by John Ringo
The rider paused, indecisively, then turned his horse into the field. The near end of the field hadn’t been harvested yet and the horse whickered at him until he paused to let it strip a mouthful of the grain.
“Go ahead, Diablo,” the young man said, humorously. “Mike shouldn’t begrudge it.”
The harvester looked up at a shout from the man driving the wagon and pulled the oxen to a stop. They nuzzled at the grain but since their mouths were covered by feed bags they couldn’t emulate the horse. He said something to the man on the wagon then climbed down off the harvester and walked across the fields towards the rider. At that the rider pulled the horse’s head up with a word and tapped him into an easy trot. When he approached the other man he reined in and smiled.
“ ‘I will feast my horse on the standing grain,’ ” he said, then dismounted, hooking his reins onto the saddle to tell the horse to stay.
“Herzer,” the harvester said with a smile, holding out his hand. “It’s good to see you, man.”
“Good to see you, Mike,” the young man replied, clasping his friend’s forearm and gesturing with his hook at the fields. “Damn, you’ve been working hard.”
“Yeah, but it’s paying off,” Mike said, looking at his friend and shaking his head. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Herzer admitted. “And I’m glad to be home. But I’m due for a tour at the Academy, so maybe I can chill there for a while.”
“What do you have to learn?” Mike asked.
“What do you have to learn about farming?” Herzer replied.
“Lots.”
“Yeah, same here. But Edmund’s talking about an instructor position. I figure I’ll be doing some research at the same time. Time to brush up on my ancient Greek.”
“Makes sense,” Mike said, wiping at his brow. “What are we doing talking about this out here? Let’s go up to the house.”
“What about the field?” Herzer asked.
“It’ll keep,” Mike said. “The rain’s supposed to hold off for another couple of days and this is the last one I have to cut. I saved mine for last.”
“Yours?” Herzer asked, waving at the horse to follow as they walked back towards the reaper.
“I could scratch up enough capital to float a loan for the reaper,” Mike said. “I’ve been harvesting half the fields in the valley the last month. And, yes, this is actually your field.”
“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,” Herzer said with a grin. “I wouldn’t know the first damned thing about farming this place.”
“Well, I’m learning,” Mike admitted. “I’m learning every day.”
The helper had been watering and feeding the oxen during the break and he nodded at Mike and Herzer as they walked up.
“Harry, this is Herzer Herrick,” Mike said. “Herzer this is Harry Wilson. He’s got a small farm down the river.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Harry replied, wiping his hand and shaking Herzer’s.
“I’m taking Herzer up to the house. Go ahead and use the basket on the reaper, then cross-fill. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Okay,” Harry said, getting on the reaper and clucking the oxen into motion.
“Slower that way, but it’ll get some of the field done,” Mike said.
“You want a ride up to the house?” Herzer asked, gesturing at the horse.
“I can walk,” Mike replied gruffly.
They strode up the side road towards a distant hill, passing through a screen of trees that was apparently kept as a windbreak. On both sides of the road, before and after the trees, there were fields. Some of them were ready for harvesting, in grain and corn, others had plants that were not quite ready for harvest and a few were apparently fallow. The latter were covered in an odd golden plant that looked like a weed.
“Cover clover,” Mike said at a gesture from Herzer. “Very good for fixing nitrogen and it forms a ‘standing hay’ that horses and cattle can eat in the winter.” He gestured to one of the fields where low bushes were covered in purple-green berries. “Olive bushes. I’m hoping to get a good crop of olives off them.”
“I thought olives grew on trees,” Herzer said, fingering the eagle emblem at his throat. In the left talon it held a bundle of arrows and in the right an olive branch. The eagle’s screaming beak was pointed to the left.
“They do. And the trees take decades, centuries really, to grow to maturity,” Mike said with a shrug. “These grow in a season and you can get more olives per acre than with trees.”
“Seems like cheating,” Herzer grumbled. “You know why the olive is the symbol of peace?”
