The Protector's War (48 page)

Crusher Bailey was the last of the row, glaring, his lips moving silently as he mouthed curses. A sign hung around each bandit's neck, written in charcoal on a board:
ROBBER. MURDERER
. Crusher Bailey had that, with additions:
RAPIST—HORSE THIEF—HOUSE BURNER—CHILD STEALER
.

The folk of the tavern watched silently. Will Hutton walked down the row, holding a coiled lariat in his left hand, the end loose in his right. Each time he flicked a beast's rump with the knotted end, the startled animal lurched forward and another figure hung swinging and kicking below.

Mike Havel looked up at Crusher Bailey when there were only three left. “Got anything to say, Crusher?” he said calmly. “I'd really like to know about your connections.”

“Yeah, I've got something to say,” Bailey said, and spat at his captor. The gobbet went
splat
on the ground between them. “I say you aren't any better than me, just got a bigger gang. And you ain't worth a pitcher of red piss, either! None of you are!”

Bailey clapped his heels into his horse's flanks, and the animal bounded forward. His body twitched and kicked briefly, then hung limp as it swayed gently back and forth; the outlaw's heavy frame had given him a quicker death than that of most of his followers.

A murmur of surprise came from the onlookers, and Will Hutton stopped in his progress down the line of nooses. Havel smiled a crooked smile and shrugged as he looked at the older man: “Business aside, some men it's just a pleasure to hang, Will.”

“Yep, purely a joy,” the Texan said.

The last outlaw looked down at them from where he sat his horse, between Crusher's body and the rest of the swinging gallows-fruit; it was Bailey's brother, the slight ferret-faced man.

“I should have gone first,” he said. “I'm the eldest of the Bailey brothers. It was me got Crusher through the Dying Time, and we didn't eat nobody neither.”

Hutton nodded gravely. “Sorry about that. Your brother sort of broke the flow. You ready?”

The outlaw looked up at the setting sun. “Figure so.”

Will slapped the rope across the horse's haunches, then looked down the row of dangling bodies. “Dirty job, but someone's got to do it,” he said.

“Bingo,” Havel said. “Now people around here can sleep a little easier at night—and use this road more.”

A long sigh went through the crowd as the last of the outlaws died; a cool wind from the west went through the leaves of the tree above, making a sound louder but not much different. The limb was nearly as thick through as Signe's waist, but it creaked under the burden it bore. Havel glanced around—nobody was within immediate earshot, if he spoke.

“Sorry about Reuben, Will. He was a good kid.”

The older man's face grew harder still; he glanced up at the bough. “He was a good kid, once he was away from that trash father of his—even before, I reckon. And he was growin' into quite a man, too. Reminded me of my boy Luke…”

Havel nodded, hiding his surprise. He hadn't heard Hutton mention his eldest child in years; Luke Hutton had been in Italy the day of the Change, doing a hitch as a paratrooper.

“Just one more score in the bill Arminger's runnin' up,” the Texan went on. “I expect Angel will want to hear Astrid tell the story…sort of hoped…Well, never-no-mind.” He sighed and set his shoulders. “There's always work, thank the good Lord.”

Havel nodded. “Speaking of which.” Then he turned and called: “Arvand Sarian! Front and center!”

The black-bearded innkeeper came forward uncompelled, and he looked Havel in the eye, his arms folded across his chest, standing silent and proud. The Bearkiller lord nodded somber approval, and called over his shoulder.

“Signe! Get that boy out here, would you?”

His wife came forward, leading a boy of about five by the hand; he was dark-haired, and despite gauntness and haunted eyes had the strong family resemblance Havel had noticed among Sarian's kin; Signe patted his head as he looked up at her with a tentative smile.

“There's your dad, little guy,” she said, turning him towards the innkeeper and giving him a gentle swat on the bottom of his ragged cutoff jeans.

The boy's eyes went wide. He ran shouting to the tavern keeper, to be swept up in a huge embrace. Havel waited until Sarian had handed the boy off to the child's mother—the decencies had to be observed. When the tavern keeper turned back, the eyes that had been coldly defiant were wet with tears. When he spoke it was in his own language; it took a moment for him to shift back into English, and the accent was stronger when he did:

“For this…this gift of my son…” He sank to his knees. “I give myself to your judgment, Lord Bear. Let me be punished, not the rest here; they only did as I told them.”

Havel nodded again in approval; it was well said, although the man didn't have much choice in the matter, considering how many troops were on hand. He took off his mail-backed gauntlets and tucked them into his belt before standing with his feet planted apart and his left hand on the hilt of his backsword.

“We found your son in a cage and a good deal else in Crusher's camp, Sarian,” he said. “So, you weren't feeding strangers to them because you wanted to. You still did it, and they're still dead, or worse.”

Inwardly:
If I'd been in Crusher's boots, I'd have
made
you take a share of the loot to get you in deeper. But I'm not Crusher, thank God.
Aloud he went on: “You admit I've the right to hang you? It's certainly what the families of the dead would want.” Sarian nodded silently, bowing his head.

“Then hear my sentence,” Havel said coldly. “You settled and built this place, Arvand Sarian, but now it's mine. You'll hold it from me, and be my man in all things. You and all yours; and your heirs will do the same for mine. This is now the northern border of Bearkiller territory and you're subject to the Outfit. Understood?”

The heavy swarthy face blinked at him in astonishment, then nodded with a quick decisive movement, fighting down a grin. “Yes, Lord Bear. I hear, and I will obey.”

He held out his hands, palms pressed together; that showed he had some knowledge of Bearkiller custom. Havel held up his right, palm out, for a moment.

