S. Stirling - A Meeting At Corvallis

"Some of it," Juniper said. "Even if we break them."

"We thank you for smuggling us weapons, but still, we cannot face armored men-at-arms in open country as you can."

Juniper nodded. "No. But if you control the ground outside the castles, even for only a short time, many of you could flee. We are willing to take in thousands, the Bearkillers likewise and Corvallis even more. Our harvest was good, and there is land here-and more southward, towards Eugene-fine land lying empty and waiting to be tilled."

Another of the would-be rebels spoke, a thickset farmer with a gray beard: "That's wild land, grown up in bush. And if we run, we can't bring much in the way of seed or stock or tools with us, damn-all but what's on our backs. It would take us years to make farms, and more years to earn what we'd need to start, and we'd be laborers until then, maybe all our lives. Like peons."

"No," Juniper said. "You would be free-a man can be poor, and yet free. Or possibly, if we damage them badly, you can force the Association members to give you better terms at home."

She lifted a hand. "I am not saying this is very likely, or that fleeing your homes is not a counsel of desperation."

Those old enough to remember the times before the Change also remember the dying times just after it, she thought. She did herself, and the early Clan had been far more fortunate than most. They remember the bandits and the Eaters, and the raw terror of starvation. On the other hand:

"In another ten years, or twenty, doing anything will be much harder," she said.

They nodded. The farmer stroked his beard. "Yeah. My own grown kids hate the castle-folk, right enough. But they don't: the old world isn't real to them; they get bits from movies or TV confused with what really happened, Captain Kirk with President Clinton, and things like elections aren't even fairy tales. They don't hate them the way I do. And the bastards don't let us have schools. I try to teach the kids in the evenings, but it isn't the same."

Juniper sighed. "I can only ask for your help, not require it," she said. "You must consult your hearts and each other."

A woman with burning eyes spoke: "My village will rise, as soon as we hear the knightboys've marched. We're just not going to put up with it any more! Rapes, beatings, never enough to eat, working every day until we drop down with exhaustion! They don't even obey their own laws, and those are bad enough!"

"Mine won't rise," another said. "We: I remember my youngest dying in the first Change Year, and sneaking away to bury her so nobody would dig the body up to eat it. Things are bad but my children are alive: and I have a grandkid born this year."

"We've got to work together!"

"We can't work together, not when we've got to sneak around, and: well, you know as well as I do. Some people tell the Associates things-or the priests, it's the same thing."

"Please!" Juniper said, and the budding argument died. "As I said, it's your decision. We will try to give as much help as we can, whatever you decide to do."

Astrid exchanged a few words with Eilir in Sign, then spoke herself: "We Dunedain Rangers will help smuggle more arms to those who wish them. We moved much captured equipment from Mount Angel up into the hills after the battle there this spring. If you want it, talk to us afterwards-individually, to reduce risks. And we're too few to be of much use in the great battles, so we'll be able to send small parties north to guide fugitives, and do as much as we can to protect them. We've done that before, on a small scale. Perhaps we can do it now on a greater one."

Juniper leaned back and let the talk proceed. Her gaze stole to the altar, and the figures there; the Mother was a simple, stylized shape in a blue robe, but the Lord was shown with Coyote's grinning face. She closed her eyes a moment in prayer; wishing for the cunning of the one, and the compassion of the other.

Because I must lead all my people out to war, she thought. Help me!

Somewhere out in the burgeoning wilderness beyond Dun Laurel's walls and fields, a coyote howled in truth: or was it a wolf?

Castle Todenangst, Willamette Valley, Oregon

August 30th, 2008/Change Year 10

Norman Arminger looked down from the Dark Tower and smiled with pride at the iron might his word had called into being. He knew he must be doll-tiny on the balcony to the vast host stretching along the east-west roadway to the north of the castle, but the roar of sound that greeted his upraised fist was stunning even at this distance. Blocks of gray-mailed troops stretched to either side across the rolling countryside, a long glitter of summer morning sun on their spears and lanceheads, flashing from the colors of banners and painted shields, blinking as bright on the river behind them as it did on edged metal. The surging wash of voices gradually focused into a chant rippling across miles: "War! War! WAR! WAR!"

The smile was still on his face as he turned from the little balcony and into the War Council's chamber. Armored nobles and officers waited around the great teak map table, helms under their arms or on the wood as they looked down, memorizing the last details of their tasks. The black-mailed knights of his personal guard stood around the walls of the big semicircular room, motionless as ever. And the Grand Constable was stuffing some papers into a leather pouch.

All but the guards turned towards him and bowed; he waved a hand in permission, and the groups began to break up and file out. Renfrew waited for the last.

"We're about as ready as we could be," he said when they were alone except for the guards. "Ninety-two hundred of our own men, twelve hundred from the Duchy of Pendleton, and a siege train that'll make any wall sit up and take notice: except Mount Angel, of course; we'll have to starve that out."

"Glad to see you happy about it, Conrad," Arminger said jovially.

"I'm not, my lord Protector; any victory will be at heavy cost. But if we're going to do it, this is the way to do it. They'll have about our numbers, with the contingent Corvallis sent, but our men are superior in a stand-up fight, in my opinion. If we break their main army, it'll split up-it's a coalition, an alliance. Then we can reduce them one by one."

"Exactly," Arminger said, thumping him on one mail-clad shoulder; it was like whacking a balk of seasoned hardwood.

"There is one thing," Renfrew went on, and Arminger felt his smile die a little. 'We've been receiving reports of internal disorder. Attacks on supply wagons, even a few cases of arson-tithe barns and manors torched in the night. Perhaps some of the light cavalry-"

"Conrad, Conrad, that's why we build all those castles-even if they're ferroconcrete instead of real stone. Nothing a few farmers or Rangers can do can really hurt us. You were the one talking about concentration of force. I'm not going to detach any troops until we've beaten the main enemy army and laid Mount Angel under tight siege."

"Yes, my lord Protector. That was the strategy I called for this spring."

The shaven head bent and the hideously scarred face was hidden for a moment. One thing he'd always found a little irritating was how the white keloid masses made it hard to read the Grand Constable's expressions, and his voice was very controlled. They were silent save for the rustle and clink of their armor as they walked over to the elevators.

Arminger grinned to himself as the operator cranked the doors closed and pulled the cord that ran through floor and ceiling, ringing bells far below where convicts waited in a giant circular treadmill. The lurch and then the smooth counterweighted descent were like something out of the old world. His amusement was at a memory; the first time he'd ridden the elevator, Sandra had concealed a couple of musicians on the roof over his head and had them do a creditable imitation of elevator music from pre-Change days, Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman." He'd nearly jumped out of his skin: