The sound the women-slaves all made was a thick gobbling, stammering through tears and moans. You could see why there weren’t any words when one suddenly screamed; her tongue had been trimmed and split. There was a hard stink in the air, manure and dried human waste.
Huon Liu started forward with a shocked exclamation, reaching for a flask from his saddlebags. Mathilda restrained him with a gentle gesture, her eyes the only things moving in a stony face.
“Slave-breeding farm,” Ingolf said grimly. “That guy the Rangers are guarding—look, you two, stop standing there with your thumbs up your asses and get that moron out of here before you have to hurt someone to stop them lynching him! Edain, get a detail to give them a hand, would you?”
Ingolf took a deep breath as a squad of the High King’s Archers attended to it, and went on to the monarchs:
“He’s the stud. Not really his fault, poor bastard, he’s just smart enough to know what to put where. They were breeding for stupid, for people just barely smart enough to do basic work and feed themselves.”
Rudi nodded soberly. He’d heard of this. Once you’d looked into the eyes of a High Seeker, it didn’t even seem very . . . unexpected. Seeing it in person was different, though.
“I know,” he said. “And”—he touched the hilt of the Sword—“I’ve seen what this would end in, left unchecked. By themselves humans couldn’t do such a thing, if only because we can’t maintain a set purpose long enough.”
Though that vision of a possible future was so alien it didn’t have as much . . . impact . . . as this.
Mathilda crossed herself; for once she seemed at a loss. He could see where do we start? in her eyes. Lord Maugis was staring, blinking, looking away and then looking back. His area had been occupied for a while, but mostly by Boiseans in Martin Thurston’s service; the war there had been savage enough, but comprehensible. Young Mark Vogeler abruptly rode his horse around a wall and dismounted. They could hear him vomiting, then washing his mouth out from his canteen.
“What are your orders, Your Majesty?” Ingolf said formally.
He tactfully ignored his young kinsman when he returned, though a signaler wasn’t supposed to leave his commander’s side.
“We’ll have to care for these people,” Rudi said, taking out his dispatch pad. “Messenger! To Brigadier Nystrup, and would he please report here; and this to Lord Chancellor Ignatius, would he have the quartermasters attend to the matter of clothing and basic gear. Many of these ladies will be Nystrup’s people; he’ll want to see to identifying as many as he can. For the rest . . . well, the Clan will take in any who wish, I think. Certainly if my mother has anything to do with it, and she will. There may be others who are willing.”
“The Sisters of Mercy,” Mathilda said. “I’ll . . . I’ll talk to Father Ignatius. The Superior of their Mother House . . . they have a unit with the medical train. . . .”
“See to it, please, Matti,” Rudi said. “We’ll do what we can, but the first matter is to overthrow the ones who planned . . . this.”
“Where are the children?” she said suddenly; there weren’t many, beyond some babes at the breast.
“You really don’t want to know, Matti,” Ingolf said softly. “Creches, most of them, but . . . you don’t want to know.”
“By God . . .” Maugis said, crossing himself with a hand that shook. “By God, I’d heard that the Cutters kept slaves, but . . . is it all going to be like this, lord King?”
Rudi shook his head. “No. We’re close to their center, here. Elsewhere it’s bad, but on a more . . . more human scale of wickedness. But it would have been all like this, in time.”
The baron’s face worked. “They’re . . . they’re not human at all.”
Rudi felt his mouth twist wryly. There was a certain innocent vanity in that viewpoint, but he had to prevent it from spreading. The former Cutters would be his subjects too. He intended to see the headsman’s axe had some work, but a little of that went a long way. The Cutters . . . former Cutters, they’d have to find a different term . . . had to learn to live in peace with others. However, that implied just as much willingness in the other direction.
I cannot have a disgust with the folk of these lands persisting down the generations. That way would lay the groundwork for other wars—of less import to the Powers, perhaps, but just as deadly to humankind and our hopes and our homes.
He spoke carefully: “Alas, would that were so. The Power behind all this, yes, in a sense. But its instruments are all too human. At least most of them, and all of them to start with; and they are what they are because they’ve been mistaught, not because there’s any corruption in their blood, which is as ours. Do you understand me, Lord Maugis? For your own confessor will tell you the same—in somewhat different terms, but the same in the essence of it.”
The other man reluctantly nodded. “Yes. We’re all subject to Original Sin, that lets Satan whisper in our ears.”
Mathilda spoke: “Original Sin, as a wise man once said, is among the few dogmas which can be proven from experience.”
Rudi sighed agreement; occasionally Christians just had good points. Then he reined around.
“And now . . . let’s go. Thank you, Ingolf . . . Colonel Vogeler. I did need to see this, and not myself alone. I suggest men from each battalion be brought here. It’s a good thing to know why you’re far from home amongst angry strangers.”
“Yah.” Ingolf’s face lost a little of its pinched look, as if he was withdrawing his memory from a very bad place. “That’s a good idea. I’ll look up Oak, and Eric Larsson, and see to it.”
Another courier rode up as they cantered off. “Your Majesty!”
Rudi opened the dispatch. “Ah. Our blocking force caught the Cutters as they attempted to withdraw. Several thousand surrendered.”
