Emberverse 08: The Tears of the Sun

by S. M. Stirling

  Oh, damn. This sort of story is credible now. It’s good that he believes the truth but the truth is so Not Good.

  “I think that we need to hallow and sanctify this land,” the cleric said thoughtfully. “And not bringing anybody vulnerable here sounds like a very good idea. In the future; I’m afraid I agree, this entire place should be destroyed and interdicted. Possibly burned over in the late summer when it dries out enough, for several years running.”

  He turned and went to the other priests standing in the wind, as motionless as they might have been standing in the shade of an oak on a hot day, their hands tucked into the broad sleeves of their robes.

  Disciplined, Tiphaine thought with approval.

  As Father Lucien turned back to her the three paced the precincts, waving censers and sprinkling water, praying and chanting. One stood and sang the “Kyrie Eleison.” His powerful baritone fought the wind and rain. The other four picked up the descant and response.

  Father Lucien signed the cross before her.

  Did I just feel something from my amulet? Damn, but I’m not used to this. I don’t like it.

  “Shall we pray for her soul?” he asked, between verses. “Christ died for us all. Even her.”

  “I don’t know. She was born in the Church. She turned apostate and traitor for personal power. Probably about ten years ago. I could say her soul was stolen from her. With her permission, I think, but still.”

  “It’s going to take a long time to reduce this to ashes,” observed Father Lucien. “I and my fellow priests will stay here, watch and make sure that all is consumed. And we will pray.”

  Stratson cleared his throat. “Did you say you wanted to strip and bathe, Grand Constable?”

  “Yes,” she said, and closed her eyes for an instant with a crushing weariness that made her bones ache. “Everything I have on goes on the fire. The bathwater to be poured out by the marsh; the towels on the fire.”

  Father Lucien smiled at her. It was a small smile, and a bit tight. “Not taking any chances, I see, my lady Grand Constable.”

  Tiphaine looked at her sword and sighed. She pitched it carefully into the center of the flames. It stood, quivering. Then she pulled off her helm and tossed it carefully to land at the foot of the blade, wincing as she thought of the cost of a new suit of plate armor. Stratson gave her reasonably knowledgeable assistance with the parts you simply couldn’t handle yourself. She turned to Lucien as she pulled off her right gauntlet. The scar stood out, inflamed, with a white rope of scar tissue down the center.

  “She did that to me in May. It nearly cost me my hand. All it took was her sucking one of her needles and running it down my hand. She didn’t even scratch the flesh; just touched it.”

  He looked carefully, but forbore to touch her. Then he nodded and strode forward, to stand by the cantor at the fire. By the time she had all the plate and mail off and was stripping the gambeson, tunic and trews, Stratson had all the men facing outwards.

  I feel stupid doing this Lady Godiva with gooseflesh thing. But I was the one grappling with . . . that . . . and splattering its gore all over. If I inhaled her blood, or spit got through the armor and gambeson . . . I might wake up tomorrow loosing my guts or showing pustules or carbuncles. Better get really clean.

  The amulet was warm and comforting between her breasts. This is probably a good thing to do.

  “My lady.”

  Father Lucien bowed before her and kept his eyes firmly over her left shoulder.

  “Your page is inside with Father Manuel. They’ve prepared three baths for you. The boy has towels all warmed up and we really can’t have our Grand Constable sick. And I assure you, we are taking extreme care. We will hold the vigil and not let even a spark or scrap get loose.”

  He frowned up at the security block. “I’m going to insist, as hard as I can, that the whole building be burned. Burned, exorcised, then let nature cleanse it for generations.”

  Tiphaine looked at him. I am finding myself thinking good thoughts about a former Inquisitor. The world is a very strange place.

  “You are probably right. I’ll speak to the Lady Regent and strongly recommend that we do so. God knows we’re broke, with the war, and we will be for years to come. But this . . . needs doing.”

