The Sword of the Lady (35 page)

″But amplification and modulation are necessary. Interaction requires perception. Contaminated. So many possibilities.″

He smiled at the prisoner, and the man screeched like some small animal caught in a trapper′s toothed steel. His hands went out to grip either side of the captive′s face, forcing him to meet his eyes, and the troopers stepped away.

″I . . . see . . . you . . . forever,″
he said.

The prisoner screamed again, and the guards stepped back farther in involuntary recoil, like men who find themselves clutching something in the dark and feel the wriggling of too many legs. After a moment Dalan screamed back at his victim, in the same pitch of hopeless pain. Graber swallowed as trails of blood started from the corners of the Eater′s eyes, trickling like red tears into the scabrous beard, glittering in the firelight. After a time that seemed to last forever Dalan′s sound became words:

″Bitch!
Bitch!
Deva, die without dying! You and your he-whore! And the One who sent you!″

He released the prisoner and staggered away, moaning, clenched fists slapping at the sides of his head; yet he was grinning, licking his lips. When the shuddering ceased he straightened.

″They are traveling north. Water. Intention is to the east. I see forests, ice, wolves. Beasts. Beasts. We will pursue. Now it must rest. There is no replacement and it must not be stressed beyond failure point.″

The High Seeker turned and lay down on his bedroll, and closed his eyes. What followed did not look like sleep; it was more as if the adept had been
suspended
, somehow. The troopers remained shock-still, because the captive was moving now. Not trying to escape; instead he knelt by a stretch of frost-heaved concrete and began to beat his head against it. The
tock . . . tock . . . tock
sound was like a hammer on hard wood, as regular as a carpenter′s. Graber made a gesture with one hand; the man who′d used his shete to control the prisoner stepped forward, set his hand to the hilt and stripped the steel free of the leather. It swung in a brief glinting arc, and there was a final sound—heavier and wetter than bone on stone.

″Get rid of this carrion,″ Graber snapped. ″Vender, Roberts,″ he went on to his two chief surviving lieutenants. ″The maps.″

They joined him where he sat on a log; a trooper brought them plates of stew and wheat cakes as they discussed distances and times.

″We′ll need horses,″ Roberts said, tracing the length of what had once been Illinois from south to north. ″It′s an impossible distance to cover on foot in any useful time.″

″It could be done,″ Graber said; though few men from the High West would think so. ″But the tribes around here have some mounts and those in the prairies to the north have more. Say a week to accumulate what we need to start with . . .″

He paused. ″What is the date?″

″October first, sir.″

″Ah.″ He smiled, an expression that softened the iron slab-and-angle of his face for an instant.

The other two men looked at him, puzzled. He explained briefly:

″My eldest son′s birthday. He will be ten today, in Corwin.″

They nodded. ″Old enough to begin training in the House of the Prophetic Guard, as we all did, if he′s found worthy,″ Roberts said.

His voice was a little wistful. He had nothing but daughters, and all those were very young.

″He will be. My wives are women of excellent character, and Peter studies hard,″ Graber said firmly. ″Now, if we can acquire two remounts per man, we can begin. The horses will be of low quality.″

CHAPTER ELEVEN

″Getting close,″Ingolf said, rubbing a hand down the neck of his mount. ″Soo, Boy, soo,″ he said to the horse. ″You′ll get a good feed here, even if you were foaled in Nebraska.″

Rudi Mackenzie nodded, tactfully ignoring the slight hoarseness in the other man′s voice, as if he were choking back unexpected tears; Ingolf′s face was an iron mask locked against a surge of feeling.

A Mackenzie—any who were Changelings, at least—would weep, returning home after so long
, Rudi thought.
But customs differ from land to land, and so do the stamp they set on our souls. Wouldn′t it be a duller world, if they did not, so?

It was a bright fall afternoon, comfortable but with an underlying nip to it. This was farm-and-forest country, but you could tell that the North Woods started not so far away, and that the Wheel of the Year was turning towards the Crone′s dominion, in a land harsher than Oregon—

Than Montival,
he reminded himself; it was growing natural.

