Dies the Fire dtf-1

by S. M. Stirling

  Unlike most of his men he was flat-bellied, though-had been before the Change, too. Muscle ran over his shoulders and arms like great snakes wrestling with each other; every thick finger bore a heavy gold ring, and two gold hoops dangled from his ears. The face between was high-cheeked, hook-nosed, the eyes brooding and dark.

  “Devil Dogs!” he shouted. “Dog-brothers!” That brought a chorus of howls and barks and yipping.

  “Devil Dogs rule! We beat these sorry-ass farmers again! We took their food and their cattle and their horses, we burned their barns, we fucked their bitches!”

  A roaring cheer went up and echoed off the high stone walls of the courtyard.

  “Pretty soon, we’ll have Sheriff Woburn hanging from a hook!”

  There were half a dozen set in the walls now, between the towers and over the old church doors, taken from a slaughterhouse and mounted in the stone. All were occupied at present, but he’d clear one for Woburn, when they caught him. A wordless howl of hate went up at the sheriff’s name, hoarse and strong.

  I got a serious jones for Woburn, the Devil Dog chieftain thought. Worst I’ve had since those pissants ran us out of the Sturgis meet back in ‘94.

  “The prairie is mine! All bow to the Iron Rod!”

  A chant went up, falling into a pattern: “Iron Rod! Iron Rod! Duke! Duke! Duke!”

  Most of them hadn’t known a Duke from a Duchess and thought both were country and western stars, back before the Change. He’d been fuzzy on it himself until the Protector’s people explained, but he liked the sound now.

  When he turned from the window, Liu and his troll were there, which he liked rather less; so was Feitman, the Devil Dogs’ own numbers man, a skinny little dude in black leathers with a shaven head and receding chin. He also carried two knives, and he was as fast with them as anyone Iron Rod had ever seen. The boys respected him, despite the time he spent with ledgers and books, and with computers before the Change.

  “We just wanted to say good-bye,” Liu said.

  He was skinny too; some sort of gook, although he had bright blue eyes. You didn’t want to underestimate him, though.

  “The Protector’s going to be real pleased with the progress you guys are making,” he said. “And with the horses, provided we can get them down the river and past the locks.”

  Iron Rod grunted. Then he spoke: “Something I’ve been wanting to ask.”

  Liu made a graceful gesture.

  Fag, Iron Rod thought, then shook his head. Nah. He’d made quite an impression on the girls here. And even if he was a fag, he’d still be dangerous as a snake. Watch him careful.

  “What I’d like to know is why the Protector is giving us all this help over the past couple of months,” Iron Rod went on.

  And it had been a lot of help; weapons, armor, some skilled workers and a couple of instructors. Surprisingly, those had been even more useful than the swords and scale shirts; disconcertingly, they’d stayed more afraid of the Protector than of Iron Rod, even behind his walls and among his men.

  Most useful of all had been the advice on how to take over this turf, and how to run it afterward.

  “He’s not exactly giving it all away,” Liu said, his left hand on the hilt of his long curved sword-a bao, he’d called it.

  “We’re getting the cattle and horses-those’ll be real useful, and they’re sort of scarce west of the Cascades right now. When you’re set up here, you’ll send men to fight for the Protector on call, like we agreed. And you’ll want to buy lots of stuff from Portland; we’ll take a rake-off on that.”

  Iron Rod nodded. “Yeah, yeah, but that’s all sort of, what’s, the word, theoretical. And does the Protector trust me that much?”

  The blue eyes went chilly. “Nobody stiffs the Protector, man,” he said, in a flat voice the more menacing for the absence of bluster. “Nobody. Not twice, you hear what I’m saying?”

  Iron Rod wasn’t afraid of Liu, or his master; he wasn’t afraid of much. He was good at calculating the odds, and he blinked as he thought.

  “Maybe,” he said. “My word’s good on a deal, anyway. It’s the Protector’s angle I’m trying to figure.”

  Liu looked at him with respect-he’d always been polite, but Iron Rod knew that his appearance made people underestimate his brains. That was useful, but it was still pleasant to see the gook’s opinion of him revise itself.

