These interior lands had an eerie emptiness to someone who'd grown to manhood in the lush valleys west of the Cascades. Life of hardy types adapted to the dryness and the alternation of savage heat and deep cold throve here, but sparsely; little handfuls of burro, mustang, big horn sheep, feral cattle scattered across endless miles, wolves and cougar less common still, with even jackrab bits and coyotes not something you saw every minute. They'd seen nothing of humankind besides the ashes of an old campfire near water now and then. This country had been thinly peopled before the Change, and most of the survivors had moved elsewhere in the generation since. The few who remained were wandering hunters, solitaries or single families or tiny groups who shunned outsiders.
He grinned to himself as he took up the song again; one of the little feral mustang studs had tried to cut out Epona, and gotten kicked into next Tuesday for his trouble. The big black mare got along better with horses than with most human beings, but she wasn't one to permit liberties either way.
The horses were moving well back towards the main herd when he finished:
And she sang: Ride with your brindled hounds to heel
And your good gray hawk to hand;
There's none can harm the knight who's lain
With the Witch of the Westmoreland!
He broke off as the head of the Mormon party rode up; he'd noticed that some of the old songs made the bishop a bit uneasy, grateful though he was.
"Thank you again for helping us with the horses," Nystrup said as he reined in by Rudi's side. "That alone will mean a good deal to my people."
Neither of them talked about anything larger or more political, though Rudi knew the older man was nourish ing a desperate hope of aid from the free peoples of the far West. Rudi had advised him to send an embassy, and given a letter of introduction, but…
I wish I could go back to arrange it, he thought. But I can't. The Powers have given me a task. And Matti's recommendation… her mother is probably so angry she'd string the messenger up rather than promise them help, sure.
"A little honest work never hurt anyone," the Mac kenzie replied politely, wiping at his face with a bandanna as he rode. "And we're not there yet, to be sure."
The sun was strong but the air temperature only a lit tle on the warm side of comfortable-the part of northern Nevada they were passing through was six thousand feet up, and didn't get really hot until August. Even then it would be a crisp, clear dry heat.
Sparse grassland and silvery sagebrush rolled on every side, studded here and there with the darker green of dwarf juniper on a hillside. A golden eagle wheeled high overhead in majesty, across a pale blue sky that was clear from horizon to horizon. It was probably waiting for rabbits or other small game startled up by the horse herd. Insects buzzed and rattled, and a long-tailed spotted lizard stared at him with beady eyes for a second and then whipped off behind a sage.
A herd of pronghorns had been edging closer most of the morning to get a look at the horses and wagons-the little beasts were incorrigibly curious-but now they took fright and fled at better than sixty miles an hour, white rumps flashing, faster than anything on earth ex cept a cheetah. Occasionally one would bounce up out of the herd's dust cloud, rising as if it had landed on a trampoline.
Maybe they're just running and jumping because they like it, Rudi thought, watching them with pleasure. Well, I do occasionally myself, so why not them?
They'd acquired that speed when there were cheetahs in North America, fifteen thousand years ago; to them the returning grizzlies and wolves and the spreading tigers weren't anything they had to worry about except from ambush. But there were cheetahs again, rumor said, down on the southern plains, escaped from private hunting pre serves in the aftermath of the Change along with lions and a dozen other types of game. In time they'd work their way north, adjusting to the harsher winters as they went.
And when the cheetahs arrive here, the pronghorns will be ready. As Mom says, that sort of thing shows how thrifty the Powers are at getting us to work their will, will we or no.
Hills rose to the east and north, white stone scored by gullies and spattered with the wide-spaced green of ponderosa and pinyon pine on their higher slopes. There wasn't much motion right now, apart from the fleeing antelope with the Y-shaped nose horns, and a fat desert tortoise calmly burying its eggs a little to the north. Then a flicker of something showed in a ravine, and a click and rattle of stones followed, faint with distance. His eyes narrowed, and his hand began a motion towards the bow cased at his knee.
"Someone coming," he said to the Mormon.
"Where?" Nystrup said, startled.
"Up there… ah, it's my folk. My sisters, to be precise."
The twins came riding from the higher ground north eastward, their horses picking a way down the rocky slope. They were wearing war cloaks, which made them look like bushes on horseback with the tufts of greenish yellow grass and sprigs of sage and juniper stuck through the loops that studded the garments. That meant they'd been doing a sneak on foot somewhere to the eastward during their scouting mission.
…
And that they found something important.
They drew up and nodded at the bishop and Rudi; the rest of the party from the Willamette drifted over as well.
"There are people ahead of us," one of the two said, her face dusty and drawn and tired. "Two different bunches of 'em, both about a day's ride out northeast."
The other took up the tale: "One of them's mostly on foot, heading south along the old gravel road. Say three hundred on foot, fifty on horseback, and packhorses and mule-drawn wagons for baggage. Over to you, Ritva."
Ritva-or possibly Mary-continued: "The others came in from the east a couple of days ago and they've been waiting since-camping cold, small fires for cooking and doused immediately, not much smoke and no noise. Two hundred, all mounted, with a remuda herd and some light wagons. They're holed up in a canyon overlooking the trail heading south up this valley to that old lake…"
She pointed south. Bishop Nystrup nodded and supplied the name: "Wildhorse Reservoir."
"Right."
She pulled a map out of her saddlebag, and they all dismounted to look at it; the twin weighed the corners down with rocks, and drew her dagger to use as a pointer as they knelt around the square of waxed linen and held their horses' reins.
"They're holed up here except for their scouts. They've got good scouts. The other bunch aren't bad but these guys are good. We had to do some Sentry Removal -"
He could hear the Dunedain italics and capitals in the words.
"-and they nearly caught us. Hiding is harder out here."
Rudi's brows went up. "You're sure they didn't back-track you?"
"We holed up for a whole day watching our trail, Rudi. No, we lost them in some lava country; we saw them turn back. But it was a bit hairy, and they'll be on their toes even if they didn't make us."
"They will?"
"They're short a couple of sentries."
Mary-or possibly Ritva-broke in: "And then we found tracks, men and horses both, near here, just now. Three miles north of here, but that's close enough to spot our dust trail, with binoculars. Maybe two days old. Shod horses, so they're not locals. About six of them, I think.
We waited in ambush on their trail, but they must have come out east a different way. Almost certainly more Cutter scouts. So they've made the main party here."
"Describe the ones you saw."
"The ones on foot've got the old American flag in front and they look like soldiers-infantry with some mounted archers for a screen, and a four piece battery of field artillery. Boise regulars, we've seen them before. We Rangers escort caravans that far east now and then."
In the terminology that Boise used, the men they were talking about were part of the Army of the United States. Everyone else called General-President Thur ston's regime after its capital city; he preferred "USA." In fact, he insisted on it…
"The ones hiding up are pret
ty much like the Proph et's men from Ingolf's descriptions, composite leather and metal armor, sort of reddish brown stuff. Medium horse-bows and swords and light lances. Flying a flag of dark red with a golden-rayed sunburst."
Ingolf nodded. "Not just Cutter soldiers. The Sword of the Prophet, out of Corwin-his personal troops. Well trained, and they all really believe the horseshit the Church Universal and Triumphant peddles. Very bad news."
Rudi pursed his lips. "That's not a good sign, a unit of them all this way west of New Deseret," he said to the bishop, who looked as if he were sucking on a green persimmon.
"No," he said shortly. "But we're thinly spread out, most of our towns are on rivers or irrigation canals. If they came in from the south, or through one of the sparsely settled areas…"
He shrugged. "But why should it concern us, Mr. Mackenzie? The others are clearly Thurston's troops, and he's no friend to us. We should try to avoid both."
"Are you at war with Boise?"
"No… no. Not now. But we have had… clashes… in the past."
"Then you should get friendly with Boise," Ingolf said bluntly. "And they with you. Or the Prophet will pile your heads in a pyramid next to theirs."
"One thing at a time, Bishop Nystrup," Rudi said calmly, nodding.
