The Scourge of God c-2

by S. M. Stirling

  He could see the Rancher mentally adding half again to that. Odard spoke up, making a sweeping gesture at the same time:

  "She will go to the tipis of my people. I have spoken. Ugh."

  Jesus, don't play it too heavy, Ingolf thought, but the Cutter leader nodded. OK, a lot of Sioux do talk like that. 'Cause they think people expect it, I suppose.

  "As you please, Chief," Smith said. "The Dictations say a man may do as he wants with his own within the law, right? C'mon, then, you Newcastle men, and you, Chief Good Lance. Plenty of room for lodgings and I hope you'll do fine business here."

  He grinned; combined with the mutilated nose and the straggly beard, it looked fairly alarming as he went on:

  " We surely did!"

  Picabo had been a little farming and tourist hamlet before the Change. The Mormons had walled it in, and added more buildings-settlements within a defensive perimeter were always as crowded as people could bear, to keep the length of rampart that had to be held as short as possible. Most of the buildings were homes, thick whitewashed adobe on the first story, white-painted frame covered in clapboards above, with steep-pitched shingle roofs.

  Rudi noticed that they'd also added the sort of touches Mackenzies would, if more tidy and less flamboyant-window boxes and plantings of flowers, trees and bushes along the streets, a small playground with slides and swings, buildings that would have been their church and school. The village had piped water from a tank on salvaged metal legs with a whirring wind-pump atop it, but irrigation channels also tinkled pleasantly in stone-lined ditches on either side of the streets, to water the fruit and blossoms and herbs. None of the white farmhouses or workshops had burned down…

  "Nothing got torched when you took it?" Rudi asked one of the Cutters.

  The man riding next to the Mackenzie chieftain was about his own age or a few years younger; it was hard to tell exactly, with the weathering of their harsh climate making them all look older to eyes reared in the gentle Willamette country. Not many of the Cutters were over thirty, and half were in their teens. This one had shaggy black hair, a wispy young beard, green eyes and a missing front tooth; he cackled laughter at the question.

  Jack, Rudi thought, remembering his name.

  "Nope, we didn't fire a single lit-up arrow," the young plainsman said boastfully.

  Even a modest wall with a fighting platform behind it could give defenders a big advantage. Picabo's had a roofed hoarding as well. If you didn't have a modern siege train, the quickest and easiest way to storm a defended town was to shoot fire arrows over the wall into the roofs and then rush the defenses while folk turned aside to fight the fire, as they must. And there was no sign of any siege equipment more sophisticated than a lariat or improvised ladder among this band of CUT levies.

  "That must have taken some doing," Rudi prompted. And you like to talk, Jack, he added coldly to himself.

  Jack laughed and slapped his thigh; a couple of his friends chuckled too, although a few of the older men rolled their eyes at his chatter.

  "It was dead easy, friend!"

  "How did you get over the wall, then?" Rudi went on.

  A caravan guard was the next thing to a soldier, and the question was natural.

  "That's Uncle Jed for you," Jack laughed gleefully. "Said we could get ashes and dead bones at home without the bother of fightin' for 'em, 'cause all we had to do there was ride on down to Billings and look at the ruins. So we druv a bunch of these Mormons we'd caught a bit south of here right up to the gate ahead of us, making like they was coming here for sanctuary."

  Jed had been listening. He looked over his shoulder now with a slight feral smile:

  "They really had been coming here for sanctuary. Which made it more convincing, you know what I mean?"

  Rudi nodded soberly. He didn't like Jed Smith, but the man was no fool, unlike his nephew. The younger man went on:

  "We had our men mixed in among 'em in the same clothes and their blades hid."

  "They opened the gate without making sure?" Rudi said, a little surprised they'd fallen for the old trick.

  "The rest of us hung back a little, whoopin' and shooting arrows and makin' like we was chasing them. We'd kept their kids so they'd play along, and they all yelled out to hurry up so's they could get inside before we caught 'em. By the time the ones inside this Peekaboo place knew the score, the gate was already open and we had a wagon full of rocks halfway through. With the wheels ready to be knocked off, so they couldn't drag it away, and then they couldn't shoot us without hit-tin' their own folks."

