The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

″Kin I zee?″ he said. ″Thass new.″

  Edain shook his head wordlessly as he grasped an arrow delicately with both sets of forefinger-and-thumb and pulled. He didn′t like letting strangers touch his longbow—that one had been a special gift from his father, Aylward the Archer, the old man′s personal war-bow that he′d set aside when he could no longer bend it. Rudi bent to retrieve his own and let the other man try it. Jake grunted incredulously; his arms were knotted with hard lean muscle, but they quivered and shook and he abandoned the effort before the string was halfway to his jaw. Drawing the great war-bow wasn′t just a matter of raw strength, though it needed that too. You had to have the knack, and that came from long and constant training—Mackenzies started their children at age six or so.

  Edain slipped his own weapon into the carrying loops beside his quiver, cleaned his hands on a tuft of grass and pointed to the bow riding behind one of the horsemen′s saddles with a crook-fingered let me have that gesture. The rider hesitated for a moment, then handed it down.

  ″Fiberglass,″ the young Mackenzie archer said, at the feel of the stave.

  That meant it was pre-Change, and lucky not to have aged and cracked into uselessness. The stuff the old world had confusingly called plastic mostly didn′t rot, but it lost strength and suppleness unpredictably. Then he bent it with one contemptuous finger on the string before handing it back.

  ″Twenty, twenty-five pounds draw. Nobbut a toy for little children, and feeble children at that, sure.″

  Most warriors were proud of their gear. Rudi could see the man begin to bridle before he looked around and spat in reluctant agreement.

  Jake pushed a body over on its back with his foot.

  ″Knifers,″ he said, pointing a bare toe at two long-healed zigzag scars on the dead man′s cheek like parallel thunderbolts, evidently some tribal mark. ″Shig-man′s boys, all three bunches got together fer dis. Bettuh we git outta here.″

  One of the others snorted. ″Runs allem till dark-dark aftah dis comin′.″

  They′ll still be running at sundown tomorrow, Rudi translated mentally.

  Jake shrugged. ″Mays they come back. Tuk, Samul, git gowin.″

  The other two Southsiders had a family resemblance to their leader, save that one was naturally dark brown of skin with tight-curled hair and broader features and the other pale blond. The ragged blankets all three had thrown over their saddle bows were probably their only other garments, and their bare feet were broad, callused enough that they likely went so always unless the weather was freezing. As the leader spoke, his companions were collecting any weapons worth having and making sure of the enemy wounded.

  Rudi grimaced slightly to himself. That was sometimes needful, but never pleasant—much harder than killing in the white-hot savagery of battle. He noticed with relief that the wild-men were going about it with a rough mercy, taking care to make the final stroke as quick as possible. The sounds of agony died down into an echoing silence.

  ″Youze got free of our turf,″ Jake went on to the Mackenzie clansmen. ″Come Southside fires anytime y′ want, sit down ′nd put a hand in the pot like a Freedom Fighter stud.″

  Rudi had to strain for a moment to understand the words through a thick accent, harsh and slurred and nasal at the same time, that turned these into deeze and are into ur.

  ″My thanks to you, Jake son of Jake,″ he said, slowly and clearly. ″My name′s Rudi Mackenzie, of the Clan Mackenzie; my sept totem is Raven. This is my blade-brother and sworn man Edain Aylward Mackenzie, called the Archer, of the Wolf sept. And you saved my life with that last spear-cast, as well, so I′m thinkin′ we′re even, so.″

  From his frown Jake found Rudi′s lilt—stronger than most in Clan Mackenzie and the product of Juniper Mackenzie′s own County Mayo accent—hard to follow as well. One of his tribesmen brought up a horse with a dead man across it.

  ″Thass our bro Murdy. The bastards killed him,″ Jake said. To the air: ″You don′t haunt us none, spook-Murdy, ′cause we got ′em for y′!″

  The others in the Southsider party added more to the same effect. Rudi nodded approval; it was a warrior′s duty to avenge his comrades, and a kinsman′s too.