  COUNTY OF THE EASTERMARK

  CHARTERED CITY OF WALLA WALLA

  CITY PALACE OF THE COUNTS PALANTINE

  PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION

  (FORMERLY SOUTHEASTERN WASHINGTON STATE)

  HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

  (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)

  AUGUST 24, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

  Countess Ermentrude looked at her husband. When he nodded confirmation, she pulled the night-robe around her more closely and shivered.

  “That was what you fought?” she asked him. “Or something even worse? Merciful mother of God, Felipe!”

  Tiphaine held out her glass. “Rigobert, do the honors, would you? That isn’t my favorite memory and I have some . . . doozies.”

  He poured from the decanter he’d moved to within arm’s reach. She drank again, ignoring the quiet speech in the background while she let the smooth fire of the brandy relax the knot in her gut.

  But Delia was able to help with the nightmares. Reason to love, number seven thousand one hundred forty-two: doesn’t freak out when I wake up sweating and shaking and grinding my teeth.

  Felipe set down his own snifter, rose and bowed, the full formal gesture.

  “My lady d’Ath, House Arminger and the Protectorate are very well served in their Grand Constable. House Artos and the High Kingdom of Montival will be as well.”

  “It needed doing, your grace,” she said with a shrug. “I was there, and I did it.”

  He exchanged another glance with his wife.

  “My lady Grand Constable, I cannot repay your aid with gifts, but I would give you one, if I might, as a symbol of our regard and a pledge of future friendship between our Houses. We spoke of my hunting lodge of High Halleck, in the mountains—my mother had it built and named it.”

  Tiphaine inclined her head. “I was thinking just a little earlier of asking for the loan of it,” she said. “When the war is over.”

  He shook his head. “Not a loan. I . . . we would gift it to you, my lady, lodge and land and forest right. In free socage, not asking vassalage, of course.”

  Tiphaine put down the brandy snifter and made her mouth not drop open. House de Aguirre didn’t do things by halves!

  Sandra would be pleased. And Rudi and Mathilda would, too. I’ve certainly nailed down the Eastermark politically, the way they wanted. But I don’t think . . . I’m Grand Constable, accepting a princely gift like that might . . .

  She stood and bowed in return. “My lord, my lady, my office forbids that I accept such a gift in my own person.”

  Felipe began to frown slightly, but Ermentrude touched his sleeve and spoke, “But you have an heir, I believe, Lady d’Ath?”

  “Yes. My adopted son, Diomede. Born to Lord Rigobert and his wife Lady Delia.”

  “Second son,” Rigobert said helpfully.

  Which gave a perfectly reasonable excuse for his welcoming a son taking the name of another House; it solved the inheritance problem rather neatly. Arrangements of that sort weren’t at all uncommon, where a fief-holder had no heir of the body.

  Count Felipe’s face cleared, and he beamed. “Which enables me to express my gratitude to you both,” he said. “I must insist.”

  Gisarme-butts stamped in the corridor outside. Rigobert opened the door, and the Mother Superior of the Walla Walla abbey swept in. She made a curtsy: “My lord Count?” she said. “I came as quickly as possible.”

  Tiphaine stood. “I leave you in very capable hands, your Grace,” she said.

  She and de Stafford shook the nobleman’s hand and bowed over Ermentrude’s.

  “And that is that,” she murmured, as they walked back through the family quarters.

  Bewildered w
ork crews were already tearing up the bloodstained parquetry. The Baron of Forest Grove nodded approval.

  “Except for winning the war, of course,” he said. “And now we have to manage a fighting retreat for the High King.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ARMY HQ

  THE HIGH KING’S HOST

  HORSE HEAVEN HILLS

  (FORMERLY SOUTH-CENTRAL WASHINGTON)

  HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

  (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)

  OCTOBER 28, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

  A knight was singing, alone at first and then joined by a dozen others:

  “Morning red, morning red

  Will you shine upon me dead?

  Oliphants will soon be blowing,

  Then must I to death be going,

  I and many merry friends!”