  "That was clever work." Rudi looked around, counting households and multiplying, then subtracting because Mormon women rarely bore arms. "But there would have been hard fighting still. They should have had… what, sixty or seventy men under arms? You've a deal less than that, I see."

  Jed Smith looked back at them, silently at first this time; his brows were up, and there was a wary respect in them. Rudi swore inwardly. The last thing you wanted an enemy to do was respect your wits. The older man spoke after a moment's considering stare:

  "Maybe there was sixty or seventy fighting men here before the war, that would fit with how many women and kids. But I've lost more men from Rippling Waters Ranch in the past three-four years than I like, and we won. I figured it had to be a lot worse for them, and I was right. And they were surprised, and we had more men then-two other bunches were with us. It weren't no fair fight, which is the way I like it, youngster."

  "I kilt three of their fighting men myself," the one called Jack said.

  "In your dreams, maybe, Jack," another of the Cutters said. "Unless every arrow you shot off was guided by the Masters, personal-like, and since one nearly hit me in the butt cheek I sorta doubt that."

  "Well, I kilt one for sure, Lin, which is more than you can say." To Rudi: "Uncle Jed says they thought all our troops were still down south along the Snake."

  "And you took no losses?"

  "Naw. Well, they killed Kennie. He got a spear in the gizzard while we were rushing the gate, he was an old guy, nearly forty, slooooow, and he never did learn to keep his shield up under his eyes, them geezers are like that."

  "Watch your mouth, pup," Jed said. "I ain't going to see thirty again neither, and I can still whip you any day of the week and twice on Sundays."

  "Sorry, Uncle Jed. And Dave, my second cousin Dave Throsson, not Big Dave Johnson who got killed at Wendell, he took an arrow in the leg, but we fixed him up good and poured whiskey in it so's it hasn't gone bad so far, and Tom Skinner got his ribs stove something terrible when he got pushed out of a window by this gal he was chasing-Lord-"

  Jed Smith looked over at him with a cold eye. Jack cleared his throat and corrected himself:

  "-by the Ascended Masters, didn't we all laugh when he fell straight down with his stiff dick waggin' out! That's all our ranch lost, apart from some cuts and little shit like that. We got hurt a lot worse at Twin Falls, and we had a right bad day at Wendell; that was a real fight, let me tell you!"

  "You took the village with only one dead?" Rudi asked.

  "One from our ranch, like I said. Those stupid bastards from the Runamuk and Sweet Grass outfits lost six, maybe seven, and plenty more hurt bad, but they couldn't pour piss out of a boot with directions written on the heel anyways. It was their fault a bunch of the enemy got away, out over the north wall, too- their fault and no one else's, the greedy sons of bitches, running on in before they were called. They're gone now. Uncle Jed sent them on along with their share, and good riddance."

  "And the plunder was good?"

  "Plunder?"

  "Taking their things."

  "Ah, the salvaging, you mean! I'll say it was good! The misbelievers were richer than rich, I tell you. And this time we got it all to our own selves, on account of we took this way home just so's we'd hit some places the main army didn't get to yet. Uncle Jed thought of that. I know the Sword of the Prophet do the hardest fighting, saw that my own self at Wendell, but i
t's enough to anger a man bad the way they get the best pick of-"

  Jed Smith threw a look over his shoulder again, and Jack went on hastily:

  "Anyway I got ten bolts of that good tough linen cloth the misbelievers make, saddlemaker's tools, twenty bucks in coin, some rings and pretties and blankets and sheets and dresses and cookware things for Jenny-she's my intended-two young gals who'll take the work off Ma now that she's getting the rheumatism so bad, a good oil lamp with a glass chimney, a bunch of other stuff, and I fucked until I couldn't raise a stand no more."

