Dies the Fire dtf-1

by S. M. Stirling

  “- I can make chocolate appear.”

  Tamar’s eyes went wide as she recognized the silver-foil wrapping; she probably hadn’t had any candy since right after the Change. But she restrained herself nobly; Juniper held the bar forward.

  “For you.”

  Tamar took it eagerly. “Thank you,” she said politely. Then her face fell a little: “But that wasn’t real magic, was it?”

  “No,” Juniper said, laughing. “That was just a trick. But I can do real magic, too. Real magic doesn’t make rabbits disappear in hats or chocolate bars appear out of pockets. It does great and wonderful things, but they’re secret.”

  Tamar nodded gravely. “I hope you make those bad men disappear,” she said. “They’re really really bad. They chased us out of our house and they took my Mr. Rabbit and they hurt people and scared my mom and made her cry.”

  “Then by spell and sword we’ll make them go away, and get you back Mr. Rabbit, and your house,” she said. “And none of them will make your mom cry again.”

  Then she looked to either side as the child had, and lowered her voice: “Do you want to know a secret?”

  Tamar nodded eagerly, leaning forward herself and turning her head so that Juniper could whisper in her ear.

  “I can do real magic. And so can you.”

  Tamar gave a squeal of delight, and Juniper rose, putting a hand on the small hard head to steer her back to her waiting mother; the woman snatched her up, but Tamar waved gleefully with the hand that held the chocolate bar.

  Juniper was still smiling slightly when she reached the Sutterdown triumvirate.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But I couldn’t resist.”

  Sheriff Laughton nodded. “Tamar’s my sister’s daughter,” he said. “Her dad was in Washington-D.C.-on the day of the Change. Thanks.”

  Then he took a deep breath. “We’re ready,” he went on. “But an awful lot depends on you.”

  “And I’m laying the life of my people on the line,” she said. “This is all of us, bar the children, the very pregnant, the nursing mothers and the sick. Our lives are riding on this, and the lives of our children.”

  He nodded jerkily, and traced two roads on the map. “We’ll draw them back to here.” His face went distant for an instant, as if at some memory, and not a good one. “It’s not easy, getting men to stop running-even if they know they’re supposed to run in the first place.”

  “As agreed, here,” Juniper said, taking the meaning if not the reference, tapping the map in her turn. “And it’s our best chance, Sheriff. We’ll just have to hope the enemy are as arrogant and overconfident as they seem.”

  There was a grassy hill not far east of Craigswood. As the sun set, Michael Havel and Signe Larsson walked to the crest. The lights of the town showed below them, soft with firelight and lantern light; the smaller cluster of the Bearkillers’ camp was directly below, distant enough that the sound of voices singing in chorus was faded to a blur. Within their own scouts’ perimeter, they could dress as they pleased; Havel found himself reveling in the light feel of the T-shirt, Levi’s, and Stetson.

  Signe was dressed similarly, except that she wore a flannel shirt over her “No Whaling” T-shirt, with the tails tied at her midriff.

  They both carried their backswords and shields, of course; by now that was as instinctive as putting on shoes. They leaned them against a lone pine that marked the crest, spread their blanket and sat, elbows on knees, watching the sky change from salmon pink and hot gold to green shading into blue as the sun dropped below the jagged horizon.

  “Pretty,” he said.

  Signe turned her head and grinned at him; at close range, he noticed how the down-fine gold hairs on her skin stood out against the golden brown of her tan, like very faint peach fuzz.

  “You’re supposed to say but not as pretty as you,” she said.

  “I suppose that’s one reason I’m still single, not saying silly stuff like that,” Havel said, smiling back. “I mean, you are pretty; you’re beautiful, in fact. But you aren’t a sunset.”

  “So, is this our first date?”

  “Well, if you don’t count fighting cannibals together-”

  They shared a chuckle, then sat in companionable silence for a while.

  “They seem like nice people,” Signe said. “The Woburns, I mean.”

  Havel nodded; dinner had been pleasant. “Nice to eat at a table again, too.”