  Rudi Mackenzie looked up from the map, remembering to keep the bacon and fried onions folded in a wheat cake aside so that it wouldn’t drip grease on the precious document. The tall young man was one of the Protector’s Guard, helping his squire to groom his destrier a little down the slope from the royal command pavilion; he wove ribbons into its mane, and it snuffled at him and lipped his yellow curls until he fed it an apple.

  Around him his friends and comrades were finishing bowls of porridge and bannocks and bacon, many already in their war-harness and the others in the midst of donning it, laughing as they sang, a few waving their spoons to the chorus:

  “I and many merry friends!”

  “Nothing like a little pessimism,” Rudi said in a dull tone, and took another bite.

  “It’s not pessimistic,” Mathilda said seriously. “It’s a happy song, a young man’s . . . Oh, you got me again!”

  She thumped him in the ribs; a largely theoretical gesture, since he was in full plate, but her gauntlet made a satisfying whunk against the steel and he grinned and winked.

  The air was full of the sounds and scents of an army getting ready to move; men’s voices, the clank of metal, the creak of leather and wood, the occasional snort or neigh from a horse. Sweat and scorched bacon and dung, but also the clear cool fall air, and the first rains had laid the dust and left a dusting of green across the rolling hills. Banners snapped and fluttered, their points streaming towards the east and the enemy. Long shadows stretched westward, from the hills and the odd tree. Mostly the land here was tawny wilderness, even the herds of wild horses and antelope and bison fled. The birds waited overhead, though, crow and raven and buzzard, riding the air and waiting patiently.

  They would have their victory today, whatever passed among humankind.

  “The sun will be in our eyes for the morning,” Bjarni Ironrede said, looking at the map. “Here?” he added, pointing.

  “But the wind will be at our backs all day,” Oak Barstow said. “Fifty, a hundred feet extra range, and the cloth yards will hit harder.”

  “Here is where we deploy,” Rudi agreed, tapping his left forefinger on the map where Bjarni had indicated. “But if they’ve any wisdom, they won’t force a full engagement while we hold that position. They’ll push a little and then try to work around us.”

  He turned his head. “Lord Chancellor, you will continue to function as Chief of Staff here,” he went on.

  The warrior cleric looked happier in armor than he had the last time the High King saw him, which had been shepherding a supply convoy and looking very much as if he wanted to curse.

  Rudi looked around the circle, with a particular eye on the Associate lords; there were a round dozen, but Conrad Renfrew looked to have them well in hand.

  “My lords, this is the last of our preliminaries. We must fold the Grand Constable’s force into the body of this army, and pass them to the rear where they will form our main reserve, and also get a chance to rest. We will offer battle this day, but only if the enemy accepts it on our terms. This will require the most precise attention to my orders. I will not fight except at an advantage; but there will be battle, either today, or in the next few days. The dance ends soon. Is all that understood?”

  They all bowed their heads and thumped their breastplates in salute. “General Thurston?” he went on.

  “Two full regiments of my troops are ready, Your Majesty,” the dark young man said. “Six battalions and field artillery. We’ll anchor the archers, and Ironrede will fill any gaps.”

  “Excellent. Eric—”

  The Bearkiller commander nodded.

  “—my gut, not to mention my testicles, gives me a feeling that they’ll try to work around our right and push us away from the Columbia. Be wary of that, but not fixated on it. We may backpedal, but if we do it will be straight west. We will not allow ourselves to be forced away from the river. There isn’t enough water for an army this size, otherwise.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. Then a grin, and a flourish of the steel fist. “They’ll regret it if they try.”

  “See that they do.”

  A thunder of hooves, and a challenge-and-response from below the hill. They all looked down. One of the Dúnedain was riding a dappled gray Arab up towards the command party, and a man on a good but not spectacular horse beside, carrying a long light lance with a pennant marked with the crowned mountain and Sword of Montival. As they approached Rudi recognized his half sister Ritva; she was in the gear Rangers wore for a real battle, a black brigandine with the Stars-and-Tree picked out in silver rivets, mail sleeves and breeches, a spired helm with cheek-pieces, a gray hooded cloak beneath.

