Moonrise

by Mitchell Smith

  "Soon. Trumpet'll call Mess in about a glass-hour." Richard tested his edges with a thick brown thumb."... It's always an ax-fighter's question, whether to sharpen both edges keen as can be — or leave one very slightly duller, so as not to turn on armor, but drive through it."

  "One keen edge," Baj said, "with a spike opposite, is the battle-ax favored on the river."

  "Ah..." Richard set his weapon down, "— but your spike may become stuck in whomever, have to be levered and wrenched free. And while a Person is busy with that, what's an enemy at liberty to do?"

  "Mischief, I suppose." Baj noticed his breath smoking with the cold.

  "Mischief absolutely, Baj. Though, with a light ax, and long-handled... less of a problem."

  "We had a heroine who fought with one."

  "I know that story," Nancy said. "Many women know the story of that brave girl and your old queen — a reminder that females are not baby-squirters only, but can fight." She slid a length of her scimitar's steel from the scabbard by emphasis, then slid it back. "... I wish," she said to Baj, "sweetheart, I wish we'd practiced more."

  "I couldn't have survived more practice." He leaned to kiss her ear, lying so nicely tucked in her soft red mane. "You're too fierce for me."

  "I'm not."

  "You are." Another kiss.

  Errol, curled on a blanket, opened his eyes and tongue-clicked at them.

  "Quite right," Richard said, "— ridiculous."

  ... As they waited the mess-call, with Patience and Errol both sitting against a feed-shelter's canvas wall — each looking out over distance past distance, and seeming to dream awake — Nancy sat under a sheltering blanket, and watched while Baj, his fingers stiff with cold, played fast, no-pausing chess with Richard. Fast and losing chess. Soon, his king was desperate, hobbling back and forth from one square to the only possible other.

  "Give up," Richard said.

  "Never."

  "You've lost. Give up."

  "No. Anything might happen." At which, a saving trumpet soared out three long notes. "See?"

  Richard heaved to his feet. "I've won."

  "Have not. My king still stands."

  "Nonsense."

  "My Baj," Nancy set her blanket shelter aside, "— is true-human, and not to be trusted."

  "No question." Richard held out a massive hand, helped Patience lightly to her feet. "Nancy, keep the boy close. — We go; we stand in line at the kettles. We get our rations; we leave and come back here. No conversation."

  "All right." Patience smoothed tundra grass from her blue coat. A ragged strip of its hem was missing.

  "— And if some moose-rider insults you, bear it."

  "Any insult, Richard?" Baj moved his king the one square to safety, and stood.

  "Any insult. If the cavalry foots us out of their Lines, we're in trouble for a peaceful place to sleep."

  "Okay," Baj said (a perfect WT usage). "This doesn't seem a good place for argument. But we leave our packs here, our goods?"

  "Leave them," Richard said. "No one steals in the General's camp." And he led off toward the trumpet's repeat, as troopers came strolling past.

  ... Having waited their turns in a long line (with no conversation) — then, at the stoves, having one looped red string snapped off their wrists — they each were passed a big tin bowl of stew, and a fat dark round of barley bread.

  "Spoons," Richard said, his only conversation at mess, speaking for all of them.

  A tall, shambling cook made an exasperated face, rooted in a wicker chest, and handed over spoons. "Issued once," he said to them.

  ... Then, with spoons and bowls and bread, they retreated past a number of uninterested or unfriendly glances to their patch of tundra over moose-lines. And sitting on wool pallets, wrapped in cloaks or blankets — except for warmth-talented Patience — they began eating the food before it chilled.

  "Dear Jesus." Baj hadn't intended to complain, was prepared for the expected military "chow." Or thought he was.

  Nancy reached to pinch his cheek. "What's wrong, dear? — who was a prince, and pampered."

  Richard smiled his toothy smile. "It's seal meat in the stew, Baj. Guards' main ration. People take them from the ocean ice... butcher out, and let the meat freeze for transporting."

  "Better become used to it," Patience was dipping bread into her bowl, "— from here to the Wall, then up onto the ice, it will likely be frozen seal meat or herring."

  "Unless an army moose dies," Richard said. "— or one of the Shrikes' caribou.... Errol likes it."

  And so it seemed, since Errol was crouched with his face in his bowl, making feeding-dog noises.

  Baj held his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, spooned with his right... and got some of the stew down. A rank and oily puddle, it lay in his belly restless. The bread, though, was quite decent.. . helped cleanse his palate. "And we have no mutton left at all?"

  "No, we don't," Richard lifting a bit of stew meat on his knife. "You may find you grow quite fond of seal. Become a judge of its various qualities."

  "I'm sure..."

  "And my Baj is so brave," Nancy said, "holding his nose as he swallowed."

  It hadn't occurred to Baj before to test whether a little fox blood made a girl more or less ticklish. And — after some spilled stew, wrestling, muffled shrieks, and attempts at biting — he had his answer.

  The answer beyond that answer, of course, was soothing and stroking. Apology, and kisses.

  "Prince," Patience said, "try for a little conduct."

  And Baj did, straightened, and brushed grass and a spot of stew from his buckskin jerkin. "So, from here — sustained by seal meat — where?"

  "To the Wall," Richard said, "if Sylvia Wolf-General keeps her promise."

  "To the Wall," Patience said, "— then up onto the ice, and weeks of fast going with Shrikes, north and east to Boston town." She set her mess bowl aside, kept a piece of bread.

  "And these companies of the Guard?"

  "Will, I hope, follow."

  "Too many and too heavy for the Shrike's fast sleighs," Richard said, and tucked his issue spoon down into his moccasin-boot. "The soldiers'll likely march forty miles up Apley Lead — it's called the Crease — then climb the ice from there to freighter-sleds. Shouldn't be more than five, six days behind us, coming to the Township."

  "Shouldn't be," Nancy said.

  "But if they are?" Baj said. "And come late?"

  "Then, Baj," Richard sighed, "they will find us executed — and their loved ones still held alive and hostage."

  "We need these people." Patience chewed some bread. "... First, and most important, we need their threat, to hold the Constables' attention to the south, while we go down North Gate and into the city. No units of the Guard have ever been allowed within Township limits, or even close. Senior Person officers, yes, for parades and honors. But their soldiers, their companies, never."

  "All right." Baj's heart had certainly been listening. Thump thump thump. "First, you said, we need them for threat, and misdirection. And second.. .?"

  "Second," Richard said, "we do need these companies for force. They'll have to at least skirmish, engage the Constables at South Gate, while we come in at the North. And an attack, an apparently determined attack, would be that much better."

  "How many Constables?"

  "More than three thousand, Baj." Patience buttoned her blue coat as the wind came stronger.

  "More... than three thousand."

  "Thirty-five hundred," Richard said, "more or less. All Sunrisers — but trained fighters. They wield pole-arms, halberds with heavy heads. Ax-edge, hook, and spear point."

  "Charming.... And a thousand five-hundred more of them than we have here."

  Richard nodded. "With the great advantage of standing on the defensive. Worth numbers in itself."

  "And all Boston born, Baj," Patience said. "Officered by our best families. None Irish."

  Baj took a deep breath. "So — we deal wit
h those... then murder perhaps hundreds of women."

  "We won't deal with them," Richard said. "We'll wait until their reserves march south to meet the Guard. Then, we go to the Pens — quickly, with the Shrikes."

  "And to the Pens... how far?"

  "Across part of the city, Baj." Patience reached to pat his knee. "Only two... three WT miles, but fast as we can. There won't be time for slow and secret going."

  Silence... And useless to say an only-if, but Baj said it anyway. "If my Second-father, if the Achieving King were alive, the Rule's fleet might have come up the coast of Ocean Atlantic to strike with us."

  "Yes... but even so, Baj," Richard leaned forward to draw a faint map through tundra lichen with a horny nail. "Even so, the sea is shrunk back from ancient WT Boston by a hard day's march at least. I'm no sea-fighter Marine — the Township has none — but even I can see what time it would take to get an army off the ships there, and organized to move inland over the ice.... With that delay, they would find the city's gates carved free of steps, steps they'd need on steep, polished ice — and no other way to enter Boston-town but try to hack out their own, with the Constables waiting."