“No.”
“Because it takes so long for the trees to grow. If you have olive trees it shows that armies haven’t fought over the land in a long time. Take away the long maturity and what does it mean? Nada.”
“Great, but I’m getting fifty chits a barrel for mature olives,” Mike said, with apparent grumpiness. “And I can get two crops a year off the bushes. Even with the cost of field hands and preparation I’m getting ten- or elevenfold profits per season. So you can take your philosophical objections and stuff them.”
Herzer laughed and pointed to a group of trees on the back side of the olive field. They were short and had broad glossy leaves that were a dark, rich green.
“Rubber plants,” Mike replied. “I’m trying them out. They’re supposed to be freeze resistant and fast growing. They grow fast, that’s for sure, but this is the first winter they’ve been out so we’ll see how they do.”
There was more. Growing fruit and nut orchards, stands of hay, partially cleared fields with cattle on them. Herzer pointed to the latter in question.
“I got together with some other farmers and we rounded up more ferals last year,” Mike said as they passed the last field. “That’s where I got the oxen, too. And you’ve never lived until you’ve tried to turn a feral bull into a plow-ox.”
Herzer laughed again as they came in sight of the house. It was a low, log structure, rough in appearance but sturdy and well made. The barn to the side of it was much larger and made of a combination of logs and sawn wood. There were two or three other outbuildings as well.
“Leave it to you to have a better barn than you do a house,” Herzer chuckled.
“That’s what Courtney keeps saying,” Mike replied. “But we’re not made of money.”
The woman in question came out the door as Herzer was loosening Diablo’s saddle. She was a short, buxom woman with fiery red hair and an open, smiling face. Having watched her negotiate, Herzer was well aware that that heart-shaped face masked a mind like a razor, but he was fairly sure the smile in this case was genuine.
“Herzer,” she yelled, pulling her skirts away from the child at her side and running to the hitching post. “Where did you come from?”
“Harzburg,” he said, picking her up and kissing her on the cheek. As he did he noticed a decided roundness to her abdomen. “Got another one in the oven?”
“Yes,” she said with a tone of asperity. “This will make three.”
“Three?” he asked then nodded. “I hadn’t realized I’d been gone that long.”
“Little Daneh is in the crib,” she said, gesturing at the child that was still hiding by the door. “Mikey, come here. This is our friend Herzer.”
The boy shook his head and then, as her face clouded up, darted in through the door.
“I doubt he’s used to strangers in armor at his door,” Herzer said then frowned. “I hope he doesn’t get familiar with strangers in armor at his door.”
“Trouble?” Mike asked.
“Not down here that I’ve heard,” Herzer said. He finished loosening Diablo’s saddle and lifted all the gear off, then led the horse to the trough and tied him off. “That was why I was up in Harzburg. Tarson had been taken over by a band of brigands, for want of a better term. They had been raiding Harzburg and the city fathers requested federal help. They got me.”
“That mus
t have been a pleasure for them,” Mike said with a chuckle.
“Yeah, they’d requested a century of Blood Lords, as if we have a century of trained Blood Lords to send. And they had a militia but they’d never founded a local Blood Lord chapter. Or even sent anyone to the Academy. So I got to go whip them into shape.” Herzer laid his saddle, tack and blanket on a railing, then grabbed the rest with his hook and slung it over his shoulder. “Lead on, Macduff!”
“How’d it go?” Courtney asked as they went in the house. She brought over a flagon and set it on the table, then laid out cold pork, cheese and bread.
“Thank you,” Herzer said, taking a slice of the cheese. It was sharp and tangy and went well with a slice of the cold pork. “I’d thought about eating on the road but I figured I’d stop by and you might be willing to feed me something other than monkey on a stick.”
“Not a problem.” She smiled, nibbling at the cheese herself. “And I repeat, how’d it go?”
“Well, it was a little sticky to start,” Herzer admitted. “They’d expected someone… older.”