  “Yeah!” A pause. “You know, this is a very pretty area, too. Looks like very good land, as well.”

  He turned and looked at her; she’d laid her head on her knees, and the last sunlight gilded her hair. He replied to her unspoken question.

  “No, I don’t think settling down here after”-he nodded towards the outline of Cottonwood Butte where Duke Iron Rod laired in his monastery-cum-fortress-“we take care of him would be a good idea. Doable, perhaps… but not a good idea.”

  “There’s a lot of vacant land, good land, with good houses and fencing already in place. And they’ll be grateful; we could help them set up their defenses.”

  He nodded. “Gratitude is worth its weight in gold.”

  She thought about that for a moment and then made a growling sound and hit him on the shoulder.

  “You are the most cynical man I’ve ever met!”

  “I was a blue-collar kid,” he grinned. “And then a grunt. Dirty end of the stick all the way. Cynical I can do in my sleep. No, the main reason is up there.”

  He nodded north. “This was all Nez Perce land once. They haven’t forgotten-Running Horse told me more than he intended, I think. What’s more, you’re right, it’s good land and well watered, about the best farming country in Idaho that doesn’t need to be irrigated. Much better than anything the tribe have left. Give it a generation or so… well, I wouldn’t want to leave my kids that sort of war as an inheritance.”

  “Oh,” she said. “And I suppose the Protector would be after us too, if we knocked off his local boy. And Sheriff Woburn might cause problems.”

  “Bingo, askling,” Havel said. “You’re not just a pretty face, you know?”

  She hesitated. “Mike, do you like me?” At his raised brow, she went on: “I mean, I think you do-we get on better than I ever have with a guy… but then… “

  He leaned back on his elbows, plucking a grass stem and chewing on the end; it was sweet as honey.

  “Didn’t think you’d want to be bothered with men hitting on you for a while, judging by our last try.”

  She looked down at his face. “Better not let anyone else hear that,” she teased. “It might spoil the great, ruthless Lord Bear’s reputation.”

  “Hmmphf.” He hesitated in his turn. “Well, if you want to know the absolute truth… The other problem’s been that while I do like you, I’m in charge here. Had to be really sure you reciprocated, you know?”

  “You’re a gentleman, and a gentle man, in your way, Mike.”

  “Within limits,” he grinned; his arms came up and encircled her.

  “Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Lord-oh, shit, I’m sorry!”

  The messenger turned and dashed back down the hill, standing looking ostentatiously away thirty feet downslope.

  Mike Havel looked down into Signe’s face. A little of the glaze went out of her eyes; then she wrapped arms and legs around him.

  “If you stop now, I’ll… I’ll make sure you never can again!”

  “Come back in ten minutes!” Havel shouted.

  Signe giggled again and bit him on the shoulder; Havel gave an involuntary yelp, loud enough for the messenger to hear. They could hear his floundering retreat.

  “Ten minutes! You unromantic beast!” Signe said, running her heels up the backs of his thighs. “Where were we?”

  Signe paused as she began to tie her bootlaces, looking at Havel out of the corners of her eyes.

  “Well, that sort of rushed things, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it did sort of rush things. Goddamned embarrassin
g interruption, too.”

  “You’re an old-fashioned guy in some ways, Mike.”

  “Backwoods upbringing,” he said, buckling on his sword and jamming the hat on his head. “This had better be important.”

  “Wait a minute,” Signe said, fingers plucking. “Grass in your beard… there, got it.”

  “Your hair is full of the stuff… hey, kid! The message!”

  She was running a comb through the dense yellow mane when the adolescent returned.

  “Mr. Hutton says to tell you there’s a bad discipline problem with Waters, and you’re needed pronto,” the boy said, still facing away.

  “Tell him I’ll be right there,” Havel said.

  And in no very good mood. Billy boy, you have the worst timing of any man I’ve ever met.

  The crowd parted at the sound of hooves; Havel reined in, hearing murmurs of “the bossman” and “Lord Bear.” He slid from the saddle and someone took the reins; possibly Signe, but he wasn’t looking around right now.

