a basic similarity. He’d put the Southsider civilians in her charge when he left for
the east. It was more easeful for Mathilda if Mary dealt with her, rather than him.

  “—and they’ve learned a lot. The Vogelers helped by getting them put out to live with people who knew crafts, and they learned a lot by just doing the work of the season, too. Plus she was running a Moon School for them.”

  “They can follow along later, when the war is won,” Artos said.

  Or stay here and make a life, if we die instead, went unspoken between them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NEAR DES MOINES

  CAPITAL, PROVISIONAL REPUBLIC OF IOWA

  MAY 15, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

  When I was just a young warrior and at most tanist to Mother, I went on a quest for a magic sword and saw wonders and terrors, Artos thought. Now I’m to be a High King, and I spend most of my time in meetings. Meetings! So much for glory.

  Mathilda seemed to read his thoughts. She leaned over and whispered in his ear:

  “Mother likes meetings. She even likes reading and annotating reports.”

  Artos stifled a groan, and took a glass off a passing tray held by a servant in archaic white coat and black bow tie. It was corn whiskey with water and, evidence of wealth and high civilization, ice.

  Good of its kind, he thought, as the half-sweet, half-sour liquid bit at his tongue and slid down his throat. But by each and every face of the Lord and Lady, there’s a whole long list of things I’ d rather be doing!

  He had Mathilda with him here in the big pavilion-style tent, with its drowsy-making scent of warm canvas. She was colorful and majestic in her cotehardie and wimple with its net of gold and rubies; she and black-robed Father Ignatius were present as advisors. Ingolf and Mary were off elsewhere being invaluable, seeing that things didn’t go to wrack and ruin in his absence. Ritva was present partly as Rudi’s follower, but also because she was the niece of the Lady of the Rangers, with the seven stars and tree on her doublet; Fred because of whose son he was, proud in the old-fashioned green dress uniform of Boise’s army, Virginia on his arm in the copper-riveted blue denim jeans, tooled boots and belt, white cotton shirt and silk neckerchief of a western Rancher. They were all looking a little grim, and hiding it well. Their mission would be much helped or hindered by what took place here.

  Bjarni was King of Norrheim, of course, and so a sovereign ally, hiding his awe at the sheer size of Des Moines under a stiff dignity, and carefully refraining from mentioning the number of folk in his homeland when he spoke to local panjandrums. John Red Leaf and Rick Three Bears were in full ceremonial fig, including a sweeping bonnet of eagle feathers for the elder Sioux; he looked years older than Rudi remembered him, but that was probably largely exhaustion. Even his son, a man of Artos’ own age and reared in the saddle, was keeping going by main effort and sheer will.

  Red Leaf has come a long way, and very fast, to get here in time. Especially when he had to spend days talking to his own people’s governing Council as well. That drains a man almost as much as twelve hours in the saddle, though in a different way.

  “I’m going to sleep for a week when this is over,” he muttered to Artos. “And getting the folks back home to agree to this was even harder than the traveling.”

  Artos nodded. I wish we’d had more time to talk, but time is the one thing we lack here. I felt like I was dawdling all the way to Readstown, but we couldn’t go any faster. Fortunately we’ve better prospects for speed from now on . . .

  “Though we’re getting closer to the enemy, as well,” he murmured.

  Mathilda’s brows went up; she’d found time to pluck them. “I thought you said the Sword blocked their vision of you?”

  “The vision of their adepts,” Artos said quietly. “It does nothing whatsoever to hinder plain mortal spies using the eyes in their heads and passing messages to men riding horses back westward. We’re not going through their territory this time, but we will be skirting it.”

  The Bossmen of the Midwestern realms were here too, or in the case of distant Concordia and Kirksville their heirs were, accompanied by senior advisors; the young men looked serious with their burden of responsibility. Abel Heuisink and Kate Heasleroad represented Iowa, the richest and most populous and powerful nation on the continent. The man was in his sixties but trim and erect, with only a fringe of cropped white hair around a bald dome and clear eyes bright blue in a seamed, tanned face. He wore the usual formal blue bib overalls and billed cap of a Hawkeye landed gentleman; Kate, the Regent, was a little younger than Mathilda, a tall willowy brunette, and dressed in an imitation of her cotehardie. The two young women had become good friends during the quest’s brief, eventful stay in Iowa last year; Mathilda’s political instincts had been instrumental in helping Kate secure her infant son’s position when her husband was killed by the Cutters. She had also been rather taken with Mathilda’s little talks on the virtues of hereditary monarchy. Which was what Iowa already had been before they arrived, her first Bossman being the sort of proverbial lucky adventurer who founded a dynasty, but without much of the terminology, techniques or attitudes that made it work smoothly.

