S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

Havel snorted laughter, then stood in his stirrups to wave at the reception committee. Several of them waved back, but he waited until another rider cantered in out of the north before he moved.

Josh Sanders drew rein; he was equipped much like the Bearkillers' leader, with boiled-leather protection, sword, shield, bow and helmet.

"That's all of them, Boss," he said, pointing off towards the Nez Perce. "No ambush that I could spot."

Havel nodded; the Hoosier was a first-rate scout, mounted or on foot.

"All right. Report to Angelica"-who was camp boss and in charge when he or Will wasn't there-"and tell her I want her and Will with me while we dicker and. hmmm, all the Larssons. Pam to keep everyone on alert, but don't be conspicuous about it."

Sanders's eyebrows went up. Havel had never liked the blind-obedience school of discipline; when there was time, he preferred to explain things. It cut down on mistakes when people understood why they were doing something; he'd also never imagined he was infallible, and Sanders was smart. Letting your troops' brains lie fallow was wasteful and dangerous.

Besides, he thought, this may be a small outfit now, but Josh'll need to play leader too someday when we've grown.

"We want them to think we're tough but peaceful," he said. "Will and Eric and I can do the tough; women, kids and old people along are more likely to make 'em think we're not looking for a fight."

"That makes sense," Sanders said. "Angelica and the Larssons, pronto, Boss."

He cantered off. Will cocked an eye at Havel. "Mebbeso you're smarter than you look," he said.

Havel chuckled and turned in his saddle. The Bearkiller caravan was about a thousand yards behind him; four wagons now, and nearly fifty people in all, counting kids. They'd pulled off the narrow country road onto a fairly flat stretch of roadside sagebrush-ease of access was one reason they didn't use the Interstates much. Folk had pitched camp and were getting on with the work of the day:

Signe Larsson sighed and reached for the weights as the wagons pulled off to the side of the road.

"No rest for the wicked," she said.

"If you want, I'll swap you a chores day for a weapons training day: " Luanne hinted.

"That is so not funny, Luanne. 'Sides, the cows were such fun for me yesterday. It'd be greedy of me to snatch another day with them."

Luanne grinned, unhitched her horse and vaulted into the saddle, reaching for her lariat as soon as her boots touched the stirrups. Signe began a set of wrist curls with the fifteen-pounders. She sat on the plywood bed of the wagon, with her feet on the pavement, bracing her elbow against her thigh as she raised and lowered the leather-covered steel pipe handle of the weights. The wagon was the first they'd made, rigged up from the Huttons' trailer, and the height was convenient for the effort-the boring, miserable effort that was never finished.

Wrist curls on the right, on the left, stand and raise the weights to shoulder height and lower them sloooowly, waist-to-shoulder in front:

Though the chores would be just as mindless, and the chores are never finished either. God, the good old days, they were awful. You can't even listen to music unless somebody wants to sing, and they're usually terrible.

"How long do I have to go on doing this?" she grumbled aloud.

Her arms and shoulders ached a little, though she did feel a lot stronger than when she'd started this right after the Change. Pamela Arnstein was a few feet away, practicing lunges and cuts at a billiard-sized hardwood ball strung on a line and hung from a fishing pole, moving as if her legs had steel springs inside them.

"How long? For: the: rest: of: your: life," she said, pacing the words to her breathing.

The dulled point of the practice weapon went lock against the wood and knocked loose a chip. Arnstein was wearing a singlet and sweatpants; the flat muscle of her arms and shoulders stood out like straps under sweat-slick skin as she lowered the sword and stood panting, speaking again: "If you want to use a sword with any useful heft, that is. It's why I stopped doing this seriously before the Change," she went on, reaching for a towel and rubbing herself down. "It was just such a drag maintaining the upper-body strength you needed. Goddamn whoever invented testosterone-it's not fair, like an athlete using steroids. And if you think it's hard on you, try getting back into this sort of shape when you're in your thirties. You want to be on the A-list, you keep at it."

"Yes, sergeant-at-arms," Signe said, smiling.

"Swordmistress! Astrid might be listening!"

They both laughed; Astrid loved lurid archaic-sounding names for things, and sheer stubborn repetition had carried the day for her more than once. She sulked horribly when she lost-people had drawn the line at christening the outfit a "host" or a "free company."

"The little beast would probably have had us calling ourselves the Riders of Rohan if it hadn't been for that bear," Signe said.

She began the next set, lifting each weight back over her shoulder and down in turn. It was a rule that every Bear-killer over twelve had to train to fight, but you only had to do enough to make sure you wouldn't be entirely helpless if worse came to worst. If you wanted to be on the A-list, the people called on to fight in non-total-emergency situations, you had to pass some extremely practical tests. Administered in bone-bruising full-contact practice bouts by experts.

All the men and the older boys, everyone except her father and Billy Waters, tried hard to get on the list. She was damned if she wasn't going to make it too.

Of course, I'm not going to get to lie around eating grapes whatever I do, Signe thought ruefully.

Now that they'd stopped, the teams had been unhitched and hobbled and set to graze-not that the scanty grass and sagebrush around here would do them much good, or the little herd of cattle and sheep they'd accumulated. That was one reason they wouldn't be staying long. There was good grazing not far away.

Angelica was lifting down wire cages with chickens in them and letting the birds free to peck around, helped by Jane Waters. Billy Waters stood lounging and doing nothing, until Angelica gave him a scowl and jerked her thumb; then he picked up an ax and went looking for firewood. Ken gave her a nod and started fiddling with a lever-operated machine that was supposed to speed up riveting the rings of chain-mail armor. Annie Sanders rounded up the kids; she was the schoolteacher now, which had turned out to mean she oversaw them doing their communal chores, as well. Eric and a couple of others were unloading the heavier stuff for a one-night camp.

"Strong back, simple mind!" Signe called out to him.

The box he held wobbled, and then sent up a puff of dust as he set it down. He was working stripped to the waist, and-in an objective, grudging, sisterly fashion-she had to admit that Luanne was right; he was getting cuter.

Lost that last trace of puppy fat, she thought. Major improvement in the ass. Too bad he still uses it to think with.

He'd never been plump-more sort of beefy-jock-muscular; now he'd lost the last softness around the edges, gotten ripped and taut.

And his face has firmed up. But he's still a jerk and a teenager. I don't suppose Luanne could do better, considering the meager supply of unattached young guys we've got. But much as I like her, getting enthusiastic about him shows a serious lapse in her taste.

Eric wiped a forearm across his face, where a thin fuzz of yellow beard caught the dust and sweat. He had his old malicious teasing grin on, and hooted back: "Well, then, I suppose you're lowering your IQ weekly with those weights, hey, sis?"

Signe stuck out her tongue, then turned her back, ignoring his horselaugh.