  Baj sighed. "I can't picture well what I haven't seen. But so few of us — Shrikes with us or not — it seems . .. desperate."

  "And so it is." Patience smiled at him.

  "But you are with us!" Nancy, lisping us, gripped his arm.

  "Oh, yes, I'm with you, sweetheart. My dead brother, my dead friends would never forgive me, otherwise." He tried a smile of his own. "And, of course, I'd miss the adventure of the thing."

  Nancy hit him on the shoulder. The girl had a rough way about her. Biting, elbowing, hitting...

  * * *

  In late after-noon, as if to balance the earlier fortunate intervention by mess call, Baj was interrupted winning — with both knights and a surviving bishop, having made hacked meat of Richard's pieces, now pursuing his terrified queen — when a Wolf-blood Person came trotting to order them to the General's pavilion.

  "No!"

  "Yes," Richard said, smiling, "— and I have not lost."

  "Leave the pieces; leave everything the way it is."

  "Nooo..." Richard pulled the little pegged pieces free, dropped them into the set's tiny drawer. "Someone — some passing sergeants or saddlers, might try to complete the game."

  "Unfair," Baj said.

  And Nancy said, "Unfair."

  "An echo?" Richard tucked the chess set into his possibles-sack. "Did I hear an echo on the tundra?"

  CHAPTER 20

  "My coat's in rags," Patience said, as they went through camp, a bitter wind blowing as if to hurry them along. "Makes a poor impression."

  "Nancy," Richard said, "— keep hold of that boy."

  Errol was swinging this way and that in her grip on his hide-jacket's collar, tongue-clicking at soldiers as they passed.

  Baj saw two or three Persons — Guards-soldiers sized and shaped by bear blood — stare unpleasantly as Richard went by.

  Richard had noticed. "They don't care for an officer running — then returned and spared — when they'd be skinned alive and salted."

  "To WT hell with them, then," Nancy said, turned and made the oldest gesture.

  Baj turned her back. "No trouble."

  "I'm not starting trouble."

  Errol whimpered, yanked to get away, and Nancy hauled him back, thumped him on the head. "Behave."

  ... A guard mount — eight of the near-human cavalry, their sabers drawn — were stationed at the Wolf-General's pavilion, posted in twos at each of the four cardinal directions. Their officer, his blade bared, came to meet Richard, looked him up and down, looked each of them up and down, then said, "Your weapons — and the fool boy — stay here."

  "Good news, Lieutenant," Nancy said, and pushed Errol to him. "Better hold fast — oh, and beside the knives, he bites."

  The officer said, "Wonderful," took hold of Errol by the back of his neck, and gestured one of his men to collect swords, daggers, and an ax. "... Now, you others go in to the General, and respectfully."

  At the pavilion's entrance, a Person, blunt-muzzled, pelted black — the same wide banner-bearer who'd ridden with the General to greet them — stood beside a grass-green standard.

  He stared at Nancy as they went by, but said nothing.

  As the entrance flap closed behind them, Baj saw four... five hulking wolf-bloods, their tufted fur gray as their armor, crowded at a long, folding camp table. Great sheets of southern paper lay spread across it.

  "Make room." With that rip-saw voice — and after a brutal shove that clanked cuirass against cuirass — Sylvia Wolf-General came to stand central, smiling at them over the table. It seemed to Baj only perhaps a smile.

  "I assume," she said, "that you are all familiar with our intentions, going north to the city."

  "They know what we plan, Sylvia," Patience said. "I've told them."

  "Very well, then — details, and review. In pursuit of this... correction... of Boston, of Cambridge Township, I intend to march north in the morning. You, and the Shrikes in camp, will march with us. March," she stared at Patience, slanted eyes blue as cornflowers, "— no sailing away in the air."

  "I understand."

  The others, her officers, relatives — her pack, Baj supposed — now stood a little back from the table on either side. The pavilion smelled of those Persons, as if their General's harsh voice had taken odor, and there were no pretty blue eyes among them.... One, older, fur whitening, and — by the rows of bronze breasts molded down her muscle-cuirass — a woman, had only a single eye, squinting, intelligent, and merciless. The General's aunt?. .. Certainly the General's aunt.