  ″And speaking of duties, now that we have time . . .″

  He and Edain each bent to one of the bodies of the slain foemen, touched blood to a finger and that to his forehead. Then they faced the west and he murmured with raised hands:

  ″To Your black-wing host we dedicate the harvest of this unplowed field, Morrigú, Lady of the Ravens. Dread Lord of Death and Resurrection, Guardians of the Western Gate, guide the souls of these our foemen to the Lands of Summer where no evil comes and all hurts are healed. Goddess Mother-of-all, gentle and strong, through whose Cauldron we are all reborn, witness that we killed these Your children from need and duty, not wantonness, knowing that for us also the hour of the spear shall come, soon or late. For Earth must be fed.″

  ″So mote it be,″ Edain finished.

  They exchanged a glance and a slight nod. Rudi could tell the other Mackenzie was adding the same silent observation:

  And return these rotters in better condition for their next go-round on the Wheel, once they′ve spent some time with You.

  Jake gave Rudi a sharp look. ″Hey, that′s a good saying word t′ keep spooks down . . . You two aren′t part′a those bastards from Iowa, are you? You sure don′t sound like ′em and they pray to the Jesus-man.″

  It took Rudi a moment to realize what doze bassids meant; he made a mental effort to switch sounds and fill in the missing parts of speech.

  ″No, that I am not,″ he said. ″We′re from the Far West, from the lands of sunset, where we follow the Star Goddess, Who is also Earth the Mother, and Her consort the Sun Lord.″

  Well, some of us do, he thought.

  ″I came to Iowa with my friends on a journey eastward—″ To the farthest East, to the lands of sunrise, to seek a sword seen in visions. That might perhaps be a wee bit complicated to discuss right now. Also the way the Prophet′s men pursue us.

  ″—and the Bossman′s men set on us and took them captive.″

  Which oversimplifies a bit, but is true in the essence.

  ″He holds them hostage, until I return with a treasure—wagons left on a road north of here, just past a ruined town. The fall of . . . three years ago now.″

  Jake′s brows went up; it was visible, in the light of moon and stars.

  ″Those? We know ′em. Nothing worth taking there. We checked. Not cloth or saddles or blades or nothing. Wagons too big for us, so we left ′em. Mebbe haunts there, mebbe bad spook luck.″

  Rudi shrugged and smiled. ″They′re what he wants, nonetheless. And I′ve been trying to get to them, and not be killed by everyone I meet.″

  ″Talk about it later,″ Jake said. He glanced up at the sky, obviously judging distance and time by the stars. ″We gotta get Murdy away fore we bury him. Otherwise the Knifers, they′ll track and dig him up and eat his heart ′n balls.″

  The dark young man, Tuk, spat on one of the bodies. ″Bassids. Eaters. Monssers.″

  ″Monssers?″ Rudi asked, as they collected Edain′s mount and the pack animal with their gear.

  The living men mounted and headed westward along the river. Fireflies flickered across the waters, and a cool wet breath came from the river′s surface. Rudi took a deep lungful, glad to be away from most of the stink of blood and opened bodies, though Murdy and the game on the packhorses—a white-tail, an elk and a feral cow—weren′t all that fragrant either. Something hooted in the woods; they all stiffened, and then relaxed when experienced ears told them it was a real bird. Tuk continued:

  ″Yeah, monssers, like the ones who chased our pamaws—″

  Ancestors, Rudi realized, as they crossed the river where a fallen bridge broke the current and made a ford.

  ″—outta Chi-town in the Bad Time. They were just littles, but they was clean, our pamaws. Clean!″

  In fact Jake
and his friends were a fair bit ranker than the wet heat of summer here demanded, and their ill-cured clothes and harness smelled worse, not to mention the spatters of sticky drying blood that they ignored, despite the river being close at hand. Jake explained for the stranger as Rudi quickly bent and scooped up water and sand in passing to rub his hands free of the sticky mass that threatened to gum his fingers together. He could finish the job later, and take care of his sword—even the finest metal got nicks when you slammed it through bone.

  ″Didn′t eat nobody, even when they had to kill ′em anyhow to keep their own asses off the cookfire. Not even once. The Knifers, they still eats man-meat sometimes. Even when they don′t hafta. Think it makes ′em spook-strong.″

  Pride of ancestry rang in his voice, and Rudi gave a little sigh of relief. That spared him the necessity of explaining what was geasa to him, taboo.

  And that story would help account for how crude their gear is, Rudi thought. If their parents were mostly children . . . teenagers at most . . . themselves. And how much their speech has changed. And if this man is chief, none of the pamaws survived much longer than it took their own children to be three-quarters grown. He′s no older than me, I think.

  From what he′d heard, most of the folk of the old world had been utterly helpless when the Change came and the machines stopped, country-folk and farmers only a little less than townsmen. In some places enough skills had been found or pieced together to build life new on old foundations; the Clan Mackenzie had been luckier than most, since many of its founders had been lovers of the ancient arts. Close to the great cities it had been worst of all. There tens of millions were left without food or water; everything went down in a doomed scramble to keep alive an hour at a time, and plague ran through the surging masses like wildfire through dry grass.

  From the Mississippi to the east coast, where the cities had been thickest, little remained but bands like these—and Rudi seemed to have been fortunate indeed in the ones he met.

  Luck of that sort is only to be expected, if you′re fated to dree a hero′s weird, he thought with an inward grin, half at himself, half defiant mockery at the Powers. It′s one of the compensations for the fear and danger and general misery and the prospect of an early death. You′re lucky until you aren′t, so to say.

  ″They was all littles, the pamaws, ′cept old Jake, he was my pa, and Tuk ′n Samul′s,″ Jake said. ″He brought everyone out and hid ′em till the New Year. He was a good one, old Jake the sailor man. Dead a long time now, though; he′s a good spook″—

  Spirit-guardian, Rudi translated mentally.

  —″for all of us Southside studs n′ bitches.″

  Men and women, his mind added.

  It was going to be a strain talking, until he learned a bit of this dialect. He′d heard many on his trip across the continent, but none quite so strange except those that weren′t English at all.

  They stayed in the river valley for the most part, working their way south and slightly west, despite the deep dark under the trees that blocked most of the moonlight. A little reflected from the rippling surface of the Illinois, enough to use if you were very careful, and if the horses were sure-footed. They rode on the verge of the broken pavement to spare their feet, with only the sound of the hooves to mark their passage. Rudi guessed that the Southsider camp was down by the riverbank, and wasn′t surprised; it would be easier all round, with firewood close to hand, drinking water, cover from prying eyes, and shelter—the higher land around here was mostly open tallgrass prairie.

  Epona tossed her head up and snorted. Rudi inhaled deeply; that was the smell of fires and cooking, and the sweetish-rank smell of a camp not strictly kept, wastes and old food and raw hides curing with brains and piss. Evidently nobody had told these folk about using oak tanbark, despite it being all about them. Garbh growled at a chorus of yelping, barking mongrels, until Edain called her sharply to heel. Three more of the Southsider men stepped out from behind trees . . .

  No, Rudi thought, looking at the faces and naked torsos behind the spearheads. One of them is a Southsider woman . . .

  . . . and leveled their weapons, before crying greetings to Jake, and wailing at the sight of dead Murdy. More came swarming out to pelt them with questions and beat the curs off with sticks and feet; about three score of all ages, and they walked in a crowd around the horses until they passed a tiger′s skull on a pole and reached the fires and the rough corral.

  Say a hundred of them in all, half children. Three more-or-less grown women for every two men, or thereabouts, Rudi thought, making a warrior′s quick estimate.

  Nobody was much older than his new friend Jake; he doubted more than a handful had been born at the time of the Change.

  High casualties?

  The mob gazed gape-jawed at Rudi and Edain in their strange gear, pointing and gabbling in a way Mackenzies would think rude. Rudi sat his great black horse with long-limbed grace, the bright red-gold hair falling to his shoulders and his sharp-cut high-cheeked face smiling. Edain was less easy, his strong square face blank; he wouldn′t ask Rudi are you sure? with strangers about . . .

  None of the Southsiders matched Rudi′s height, and none had his companion′s breadth of shoulder or barrel chest. Not a prepossessing lot, but truly friendly, I think.

  Rudi winked at a naked toddler with a huge mop of frizzy hair; she ducked behind her mother, herself a girl of no more than sixteen years who cradled a baby on her hip.

  ″Let these studs have room!″ Jake called. ″They saves our asses, truth! An′ lay on eats! We got Murdy to bury, an′ our new friends to show our right n′ good ways!″

  When the mob surged back towards the camp Jake went on quietly:

  ″And when we′ve had the eats, you can tell me more of that story of yours. We don′t like the Iowa motherfuckers or their bossman at all. Shoved our pamaws back into this shit with their pitchforks. Keep us here still.″

  Rudi nodded gravely; Edain thawed a little, since he too had little use for Iowa′s ruler and liked the whole place less than the older Mackenzie. The Iowa folk had closed the Mississippi bridges in the chaotic months after the Change and patrolled the western shore . . . or they′d have been buried beneath the tidal wave of refugees heading west from Chicago and the other lakeside cities, and north from Saint Louis.

  Though now they′ve more land than they can till, he thought, remembering pasture where fields had once been, and at that more grass than the cattle could eat down. They could change their policy, if they would, and both would benefit by it.

  There was a hungry smile in Jake′s words: ″Anyone′s got a hate against that Bossman bastard, he′s got a word to say here.″

  ″Sure, and I′d not weep if he were to be done an injury,″ Rudi said. ″He′s not the worst ruler I′ve ever met, but he′s far from the best—and not the smartest, either, that he is not.″

  The smartest of rulers? A toss-up between my mother and Matti′s, that would be; the one wise and good, the other wise and wicked.

  He realized with a start that he missed Mathilda′s mother; missed her counsel, and her peculiar way of looking at the world. They′d always gotten on well enough, even when he′d been her husband′s captive during the War of the Eye, but then again you never really knew where you stood with the Spider of the Silver Tower. He did know she loved Mathilda . . .

  I′ve never really understood her, otherwise. She′s a bad person, really, but she′s raised Matti to be a good one, and she was always kind to me, even when she pushed me hard to learn and grow. She′s done great evil, but great good also, if more from policy than inclination; and I think that the good will long outlive her, while the evil will mostly vanish . . . start to vanish, at least . . . when Matti takes the throne of Portland and rules the Association. And the more I travel, the more I realize I′ve learned from her, those months every year I lived in the Regent′s Household—things I never could have learned at home. Mother has true wisdom, but it′s not all the wis
dom there is. What she stands for is good, but some things can′t be seen from where she stands.

  And that was something he could only realize at a distance from them both; as if the knowledge unfolded with the weight of their personalities removed for a while, letting it open like a flower from the bud.

  And at home I would never have realized what I knew, he mused, looking westward to where stars shone over the treetops.

  Nor learned what I have from others on this journey. Am I journeying to the east, then, or do I travel towards myself? When I meet the man I am becoming . . .

  ″Who will Rudi Mackenzie be in himself?″ he mused. ″Will those I know, know me still?″

  One thing I do know: I′ll rescue Matti for her own sweet sake . . . but even if she wasn′t dear to me, I′d be downright terrified of failing Lady Sandra Arminger!

  CHAPTER TWO

  BARONY OF ATH, PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION TULATIN VALLEY, OREGON AUGUST 15, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD

  The Lord High Chancellor and the Grand Constable of the PPA rode side by side through the harvested field, with their hawks on their wrists and the attendants at a discreet distance behind. A covey of pheasants exploded from the ground ahead of their horses in a cracking flutter of wings.

  Both the Associates were in what Portlander fashion decreed for gentlemen engaged in rural pleasures on a summer′s day; turned-down thigh boots with the golden spurs of knighthood on the heels, doeskin breeches, baggy-sleeved linen shirts beneath long T-tunics cinched by broad sword belts of studded and tooled leather, and wraparound sunglasses in gilded frames.

  Embroidered heraldic shields on their chests showed their arms. Those of Chancellor Conrad Renfrew—also Count of Odell—were sable, a snow-topped mountain argent on vert; it echoed the towering perfect cone of Mt. Hood, just visible as a tiny silver spike on the eastern horizon. Baroness Tiphaine d′Ath bore sable, a delta or over a Vargent; she wore a discreet livery badge at the brow of her hat as well, her own arms quartered with Sandra Arminger′s in token of vassalage.