. . and then freezing at the glitter on the honed edges of arrowheads pointing at him. Six arrows, drawn past the jaw, ready to nail him to the ground.
It had to be his imagination that he heard the thick yew staves of the longbows creaking, but the barred-fang growl of the dogs was like millstones turning as they crouched and stared at his throat with fixed intent. The dark woman was leaning on her staff and panting a little as if with hard effort. She blew out a breath and grinned down at him, her full lips curving away from white teeth.
“Who’s the naughty laddie, then?” she said, in an accent that held a strong pleasant burbling lilt. “So, would you be puttin’ your hands on your head the now, or would you rather be pierced, perforated and sent off to the Summerlands for a wee bit of a rest before you try life again?”
Shit, he thought. So much for my glorious military career and a general’s stars by forty. Shit twice and on toast.
“Your choice,” one of the archers added helpfully.
“I surrender,” he said, laying down the crossbow, coming up onto both knees and clasping his hands across the top of his head.
“Now that’s a sensible lad,” she said cheerfully, extending her hand so Alyssa could stand and move out of the line of fire. “Better not to kill without strong need, for aren’t we all alike children of the Mother? Merry meet, Lady Alyssa; who would this likely youngster you’re travelling with be?”
“I’m Cole Salander, Private First Class, United States Army, serial number A3F77032,” he said sourly, staring ahead.
“Toss the sword belt, number-on-a-list-man,” one of the archers said. “Undo it with your left hand, mind, and keep the other on your head.”
He unbuckled it and did, which put his sword, bowie, utility knife and hatchet out of reach; he supposed it was a compliment of sorts that they were being cautious about getting close to him while he was armed. Another Mackenzie extended the horn-sheathed tip of his yew stave and snagged the sling of his crossbow, dragging it cautiously away before firing the bolt into the ground with a whap and examining the weapon with professional curiosity.
“And is there any more cutlery, ironmongery or things of a sharp and pointy or otherwise harmful nature?” the first bowman said. “Produce, man, and no monkeyshines.”
He was a little older than the others, with a cropped blond beard and only a few touches of war paint and no weird haircut except for it being a lot longer than was common for men in Idaho, his thick yellow braid tied into a clubbed bunch at the back of his head. A piece of wolf-tail dangled along with it. A thin collar of twisted gold lay around his neck, the ends fashioned into the heads of wolves meeting muzzle-to-muzzle.
“Steady now, boyo, and don’t try to befool us,” he said, his voice hard. “That would not put us in a better mood. You get a whap alongside the head for every one we find when we search.”
Cole had two holdout knives, one in his boot and a little one sewn into the jacket behind his neck. He tossed the blades and his sentry-removal wire garrote and blackjack after the crossbow, removing them from their hiding places with two fingers and great caution but no undue waste of time. He didn’t know how long they could hold the draw on those heavy bows and didn’t want to find out if it meant fingers slipping off the string and a thirty-six-inch arrow heading his way at several hundred feet per second.
What the fuck happened? he thought, dazed and unresisting amid the painted faces grim or grinning. How the hell did I go to sleep with an enemy patrol all around me? Please tell me I’m not that much of a noob screwup, God. Or. . did she do something to me?
That was almost as scary as the arrowheads, more so if you thought about it for a minute. Pilot Officer Alyssa Larsson was snickering now. The Clan warriors took the tension off their bows, though several kept their arrows on the string until he’d been quickly and expertly searched. There were a few happy chortles and whoops as they found and appropriated the more handy items in his light field pack as well as his stash of silver coins.
Yeah, OK, you’re happy, he thought with resigned irritation.
That was one of the perks of capturing someone; everyone knew the (unofficial) rules. They left him his sleeping bag and some of the really essential gear, and conscientiously returned the personal letters and family pictures after a glance to make sure what they were, which meant they were playing by the rules. His paybook, map and the other official documents went into a sack. Alyssa took back the map, papers, knife and compass he’d appropriated from her.
The wad of green paper money they tossed back with a jocular suggestion that when it ran out he could just use leaves and grass like anybody else. They had a point, with the way prices had gone haywire since the President bought it at the Horse Heaven Hills. His last letter from home had cautiously mentioned that people were swapping a lot again, which said volumes in a way the censor couldn’t object to.
“Merry meet,” Alyssa said to the Mackenzies.
The senior archer looked at her, the splinted arm and the spectacular and now colorful bruises on her face, then back at Cole. His eyes narrowed.
“Merry meet, and merry part again, Lady Alyssa,” he said. “Now, would you want the whole corp of this one to come back with you still walking upon the ridge of the earth, or just the ugly head of him in a bag, to be pickled in cedar-oil and nailed above your door?”
Alyssa chuckled. Cole didn’t think the suggestion was funny at all, and decided he disliked her sense of humor. Despite her lack of accent she seemed to know a fair bit about Mackenzies.
“No, he’s been a perfect gentleman, Sèitheach,” she said. “Strictly according to the laws of honorable war.”
He nodded and took the hand off his swordhilt and looked grimly at Cole, who was trying hard to hide his relief.
“Well, and doesn’t that demonstrate the Law of Threefold Return, boyo?” he said. To Alyssa: “Where’s your machine?”
“Twenty-odd miles that way, most of it up and down, as of three days ago,” she said, pointing northeastward. “What’s left of it, which isn’t much. Thought I could catch an updraft but hit still air instead and I used a couple of trees and a boulder as a landing strip. He came along while I was still dizzy. I’d have been in a really bad way otherwise. I was upside down and couldn’t get at the belts because of the arm and there was a grizzly sniffing around and I don’t think it was on my side. I’m a Bearkiller, after all!”
“What happened to the bear?”
“We ate some of it.”
She cocked an eye at Cole. “He put two bolts into it and then took off like a squirrel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man run up a rock face so fast. Then he shot it dead while it was trying to climb up and get him.”
“More of them?” the blond archer said.
He ignored chuckles from his followers. Several of them nodded respectfully at Cole, and a few even murmured something like bravely done, but the Boisean’s snap judgment was that their commander was a notable hardcase.
“He didn’t say, but from the way he acted no, not within a couple of days’ travel minimum. Be careful with him. He knows his way around the woods and he’s quick. No fool, either.”
The dark woman with the staff used it to swat the bowman in charge on the backside before she added sharply:
“And taking heads is forbidden. That’s geasa for all the Clan as you know perfectly well, Sèitheach Johnston Mackenzie. It’s even geasa for McClintocks, the which is saying a great deal!”
“Well, I was just jokin’, so I was,” the man replied a little sheepishly.
“No you weren’t, Sèitheach-me-lad. Not about taking the head, at least, if not the pickling and nailing.”
Gurk! Cole thought, restraining an impulse to take one of his hands down and rub the back of his neck with it. OK, she’s a witch.
There were rumors about that, too. He hadn’t believed them until now. Of course, there were also rumors about the Cutters, the Church Universal and Triumphant, and what their High Seek
ers could do. Officially they were supposed to be friends and allies who just absolutely loved the reconstituted United States centered in Boise and wanted to bring their stamping ground out in Montana back under the Constitution. Cole most certainly didn’t believe that. He’d met a couple, and the only way they loved anyone else was the way Cole loved a ham sandwich with mustard and a pickle. Witness the way their cavalry bugged out at the Horse Heaven Hills when everything went to shit, and left the infantry-heavy US forces in a world of hurt. Two of his brothers hadn’t come back from that fight, and nobody knew what had happened to them.
So OK, the westerners really do have witches. But it sounds like she’s a good witch. Anyone who’s against chopping off my head is pretty damned good as far as I’m concerned. Christ, this all just gets better and better, doesn’t it? “Sorry, sir, they took me prisoner ’cause a witch cast a spell on me, which is why I went to sleep, really it is, honest.” That’s sure going to go over well, assuming I ever get to report in. Sergeant Halford will ask me if their dogs ate my homework, too.
“And don’t jest on things the Goddess-on-Earth made geis!” the woman continued. “We may be Gaels, but this isn’t Erin in the ancient times and you’re not the Hound of Ulster nor yet one of the Red Branch.”
“Yes, fiosaiche,” the man named Sèitheach muttered.
She frowned. “I. . there’s something strange about this one. That’s why he caught at me like a wrong note in a song. I’d not have found him otherwise, not if this were just a matter of humankind. Yet I can’t say precisely what. It’s not that he’s a banewreaker himself, I do not think.”
“What should we be doing with him, then?”
“Why, I’m but a fiosaiche,” she said blandly, stepping back. “You being the bow-captain here, it’s your decision, not a matter of brehon law. War’s for a warrior, not a priestess or a foreseer.”
A couple of the archers grinned and Alyssa snickered. Then the fiosaiche started looking at her arm, probing gently along the splint. She hissed slightly and her eyes went blank at the pain.
The witch-woman nodded. “Thin break, right enough. It should heal well, and that’s a good job of splinting. Provided you get some rest and don’t put any strain on it!”
When the bow-captain-
Whatever the hell that is. Some sort of rank, probably. I think this guy’s a platoon sergeant or something like that.
— snapped orders the Clan archers went on grinning, but they obeyed promptly too and without argument. Presumably a fiosaiche was something like a chaplain or a political officer or both. Though she looked a lot nicer than any of the zampolits-what were officially called morale officers-he’d ever met.
“We’ll sweep along the river until dark and lie out tonight, forbye there may be some of this one’s friends about,” the bow-captain said. “Remember how well he was hidden. The next one may be more twitchy with his trigger, so keep an eye out for sign unless you want a bolt in the back. Caillech-”
That was the girl with the wings painted on her face.
“-you and Talyn-”
The guy who’d been covering her and bossing the dogs.
“-take the lady and the prisoner back to camp. You’re up to the walk, Lady? It’s a fair bit of a way and nothing but deer-tracks, and those of an exceeding steepness.”
“That’s Pilot Officer, bow-captain; I’m no lady among Mackenzies. And it’s walk or crawl, isn’t it? War isn’t a hunting trip. I broke my arm, not a leg.”
The man named Talyn nodded to Cole as he took his hands down and got to his feet. It felt strange not to have a sword at his waist or a crossbow in his arms, like being naked in public. The Mackenzie’s voice was not unkindly as he pointed southwest with his longbow.
“That way, Cole Salander of Boise. If the Lady needs assistance, give it, and do it well. Oh, and just so we understand each other about any thoughts of skipping off into the woods with rude unseemly haste like a Jack in the Green-urghabháil dó!”
The two great dogs had been at his feet, heads on paws. They sprang in a blur of speed, and Cole froze again as the gruesome jaws closed on his wrists; they were tall enough at the shoulder that they didn’t have to bend their heads upward to do it. They didn’t clamp down, which he suspected would have cut right through bone and sinew with a single bite, but they weren’t letting him move either. Those growls like millstones grinding came from each deep chest again, and their eyes cocked up at him in warning. Or possibly hopeful anticipation. The feel of the fangs was like the teeth of a waiting saw, and between them they weighed as much as he and half over again.
Alyssa was grinning at him. Which was understandable; turnabout was fair play, and being a helpless prisoner was no fun.
“Urghabháil dó! means ‘grab him,’ pretty much, soldier,” she said. “You don’t really have to worry until he says mharú air! Which means ‘kill.’ Though he’d most likely just shoot you instead.”
“Loose him, Artan, Flan!” the Mackenzie said to the dogs, and they obeyed, backing away but looking at Cole with suspicion anyway. “Now, off we go!”