  “It’s what the Protector calls strategy,” he said. “We want to get rid of all the old farts anywhere we can-the sheriffs, the mayors, army commanders, all the types who think they can run things like they did before the Change. Those wussies in Pendleton, they look like they might cause us a lot of trouble in times to come. With you strong here, and you being the Protector’s man, we’ll have their balls in a vise.”

  Iron Rod nodded somberly, looking westward. He wasn’t worried about Lewiston or Boise; the plague was finishing off what the Change had left. Craigswood and Grangeville he could take care of himself; if he left anything standing there, it would be because it was useful to him. Pendleton-the main center of eastern Oregon’s farming and ranching country-hadn’t been hit nearly so hard; they were getting their shit together, and it might be a real problem later.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can see that. Tell the Protector, anytime he wants to take them on, once we’ve settled our accounts here-”

  He put out a massive hand and slowly clenched it into a fist, as if squeezing a throat.

  “First things first,” Liu said. “You gotta take care of Woburn, and then build the rest of those little forts, like the Protector said, and get men to put in ‘em and keep the farmers working. You know what the Protector says. There are only two ways to live now; farming, and running the farmers. We’re working on that back west of the mountains right now.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Iron Rod said; it was a good idea and he was going to do it, but he didn’t like being hectored. “Don’t get your balls in a twist, bro. Woburn’ll be hanging from a hook pretty soon, and I’ll pickle his deputies’ heads in vodka before the snow flies.”

  Liu shuddered. “One good thing about Portland, it doesn’t snow much,” he said.

  The great steel-clad figure behind him rumbled agreement.

  “Pansies,” Iron Rod said, grinning. He’d been from upstate New York, back when. “Say, one thing-you’re Chinese, right?”

  “Right. Born in New York, father from Guangzhou-Canton to you round-eyes.”

  “How come the blue eyes, then?”

  Liu grinned back. “Hey, my momma was a Polack. Ain’t you never seen West Side Story?”

  Oooof, Juniper thought, straightening up for a second and rubbing at her back. Then: “Oooof!” as it twinged her, reminding her she was thirty-thirty-one at next Yule-not eighteen, and that she’d been working from before dawn to after sunup since the grain started coming ripe two weeks ago.

  Harvest would come just before I’d be off the heavy-labor list, she thought.

  So far all pregnancy had done for her was give her a glow and an extra half-inch on the bust.

  It was a hot day; July was turning out to be warm and dry this year in the Willamette, a trial for the gardens but perfect for harvesting fruit and grain. The cool of dawn seemed a long time ago, although they were still two hours short of noon.

  Ahead of her the wheat rippled bronze-gold to the fence and its line of trees. Cutting into it was a staggered line of harvesters, each swinging a cradle-a scythe with a set of curving wooden fingers parallel to the blade.

  Skriiitch as the steel went forward, and the cut wheat stalks toppled back onto the fingers, four or five times repeated until the cradle was full; shhhhkkkk as the harvester tipped it back and spilled them in a neat bunch on the ground; then over and over again… A dry dusty smell, the sharp rankness of weeds cut along with the stalks, sweat, the slightly mealy scent that was the wheat itself.

  Birds burst out of the grain as the blades cut, and insects, and now and then a rabbit or some other small scut
tling animal. Cuchulain and a couple of other dogs went for them with a ferocity so intent they didn’t even bark; they’d all grasped the fact that they had to supply more of their own food by now, as well as working to guard or hunt.

  Each of the dozen harvesters had a gatherer behind him; Chuck Barstow was the first, over on the left-hand end of the line, with Judy following behind him, and Juniper was binding for Sam Aylward at the far right-hand position; those were their two best scythesmen, and it helped to pace the others.

  Not to mention pacing the binders, she thought, wheezing a little; the thick-bodied ex-soldier cut like a machine, muscle rippling like living metal beneath skin tanned to the same old-oak color as his hair.

  Planted by tractors, cut by hand. The last wheat planted with a tractor this world will see in a long, long time.

  The thought went through idly as she scratched and stretched again, feeling the sweat running down her face and flanks and legs.