  "You can believe that last part at least, mister, not that it would take much with him," another young Cutter said, and he and Jack exchanged mock punches before the talkative young ranch-hand went on:

  "Plus I got six good horses earlier, and some more coin back in Twin Falls, but we sent that all East with the first folks from our district released from service. Like the Prophet says, the unbelievers are spoil for the Brotherhood of Light-bringers. Priest says spoil used to mean good stuff, not meat that's gone off."

  Rudi made himself smile and nod. Picabo stank of spoiled meat in truth now-of death, like rancid sweet oil smeared into your nose and mouth. The Eastern levies who'd taken it hadn't bothered to clean up the bodies except to roll them out of the way, probably because they were planning on leaving soon, and flies were thick. They were thick on the eight men crucified upside down to the inner side of the adobe wall with railroad spikes, too. Fortunately they all seemed to be dead now, but it hadn't been quick, even for the ones who'd had small hot fires lit beneath their heads.

  At a guess, Uncle Jed wanted to ask those some questions.

  "Those ones tried to sneak back for their hoors and brats," Jack said with a wave. "But Uncle Jed knew they would, and we were ready for them. The Black Void drank 'em down!"

  The young man went on in a less boastful voice: "You folks got much silver?"

  "Plenty, for the right goods," Ingolf said over his shoulder.

  "That's fine, fine. I sure would like to turn some of the stuff I got into silver. Then I can trade it for livestock back to home a lot easier than riding through blizzards to line camps and swapping around all winter. My Jenny's father won't let us get married until I have at least twenty-five heifers in the Rippling Waters pool besides a good remuda-"

  "Jack, like I told you, stop flapping your lips. The horseflies will get in there and buzz around in your empty head. Here's the house I'm using," Jed Smith broke in. "You Newcastle men can have the one next door. Some of our folks was using it and cleaned it up before they left and I'll send some of the gals in. You can start your barterin' in the morning, and then we'll leave. We close up tight at night here."

  "What's that one?" Rudi said, pointing with his chin at a building with boards nailed over the windows to make an improvised prison.

  A few of the Cutters were lolling about on the steps, one whittling at a stick with a foot-long fighting knife, another sitting propped against the wall with his floppy hat pulled over his eyes and his strung bow across his lap. Rudi thought he was asleep until he saw an eye following the horses. A Mormon woman carried a yoke with two buckets of milk up the front steps as the mounted men passed, and others followed behind with aprons full of loaves of bread or covered pots of cooked food wrapped in towels against their heat. They turned their heads aside to avoid meeting the eyes of the Cutter patrol, some of whom called out greetings of their choice.

  "Oh, that's where we're keeping the brats," Jed Smith said. "They're part of the Prophet's portion of the spoil."

  "Brats?" Ingolf inquired.

  "Their kids, the ones too young to be worth anything, under about six. We've got orders to look after 'em careful, for the Houses of Refuge. A lot of them can be raised in the Faith, you see. Or if they're soulless, they can go to the breeding pens."

  "Yeah, some of 'em will end up in Corwin," Jack put in. "Not just working-they get to be priests or in the Sword of the Prophet. That don't seem-"

  "Jack, what did I say about flapping your lips?" Jed barked. "Don't your ears work or are you a natural-born damned fool like the minions of the Accursed?"

  He whirled his pony around with a shift of balance and thighs, and slapped the younger Cutter across the face with his leather hat, hard enough to sting. The younger man yelped and then fell silent, face red.

  "See you folks in the morning," Jed went on. "May the Masters keep the Nephilim from your dreams."

  "Uff da," Ingolf swore in a tired voice, running a hand over his head and kneading at the back of his neck. "I'd forgotten how much I don't like this kind of shit. And how much I really don't like the Cutters."

  Smith's cleaned up had been a relative term; no bodies left to rot, or human excrement in corners, basically. Little things like the fan of black congealed droplets that arched across one wall of the kitchen where they'd been left by the backswing of a blade didn't count. A team of village women with mops and brushes had come in to give it a going-over, working in silence like machines in the old stories. When they left, the comrades sat around the kitchen table, beneath a bright lamp; sunset came early inside a close-packed walled town.

