The Scourge of God c-2

by S. M. Stirling

  Tiphaine's eyes narrowed a little, as close to a smile as she would get here-and-now. Mathilda had been there at that first feast at Castle d'Ath; it had been just after she rescued the girl from the Mackenzies, and was ennobled for it and given the fief. For that matter, Rudi Mackenzie had been there too, since she'd captured him in the same raid, and Sandra had wanted to get him out of Todenangst and from under Norman's eye. She hadn't thought Mathilda had known… but Delia had always gotten on well with the Princess, and had a perverse sense of humor.

  "Right, you're from the Princess, Sergeant," she said. "What were the circumstances?"

  The noncom gave her a brief precis; the noblewoman's eyebrows went up.

  Lady Sandra is going to have kittens, she thought. Matti prisoner of the Cutters… and Odard's man working for, or with them. Which means Odard's mother still is… Hope the headsman sharpened his ax after the last one. Or it might be the rack and pincers…

  "But there's more," Gonzalez said. "President Thurston… Martin Thurston is here. Four battalions of regular infantry and one regiment of cavalry-that's how I got here-and a lot of field artillery. And the Prophet Sethaz, he's got about the same of his goons, all cavalry. About a third of them the Sword, the household troops, the rest of them ranch-lander levies, but they look like they know what they're doing. They got a lot of experience in the Deseret War."

  Now, that changes the equation completely, Tiphaine thought. Our preemptive strike just got preempted.

  "And there was something going on at the Bossman's house last night," Gonzalez said. "Fighting, and then a fire. Then we were ordered out to beat the bushes all around the town, with the priority on anyone trying to break west. Meanwhile it looked like the whole force was getting ready to move in your direction. As soon as those Pendleton tontas got their thumbs out."

  Ah, Tiphaine thought. Astrid's little black op didn't go as planned. But it didn't go entirely pear-shaped either, not if they're looking for fugitives rather than putting the heads on spears outside the gate.

  "I can make it back if you let me go right now," Gonzalez said. "My squad are all in on it and they'll cover for me. Any longer and I've got to stay."

  "Rodard, release her and give her back her weapons and her horse. Then get to Rancher Brown and tell him I need two hundred of his men, or as many more as he can get here within half an hour, ready for a running fight. Armand, send for Sir Ivo and Sir Ruffin, and then arm me. And call for couriers!"

  She dipped her precious steel-nibbed pen into the ink bottle, and wrote:

  To the Regent: I have confirmed the authenticity of the enclosed.

  Then she threw that in a preaddressed courier bag and handed it to the first of the messengers, a slender whipcord man in leathers.

  "Get this to the forward railway station for forwarding to Portland, maximum priority," she said, and was writing again before he'd left the tent.

  By the time Sir Ivo arrived she'd sent six messages out, several clerks were writing out more, and the camp noise was beginning to swell as getting-up turned into frantic-scramble.

  Ivo pulled up before the open flap and swung out of the saddle; he was wearing an old-style hauberk and conical helmet, and the loose mail and padding made him look even more troll-like than usual. Ruffin was on his heels, with his mail coif still hanging down behind and his squires scurrying behind him with visored sallet helmet and shield and lance. Ivo pushed his helm back by the nasal bar and looked at her as she stood to let the squire fasten the more elaborate modern gear on her, bending and twisting a little occasionally to make sure the adjustments were correct.

  "This to First Armsman Barstow, over with the Mackenzies," Tiphaine went on to one of the clerks, who beckoned to a courier. "Ruffin, you're in charge here until I get back."

  "Back?" he said.

  "Something needs doing, and I don't have time to brief you. Ivo, get me two conroi of the Household men-at-arms." Those were at full strength; that was a hundred lances. "Full kit, now."

  He left at the run. She went on: "Ruffin, the enemy's strength is much higher than we expected-Boise regulars and the Prophet's men are here, about two thousand of each."

  He grunted as if someone had hit him in the stomach; that turned even odds into something like two-to-one against the allied force.

  "We're going to have to fight to break contact, rock them back on their heels, then use the cavalry to hold them off while the infantry retreat. Get the heavy stuff moving out now. If it can't be on the rails or roads in an hour, burn it."