“You guys are weird,” Cole said resignedly.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Alyssa said cheerfully. “What you’ve seen so far is nothing. Try Dun Juniper sometime. Or even better, Castle Todenangst, I’ve visited there a couple of times with Mom and Dad. That place is weird.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Castle Todenangst, Crown demesne
Portland Protective Association
Willamette Valley near Newburg
High Kingdom of Montival
(formerly western Oregon)
June 15th, Change Year 26/2024 AD
“M om!” the High Queen of Montival said.
Sandra Arminger looked up from where she had been kneeling at her prie-dieu. The padded prayer-stool-rather like a reversed legless chair-stood before a triptych of the Madonna and Child flanked by Saints Edgar and Olaf, the patrons of rulers. The gold leaf of the halos in the icons glowed in the beam of light from an ocular window set high up under the carved plaster of the coffered roof.
She smiled at her daughter, the dark-brown eyes dancing. “Honestly, Matti, you needn’t goggle as if you’d caught me doing something nasty with a pageboy. I was praying.”
Mathilda opened her mouth and closed it as Sandra crossed herself, returned her rosary to the embroidered purse at her belt and stood. That still left her six inches shorter than her tall daughter, a smoothly pretty and slightly plump woman in her fifties, in a cotte-hardie of dove-gray silk elaborately jacquarded with ribbons and swallows and a white silk wimple bound with silver and opals. A Persian cat yawned and padded out from beneath the prie-dieu, its gaze as blandly self-satisfied as that of its mistress.
People who don’t know better underestimate Mother.
Though nowadays you had to go a long way to find someone so utterly uninformed. She’d seen very hard men start to sweat when Sandra Arminger smiled at them in her let’s-share-a-joke way. The joke might be very pointed, or give you indigestion.
Mathilda shook her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen her mother pray, of course; it was just the first time she’d seen her doing it strictly in private, where there wasn’t any political benefit to be gained by conventional piety. Previously she’d used this little room off the Regent’s suite for confidential interviews, though it was the sort of place a noblewoman would set up a private shrine. Now, besides the prie-dieu and images it had a big carved rood on one wall and a small shelf of devotional books.
“What. . were you asking?” she said at last.
“I was praying for your father,” her mother said.
“Oh, good!” Mathilda said with a rush. “I mean, for both of you.”
They looked at each other silently for a moment in the incense-scented gloom. She’d told her mother much of what she’d seen in the. .
Visions, Mathilda thought. That’s as close as you can get to a word for things there aren’t words for. What did
Father Ignatius say when I made my confession? That some realities make language itself buckle and break when we try to describe them instead of just living them.
. . the visions she’d seen at Lost Lake, when she and Rudi had joined their blood on the blade of the Sword of the Lady and thrust it into the living rock of Montival.
Or perhaps where Artos and I did.
Rudi carried the Sword again now, but in another sense it was still there beside the infinitely blue waters with their hands clasped on the hilt. . and always had been and always would be. She could still feel a little of the curious linking that had started then, the sensation that the whole of Montival was like her own body. Since then her dreams had been odd; not so much fantastic as. . real.
Like vivid memories but of things she had never seen. Perhaps of ragged men stalking deer in a clearing fringed by redwoods, or wild horses running in a desert with dust smoking around their hooves and manes flying, or gulls on a cloudy beach beneath the enormous rusted hulk of a wrecked freighter, or the empty tinkling clatter of glass falling from the leaning tower of a skyscraper as windblown rain hooted through the wreck of a dead city. .
Either it had faded a little or she’d grown accustomed to it; Rudi thought it was the latter, though he felt it much more as bearer of the Sword.
But for a while at Lost Lake she and he had walked outside the light of common day, their footsteps carrying them on separate paths across all boundaries of space and time. One thing she had seen was her own father, Norman Arminger, in a place where he did penance. And there she had met. .
Her eyes went to the supernal peace on the Virgin’s face as she looked down upon the Christ Child.
“She said. . She said that because he loved us, he could receive love now,” Mathilda said softly. “And choose to. . to make amends. I think that works both ways.”
Her mother sighed. “Here I receive positive proof of an afterlife, and instead of being reassuring it’s frightening.”
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