The older man fell silent and Rudi looked at the map. Three lines converging on a spot…
"What's Thurston doing sending troops down here? I mean, I know he claims the whole continent, but it's a bit outside his usual stomping grounds."
Nystrup's daughter spoke up unexpectedly; she was some sort of aide or secretary to the bishop as well as his child, but usually rather quiet because it was an irregular thing, a wartime emergency measure and a sign of how hard pressed they were. Now she said, obviously consulting a mental file, "There's good water at Wild-horse Lake, and at least a thousand acres of pretty good land that could be brought under the furrow near it. And a lot of underused grazing. Enough land for a big village, maybe two medium-sized. He could be planting a colony. We considered putting one there, before the war started."
Ingolf cut in: "From what I heard while I was there, everyone in Boise has to serve in the army for three years when they turn nineteen, and then they get land or a workshop or something when they muster out, if they don't stand to inherit one. They tried hard to get me to enlist while I was passing through there-I ducked out by night-and they offered me land at the end of the hitch. It would have been tempting, if I hadn't had places to go."
A grin. "Haven't had that damned dream since I met you, Rudi. You don't know how good that makes me feel!"
Rudi nodded absently. The new farmers build his country's strength and they'd be loyal to Thurston, too, probably, he thought. Smart.
Aloud: "So that's why a column from Boise might be heading south."
"Not just a column," one of the twins said. "The flag-pole has a golden eagle on top."
"That's either Thurston himself, or a very high-ranking panjandrum of his," Ingolf agreed.
Rudi looked at Bishop Nystrup. The older man nodded. "Thurston is
… hands-on, they used to say."
Rudi nodded. "Now… if I had a couple of hundred of the Prophet's horsemen, what would I be doing here?"
Ingolf spoke. "Something important. They wouldn't be risking elite troops like this except for something major."
"It's not likely that two forces are this close by ac cident," Mathilda said thoughtfully. "And when one's hiding and the other's not, that's pretty obvious-the Prophet's men are here to attack the Boise force. Which is another argument that someone important is heading it up."
"The false Prophet is at war with us, but not with the United States of Boise. Yet," Nystrup said. "To at tack them would be reckless, even for the madman of Corwin."
"Who is a madman, eh?" Rudi pointed out. "And possibly possessed by something that's no friend to hu mankind. But certainly crazy at least, and given to doing crazy things."
"One more thing," one of the twins said. "We got a look at what we think is the Corwinite commander. He's a pretty ordinary looking guy."
She looked at Ingolf, her tilted blue eyes consider ing. "Except that he's wearing a patch over his left eye. Didn't you mention you got the one who was holding you prisoner that way?"
"Yeah," Ingolf said, his tough battered face flushed.
Interesting, Rudi thought. That's a killing rage, if ever I saw one. And Ingolf isn't a man governed by anger, usually.
After a long pause, the easterner went on: "Still, we should go south with these folks. No sense in running into the Prophet's men earlier than we have to, and we've got places to go."
Rudi shook his head. "But along the way, things to do. We go north, and we save this General Thurston by warning him, that we do."
****
Epona pawed the roadway, where a little gravel had survived the rare but violent summer thunderstorms of twenty two years. Rock rattled off her steel-shod hoof, and a puff of khaki dust went up around it as she stamped. Rudi crooned soothingly and ran a hand down the black arch of her neck, muscle like living metal under the gleaming coat. He thought he saw a twinkle of metal northward; that might be a Boise scout giving them a once-over. Well, they wanted to meet them…
"Think the Mormons will be OK, Chief?" Edain asked, looking back over his shoulder at the dust cloud fading towards the south.
Rudi shrugged. "They'll be better off than they would with two hundred Cutters hunting them," he said. Then he smiled. "Rebecca in particular, eh?"
The younger man flushed beet red under his tan. "She's a nice girl, Chief, but she was a bit busy and grief-struck for dalliance, nor I so stupid as to try it. And there's that religion-Horned Lord and Mother-of-All, it's strange!"
"All in the point of view," Rudi said tolerantly. "Many paths."
"Do you think they were after the Mormons, then, Chief?"
"Either them or General Thurston," Rudi said. "More probably Thurston. And in either case, I'm thinking it would be a good thing to thwart them, so it would."
Everyone in their party looked a little tense, in their various ways. None of them were wearing armor, not even the brigandines or light mail shirts that they usually did on the trail; the shields and helms and lances were all back with the wagon and their remounts, in an ar royo and being watched by Odard's man Alex. The rest of them sat their best horses and tried to look peaceful-they had their swords and bows, of course, but you could scarcely expect travelers to have anything less.
Ingolf edged his horse closer. "You sure about appeal ing like this to General Thurston?" he said quietly. "I never saw him when I went through Boise, but he's got a major reputation as a hard-ass, and his people certainly looked that way to me."
"No, I'm not sure, exactly. Though they say he's a law-abiding sort, not one who chops off heads on a whim," Rudi replied cheerfully.
Mathilda nodded. "On the other hand, from what Mom and Lady d'Ath and Count Odell told me, as far as he's concerned, he's president pro tem of the United States, and everyone else who claims authority within the old borders is bandit scum who deserves hanging."
"Well, he's not the only one with that delusion," Ingolf said dryly. "Every second bossman out East called himself president back in the old days, from the stories my father and uncles told. Some still do-the Bossman of Des Moines lists it right after governor of Iowa when he's being formal. Ours in Richland doesn't bother anymore."
"Not so much of that backward nonsense in the Wil lamette," one of the twins said pridefully. "We've got sensible, modern titles, like the Bear Lord or the Chief of Clan Mackenzie or the Hiril Dunedain."
"Or the Lord… Lady… Protector," Odard said. "And barons and counts." He glanced slyly at Father Ignatius. "And sovereign bishop abbots, of course."
"The mayor of Mount Angel is elected by the people," Ignatius said, frowning. "The abbot bishop conducts the Order's business, not that of the secular population."
Which means running outposts across hal
f the north west, Rudi thought. And the mayor listens most attentively to what Dmwoski tells him, to be sure.
"There's the Faculty Senate in Corvallis," the other twin said judiciously. "They're weird. But not as weird as having a president, like something out of the old days."
Everyone nodded. "We are out in the backwoods here," Rudi said. "Let's remember to be diplomatic, even when they're being odd."
"I'm always diplomatic when heavily outnumbered by armed strangers," Odard said with a small dry smile.
"Prudence is a virtue," Father Ignatius said. More thoughtfully: "I wonder how long the ghost of the United States will haunt men's minds? As long as Rome's did in Europe in the last Dark Age?"
They turned their horses north and shifted a little forward. Ingolf leaned close to Rudi while the clatter of hooves covered his voice.
"Is that why Odard's always so polite and diplo matic?" he murmured. "As far as he's concerned, we're armed strangers who outnumber him?"
Rudi blinked. "Hadn't thought of it that way," he replied, equally quietly, then put it out of his mind; he had more immediate worries.
Though it fits him uncomfortably well, the creature. Have to think about that sometime.
Mathilda's horse shifted over towards him as they waited. "Rudi. .. anamchara, why are we really doing this?"
Rudi sighed. "Partly because I think if the Prophet wants to kill Thurston, we want to preserve him," he said. He hesitated a minute and went on, very softly: "And to be sure… the Powers have sent me on this journey. But I'm not altogether Their puppet. Or so I like to think."
The Boise scouts came in sight. They were a file of eight light cavalry spread out in a fan centered on the road. All of them were well equipped with saber at waist, bow cases at their knees, short chain mail shirts and flared bucket helmets modeled on the old army's style; the armor was covered with mottled camouflage cloth. Their swords stayed in the sheaths, but they were riding with arrows on the string, and they swung out to check the open country on either side of the western party with professional thoroughness. Rudi held up his open hands in the peace sign; the others sat their horses, trying hard to radiate harmlessness. Father Ignatius smiled benignly and signed the air as the strangers drew closer.
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