  The last of the armor went on, the metal sabatons that strapped over her boots to protect her feet. She stepped over to the table and sketched with her finger on the map. "Put the Mackenzies here, and-"

  Ruffin was nodding soberly as she concluded: "I should be back in about an hour. If I'm not, get this army out. Concentrate our troops at the Dalles, but alert the border forts as well."

  "I'll handle it, my liege," he said; the heliograph network would flash it all over the Association by the end of the day, and the news would be in Corvallis by midnight. "God go with you."

  "Or luck," she said, with a cruel smile as she thought of her immediate errand.

  Astrid Larsson had killed Katrina Georges, back in the War. Tiphaine's own oaths meant that she had to do her very best to rescue the Hiril Dunedain and her husband and soul-sister and brother-in-law

  …

  Which will be sulfuric acid on her soul, if only I can pull it off.

  Armand handed her the sword belt; she ran it around her hips twice and buckled it, tucking the double tongue through, and then pulled on her steel gauntlets. The coif confined her braided hair, and she settled the sallet helm with its expensive lining of old sponges on her head and worked the visor. Daylight vanished save for the long horizontal bar of the vision slit, then returned as she flicked the curved steel upward again.

  A groom led her destrier Salafin up, and she swung into the high war-saddle. Armand handed her the shield and she slung it diagonally over her back like a guitar in the old days, the rounded point down to her right. By then the CORA light horse were ready, and the block of tall lances and steel-clad riders and barded horses that marked the Portlander men-at-arms, with their arms blazoned on their shields.

  "My lords, chevaliers, and esquires of the Association!" she called.

  She reined in ahead and turned the war-horse to face them as she drew her sword; the barding clattered as the big black gelding tossed its head and mouthed the bit. "Our souls belong to God, our bodies and our lives to our liege-lady-"

  "A cheer for the Princess Mathilda!" someone called from the ranks of the knights.

  "Haro!" rang out from a hundred throats.

  Tiphaine blinked, as horses caracoled and lances were tossed in the air in a blaze of pennants. She'd had Sandra Arminger in mind. Sandra was respected, and feared. The Grand Constable was feared, and respected. Evidently Mathilda was…

  Loved? she thought, as she thrust her blade skyward. Well, she's their generation. I suppose a lot of hopes are riding on her.

  "-and our swords belong to Portland! You have given your oaths; now you shall fulfill them, and I at your head. "

  Oddly enough, Chateau generals were obsolete now that real chateaux had made a comeback. She chopped the longsword forward.

  "Haro! Holy Mary for Portland!"

  The destrier stepped out beneath her, and the light horse from the CORA fanned out eastward. Beside her Rodard held the banner of the Lidless Eye, and the black-and-crimson of it fluttered in a cool breeze from the distant Pacific. The winter rains were coming…

  I wonder what the hell happened with our pseudo-elf's plan? Tiphaine thought, beneath the running assessment of terrain and distances playing out against the map in her head. Usually she's pretty good, or at least she has the luck you expect for small children and lunatics.

  "Here," Astrid Larsson said.

  She didn't need to take the radium-dial watch out of the leather-covered steel
case at her belt; even in the deep darkness of the tunnels, her time-sense was good. This was just short of midnight, time enough for the Bossman's party to really get going above, and for everyone to punish the wet bar hard. Pendleton men drank deep at a fiesta, by all accounts.

  They had a single lamp lit. She saw Eilir put her hands against the concrete blocks of the wall ahead of them and close her eyes.

  I can feel the music and the dancing from above, she signed. Sounds like quite a do!

  Good, Astrid replied. Get the line of retreat ready for us, anamchara!

  Eilir sped off down the tunnel with her four helpers and their burdens. Astrid put her left hand on the hilt of her longsword and tapped the silver fishtail pommel against the blocks: tap, and then tap-tap-tap.