Mike chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve got the silver sword and the laurel of valor.”
“Which meant just about nothing to most of them,” Herzer said around a mouthful of cheese and bread. “So I just worked at it until they realized they could do it my way or die. I made it pretty clear I didn’t care which. The Tarsons finally attacked the town, where we wiped out most of their fighters, then more or less walked in and took Tarson over. The leader of them had set up a ‘citadel’ made of a free-standing stockade and a couple of log blockhouses. They burned quite nicely with the application of a little tallow and brush.” He frowned at the memory, then shook his head.
“You make it sound easy,” Mike said.
“Easy. Yeah. Only took me a year and a half.” Herzer shook his head again and took another bite of the pork. “Nice. So what’s been happening around here?”
“It’s been quiet, thank God,” Courtney replied. “We had a petroleum prospecting party through here.”
“I’ve heard about that,” Herzer said. “They sold some processed product to the Academy and we’ve been experimenting with it.”
“Doing what?” Courtney asked.
“Well, it burns a treat,” Herzer said, grimly. “Useful if we can figure out a way to get the burning stuff over there where the bad guys are,” he continued, pointing in a random direction. “There’s a device called a flamethrower that we’re working on. If we perfect it we’re going to have to figure out a new way to fight because it’s going to make tight formations suicidal, especially wearing armor.”
“Ouch!” Courtney said. She shook her head and changed the subject. “The town’s pretty much stopped growing. Hotrum’s Ferry has been drawing off a lot of people. We’re starting to sell a lot of produce down the river.”
“Getting good prices for it, too,” Mike said. “They can ship it up river to the dwarf mines from there more easily than we can truck it from Raven’s Mill.”
“I hope they’ve got decent defenses,” Herzer said. “Paul’s going to make a grab for Norau sooner or later.”
“Well, that’s their beef,” Mike replied. “Were the Tarson brigands working for Paul?”
“We never were sure,” Herzer replied. “If I had to guess I’d say yes. Paul and Chansa have got their fingers in a lot of the pies that are causing us trouble.”
“But it’s settled now?” Courtney asked.
“As far as I can tell.” Herzer shrugged. “The people of Tarson are certainly on the side of light. Harzburg… you can burn the place to the ground for all I give a damn.”
“So are you staying the night?” she pressed.
“No, unfortunately,” the soldier said with a sigh. “My orders were to report ‘without delay.’ So I’m going to have to head into town pretty soon. But I figured I could take enough time to stop by and have some real food at least.” He grinned and carved off another slice of the pork. “You’re both looking good. The farm is looking good. I’m glad.” He chewed on the pork with a thoughtful and sad expression for a moment, then smiled again. “Life could be a hell of a lot worse.”
“Herzer, tell Duke Edmund that he’d better let you get some rest or he’ll be talking to me,” Courtney said dangerously. “And you had better take it, Herzer Herrick.”
“I will,” Herzer replied, looking around at the low room. It was clean and homey in a way that nothing in his life had been in a long time. It was like a slice of some peaceful place that he was afraid he would be shut out of for all eternity.
“I’ve got to get going,” he said after a bit. “Thanks for lunch. Hopefully we’ll be able to get together some while I’m around.”
“We’ll do that,” Courtney said with a smile. “We’ll make an event of it.”
Herzer grabbed his gear and headed back out to the horse. Diablo looked at him balefully when the gear started going on but the horse sat quietly as Herzer saddled up and loaded item after item.
“Is all that necessary?” Courtney asked.
“Not really,” Herzer said. “I suppose there are things that I could pick up along the way. But I like the tools that I have.”
Finally he was saddled up and gave Courtney a hug and shook Mike’s hand.
“See you in town,” Herzer said, mounting the horse with a grunt. Diablo sighed and shook himself, not so much telling Herzer to get off as settling his own gear to his satisfaction.