  There was a long bright scratch across the brow of the helmet, the type an arrow would make, and the broken-off stub of another in the cantle of her saddle.

  Ah, the one in the kettle helm and the red coat under his mail shirt will be her Drumheller Canuk, then, and carrying my banner, Rudi thought. Good luck to them both this day. Lug strengthen their arms, and the Crow Goddess beat Her wings above them.

  They swept to a stop, and before the hooves had stopped moving Ritva come out of the saddle in a showy vault-dismount and went to one knee before him, bowing with hand to heart for a moment, and then extending a dispatch.

  Some of the others snorted a little at the showiness. He didn’t mind; such things kept hearts strong, and battles were won in the heart as much as on the field.

  “Rise, and give me the report verbally, sister,” he said.

  She’d been sent for more than carrying an envelope; not least, to give an account that even the most birth-proud Associate lords would listen to carefully. He handed the document to Mathilda and then finished the sandwich with one last large bite, relishing the salty smoky tang of the cured meat and the sharp onion with it. He did not think he would die this day, but even with the Sword of the Lady there was no such thing as certainty.

  Mathilda opened it and began to read it quickly while Ritva stepped up to the map.

  “The Grand Constable’s rearguard are making a stand here,” she said. “Four Yakima infantry regiments and about three thousand horse, a thousand lancers and the rest light cavalry. The rest of the expeditionary force have broken contact and should be here”—she tapped the map to the northward, where the Horse Heaven Hills turned higher and sharper before they fell away to the Yakima Valley—“any minute now. They’ve got what’s left of the baggage train, mostly field ambulances and the wounded . . . the ones who haven’t been wounded in the last hour or two. We burned the rest of the wagons two days ago. A lot of the troops haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.”

  “Lord Chancellor,” Rudi said.

  Ignatius nodded, turning and giving orders in a low voice. Messengers knelt to listen to him, lean men and a few women in leather, Church couriers, many of them of the Order of the Shield. Clerks were writing as he spoke; the orders were folded, stamped and on their way while Ritva was still speaking.

  “Enemy forces?” Rudi asked.

  “Mostly light cavalry, their vanguard, trying to pin us. About ten thousand men. That’s not counting their casualties, they’ve been pushing i
t hard and paying the butcher’s bill.”

  Someone whistled softly; ten thousand was a stunning number for the mere lead element. Ritva went on: “But the Hîr i Dúnedain says there’s at least one brigade of Boise troops only about two hours by bicycle behind them and he strongly suspects more within striking distance.”

  Her finger traced an arc farther east, converging on the force that had been delaying and harassing the advance of the CUT and Boise.

  “Ah,” Rudi said. “Time and force and space. If that rearguard is not pulled out before the enemy are there in force enough to invest it, they are lost.”

  “The Hîr i Dúnedain thinks you have very little time, Your Majesty.”

  “Ritva Havel, if Alleyne Loring-Larsson says that, I will believe it as I would sky-tall letters of fire, written in Ogham by Lug’s spear. For now they hold, though?”

  “Yes, my liege. The infantry are standing off the horse-archers but the Grand Constable says she doesn’t have enough cavalry left to rock them back on their heels long enough for the infantry to break contact. She had to keep this many to cork the bottle while the rest of her force got away.”

  “A hard choice the Grand Constable had, but she made the right one,” Rudi said. “Best to risk some than lose all.”

  His hand caressed the crystal hilt of the Sword. Time and force and space . . . maps and symbols moved before his eyes.

  Decision formed. “Matti, you’ll be in charge of the Protector’s Guard. We’ll take all of them. Edain, mount up the High King’s Archers, the lot of them also. And . . . Viscount Chenoweth.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Your menie?”

  The eldest son of Conrad Odell nodded; a squire was behind him with a sheet of paper, but he didn’t need it.

  “One thousand six hundred, and ready to move immediately.”

  “Leave the spearmen; just the lancers and mounted crossbows.”

  “A thousand then, Your Majesty.”