  A wait, while she listened to the blood beating in her ears. The air was cool and dry here, and dusty, but there was a faint living smell that the rest of the tunnels hadn't had, more like a storeroom. There was even a slight scent of spilled wine soaked into flooring. Behind her there was a slight clink and rattle as the others of the Ranger assault party did their final equipment check. Astrid took a deep breath and touched her weapons and gear; beside her Alleyne did the same and gave her a thumbs-up.

  And then not far away: tap-tap… tap-tap… tap.

  "We could use a few dwarves," he said whimsically, and brought his heater-shaped shield round onto his arm.

  "We'll be above ground fairly soon," she replied. "Lantern out, Hurin!"

  Utter darkness fell, like having your eyes painted over, as the lantern's flame died and the mantle faded to a dim red glow and went out.

  Alleyne's cool voice sounded: "John, you do the honors."

  She could feel the air move as the big man turned and groped for the steel lever that stood upright in a niche. The lever was fastened with a pin; there was a slight chink as he pulled that free to dangle-that little chain to keep it from getting lost on the floor was so typical of a plan with Sandra Arminger behind it-and heaved. There was a moment while the inertia resisted the huge muscles she knew bunched in his tight black sleeve, and then the wall ahead of them began to swing up.

  Once it started the movement was smooth and sure, as counterweighted levers swung the steel plate and the camouflaging blocks up out of the way. Sound came through the four-foot gap in the wall, faint and far, a hint of music and a loud burr of voices and feet.

  The cellar beyond was dimly lit by occasional night lanterns, but it looked bright to dark-adapted eyes; the secret door opened between two huge wine-vats, looming above them and resting on double X-SHAPED cradles. A figure waited, in the bowtie of the Bossman's servants. He gave back a step at the sight of John Hordle's bulk uncoiling from the low entranceway to his full towering height, the long handle of his greatsword standing up over his right shoulder.

  "Quickly!" the spy said then, licking his lips. "The way's clear up to the kitchens."

  "Good," Astrid said. "You should go now."

  The man nodded jerkily and scurried away. They gave him a few seconds lead, and then followed. The cellars here were sections of tunnel, joined by narrower linking passages; they went by rows of barrels of various sizes for wine and beer and brandy and whiskey, flour and salt pork and salt beef, shelving with potted meats and vegetables and jams and jellies, sacks of onions and potatoes and bins of dried peppers and beans, vats of pickled eggs and sauerkraut, racks of hams and flitches of bacon in wrappers of waxed canvas… all the varied supplies a great household needed.

  It reminded her a little of the storage sheds at Stardell in Mithrilwood, down to the deep rich melange of smells and the arrogant air of a patrolling cat, before the moggy took one horrified look at the strangers and fled with its ears back in a flying leap to the top of a stack of boxes full of apples. There it arched its back and hissed and spat with a sharp tsk! sound, its eyes glowing green in the faint gleam of a lantern.

  "Peace between us, sister!" she laughed. And a sudden thought: "Every second pair, take some of that lamp-fuel."

  They shouldered large jugs of it, ten-gallon models of pre-Change metal full of pure alcohol. The map was printed on her brain. And there were the metal stairs that led up. She went first in a soft-footed rush.

  "Hurin, Melendil," Alleyne said, his sword indicating two.

  The pair halted just below the top of the stairs, ready to deal with anyone who came by. Astrid led the rest up a corridor that led past a fuel-store with billets of firewood and sacks of dusty-smelling charcoal.

  "Morwen, you and Aratan wait here," she said softly. "Soak down this stack and keep fire ready, but hidden."

  The two of them took the metal jugs and began pouring the spirit over the combustibles. She led the rest into the flagged hallway beyond and took a deep breath. The smells of cooking food were strong from the doors ahead, from frying onions to baking pastries with their buttery richness; this was the kitchens, where the made dishes would be prepared while the whole carcasses roasted outside. She and Alleyne looked at each other, nodded slightly, and pushed through, each turning to one side with shield up and blade poised.

  The light was painfully bright, from lanterns set all around the great rectangular room and hanging from the groined arches of the high ceiling. One wall was lined with cast-iron and tile-and-brick stoves and ovens and grills; the central island and the counters all around were lined with cooks and scullions hard at work, chopping and rolling and setting out arrangements on bright silver platters. The sounds of knives and tenderizing hammers and rolling pins dropped away as flushed, sweating faces turned towards the dark-clad warriors who rushed through the doors.