Everyone looked baffled. “What blocking force would that be?” Lord Maugis asked, transparently glad to have something else to think about. “I didn’t think we could get troops much farther north.”
“It’s a case of . . . how do you Christians put it . . . bread upon the waters.”
• • •
“Major Graber,” Rudi said.
The former officer of the Sword of the Prophet dismounted and came forward with a brisk stride, a medium-tall man in his early middle years dressed in rough plainsman’s garb, looking as if rawhide had been wrapped around his bones and covered in weathered skin. The meeting was informal, but it still amounted to pacing between two rows of the High King’s Archers with the commanders and contingent leaders from the High King’s Host standing thickly behind them. Everyone who could had come flocking at the news.
There was a rattle and a small instinctive growl from the ranked Montivallan officers as he approached. Rudi smiled at it; just so did dogs growl at a stranger in their territory. Though Rick Three Bears was stone-faced and silent; Graber had personally threatened his clan when they sheltered the Questers. The silence itself was a concession, since it wasn’t in his people’s customs to forget such a thing.
The small group of Graber’s followers who followed behind him had a stiffness that spoke of nervousness.
Though in fact this is Graber’s territory, in a sense. And though Nystrup is looking pure murderous hate. Not that I blame him, but the needs of the Kingdom take precedence. Not to mention those of humankind, in the long run.
He turned his head slightly and murmured to the Mormon commander: “Why am I angry because of mine enemy? Awake, my soul! No longer droop in sin. Rejoice, O my heart, and give place no more for the enemy of my soul. Do not anger again because of mine enemies.”
Nystrup glanced at him startled—that was from his people’s holy book—and angry. Then he nodded slightly.
The last sunlight was dying on the Gallatin peaks to the westward. Rudi stepped forward, pitching his voice to carry.
“This man was my enemy and hunted me and my comrades across the continent on the Quest. He was like a burr on our tail, never givin
g up, faithful unto death to his pledged word and his lords. Only when they betrayed him and he was shown that they were unworthy of a brave man’s loyalty did he renounce them.”
He put the palm of his right hand on the pommel of the Sword for a moment, reminding everyone present that he could detect any deceit.
“And when he did turn on them, he did so honestly and with a whole heart, for right’s sake and not for advantage. He risked death by torture and worse to oppose them here on their own ranges, when he might have returned to Montival with me and had a post of honor, because these are his folk and he wished to set them free to live as humankind should once more. Has any man or woman here done more?”
Silence, and the High King went on: “Not to mention he just removed . . . what, twenty-two hundred riders from the enemy’s order of battle. Men we will not have to fight again tomorrow, and some of our warriors will live, or see their homes again whole of limb because of it.”
The almost-grumbling died away. Graber’s face was a thing of slabs and angles. He might have renounced his allegiance, but twelve years as cadet in the House of the Prophet had effects he would never shed entirely, not to mention the years as a warrior in Sethaz’ army afterwards. It wasn’t an accident that the Prophet had assigned him the task of foiling the Quest. Despite that masklike impassiveness there was relief and gratitude in the cold blue eyes. Graber showed unexpected tact when he reached arm’s length from Rudi; he gave a military salute, and then sank down on both knees with his hands held forward, palms together.
It didn’t surprise Rudi that the man had learned the etiquette used nearer the Pacific, but it was a graceful gesture. The subordinates behind him, his company commanders and staff, went to their knees as well; that meant they gave their assent through their leader.
The High King drew the Sword and planted it in the earth between them. Graber took the hilt between his palms, and Rudi enfolded the other man’s hands between his own; that was a new custom, the way the High King took fealty, and a guarantee of sincerity on both sides.
Graber’s eyes widened a little; touching the Sword of the Lady was never easy, though he had before when Rudi freed him from the bonds laid on his mind. His voice was steady as he spoke, a little harsh but confident:
“I, Justin Graber, pledge my faith and honor to the High King of Montival and to the heirs of his blood; I will be his sworn man in peace and war, with goods and with counsel, with aid and with arms, taking his foes and friends as mine, though my life be the price of this oath. This I swear on my honor as a fighting-man, and by whatever Powers watch over me.”
The which he will find, I think. This is a man of faith, and he will hunger for one to replace that which was broken.
“I, Artos, the first of that name, High King in Montival, Son of Raven, Son of Bear, accept your oath, Justin Graber. From this day forth I am your liege-lord. In peace you may hold secure all that is your own under my hand; in need you may appeal to me for aid; in war we shall be comrades of the blade, and I shall ward your family and children at need should you fall in my service. As you keep faith with me, so I will with you: I promise good lordship and fair justice, to you and to those who follow you—”
He added that deliberately, just to drive the point home that Graber’s folk—and all the dwellers here not in arms against them—were his subjects now too. He didn’t think there was anyone in the Host who still doubted that he meant what he said about things like that. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mathilda nodding approval, which was reassuring; he had the most profound respect for his wife’s political judgment.