“Just a minute, Sarian. Up until now, you haven't owed me a thing. Once you swear, you
will
. They say every dog gets one bite; you've already had yours. Now you'll be running with
my
pack, and you don't get a second chance. Stand by me, and I'll stand by you; turn on me, and you die. Understood?”

This time Sarian smiled. “I've heard you're a bad man to cross, but also a man of your word,” he said. “That seems to be true.”

Havel took the other's hands between his. Sarian knew the Outfit's pledge; few who kept their ears open wouldn't, in this part of the Valley. The form for an ordinary dweller in the Outfit's territory was different from an A-lister's, although anyone who knew Astrid Larsson would have seen her fingerprints on both:

“I, Arvand Sarian, pledge obedience and loyalty to the Bear Lord. I will pay his tax and keep his peace, heed his laws and his appointed officers, follow him in war and in peace with arms and council, I and my blood after me. So I swear. So witness earth. So witness sky.”

“I, Michael Havel, pledge in the name of the Bearkiller Outfit and my own honor that from me Arvand Sarian shall have fair justice and good lordship, protection and aid at need; and so long as he keeps faith with me, he shall keep holding of all that is his, no man compelling him, he and his heirs after him. So I swear. So witness earth. So witness sky.”

The Bearkillers watching gave a cheer. Sarian rose, and chuckled: “So, my lord, I suspect your first command is that I feed all these,” he said, waving a hand around at the gathering. “I can. We baked today, and there are the hams, we butchered a beef yesterday and I can slaughter a couple of shoats for ribs and chops, chickens…”

Havel grinned. “That
was
going to be my first command,” he said. “The next…remember that mill we discussed, while the horses were being shod?”

Sarian did, but seemed a little surprised that Havel had. “Yes?”

“You're going to build it, and I'll see you get a loan if you need it. I may be a warlord, Sarian, but I'm not a
stupid
one.”

 

“Hard man, your Havel,” John Hordle said.

He leaned back in the booth with the glass beer stein looking like a teacup in his massive fist. Aylward took a swallow of his own while casting a discreet eye around; nobody was near enough to overhear them, as the Crossing Tavern bustled with the effort of feeding so many—most of them outside around their campfires. There was laughter from the booths around them, and snatches of song from the camp; the strange fruit dangling from the old oak hadn't dampened spirits for long. People had gotten tougher-grained since the Change, and nobody was going to miss Bailey's crew much. Some of those passing by paused to spit on the bodies.

“Not exactly mine,” Aylward said. He held up a hand. “I'm Lady Juniper's Armsman now…run her militia, pretty well; not to mention she saved me life right back after the Change.
And
her territory is where I've settled for good and all, Johnnie—I've a wife and children over there in the Mackenzie country, and a bit of a farm. It's my 'ome now.” Unspoken:
So don't tell me anything Lady Juniper's Armsman shouldn't know, because I'll use it if you do.

Hordle nodded in his turn. Aylward's quirked smile said:
Looks like we still understand each other, mate.

There was little left of the hulking awkward youth who'd listened to Aylward's stories in the taproom of the Pied Merlin. Hordle had still been young when they last met nearly a decade ago; very young to leave ordinary regimental service and pass the almost insanely rigorous SAS tests, but he'd shown promise. Now he was a man grown; not yet thirty, but with a matter-of-fact confidence. He also had an interesting collection of scars on face and hands and arms, when you had time to look—none from bullets, but a fair number of the thin white puckered lines you got from blades.

“As to our Lord Bear,” Aylward went on, “he's a bad enemy but a good man to have at your back if he's your friend, and that's a fact. Now do some ruddy talking, John. Any news on my sisters?”

He'd had two still living when he left England ten years ago. He blew out his cheeks in relief when Hordle smiled and nodded: “We got 'em both out, and their families,” he said. “Even with the Change, Sir Nigel wasn't going to forget, eh?”

“Bless 'im,” Aylward said, raising his mug.

And I'll wager he got Hordle's kin out too, and the families of any other troops he had under his command.
One reason Sir Nigel had been an effective commander had been a thorough understanding that loyalty had to run both ways.

“I've 'ad nine years of wondering what went on back in the old country. What happened to Lady Maude, for starters?”

“Killed when we broke Sir Nigel out of Woburn Abbey,” he said.

“What the ruddy
hell
…no, I'll let you get on with it.”

Hordle finished his stein and filled it again from the jug on the table; then he took a small loaf out of the basket beside it, tore it apart and began to eat it.

“Get on with the rest, then,” Aylward said after a moment.

“Ten years in a word, Samkin?” Hordle said, cheeks bulging as he chewed meditatively.

“Ten thousand for a day, unless
you've
changed.”

“Right, then: the Change happened—I was dead asleep in barracks when it did, first thing
I
knew besides the light and headache was gettin' rousted out at four o' bleedin' clock to stand on a street corner with an SA80 even more useless than it was when bullets worked. Well, it had a bayonet. Day Two they gave us halberds and pikes from the Tower and turned the Tin Bellies up in their fancy kit.”

“Must've been bad, in London.”

“Bad? Mate, you've no idea—we scarpered early, morning of Day Three, and there was fire and smoke from one horizon to another already, and crowds in the streets, and when the water went off, and then…The politicians had
no
bloody idea what to do.”

“Now isn't
that
a super sodding surprise.”

Hordle nodded. “But Sir Nigel and the Household Cavalry got the queen out to the Isle of Wight; she died that winter, poor lady, of grief and over-work—wouldn't take a crumb extra. And when we left London Sir Nigel had notice sent to officers he trusted, to use the islands as rally points—Wight, Man, Anglesey, Arran…he could see what would happen if things didn't go back the way they'd been, and that the rally points would need defending.”