  A small party of Rangers sprinted to the other exit that gave on the main house, tall metal portals with oval glass windows set in them. A man pushed a trolley of empty serving plates through it, then froze with the doors swinging behind him as a sword point pricked him behind the ear. The rest of the Dunedain fanned out to either side of her, arrows on the strings of their drawn bows, the vicious triangular heads motionless.

  "Hear me! We have no quarrel with you," Astrid said. "Only with your master."

  Her clear soprano filled a sudden silence broken only by the flicker of flames and the sputter of fat dripping on embers. She knew their eyes were all on her sword, the blue light of the lanterns breaking off the honed edge.

  And the most of these people will be thralls, not willing servants.

  Just then a burly cook cocked back his hand with the cleaver in it. John Hordle had his sword in his right hand, but the left shot out and clamped on the man's fat bull-neck. Fingers like wrought-iron bars drove in, and the man purpled and then went limp. His head hit the brown tile of the floor with an unpleasant thock.

  "But we will kill if we must," she added.

  Two dozen pairs of eyes followed the point of her sword as if hypnotized. She pointed to another set of doors, these of oak. That led to the day-pantry where supplies were stored for immediate use. It had only the one entrance, and it was windowless, with walls of thick adobe.

  "In there. All of you; take that one on the floor, he's not dead-"

  She shot a glance at Little John Hordle that said he'd better not be dead.

  "And be quiet about it."

  They obeyed in a clumsy scramble; despite her demand for quiet, there were crashes as crockery cascaded to the floor and silverware chimed. In a minute they were all tightly packed among the barrels and crates and jars and crocks; she could see some of them crawling up on the emptied shelves. One of her Dunedain shoved the door closed, dropped a wedge and heel-kicked it to seat it tightly. The portal wasn't particularly strong, and the kitchen workers should be able to hammer it down in time, especially since the hinges were on their side. That wouldn't be soon enough to hinder her plan. Everyone waited, their eyes on her…

  Except for one who was flicking slices of glazed roast pork loin into his mouth from a plate where they were arranged and chewing with relish.

  "John!" she hissed, enraged. "Not no
w! Great deeds await us!"

  "Not bad, roit tasty touch of apple in the glaze, but a bit 'ot. They put chilies in every bloody thing out here."

  The sudden wave of fury vanished, and left her balanced and sure. She smiled at him, and turned to her folk. Alleyne poised beside her, shield up and eyes grim.

  "Now," she said.

  BD forced herself not to take another glass of wine. She didn't usually try to drown anxiety, but her throat was dry and tight, far too tight to try any of the little nibblements going around.

  God, these cowboys can pack it away, she thought, watching men who'd downed racks of lamb-ribs and heaped plates of roast beef with all the fixings taking fruit tarts and pastries of pine nuts and honey and cream from the silver salvers.

  Not to mention the way they can drink. I'm impressed, and I was in Barony Chehalis for a Stavarov wedding!

  Instead she chose a glass of cold herbal tea-not many of those had been taken. She supposed they were kept for the Mormons among the Bossman's followers. Her eyes kept going back to the clock, willing the hands to slow down. The room got more crowded, as the night outside grew colder and more people moved into the heated interior of the house; if anything it was uncomfortably warm here, with fifty or sixty people in the big ballroom besides the great wrought-silver chandelier above with its spendthrift weight of wax candles, and the lamps in their wall-sconces.

  Then the doors to the kitchens burst open, and her throat squeezed shut at the shock, even when she'd been expecting it.

  "Lacho Calad! Drego Morn!" rang out, and a stunning bull-bellow of: " Every one of you buggers freeze and nobody'll get 'urt!"

  The three Dunedain leaders made a beeline for the Bossman and his family, a half dozen more at their heels; they didn't use their swords to kill, but battering shields and the flats of the blades scattered men and women out of their way in a chorus of screams and groans. More Rangers pushed the musicians off their dais and covered the ballroom with drawn bows.