As they rode north along the valley of the Kickapoo from the hamlet at Soldier′s Grove the fields had quickly gone back to scrub and saplings, the usual story of more land than the survivors of the Change had means or reason to till when they no longer used machines to feed cities far away. But for the last hour or two the signs of human habitation had grown thicker again, first the chewed look of land used for rough summer grazing, then fields and the odd farmhouse behind its berm and ditch and barbed wire or palisade.

Often there was a wary twinkle of spearheads from the defenses or a fighting platform built atop an old silo, or the sight of livestock being driven up the slope of the land towards the woods; just what you′d expect from sensible folk when scores of armed strangers passed by. That alarm diminished as they went, until men and a few women came out to watch them pass with no more than a little caution . . . and weapons in their hands.

Then Ingolf laughed aloud as they came upon a man-high oak stump not far from the road. It was roughly carved into the shape of a naked big-nosed troll, but despite the crude work you could see a look of ineffable self-satisfaction on its face and in the way its hands folded across a swag belly; from the weathering and moss, it was at least a decade old and perhaps more. In Mackenzie or Bearkiller territory Rudi would have thought it a roadside shrine, but he doubted that was the purpose here and looked a question at the Readstown man.

″I did that,″ Ingolf said, a chuckle still in his voice. ″Well, me and Bert Kuykendall and Carl Heisz and Will Uhe, when we were all about twelve. It′s the spitting image of old Bossman Al, Al Clements. He came up from Richland Center that year, doing a tour of his Sheriffs′ homeplaces. We snuck out and worked on it after dark, kept it under a pile of brush until the day, and he went right past it and turned . . . what′s that color, sort of like purple . . .″

″Puce,″ Mary Havel put in, sharing her man′s good humor.

″Yah, puce. Dad wore out a hickory switch on Bert and Carl and Will, and two more on me for setting a bad example, but it was worth sitting down careful for a while. Surprised Ed didn′t have it cut down; he isn′t . . . wasn′t . . . much of a man for a joke.″

″Why didn′t your father do just that and take an ax to it, if he was angry, and it annoyed his overlord?″

″He wouldn′t give Clements the satisfaction. Never liked the man. I think he laughed about it to himself, despite the merry hell he gave all four of us. Dad was a hard man on his sons, but he expected us to push back at him. Wanted it too, I think.″

″Ah, and are you also thinking those three friends of your youth will be there to greet you?″ Rudi said.

The smile died. ″All dead now. Will put a pitchfork through his foot while he was loading manure that year. He was always a dreamy sort. Got lockjaw, poor bastard.″

″A hard passing,″ Rudi said sympathetically, nodding; they′d had drugs for that in the old days, but . . .

Ingolf shrugged. ″What way isn′t? Unless someone hits you on the head with an ax when you′re not expecting it. Bert and Carl volunteered for the Sioux War and left home with me . . . Bert got an arrow in the eye a couple of weeks later. We weren′t even to Marshall yet and he wasn′t eighteen when it happened—night attack, just dumb bad luck and our not knowing what the fuck we were doing. Carl was bushwhacked by Eaters in Boston, that last salvage trip east my Villains made. But we collected the head-price for him, and piled the ears on his grave.″

Rudi nodded again; he′d have expected no less; Ingolf wasn′t a man to let a comrade go unavenged.

″Ritva, Mary,″ he said. ″Ride ahead and see to our welcome.″

He reached into his saddlebag and held out a large envelope.

″They′ll have had scouts watching, unless Ed′s let things slip,″ Ingolf said. ″And odds are someone came ahead when we got off the ship and said who we were and where we were going; they′d have gotten here yesterday, riding fast and switching horses. You can′t drag this many people through the countryside tactfully, but nobody′s looking too upset over us. They must have some idea who we are.″

″To be sure. But I′m thinking it′s best to be formal.″

″With my brother Ed? Yah, you betcha. Always was a stickler.″

The twins reined around; Ritva took the envelope and Mary paused for an instant to reach out and touch Ingolf′s hand before she leaned forward and brought her Arab mare, Rochael, up to a canter with a shift of balance.

Rudi waited for another fifteen minutes of travel amid the stuttering clop of scores of hooves, creak of saddle and harness, grind of wheels and the
thud
as one rose and fell over a rock in the roadway, then threw up his clenched right fist. The long caravan came slowly to a halt behind him, with a squeal of brakes and a neighing of horses and curses in two languages and several dialects. There were six big wagons there, and nearly a hundred folk.