  Several of the lanterns that hung before the family tents were lit; that and the fires gave plenty of light, but the people crowding around were flickers at the edge of sight, their faces uneasy.

  Billy Waters stood, looking sullen and flushed, two men holding him by the arms-both his neighbors. Jane Waters sat by the front flap of their tent in a boneless slump, her face covered with the red flush of incipient bruises, tears leaking down her face; her two younger children huddled near her, torn between fear and need for their mother’s closeness.

  Reuben Waters was not far away, lying on his back while Pamela Arnstein worked on him. Her hawk-featured face was incandescent with fury; Havel felt it through his own anger as he knelt beside Waters’s twelve-year-old son.

  “He was just woozy,” she said. “I gave him something to make him sleep.”

  She touched the boy’s face gently, turning it towards the brightest firelight. Relaxation made the narrow foxy hillbilly-Scots-Irish face look younger than its twelve years.

  “See here? He’s going to have a shiner, and this tooth is loose. Punched twice, I’d say. Those are a grown man’s knuckle marks. All he needs now is cold compresses and rest. And a different father!”

  Havel nodded, walked over to Jane Waters, and crouched on his heels so that their eyes were level. He touched her chin with a finger, turning her left cheek to the light and studied the swelling marks of a man’s hand.

  “Jane,” he said. “Why don’t you help Pam get your son to the infirmary tent?” She looked at him with dumb fear. “Jane, whatever happens, you’ve still got a place here-and your kids. Understand?”

  He helped her rise, and composed his face when he realized it was frightening some of the onlookers. The stretcher-bearers took Reuben off, with his mother walking beside him.

  “Angelica,” he went on. “You’ve got some of those cookies left, don’t you?” At her nod, he went on: “I think it would be a good idea if you and Annie took the kids-everyone younger than Astrid-and fed them some cookies over by the chuck wagon, and tell ‘em stories. Tell ‘em about Larsdalen.”

  Their destination was assuming mythic proportions; he hoped the reality didn’t disappoint too much.

  She nodded: “I’ll get Sam to check Rueben over just in case and help with the kids.”

  Rounding up the children wasn’t hard; they all thought cookies and a tale by the camp’s best storytellers was far more interesting than a frightening confrontation among the grownups.

  “Get all the adults here, except the sentries,” Havel went on.

  That took a few minutes. He ducked into the Waterses’ tent-normally something never done without invitation-and rummaged. The bottle he’d expected was still three-quarters full. It was Maker’s Mark, first-class Kentucky bourbon, expensive as hell even before the. Change. There was another just like it, empty.

  “All right,” he went on, when he brought the bottles out and held them up for the company to see. “Everyone here? Good. Now you, Fred Naysmith, you give me the details.”

  The man holding Waters’s left arm gulped, and stuttered. The Bearkillers’ judicial proceedings were refreshingly simple, so far; a trial by a quorum of the adults, presided over by Lord Bear. Punishments were simple too. With fines and imprisonment impractical, they went quickly from “extra duties” through a mass kicking around that Pam called “the gauntlet” to “expulsion,” which was equivalent to a death sentence.

  Naysmith licked his lips and spoke out: “I heard the Waterses arguing-sounded like Billy was yelling at Nancy.” That was the bowyer’s eight-year-old. “Then she started crying and screaming at him to stop, and… well, we hadn’t been listening too hard before, you know, Boss?”

  He nodded understanding. There wasn’t much privacy in camp; the tents were set far enough apart that ordinary conversation didn’t carry, but shouts certainly did. A convention had grown up of pretending you didn’t hear family arguments-one of the little forbearances that made the tight-knit group’s life tolerable.

  “But it got sort of scary. And I could hear Jane screaming at him to stop, too. Then he started hitting her-hitting Jane, that is-and then Reuben tried to make him leave her alone, and he started hitting the kid, real hard, yelling bad stuff, really bad. So Jake and I went over and dragged him out. He tried to slug us too, and he smelled and acted drunk, and we sent someone for you, Lord Bear.”

