S. Stirling - The Given Sacrifice

“Pardon me if we’re not being entirely trusting,” he said. “Last-minute changes of plan in a major operation give me hives.”

That got a smile, a slight unwilling twitch of the lips, and a nod as from one professional to another.

More of the Dúnedain came up through the opening in the floor, and then the unmistakable troll shape of John Hordle. He gave a gesture, holding up two fingers. Ingolf winced slightly. That meant both-of-you-know-who were on the way across the river along with the assault echelon, and that was so dangerous he didn’t even say the names to himself.

It’s amazing how much more protective I’ve gotten about Rudi than I was when it was just the nine of us out in the wildlands. Maybe there’s something to the way he complains that being king is a lot less fun than becoming king.

They were committed now. Wellman nodded at Hordle too, evidently recognizing him on sight. That wasn’t very surprising, particularly considering how distinctive the man was; the Dúnedain were Montival’s equivalent of Wellman’s outfit, after all. He seemed to know his job, which would include finding out all he could about his probable opposition.

A hard-looking dark man had a map spread out on the floor. Ingolf pegged him instantly for a long-service NCO. They knelt beside it, and Cole’s former superior did too. This hadn’t been part of the original plan, but you used what came to hand. A quick glance saw four other men keeping watch through narrow slits in bricked-up arches, with pairs of Ranger archers joining them and others spreading out through the space. The bull’s-eye clicked on, opened just enough to show the details.

The map was of Boise, about the same as the ones Ingolf had been studying. The quality was very high, fine-line engraving on excellent paper waterproofed with wax. Ingolf heartily approved, remembering times when it had all gone down the three-holer because someone got lost or didn’t know where something was. . or worse still, where they were, or worst of all was convinced they were somewhere they really weren’t.

“We’re here,” Wellman said, tapping the corner of South Capitol and West Myrtle. “Which I assume you knew before you came through.”

South Capitol ran southwest from-logically enough-the old State Capitol building, ending in the main gate complex; Myrtle ran northwest to southeast, crossing it in a good sensible grid. The building he touched was a rectangular mass a block long and half a block wide. It never hurt to spend a little more effort getting a good grasp on the area you had to operate.

The Boisean pointed upward. “Three stories up. At that level, it’s a flat roof for half the area, and then this section goes up another six.”

He put a sketch down by the map. The higher section was L-shaped, with the bottom of the L facing Myrtle.

“The part we’re in now was rental storage until trade went to hell. The upper section is government offices except for the last two floors, which are long-term records storage.”

Everyone nodded; the higher parts of still-occupied ancient buildings tended to be used for purposes which didn’t require climbing that many stairs multiple times a day. Dumping old tax records to be slowly nibbled into oblivion by mice was a typical one. There were ways to use the old elevator shafts, but they were all expensive, usually treated as luxuries for rulers and the very wealthy or employed for military necessities.

Wellman went on: “All deserted at this time of night, even the janitors have gone home.”

Well, that’s nice to know. There had been no way to check on little details like that from the outside, and the devil was in the details. Maybe Wellman getting involved was a good thing.

“The problem is that there’s a Cutter detachment on the flat roof right above us, keeping an eye on things; they’ve got a perimeter like that around all the approach roads to the gates on the inside, I presume exactly to guard against an attempt from within the city to rush one and open it. They’ve got a signal fire ready to go, and cowhorn trumpets. They report by blowing a signal every hour. It’s not as bad as a night heliograph, but it’s workable. Nine men, three placed so and three mobile and three resting. They’re relieved at sunset, midnight and dawn.”

His finger traced South Capitol towards the gate, tapping to either side of the road. “These used to be parking lots. They’re mixed-use row housing now, three stories, workshops and stores on the bottom and people living over. Nothing to worry about, the people will probably keep their heads down until they know what’s happening.”

Ingolf nodded. That sort of infilling was standard practice in modern walled towns. Space was always at a premium; the whole point of a wall was defense, but the number of men required to hold it went up geometrically as you increased the area enclosed by the perimeter. Fortified settlements were always as densely packed as water supply and hygiene allowed. Besides their sheer ludicrous size, pre-Change cities seemed to have come in two varieties: insanely overbuilt, or insanely dispersed and spread out. Or both. Usually both, in fact.

“The gate complex is here, two blocks. Street patrols are all Cutter light cavalry, though how they plan to feed that many horses during a siege is anyone’s guess. There’s definitely a High Seeker there-one at each of the major gates, in fact. I dealt with one of the junior Seekers once, and it was a memorable experience. I wouldn’t go near a High Seeker if I was on fire and he had the only water in miles. You have some way of handing this one?”

“Yes,” John Hordle said, glancing at the way they’d come. “Oi’ve done it, taking off their ’eads works foine.” He tapped the greatsword’s hilt. “Or burning them or chopping them to bits. They do stop moving in the end. But loikely we won’t ’ave to do it the ’ard way because we’ve zommat special coming. Good thing there aren’t more of them, innit?”

“The problem is going to be getting to the gate,” Wellman said. “The bastards can. . see things. See them coming before they’re visible.”

“The first problem is the sentries,” the hitherto silent noncom said.

“Sentry removal?” Ingolf said. “ That’s not a problem.”

Ian Kovalevsky chuckled. “Not if you’ve got the love of a good woman,” he said.

Hordle grinned, which made his face look like a boiled ham in a good mood. He got the joke, but the Boiseans looked baffled.

“We’ll ’andle it,” he said, and glanced at the tunnel entrance again.

The last of the Dúnedain were up, about fifty in all, with Alleyne Loring bringing up the rear. A man in the gear of a Boisean regular came next out of the office, with the traverse side-to-side red crest of an officer on his helmet. More followed him, not too noisy for men wearing armor of articulated lames and hoops of steel, but a lot more so than the Rangers. The second wave of the assault group had made it, or at least the lead element had. Though how many more could before someone on the wall noticed was anyone’s guess. The regulars filed off to quiet commands, taking knee in ordered rows with the points of their pila like a growing thicket of steel points in the gloom.

“Got a job of work to do,” Hordle said. “Won’t go away by itself.”

City of Boise

(formerly southern Idaho)

High Kingdom of Montival

(Formerly western North America)

June 26th, Change Year 26/2024 AD

Fifteen minutes later, Ingolf was remembering a story he had run across while he was dickering over a salvage contract for the Bossman of Iowa back about five. .