“We’ll take care of your farm until it’s time to come home,” Courtney said. “You just come back, okay?”
“Home,” Herzer said, shaking his head. “What an interesting abstract notion.” He smiled and waved as he trotted back down the road.
CHAPTER TWO
Herzer turned left and headed south when he reached the road, then quickly moved Diablo to the side as a dispatch rider came trotting from the direction of town. The rider, who was a private in the Federal Army by the look of it, gave him a glance then a salute as he passed. Herzer returned the salute abstractedly, concentrating on a problem.
At the time of the Fall, world population had been just about one billion. The aftermath of the Fall had not seen as much die off as anticipated, mostly because of small towns like Raven’s Mill. But the effectively total loss of technology had created enormous implications that were just beginning to sink in. The one that was near and dear to his heart was military manpower. The military technology available was pregunpowder because of the explosive prohibitions still slavishly followed by Mother. Historical battles in pregunpowder days meant that each side had a near parity of forces. But raising large armies was practically out; there was too great a labor shortage. Conscripting large groups meant that something vital simply wouldn’t occur; farming, manufacturing, something was going to fail.
Thus it was up to relatively small handfuls of soldiers to protect civilization from the barbarians. And to protect the new and faltering United Free States from the various feudal warlords and the technological despotism of New Destiny.
Like a ship captain of old, Herzer lusted for more men, more soldiers. Too many times he had had to fight in battles outnumbered. Mike would make a superlative soldier but he needed to be right where he was, farming.
Some of the pressure was relieved by new/old technology. The harvesting that Mike was engaged in would have been done by a team of six, at least, in preindustrial times. Powered looms, Bessemer forges, meant that there were fewer people producing more per person. But even with the productivity increase there weren’t enough workers for all the potential positions. Which meant fewer soldiers as well.
It was an insoluble problem, but one that Herzer wrestled with constantly. The dispatch rider, for example, was supported by way stations in the controlled areas of Overjay. Each of the way stations had to be manned, and what’s more had to have horses at it. Figuring out a better means of communication would mean freeing up all of those people, and horses, for soldiers. Which might
have meant sending more than one barely trained lieutenant to Harzburg and ending the problem in a week instead of a year and a half.
These musings carried him through the fields on the way to town and up to the gates. Most of the fields had been cleared before he left but he saw new orchards on the hillsides as well as new outbuildings. The town, whatever Courtney might think, continued to build.
There was work going on at the top of the hills north of town as well but it was more martial in nature. A wooden gate was under construction and a stockade stretched up the hill to the Academy on the right. On the left the stockade had been torn down and a bed of gravel followed the track of the top of the hill.
“Lieutenant Herrick,” the team leader of the gate guards said, nodding his head.
“The duke’s pushing ahead on the curtain walls?” Herzer asked, nodding at the gravel that was being dropped by ox carts then leveled out by prisoners. More than a few of the prisoners were Changed, taken in the brief foray by Dionys McCanoc against the town. They were, as far as anyone could tell, normal people who had been caught up by McCanoc and converted, against their wills, into soldiers for him.
The actions of the raiders even before their attack on the town had been such that life sentences had been handed down for all of them. There was, however, a good bit of sentiment suggesting that at some point the “normal” humans might be rehabilitated. The Changed, however, short of being Changed “back,” were subject to no such sympathy. Generalized sympathy for what had occurred to them, yes, but not direct sympathy for their plight because they were as vicious as a pack of oversized weasels. They were incredibly strong, short, and brutish in appearance and had the personalities of rabid pit bulls. They had been christened “orcs” on first sight and the name had stuck.
Whenever Herzer, personally, felt sorry for them he just watched a group of them, like this one, working, and got over it. They were unwilling to work except under threat of immediate punishment and even then spent more time fighting among themselves than working. Slowly, over the last couple of years, their numbers had been reduced through one accident or murder or another until it looked like clemency might be unnecessary; in another couple of years they’d have killed each other off.