It′s a migration, not a quest!
he thought.
The which is a giant flag to attract attention and an inconvenience, so it is. Finding three pounds of food per head per day . . . it′s a lesson in logistics!
Or
a pain in the arse. But the Southsiders will be worth their weight in gold farther east—more than worth it, for the savages don′t want to eat gold.

Then aloud: ″We′ll await them here. It′s . . . polite.″

His comrades followed his example as he dismounted, stretching and twisting in relief; it had been a long day in the saddle. Virginia Kane didn′t only twist and reach, but frankly rubbed and kneaded her buttocks.

″I got outta condition in Iowa,″ she said. ″
And
on that damn boat. Too much sittin′, not enough ridin′.″

″I wish you wouldn′t do that,″ Fred Thurston said to her. ″It makes me want to do it too.″

″What, rub your butt? Why not? We ain′t none of us picky about parlor manners, that I noticed. ′Cept Odard, and that′s
his
problem.″

The baron of Gervais bowed and blew her a kiss, which she answered with a raised finger. Fred grinned and replied:

″No, it makes me want to rub
yours
.″

″Now you′re talkin′, lover boy!″

She unhitched her lariat from the saddle and swatted him on the backside with the coil.

″Let′s go get those remounts bridled and on leading reins; they′ll be skittish ′round strange horses. More fun than talking anyhow. ′Specially talkin′ to
farmers
.″

She looked around at the valley that held Readstown. ″This country′s too . . . too crowded with country, you ask me. I feel like I′m stuck in a closet and something′s
hidin′
behind them hills and trees.″

″You know, Chief, the Rocky Mountains were grand,″ Edain said, when she′d dropped back.

They stood with the breeze cuffing at their plaids and ruffling the raven feathers in the clasp of his flat bonnet, the tuft of wolf fur in Edain′s.

The young man of the Wolf totem went on, with a glance at Virginia over his shoulder where she was roping a skittish piebald:

″And the deserts, and the plains—well, the Lord and Lady made all lands beautiful in their own way, but after a while the flatlands had me feelin′ like a bug on a tabletop, and someone about to swat me and say
sorry, little brother
and flick the body off the table with thumb and finger for Garbh to snap up.″

The big shaggy beast rose at the sound of her name and butted her head under his hand. He ruffled her ears absently and went on as she grinned and squirmed and leaned against him:

″This now . . . It isn′t home, but it′s more homelike than most of what we′ve seen, sure and it is.″

″I had the same buglike feeling on the plains, boyo,″ Rudi said. ″It′s all where you′re raised, I suppose. And this is a delight to the eye, and no mistake.″

It
was
a pleasure to look around, and at the same time it sent a lance of pain up under his ribs. There was no alarm now, so Ingolf′s thought of scouts and messengers preceding them were probably the truth. He saw folk at work in the fields heaving wicker baskets of potatoes onto a wagon, a shepherd with her dogs, a bow across her back and her crook in her hand amid the dun-white flow of her charges, the people of a farmstead laying fresh shingles on their roofs against the coming winter with the raw wood yellow amid the faded brown of the older layers. The
tack . . . tack . . .
of the hammers sounded, faint with distance.

At home they′d be doing those homely tasks too, and hanging Brigid′s crosses from the roof-trees, and making the costumes ready for Samhain . . .

″It′s a comely place that bred you, Ingolf, that′s a fact,″ he said.

″It sure is,″ the older man said quietly, a half smile on his battered, bearded face.

He hadn′t seen this land since he left as a boy of nineteen, younger than Edain was now. There was a hungry look in his dark blue eyes as he went on:

″Pretty as I remember, and then some.
Fair is the land, fair to the harvest . . .
I thought about this a lot, in some real bad places. Seeing myself riding up this road, in my head, you know?″

The track their train of jolting wagons had followed up the winding river was dry brown dirt, and deep-rutted where wheels and hooves had churned it during the rains. The old paved road ran down closer to the Kickapoo except where streamside cliffs forced it away, and it looked as if the water had risen and bitten chunks out of it every other season over the past generation, not to mention the locals mining what remained for asphalt. Little was left but patches overrun by vine and shrub and eager sapling.