  "So, we march to the Wall." The General's sharp black nails tapped maps and papers before her. "And you people up and over it — where, I'm informed, a small tribal levy will meet you. The Shrikes had, I believe, originally planned a greater number, something unpleasant for my companies." She smiled. "But now, all friends."

  "Friends," the probable-aunt echoed. The voice wavered with age, the single eye did not.

  "Yes, dear," the General said, "— and are to be treated as such for this campaign. With, of course, your company always kept in reserve, in case of... a misunderstanding."

  Her aunt nodded.

  "— So, to continue, you people will then sled with the Shrikes the considerable distance north and east to Boston and then the city's north gate, and should arrive, burrow, and hide there until we — having gone up a different way to preserve our mounts and supplies — reach South Gate." A fingernail tapped a map. "There, we'll begin assaults likely in the end to achieve nothing — considering the numbers, the reinforcements they can call on — -nothing except to distract the Cambridge Constables, draw their regiments away from you and your sad duty." She smiled, showing fangs. "You will wait for us before attempting to enter the city. We'll arrive, though we move more slowly than tribesmen. Hurry is not the Guard's business."

  "Inevitability," her aunt said, "— is our business."

  "Yes." The Wolf-General nodded. "And for this campaign — for this task and this time only — I ally with a rebel Boston Talent, and allow a deserter to live, and permit a camp whore to serve as soldier... as well as a Sunriser supposedly once of importance elsewhere." She stared at them. "But not Lady Weather, not Lord Winter, not Frozen-Jesus will save you, if I am disappointed."

  "I trust," Baj said, and was startled to hear what he was saying, "— I trust that we, in turn, will not be disappointed by your command."

  He could not remember in his life before, such a silence as fell then. It was a quiet absolute, so even the camp noises seemed muffled around them, while they all stood in a lamp-lit and soundless well.

  "... Forgive him," Patience said. "He's young."

  The Wolf-General turned to her. "When I require your instruction, Nearly-Lodge," the rip-saw voice, "— I'll ask for it."

  Silence again.

  The Wolf-General stared
at Baj, and licked her chops absently, apparently considering. Her eyes were remarkable, as if a tragic and beautiful woman looked out from that dreadful mask. "You," she said, "— have spoken up, I suppose, as your great fathers would have done. Meaning as well, fuck me if I didn't care for it." She smiled, or seemed to."... We will see if you're wise enough never to do so again."

  Baj bowed, and kept his mouth shut.

  "... We have fodder, food, and supplies," the General said, "— for eight WT weeks, and of course, will not be in the south to requisition additional. Still, sufficient for our purpose, for that... attack, that distraction that will cost so many of my soldiers' lives."

  "Worth it," Patience said.

  "Yes, to break Boston's grip at last." Sylvia Wolf-General lowered her fur-crested head. "Break it... then mourn the necessary deaths of the mothers."

  "There is," a younger relative, apparently part-sired by a quite handsome wolf, "— there is some discontent in the ranks at that."

  "I know." The General shoved her maps aside. "... Let three things be understood by the soldiers — the sergeants to see to it. First, we all bitterly regret this necessity, which will cost many of us those they love, and who gave them birth. Second, it is being done to save all future Persons' mothers — and tribesmens' daughters — the same suffering. And third, any grumbler continuing after today, will be tied to a mess table where camp-streets cross, and his liver taken."

  "I'll see that word is heard." The handsome officer — fur tufts, fur-crest granite gray — bowed, and leaving the tent, said, "Nancy," and smiled at her as he went.

  "The other companies," the Wolf-General said, "— are too few — and by now too far south and east to trouble us. The nearest force is under Philip-Robin, and would be no trouble in any case."

  Her officers smiled.

  "— What could Town Council have been thinking in that promotion?" She shook her head.

  "Perhaps," her aunt said, and smiled, revealing yellowed fangs, the left broken at the tip, "— perhaps they consider one good general enough."

  Sylvia laughed, a woman's laugh with no wolf in it. "More than enough." She studied Baj and the others. "... And when Persons and a Sunriser take responsibility for action in my presence, I consider that an oath of service. Do you understand?"