  And Ingolf and I were helpful in reconciling the Heuisinks to the arrangement, despite their being leaders of the opposition, and for making Abel Chancellor to cement the alliance. I will not be informing her that Dalan and Graber are with us! I’m glad to see they haven’t fallen out again . . . but a foreign foe will have that effect. The which the both of them know very well.

  Abel Heuisink whispered to Kate, and she cleared her throat. An attendant rang a bell, and the aides and assistants stepped back. The principals gathered around a table shaped like an elongated oval and sat—or at least everyone but Artos did. There were startled looks at the Iowans as he went to the position at the head of the table, and more as he drew the scabbarded Sword from the frog at his belt and laid it on the polished maple before his place.

  He’d dressed for the occasion in the ceremonial version of Mackenzie gear that he’d left here in Des Moines last year; a fine tartan kilt and knee-hose with the little sgian dubh tucked into it, polished brogans, tight green Montrose jacket with its double row of silver buttons and froth of lace at cuffs and throat, and the long plaid caught at the shoulder with a knotwork brooch and a tasseled fringe on its ankle-length trail. A broad black leather belt with a massive worked buckle cinched his waist and held his badger-fur sporran at the front and the dirk on his left hip, and a spray of raven feathers rose from the Triple Moon clasp on his tam-o’-shanter.

  With his six foot two of narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, longlimbed height he made a striking figure; the more with the jewel-cut handsomeness of his cleft-chinned face, framed by the red-gold of his hair and given gravity beyond his years by the scars. He paused for a moment to let everyone look—a King had to be something of an actor as well—then inclined his head a little to the bewildered dignitaries. Dress and titles had altered less here in the Midwest than elsewhere, though that was changing. He gave a silent plea to Brigid for wisdom, to Ogma of the Honey Tongue for the skill to express it, and to the Mother of this earth with her gift of sovereignty for permission to speak. Then he began:

  “In the name of the Divine by all the names we call Them, be welcome, friends and allies. I am Artos, High King in Montival in the west; on the old maps, that would be Oregon and Washington and British Columbia, for a start. The government of the great Provisional Republic of Iowa has asked me to preside at this meeting.”

  There was a low murmur as rulers leaned back to listen to the whispers of their advisors. He let it die, and continued with a slight bleak smile.

  “With me you see those”—some of those, but let’s not complicate matters—“who accompanied me to Nantucket. There we found the source of the Change, and were granted visions . . . and the Sword of the Lady.”

  The looks were dubious, until he laid his hand on the hilt. Then there was a . . .

  Shock, he thought. Yet there’s nothing physical, and no one could swear that anything happened at all.r />
  . . . followed by a deep quietness. Awe, he thought, and perhaps some fear, as well as confusion in plenty.

  “We are gathered here to meet the menace of Corwin’s black evil, of the Prophet Sethaz and the Church Universal and Triumphant,” he went on. “And his ally in Boise. With me are many who have suffered from that evil, and who can bring their strength to oppose it as well. Not least—”

  His eyes flicked aside, and Fred rose, standing at parade rest with a face that might have been carved from dark polished wood.

  “—Frederick Thurston.”

  Another murmur, and he raised a hand for silence as Fred sat again.

  “Yes, the son of General-President Lawrence Thurston, and his rightful heir. Unlike the murdering parricide and usurper who currently holds that city and realm, who conspired with the Prophet to kill his own father.”

  Some of the Bossmen glanced at each other, or whispered eagerly with their advisors. Others sat with faces that might have been cast metal. None looked particularly surprised. Nobody who took or held power in these times needed to have a map drawn to show them where that could lead. He nodded to acknowledge it and went on:

  “Now, you’ll be wondering what I bring to this alliance that mighty Iowa gives me precedence here—besides a fancy Sword and a strange costume, that is.”

  A few flickering smiles. He nodded gravely and went on:

  “I bring forty thousand men to the field in the High West. And more from other parts of my realm.”

  The Bossmen of northern Fargo and Marshall had been giving Red Leaf an occasional hard look. Now the lord of Fargo spoke.

  Dan Rassmusen, Artos reminded himself. Thin, a bit older than Ingolf, and a dangerous man if I’ve ever seen one. He fought the Sioux as a general for his older brother, and succeeded to the bossmanship four years ago in a neat little coup after the brother died, according to Matti . . . who is never wrong on such matters. Ignatius thinks him a capable man, but bad.