As they left, Mary looked down at the list she’d taken out of a pocket in her black Ranger’s jerkin. Bend was a good place to pick up supplies for a trip; routes from north and east and west and south funneled trade and travel here, and sellers came where the buyers congre gated. So did the best makers and artisans this side of the Cascades.
“One steel-axle twenty-foot Conestoga wagon with extra covers for the tilt, spare wheels and hubs and tire rims,” she began.
“Náyak!” Ritva said, wincing slightly and thinking of the price: “Painful!”
“It’s not our money, sis. Hmmm . . . shovels, picks, axes, hauling chains, grease bucket and keg of good-quality axle grease, heavy jack, caltrops, lariats, hemp twine and rope, canvas, extra shoes and boots, sweaters, hats, knit socks, underwear, needles and thread, soap, blankets, oilskins and tarpaulins, three tents, saddler’s tools and leather, horse shoe blanks for cold-shoeing, small hollow anvil, farrier’s tools, nails, lanterns, alcohol for lanterns, flints and wicks for lighters, water barrels and a keg of water purification powder, medicine chest, horse medicine chest . . .”
“Did you ever wonder how the Fellowship made do with only one pack pony?” Ritva said, looking over her shoulder.
That ordinary-looking man might have been follow ing them. On the other hand, he went into a shop as she watched, so probably not.
“They probably didn’t change their underwear or use soap,” Mary said.
Aunt Astrid would have been appalled. They both had the thought at the same time, and giggled.
Then: “And there’s the food.”
Buying first-quality in bulk would be expensive this time of year, before the crops started coming in.
“We shouldn’t load too much,” Ritva said.
They both knew you ended up foraging or buying locally eventually on a long trip; that was why modern trade routes tended to detour around deserts, unlike the pre Change interstates. But . . .
“I think Rudi’s going to be taking us through out-of the-way places where foraging takes real time. With a twenty footer we can afford a little weight, and Denks will help us with stowing the loads. Let’s see . . . barreled salt pork, smoked hams, bacon, jerky, hardtack in sealed boxes, dried beans, dried peas, dried fruit, shelled nuts, cornmeal, whole-meal wheat flour, yeast in sealed packets, milled oats with molasses for fodder, sea salt . . .”
“Did you notice who got stuck with the chores on this glorious quest?” Ritva added as they came out of a feed store several hours later, squinting up at the after noon sun over the Cascades. “Admittedly we’re the ones who can do it without attracting much attention, but . . . They’ll have us fetching the tea, next.”
“Well, if we’re spending other people’s money, let’s blow some on plastic containers”—in English perforce; nobody had come up with a Sindarin equivalent—“for the bulk foodstuffs—less chance of weevils, if we’re careful. Those old trash barrels are getting ragged, but the fifty gallon kind are still good.”
“Expensive, but they’re worth it.” Ritva nodded, then looked down at the list again. “Just the weapons, and we’re done.”
The proprietor of A. E. Isherman’s Fine Arms and Armor knew them of old and greeted them beaming under the swinging sign—THE RIGHT TO BUY WEAPONS IS THE RIGHT TO BE FREE—not far from the old Town Hall. He was a short dark strong-featured man of about forty with shoulders like a blacksmith, two fingers missing from his left hand and a remarkable set of scars that ran from the angle of his jaw under the rolled top of his sweater. They looked very much like someone had tried to tear out his throat with their teeth once, and come quite close to succeeding.
“If it isn’t my favorite elf-maidens,” he said with a grin and a bow that showed the little knit skullcap on the back of his head. “On your own this time, eh? Still ohtar or have you been promoted to Roquen yet?”
Ritva smiled slightly and caught the let’s play vibe from her sister. Ish was one of the ones who couldn’t tell them apart when they were putting it on.
“Ohtar. But we’re not elves,” she said loftily.
“It’s the Fifth Age,” Mary continued. “The Age of Mortal Men. And Mortal Women. The Fourth Age ended with the Change.”
“There haven’t been any elves around for a long, long time,” Ritva continued.
“Not since the early Fourth Age, probably.”
