S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

Something hit him, and he was lying on the ground. Thunder drummed in the earth beneath his ear, and then faded into a warm darkness. A sharp pain came with it, and then seeped away in weariness.

"Haakkaa paalle! Haakkaa paalle!"

Signe was screeching it as they thundered down the laneways between the tents, sheerly mad.

"Oh, shit!" Mike Havel shouted; he couldn't keep Gus-tav abreast of her-the gelding had been carrying more weight all day.

A huge figure in armor turned, throwing aside his broken shield. Ken Larsson toppled away as he turned; his face was a mask of blood, but he was clutching at his left wrist with his good hand as his sledgehammer dropped.

Havel could see the Devil Dog-surely Iron Rod himself- grin tautly as he poised ready, the bastard sword in a two-handed grip with the point up and back. The big man moved with astonishing grace as the horse thundered down on him, pivoting, the sword lashing out in the same motion. It cut the left foreleg in two just above the cannon bone, with a sound like a giant ax striking home in hardwood.

The horse's scream was enormous even among the clamor of battle. Iron Rod spun with the impact, laughing in his dense mat of beard, and Signe flew from the saddle to land with a bruising impact. Even then she managed to get her shield up, but the targe splintered under the stroke that glanced off it and into the nasal bar of her helmet.

He could hear her scream through the snap of breaking metal.

"Haakkaa paalle!" Havel shouted, as he slugged Gustav back on his haunches.

The big gelding reared, his hooves steelshod clubs flailing in the darkness. Iron Rod skipped backward, but that gave Havel the time to kick his feet free of the stirrups and slide cat-agile to the ground. The horse ran free, wild-eyed; Signe rolled in the dirt, both hands clutched to her face, screaming through her fingers.

Iron Rod roared and charged, his great blade whirling and scattering red drops. Havel landed with his knees bent and shield and blade forward, poised and ready.

The bastard sword swung down from left to right, a blow that would have lopped through a four-inch sapling. Havel moved into the stroke, hilt up and blade angled down behind him.

Iron Rod's sword struck his; there was a long skr-rinnnngg as the steel slanted away, redirected by the angle of impact. Even then, the weight of it nearly tore the hilt from his hand.

"My turn," Havel snarled.

The stepping lunge had taken him past Iron Rod, and the Devil Dog was twisted to his own right, locked for a moment by the momentum of his two-handed blow; not even a man that strong could stop a heavy sword instantly after putting everything he had into a strike.

Havel cut, backhand, the saber whistling with the speed of it. Then there was a heavy wet thunk as it struck behind Iron Rod's right knee below the skirt of his scale hauberk- the hamstring parting like a tense cable as Havel twisted and pivoted.

Iron Rod tried to pivot as well, and the leg buckled under him. He struck the earth with a bellow that was more rage than pain. The Bearkiller leader pounced again, smashing one heel down onto the hand that still gripped the heavy sword. Bones crunched, and Iron Rod shrieked;

Havel lashed out with one foot and the metal-shod tip of his boot struck his foeman's skull.

Iron Rod went limp. Havel sheathed his sword and took three paces before he knelt, holding Signe by the shoulders.

"He cut off my nose!" she cried in a thin shriek.

"No!" Havel said sharply.

She quieted; he forced her hands down and washed away some of the blood with his canteen.

"No, it's just a cut. It'll heal-not even much of a scar. The shield and the nasal bar broke the force." He pulled a bandage from the first-aid pouch at his belt. "Hold this to it."

Then he rose, looking around him; Pam had a tourniquet whipped around Ken Larsson's left forearm, he had his good hand pressed to one eye socket: and there was still fighting in the dark. Most of the attackers wouldn't know their leader was down. They'd have to do it the hard way, hunt them down through the night like the huge cunning sewer rats they were.

"Rally to me, Bearkillers!" he shouted.

To himself: "Let's get this cluster-fuck under control."

Sheriff Woburn nodded. "Let's give him his last wish!" he called up to his men. "He wanted to be hung here, and here he'll swing. Prod the bastard out!"

Michael Havel leaned on the pommel of his saddle as the Duke of the Devil Dogs stepped from the window of St. Hilda's tower; there were spearheads behind him, but he moved before they touched him.

Plus I think Sheriff Woburn has decided that his HQ should be here too. Smart man.

The heavy body fell four feet and jerked to a halt as the noose went tight; Iron Rod kicked for a moment and then hung still, his eyes looking out over the fair land of his duchy.

"D idn't know you played country!" Sheriff Laughton called, as he whirled by in the line of dancers.

The late September night was cool, but his face glittered a little with sweat in the red light of the great bonfires. Every now and then someone stumbled on the sheep-cropped grass, but enthusiasm made up for want of grace and a smooth floor.

Juniper grinned as she fiddled; the tune was actually "The Green Fields of Rossbeigh," and Celtic as all get-out even if it did start out with banjo and spoons. At least you could play country or traditional styles all-acoustic. People devoted to rap or metal were just shit out of luck.

The expression on the Laughton's face changed a little as Judy and Diana came in on the flute and the bohdran drum, standing behind her beneath the great oak. Suspended from a branch was the twelve-foot shape of the Green Man, a human form made from wicker and laced with leafy vines and twigs.

But "Rossbeigh" made an excellent toe-tapping hoe-down tune, and her free foot-she was sitting on the green mound with one leg tucked under-started tapping on its own. Her developing stomach wasn't getting in the way, quite, but she couldn't see the tapping toe, either. Luckily, a kilt and plaid made good maternity clothes. She'd hated the Mother Hubbards that were all she could wear when she was bearing Eilir.

The fiddle sang on. American country music started with the Scots-Irish, anyway, she thought. This is where it all came from.

The big trestle tables with the food were off to the side, including heaps of honey-sweetened pastries and fruit-and-nut scones to honor the occasion and-strictly rationed- some homemade ice cream with bits of dried cherries and filberts in it; sugar was the bottleneck there, since they'd used just about every scrap for putting up jams and jellies. Fruit-flavored yogurts were plentiful as all get-out.

People moved from dance to the food tables and back: or sometimes out into the darkness, hand-in-hand; it was an eat-dance-and-eat occasion.

Not to mention a drink-and-dance occasion, she thought. Well, Wine Harvest is another name for Mabon, after all.

There were also a couple of barrels of Dennis's beer and mead, besides what they'd salvaged from a winery. He thought that would be better in a year or two, but it was certainly drinkable now; he wanted to put in a winepress of their own next year.

She finished the tune with a flourish, and everyone came to a halt as the bohdran gave a long final rattle; someone put a mug of the home-brewed in her hand. She drank it down with another flourish to whoops and cheers, and wiped the foam from her lips; nicely hopped, with a nutty undertaste.

"Brigid linn is deoch is ni r? h tu riamh bocht!" she cried to the assembly. "Brigid with us, and a drink, and may you never lack!"

Judy held up an index finger: one only.

A little did no harm, but she nodded no seconds -and besides that, beer went through you even faster when you were pregnant. A buzz of voices rose above the cheerful crackle of the bonfires, sparks flying up into the dark star-rich sky.