  The women had left food, too, and Rebecca Nystrup had started a fire in the ingeniously designed tile stove with its iron top.

  "Your people have some evil foes," Edain said awkwardly, patting her on the shoulder.

  She nodded silently and began making dinner-slicing ham and cracking eggs into a couple of big frying pans where melted butter browned, and chopping potatoes and onions for hash. Edain moved automatically to help her as the good smell of cooking mingled with the stinks.

  "No!" Ingolf said with quiet emphasis, the tone contrasting with his relaxed, casual posture and expression.

  Rudi looked at him curiously. The man from Richland was sitting at the head of the table, where he could see out the window into the little walled garden that fronted the house, and through the open door as well. Nobody was close enough to overhear them… but they were visible from outside too. It would be suspicious if they closed up before the night grew cool.

  "It'll look damned funny if you're helping the bought woman with the chores, kid," Ingolf said flatly. "Not only that she's supposed to be a slave, but Cutters don't hold with men doing women's work at the best of times. Plus, generally speaking, sweet helpful types just plain don't take up the business we're supposed to be in."

  Edain sat and moodily pulled apart one of the loaves, buttering it and biting into the warm fresh bread. Rebecca looked over her shoulder and said:

  "But thanks for the thought," and he nodded, blushing.

  Rudi tore a loaf as well. The bread was well made, with an egg-glaze crust that crackled when he ripped it. The butter was sweet and fresh too, although they had to keep a piece of cloth across it to deter the flies. It was the flies and the smell and the thought of where the flies had been that made him hesitate, and evidently the same occurred to Edain just as he was swallowing, for the younger clansman turned a little green under his ruddy tan.

  You didn't grow up squeamish about stinks or bugs in a Mackenzie farming dun, but this…

  "Ground and center," Rudi said quietly, making himself eat.

  Food was life, human toil and the sacrificial blood of the Powers, so it was sacrilege to waste it; and he was going to need his strength, and he'd done without a good deal for the past week. Odard murmured a prayer before he took some of the bread himself, which surprised Rudi. He'd always thought that the young nobleman was only conventionally religious because it was expected of him. He'd confessed to Father Ignatius a couple of times on the trip, but once he'd had to go back a day later before the priest would agree to communicate him, and he'd come away from that one with his ears turning pink.

  Sure, and a man's inward self is like the woods on a moonless night, Rudi thought. Even your own self. Especially your own. It always surprises you, sometimes with a noise, sometimes with a jab in the eye.

  Ingolf spoke to Edain; his voice w
as rough, but Rudi thought he detected a certain sympathy in it:

  "There are going to be worse things to see and smell before we reach the East Coast, kid," he said. "You've got to get case-hardened pretty quick."

  "I've seen fights before and men killed, sure and I have!" Edain snapped. "And worse things… like that Haida raid we were caught in, up near Tillamook on the ocean, Chief, and what they did to that poor woman and her bairn. But this is… very bad."

  Rudi replied: "It's worse because here the raiders won, Edain. The which they didn't at Tillamook, and you can claim some of the credit for that."

  Edain looked heartened. Rebecca set the plates of food before them and then sat at the foot of the table herself. Rudi found he was hungry enough to enjoy it after all, and a deep drink of cool milk rich with cream. The day's heat was fading, though the thick adobe walls of the farmhouse's first story radiated a little of it back.

  "This is… squalid," Odard observed. "And did you smell those animals? I'm no rose myself, not after the way we've been traveling, but…"

  Ingolf gave a short dry laugh. "Oh, I know why they're a mite rancid," he said. "They're from the Hi-Line."

  At their glances he went on: "I've talked to men who've been through there. You can travel fifty, sixty miles at a time and not see a single tree. The only way to heat water or cook is over dried cowflops. And the winters are almighty cold. You get out of the habit of taking baths, or taking off your clothes at all mighty fast, out there."

  Odard nodded. "I do hope we don't run into anything worse."

  The Easterner made a sound, but this time it wasn't a laugh of any sort. Rudi looked at Ingolf, but the Easterner's eyes were blank, as if all his attention was focused within.