“The elves all departed into the Uttermost West long ago; everyone knows that.”
“Which is even farther west than Oregon.”
“We just talk Elvish.”
“Isn’t it interesting, though: the kids at Stardell Hall are probably the first people in Middle Earth to speak it from the cradle for . . .well, nobody knows how long ago the Third Age was, really.”
His head went back and forth like someone watching a tennis ball, and then he shook his head and made a broad welcoming gesture.
“Only the best for the Rangers, mortals or not. Come on in.”
They both made a respectful gesture to the little silver scroll beside the door as they entered. The big siding clad frame building had been a fishing outfitter’s store in the old days; despite the new skylights and a couple of good modern lanterns it was rather dim inside, and the new potbellied stove probably didn’t keep it very warm in winter either.
There was an enticing smell to the weapon shop of Isherman, though: the sharp acrid scents of oiled steel and brass, the richer mellowness of leather and seasoned cedarwood, boxes of horn and sinew and wicker baskets full of gray goose flight feathers. Spears and polearms gleamed in horizontal racks or rested with their butts in wire cages like sheaves of demonic pruning hooks; bundles of arrows bristled from barrels, and arrowheads rested gleaming in little kegs. Armor stood on old store mannequins, looking like ghostly headless warriors in the gloom, and helmets hung like bunches of huge grapes from the ceiling.
Isherman didn’t manufacture most of it, but he had contacts with plenty of the best craftsfolk east of the mountains, and some west of them—Ritva recognized a set of Sam Aylward’s bows.
“We’ll be taking quite a bit,” Mary said, looking at her list again, and began mentioning quantities.
“Going on a long trip, Ms. Havel and Ms. Havel?” Isherman asked when she’d finished. “The Rangers getting a big caravan together? Planning to start your own war?”
“Ish, what’s the polite way to say ‘if I wanted you to know, I’d tell you’?”
He stroked his black chin beard with the remaining digits on the mutilated hand and looked at the two young women.
“There is no polite way to say that, Ms. Havel . . . though it’s usually men saying it to ladies.”
“Shall I think of a more impolite way to say it?” Ritva inquired with a bright, cheerful smile.
Isherman shrugged and smiled himself as he waved a hand at two chairs in front of a table he used as a desk. It held ledgers, piles of paper, and several inkwells and sets of trimmed quills.
“Isaac!” he called to one of the teenaged sons who worked with him. “Some clover tea and honey and biscuits for our guests!”
“Aha, serious haggling is in store,” Mary said, and rubbed her hands. “Gell!”
Ritva left her to it; her sister had more natural talent in that direction, though neither of them was really in Isherman’s league. She drank some of the sharp-sweet tea and nibbled at a shortbread biscuit rich with pinyon nuts while the samples were brought out and gravely considered.
Everyone on the expedition had their own personal armor and sword, custom-made and better than Isherman’s best, but you always needed spare arrows and makings, and bits and pieces to maintain your war har ness in trim and repair damage, down to little bottles of fine linseed oil for keeping the straps supple. A few good bows were also advisable; bows were fragile. And while a first-rate sword could be passed down several generations with proper care, even the best shield was lucky to survive one hour of strong arms and heavy blows; they ended up buying a couple for each member
of the party, adjusted to their height and heft, both ordinary round ones and the big kite-shaped Norman style Association nobles used.
“And twenty lances. Knight’s lances, ashwood,” Mary said.
The long poles were another thing that was unlikely to make it through more than one fight. So ...
“And another twenty spare shafts,” Ritva amplified.
Isherman’s eyebrows went up, and he looked as if the urge to ask questions were about to make steam come out of his ears. Instead he shrugged and showed them what he had in stock. The weapons were ten feet of gently tapering wood, with a head like a narrow two-edged dagger a foot long heat shrunk onto the end and a weighted butt cap to make it balance two-thirds of the way back from the point. These were the very latest type, with a hand guard like a small shallow steel bowl fastened just ahead of the grip.
“Good spring steel for the lance heads, and properly retempered, not just ground down,” he said.
“Ish, you never try to short anyone on quality,” Mary said severely. “Prices the Gods couldn’t afford, yes; quality problems, no. And don’t tell me how it pains you to part with the lances. Out here, they’re not real popular.”
“I’ll go down another twenty dollars, but no more.” The man shrugged with a wry smile. “Inferior gear would get my customers killed, not to mention my reputation. So, is it a deal?”
“Deal.”
Both the sisters shook with him to seal it; he added an omayan and they invoked the Lord and Lady and the spirits of the Uttermost West. The proprietor looked happy—sort of—as Ritva took out her checkbook; it would be insulting for him to look too happy, since that would mean he’d diddled them to an excessive degree. She dipped the quill pen in the inkpot on top of his desk and made one out to Isherman’s Fine Arms and Armor, drawn on the Dúnedain Rangers’ account at the First National, and carefully noted the amount in the registration book at the back.
Uncle Alleyne pitched a fit if you weren’t careful about accounts.
We might have gotten another five, ten percent off if we’d split up the purchases and gone all over town, Ritva thought. But that wouldn’t be worth the time and trouble since we’re in a hurry—and Ish is more reliable on quality than anyone else here.
“And you’re not going to tell me a word about what this is all in aid of, are you?” he said as he waved the check in the air to dry the oak gall-lampblack ink and slid it through a slot into his strongbox, then made out an invoice.
Ritva cleared her throat and looked at her sister; Mary had stepped over to the door even as one of the apprentices opened it in curiosity. There was a small open park across from the shop; locally it was called Free Speech Corner, and by convention everyone from wandering religious enthusiasts and local politicians to general wingnuts with a new theory about who, Who or what had caused the Change could address whoever would listen there. There were even a couple of conveniently shaped rocks, so that you didn’t have to bring a bucket, barrel or chair to stand on.
“What’s that?” Ritva called; all she could see from here was people’s backs, many of them standing on wagons.
“Some new preacher who’s been tearing up the scen ery lately. The ranchers don’t like ’im, which means some here in town do.”
They caught a few phrases through the rumble of the crowd: “Ascended Master Jesus Christ . . . wrath of God on us again, like the Change . . . arrogance of the rich, whom God will surely humble as He exalts His poor . . . soulless minions . . .”
“Hey, who you calling a soulless minion?” a cowboy standing on one of the wagons shouted. “You bossless son of a Rover whore!”
Someone in the crowd below grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him down; he yelled twice, once in outrage and once in pain as he thumped against the hard ground. Two of his friends jumped down and started kicking and punching the man who’d grabbed their friend. Someone jumped on the back of one of the cowboys and began punching him. . . .
“Uh oh,” Mary said.
“Uh-oh,” Ritva agreed.
Then a knife glinted and they heard the distinctive wheep of a sword coming out of a sheath. Normally they would have to help the locals restore order—Rangers were supposed to do that. This time they couldn’t.
“Ere!” Mary said. “Rudi will kill us if we get ourselves killed right now.”
“Ere,” Ritva agreed. Shit seemed appropriate.
“There’s one of the pagans!” a scrawny man in well worn clothes screeched, pointing at the tree-and-stars on her jerkin, visible in the doorway. He threw a rock at her.
Crash. The two pound cobblestone went through an irreplaceable pre Change window and knocked over a stand of arrows. A number of people in the crowd-turning-into a-riot started their way.
Ritva and her sister looked at each other and picked up two of the round shields, slipped on their helmets, and each grabbed a yard long ax handle from a bin.
“Isaac! Reuben!” Isherman called.
His two sons were seventeen and eighteen; otherwise they looked almost as much alike as Mary and Ritva, and much like their father, down to the skullcaps. The young men scooped up helmets and shields and clubs. Half a dozen other shopkeepers from up and down the street were coming out as well, carrying everything from sledgehammers to blacksnake whips.
In Bend, most respectable citizens were sworn in as deputy peace officers in advance. You could riot here pretty freely, as long as you accepted that the local taxpayers were just as free to bash your head in for it.
Bang!
Another rock cracked off the two-foot circle of bullhide covered plywood on her arm as she hopped down into the street off the board sidewalk. She took a dozen paces and made a long lunge of the sort she’d have used with her sword and poked the man in the belly with the end of the stick, hard. He went uffff! and folded over. Unlike someone stabbed in the gut with a longsword, he’d be getting up again; Mary rapped him behind the ear with carefully calculated force as they went by to make sure his resurrection didn’t happen too soon or too comfortably.
“Adventure,” Ritva said, as they moved in well-drilled unison and tried to watch all directions at once.
I really wouldn’t like to get stabbed in the back here, or have my brains knocked out with a brick.
“Ere,” her sister said, nodding.
* * * *
The High Cascades, Central Oregon
April 20, CY23/2021 A.D.
“We’re not moving fast enough,” Ingolf said, hitching his thumbs into the straps of his pack.
His teeth wanted to chatter. It was an effort of will not to be depressed—the sensations of being wet and cold were similar enough that it was easy to let the one slip into the other. And another effort not to snap at Rudi’s indecent cheerfulness.
White flakes were falling out of the sky, drifting down silently between the tall dark green firs and hemlocks, muffling sound, making even the smells of sap and wet earth seem faded. The flakes that landed on him were big and fluffy and a little wet, the sort you got at the beginning and end of winter back home as well. So far they were sticking on the branches but not much on the ground, and the rocky dirt of the game path was turning to rocks mixed with cold mud. But the temperature was falling with the sun, somewhere up above the gray ceiling that was coming closer and closer.
The breath of the three men steamed in the cold air, and Garbh was walking along with her head down and a white scruff starting to build up on her black-and-gray fur.
The clouds already hid the mountaintops, and now the thin air was wet at the same time. Luckily the pathway ran along the slope here rather than up and down the forty degree mountainside. You could trust a couple of generations of deer to find the easiest way through.
“At least you two know how to handle cold weather in these mountains,” Ingolf said. “Cold winters I’m at home with, but I was born a lowlander and I nearly got killed coming over the Cascades last year.”
Something in the way Rudi’s shoulders set ahead o
f him made him go on a little sharply: “You are experi enced at handling winter weather here, right? It’s only a couple of days’ walk from where you live.”
Rudi stopped; behind Ingolf, Edain did as well. “No, I’m not,” Rudi said shortly, turning to face him. “No body comes up this high except in summer, usually. Not even bandits.”
“No point,” Edain said helpfully. “The big game all migrates down to the foothills or the valley in winter-time. And these are wet mountains, here on the western side, as wet as wet can be.”
Rudi chimed in: “They get a lot of snow, twenty, thirty feet in a winter, sometimes more. And it can happen right up until June.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Ingolf said dryly. “If we really didn’t want anyone to notice us, this was the way to come, by God.”
He looked up the boulder-strewn slope where the old granulated drifts were still waist deep, the surface rap idly disappearing under the new fall. Off to the right a fair-sized river was rushing unseen in a deep cleft, hard enough with the first of the spring flood that sometimes it shook the rock under his feet. The temperature was dropping faster now, and the snow fell more thickly. But not in straight lines out of the sky; the tips of the tall pointed trees were beginning to move a little, and the snow slanted as it picked up speed.
A low moaning began as the wind strengthened, at first the sort of teasing almost sound that you couldn’t swear to, then louder and louder.
“Look, we have both lain out in the woods often enough in wintertime,” Rudi said.
Ingolf nodded, but that was not the same thing. Down on the floor of the Willamette snow lasted a week at the outside, usually a lot less. He’d been told that some win ters didn’t have any at all. There was nothing like the months of hurt-your-face freezing weather he was used to back home in the Kickapoo country on either side of Christmas. Or the blizzards that he’d experienced out on the high plains in the Dakotas, which could kill a man trying to get from the campfire to a tent fifteen feet away. Up here, six or seven thousand feet higher than the valley floor, it probably got just that bad—or possibly even worse. Judging from what he’d gone through last year in the Santiam Pass, which was lower and warmer than this area . . . it was worse.
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