  Aylward also worked in hat, boots, a kilt and nothing else, and looked disgustingly comfortable, relatively speaking. Juniper was running with sweat too, but she wore loose pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a bandana under her broad-brimmed hat; the sun would flay a redhead like her alive if she didn’t. Every bit of cloth in contact with her skin was sodden, and it chafed. Unlike some, she didn’t find the Willamette’s rainy, cloudy winters a trial.

  So I bundle up, Lord Sun, despite the heat and the awns sticking to me and itching in every place imaginable including some I’m still shy about scratching in public, she thought. It’s very unreasonable of You.

  The damned little bits that broke off the heads and floated to stick on your wet skin and work their way under your clothes were called awns, according to Chuck. They were a confounded nuisance any way you took it.

  She rubbed at her back again, and looked over her shoulder, mostly to stretch-something went click in her spine, with a slight feeling of relief. Much more of this twenty-acre stretch was reaped than wasn’t, and it was the last field-two ox-drawn carts were already traveling across it, with workers pitching up sheaves. The Willamette had surprisingly rainless summers, and you didn’t have to leave the sheaves stooked in the field to dry except for the seed grain.

  The sight was a little bizarre; the carts themselves were flatbeds, each with two wheels taken from cars and vans, drawn by converted steers under hand-whittled wood yokes.

  Juniper shook her head; you had to get used to that sort of contrast, in the first year of the Change. She took a swig of lukewarm water from her canteen, moved her bow and quiver and sword belt forward a dozen paces and Aylward’s likewise, and bent to work again.

  Grab an armful-sized bundle of stalks as the cradle had left them, move them forward, grab and move, grab and move, until you had enough for a sheaf-a bundle as thick as you could comfortably span with both arms. Then you held it in front of you, grabbed a handful just below the grain ears, bent the straw around the whole bundle at the middle, twisted and tucked the end underneath to hold it… and then you did it all over again, and again.

  So this was what the phrase mind-numbing toil was invented for, she thought. I wonder how many others are making that discovery!

  At that, most of them were doing about half what the books said an experienced worker could finish in a day. She tried not to think again, mentally humming a song instead. It was easier if you could get into a semitrance state, where time ceased to flow minute-by-minute. Gradually her hands and legs and back seemed to move of their own volition.

  A heartbreaking share of the grain in the valley wasn’t being harvested at all, going to waste from plague and fear and lawlessness, something that made her stomach twist to think of.

  Then someone called out; she stopped in midreach and looked up, shocked to see the sun past the noon mark.

  “Blessed be!” she said, and many more voices took it up; there were shouts of sheer joy, and some of the younger harvesters managed an impromptu bit of dancing.

  They weren’t nearly finished anymore; they were finished. Everyone grouped around her in a circle; she wiped a sleeve over her face and gathered up the last of the wheat. First she tied it off as she had the others; then she went to work shaping it, with legs and arms and a twist of straw for a mouth.

  “Hail to the Goddess of the ripened corn!” she said, laughing and exhausted, bowing before the sheaf. “We thank You, Mother-of-All, and the Harvest King who is Your consort.”

  Later they’d take the dolly back to the Hall; and then there were the rites of Lughnassadh next week, when the Oak King gave way to the Holly. But for now they all admired the Queen Sheaf as it was carried across the field towards the southeast corner and shade on the end of a scythe-shaft.

  “Go us!” someone yelled, and everyone took it up for a moment, pumping their fists in the air. “Go us! Mackenzies rule!”

  “Do you realize,” someone else said reverently, when the chant had died down, “That from now on we can eat bread every day?”

  “In the sweat of our brows,” Juniper said, grinning and wiping hers.

  That got a chorus of groans. But it’s true, she thought. And the bread is very, very welcome.

  They all picked up their tools and weapons and followed the Sheaf to the southeast corner of the field where an oak and a group of Douglas firs cast a grateful shade. There were four big aluminum or plastic kegs of water on two-by-four X-trestles as well; she drank, washed face and hands, peeled off bandana and shirt, poured several cupfuls over her head, drank again. Heat seemed to radiate away from her, like a red-hot poker cooling, as if her hair was flame in truth.