“—and I will hold your honor as precious as my own. This oath I will defend at need against all men, and any who do you wrong do also so to me, and at their peril. So I swear by the Lady of Stars and by the Lord Her Consort, and by all the Gods of my people; by Earth, by Sky; and so I bind the line of my blood and yours until the sky fall and crush us, or the sea overwhelm the land, or the world end.”
Most of the officers made formal greeting and left; a few came forward to shake Graber’s hand. All of the ones who’d been on the Quest did so, and Rudi led them to the open flap of his tent, with a quiet word to have the needs of Graber’s subordinates seen to.
“How many in your band?” Rudi asked, when they’d been seated and the plain stew and flatbread brought.
Graber ate with wolfish intensity; he and his were well equipped for the sort of war they practiced in these parts, as far as Rudi had been able to tell, but evidently they hadn’t been eating high off the hog. Or the rangeland steer, in this country.
Mind, with years of war levies and now fighting on their own territory, it’s going to be touch and go to keep famine out of this land as it is.
“Fifteen hundred, not counting about five hundred women and kids brought along because there wasn’t anyplace safe to put them.”
Out of the corner of his eye Rudi noted Ignatius making a note and handing it off to a staff messenger who stepped forward at his crooked finger. The quartermasters would be attending to feeding the newcomers by morning.
“Including both my wives and my children; friends helped to get them out before the hunt started. My wives are women of excellent character and acted quickly,” Graber added. “The . . . High Seekers seemed curiously blind about what I was doing.”
“They would, my friend, after you were touched by the Sword; and they’ve grown careless about using ordinary means. It’s good that you rescued your little ones and their mothers. There are some prices that are steep even for honor; I’m glad you weren’t forced to pay so high.”
Graber nodded. That had been another risk he’d taken. “And about three times as many have taken up arms against the CUT here and there on their own, once I showed it wasn’t just suicide,” he said. “I’m in contact with their leaders; that’s not counting areas we . . . the Prophet, that is . . . overran in the last few years, they’ve just gone back to how they were before.”
“Not entirely,” Father—or in this context, Lord Chancellor—Ignatius said. “The CUT’s occupation has left many grudges, many feuds. And the reprisals going on right now against collaborators, or people who their personal rivals and enemies can paint as collaborators, will make for more. We’ll be long years settling them.”
Graber shrugged; those lands weren’t his affair. “A lot more of the Prophet’s levies have just gone home—or gone home to defend their ranches and neighborhoods—as they were driven back into the lands they came from. Not to defend from the invading . . . liberating . . . armies, so much, as from bandits and deserters and each other. And, ah—”
“From the Lakota, the ones who aren’t riding with the armies,” Rudi said ruefully.
He liked and respected the folk of the Seven Council Fires, but they had their own grudges to pay off—and raiding for horses was an ancient tradition with them, one they’d revived gleefully after the Change. Nor did what passed for their central government have all that much control over the individual tribes and clans or for that matter individuals. It operated by consensus, or not at all.
“I’ll tend to that, but there’re other things must be done first, and I’m afraid some damage will be done.”
Graber spread his hands in acknowledgment; it was a cost of finishing the job, and you did what was necessary for that.
Consideringly, Rudi went on: “Fifteen hundred riders . . . that’s more than I expected.”
Graber gave a rare smile: “For a while I was hiding in the woods with about four men, two of them brothers of my eldest wife, while the Prophet’s hunters beat the bush for us and we put our hands over the children’s mouths to keep them from giving us away,” he said.
“You wouldn’t be the first to win back to power and fortune and victory from such a state,” Rudi observed. “When we’ve more time, I’ll tell you of a man named Temüjin . . . it means The Iron One . . . in a land far away, but not unlike this in some respects. Cold mountains and vast plains, at least.�
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Graber looked interested, then returned to business: “But it’s been obvious for a while now the Prophet is going to lose the war, especially after news got back of the Horse Heaven Hills, and the Midwesterners started heading our way. The Church, the Church United and Triumphant, that is, got a lot of credit for the way they reestablished order right after the Change, but that ran out some years ago. What they had left was fear.”
“And fear alone is a chancy basis for a realm,” Rudi said; leaving unsaid that Graber and his ilk had been among the main instruments to instill that terror.
Mathilda nodded decisively. “Fear leaves you with nothing to fall back on when the bad times come,” she said, echoing things Rudi had long heard her mother say.
Graber inclined his head; apparently he’d overcome any feeling of shock at a woman speaking in a council. Or wearing breeks and boots, which Matti was.
“True, your Majesty. And I had some other good arguments. Not least, that if we wanted to have any say in how things are arranged here after the war, we’d better show we’re willing to fight for the High Kingdom now.”
“Good,” Rudi said. “A most cogent point. I’m going to need a commander here to keep order, and eventually to rule as my vassal. I’ve no desire to import battalions of unpopular alien bureaucrats, and more battalions of soldiers to enforce their writ at the sword’s edge, and then spend the rest of my days reading and annotating the reports of both. Montival isn’t that sort of realm. After things settle down here, the form of rule must arise from the folk themselves, as the years since the Change have shaped them in their hearts. For that I need a man born of these lands who also has a record the rest of Montival will respect, and I think I’ve found him.”
The Given Sacrifice Page 29