  Havel looked around the circle of firelit faces; most of the men had close-cropped beards like his, and most of the women braids. Underlit from the flames, they all had a hard feral look, new since the Change. He held up the whiskey bottles again. There were resentful murmurs; pre-Change liquor was already extremely valuable as trade goods, like tobacco.

  “This isn’t from our stores. I think we can all guess how Billy got it from the townies over there.”

  He uncorked it and took a slug, baring his teeth and exhaling as the smooth fire burned its way down his gullet.

  “That’s the real goods, and no mistake. The man who took Bearkiller equipment for this didn’t cheat Billy the way Billy did the rest of us.”

  More formally: “Anyone want to speak for this man? Anyone have a different version of what came down here tonight? Anyone know another way he could have gotten this liquor?”

  There was an echoing silence; Waters didn’t have many friends, and since he was obviously guilty as sin the few he did have weren’t going to court unpopularity by swimming upstream. Being severely unpopular in a small community like this was unpleasant to the point of being dangerous, when you had to rely on your fellows for your life in a world turned hostile and strange.

  Havel tossed the empty aside and handed the full bottle to someone, and it passed from hand to hand, with a little pawing and cursing and elbowing if anyone kept it tilted up too long-there was just enough for a sip for everyone who wanted one.

  “One last time, does anyone want to speak for Billy Waters? It’s any member’s right to speak freely at a trial.”

  More silence, and Havel nodded. “Hands up for not guilty. Hands up for guilty. anyone want to propose a punishment? Or shall I handle it?”

  There was a rumble of you’re the boss and let Lord Bear decide.

  He sighed. “Let him go,” he said. The two men stepped aside, and Havel moved forward.

  “Waters, you sad and sorry sack of shit,” he said in a conversational tone, and then his open hand moved with blurring speed.

  Crack!

  Waters went down as if he’d been hit across the face with the flat side of an oak board, but nothing was broken; Havel had calculated the blow with precision.

  Waters cringed and tried to scramble back as the Bearkillers’ leader stepped forward, moving with the delicate ease of a great cat.

  “On your feet! Christ, you’re getting the beating whatever you do. Take it like a man, Waters, not a yellow dog!”

  Havel raised his voice a little after the older man crawled upright, holding a hand to the side of his face.


  “Do you remember what I said to you when you joined the Bearkillers, Billy?”

  The man nodded quickly. “Said I shouldn’t go on no benders, Lord Bear. Look, Boss, I’ve been making the bows good, haven’t I? I’m real sorry and it won’t-”

  “What I said was that if you went on a bender and slapped your wife and kids around, I would beat the living shit out of you the first time, and beat the living shit out of you and throw you out on your worthless ass the second time. Didn’t I?”

  Waters’s mouth moved. The second time he got the yes out audibly. Then he licked his lips and spoke:

  “I was just giving Nancy a spanking, Lord Bear-she back-talked me. A man’s got a right to do that.”

  Havel nodded. “Yeah, sometimes you have to give a kid a swat on the butt to get their attention, like using a rolled-up newspaper when you’re housebreaking a puppy.”

  He held up his right hand; his index finger rose to make a point. Billy Waters watched it with fascinated dread as it approached his face.

  “Since you are such a stupid sack of shit, I will now demonstrate, using visual aids, that there is a big fat fucking difference in kind between a spanking and a punch in the face.”

  Then he closed the hand into a fist and struck with a short chopping overarm blow. This time the sound was more like a maul striking wood.

  Havel rubbed his right fist into the palm of his left as Waters rolled on the ground, moaning and clutching his face. Havel’s knuckles hurt-the move wasn’t one he’d have used in a fight, but the purpose here was punishment… and education, if possible.

  Waters staggered up without an order this time, for example, which showed some capacity to learn.

  “That’s what it’s like to be punched in the face by someone a lot stronger than you are, Billy. Did you like it?”

  Waters swallowed and lowered a hand from his right eye; the flesh around it was already puffing up. He shook his head wordlessly.

  “I’ll bet punching Reuben out made you feel like a real man, didn’t it, Billy?”