  “Dinner!” someone cried.

  Eilir drove the delivery cart, which was one of her chores; two-wheeled, with a single ex-cow-pony between the shafts. The soup came in two cauldrons, one double-walled aluminum, the other thick pottery; both types held the heat well. After they ate, they could help the loaders get as much of the cut wheat as possible out of the fields today.

  Congratulations! Eilir signed, as eager hands unloaded. What a beautiful Queen Sheaf! Now we can get back to work on the palisade!

  Bits of straw and grass and twigs flew in her direction; she giggled and held her buckler up in front of her face to protect herself from the mock attack before she turned the cart with a deft twitch of the reins and trotted off.

  Juniper ambled over and raised the lid on the pottery container, full of Eternal Soup-but a considerably richer variety than spring’s.

  “Well, blessed be,” she said. “Onions, carrots, peas, all still recognizable. Wild mushrooms. Turnips. Potatoes.”

  There were chunks of mutton, too, not yet boiled down to stock; she addressed them in a tone dripping with sympathy: “Blessed be-is that the G-L-L I see? Greetings, Goddamn Little Lamb! You’ve gone completely to pieces. I’m so sorry… actually, I’m sort of happy to see you like this!”

  Everyone laughed at that; even Sam Aylward smiled, though it looked as if it hurt.

  Goddamn Little Lamb was-had been, until day before yesterday-the stupidest of the ewes in the clan’s painfully acquired little flock; which was saying something, since they’d discovered that the hardest part of raising sheep was keeping them from killing themselves. They might be near-as-no-matter brainless in every other respect, too stupid to walk through an open gate, but in self-immolation they showed boundless ingenuity.

  GLL had come close to taking several inexperienced shepherds with her while she threw herself off high places, nearly hung herself on lowlying branch forks, tried to poison herself on unsuitable vegetation, and finally succeeded in drowning herself as she attempted to reach some floating weeds in the millpond, got bogged in the mud, and sank nearly out of sight. Eilir had gone in with a rope to pull the carcass out…

  The good part in herding sheep was that you usually didn’t have to slaughter them yourself; all you had to worry about was getting to the body before the coyotes did.

  Besides the soup there were baskets of-

  “O
h, smell that smell!” Chuck said, reaching in for the bread under the towel.

  The loaves were round, mushroom-shaped as if they’d been raised and baked in flowerpots-mostly because Diana and Andy had found that clay flowerpots did make excellent containers for baking, and there were a lot of them available. The loaves had an eight-spoked pattern cut into their dark-brown tops; the sides and bottoms were honey-brown, with just the right hollow sound when flicked, and the coarse bread made from stone-ground flour was fresh enough that it steamed gently when torn open by eager fingers.

  Every bit as good as they baked at MoonDance, Juniper thought happily. A bit crumbly-they were using soft white t winter wheat-but very, very tasty!

  There was butter too, now that they’d gotten more milkers; creamy yellow butter in Tupperware containers, strong-tasting and rich-the mill turned a big barrel-churn as well as grindstones. The first cheeses were already curing in the damp chill of the springhouse beside it. Juniper anointed her chunk of loaf with a lavish hand, watching it melt into the coarse brown bread.

  People settled down to concentrated munching; it seemed like a long time since this morning’s oatmeal and fruit. Juniper felt an inner glow when she went back for a second bowl and realized that there was enough for everyone to eat until they were full, at an ordinary field supper rather than a special occasion.

  That hadn’t happened much until the last few weeks.

  How many times did I get up from a meal with my stomach still clenching, and have to go right back to work? she thought. Far too many. Being that hungry hurts. Goddess Mother-of-All, Lord of the ripened grain, thank You for the gifts of Your bounty!

  There was even a basket of fruit, Elberta peaches, their skins blushing red amid the deeper crimson of Bing cherries. She snaffled two of the peaches and a double handful of the cherries; most of the fruit crop was being dried and pressed into blocks or turned into jam or otherwise preserved, but they were so good fresh from the tree. The juice dripped from her chin onto her throat and breasts, but there was no point in being dainty; the bathhouse awaited anyway, and the harvesting crews got first turn.