S. Stirling - The Given Sacrifice

“No trouble?”

“Routine, just routine.”

Fred walked over to a man in a mottled camouflage uniform with Captain’s insignia.

“Wellman, I know you’re thinking have I done the right thing? ” he said quietly. “That’s something I can only demonstrate by actions, not promises.”

“Sir,” the man said, saluting in Boise’s fashion.

Fred returned the gesture and stepped aside. Captain Wellman’s eyes went wider than the darkness would account for. Rudi was in plain gear, a brigandine with the rivet-heads dulled to the same green color as the outer leather, a visored sallet and vambraces of browned steel, boots and leather pants; just enough battle armor to let him fight in a melee while leaving him maximum agility. Evidently Wellman recognized him anyway. . or the Sword.

“I understand that I owe you my thanks, Captain Wellman,” Rudi said soberly.

“For what?”

“For deciding I’m the least bad choice of a short and unpleasant list, wouldn’t it be?”

The older man met his eyes steadily. “I didn’t do it for you,” he said, his voice flat. “I did it for my country and my people, and to save the city my family lives in.”

“Good reasons, and all the better to hear them from an honest man,” Rudi said, equally matter-of-fact.

The Boisean’s words had rung with truth like a bronze bell. He went on:

“Having, as you might expect, to deal with a good many of the other sort. You have my thanks anyway, if you’ll take them. And as a reward, Fred here will be giving you more work.”

They shook hands. “You’re. . ah. . not quite what I expected,” Wellman said.

Rudi inclined his head to the poster; it wasn’t the first he’d seen since they crossed into former Boisean territory.

“Ah, well, the serfs absconded with my glass carriage, and took the gilded armor and second-best crown of ruby and massy gold with them as they danced away clicking their heels and snapping their fingers. And stole the very last bag of honeyed filberts in the pantry to boot, the spalpeens,” he said lightly, startling a smile out of the other man.

“Ah. . Your Majesty?”

Rudi raised an eyebrow, and the Boisean continued: “Why are you here? Personally, I mean.”

“Ah. Well, fair enough. Two reasons. First, I don’t like to send men into danger I haven’t shared. Mind, I’ll do it, needs must, for I’ve found my likings have little to do with this job. And second. .”

He drew the Sword. Here was a slight hiss from the assembled troops, and for an instant everything about them seemed washed-out, as if there was a light so bright, so real , that the world faded next to it. . yet the room was still shadowed-dark. Wellman blinked openmouthed for an instant, and Rudi judged him a man who wasn’t used to being disconcerted. The hard-faced noncom next to him swore softly.

“And there is this, which I alone among men can bear,” Rudi said gently.

Matti can, among women , but she doesn’t like to and I don’t blame her, he thought to himself. As I told the man, likings have little to do with necessity.

Wellman swallowed, visibly forced his mind to work, and then began to smile in a considering fashion, which said volumes about the man.

“The High Seeker?”

Rudi nodded. “Locked within this is a power against which their demon lords cannot stand, and which blinds their seekings and the harm they can do the minds of humankind.”

Wellman winced slightly. “I’d rather there wasn’t any of this sort of stuff around. But if there has to be, it’s nice to have some that doesn’t actively creep me out even when it scares me shitless.”

“I can see your point,” Rudi said. “The Sword can even free such men as the Seekers from their dominion, though sometimes there’s little enough left. Mind, it won’t stop an arrow. But just as a sword -”

Rudi flicked the Sword against a concrete pillar, a hard swift cut from the wrist. Wellman cried out involuntarily in alarm-that would wreck the edge of any common weapon. The Sword of the Lady was different even simply taken as a blade with a handle; it had an edge better than the finest razor could take, fit to part a drifting hair and therefore far sharper than any battle sword was ever honed. Normally the thinner the edge the more fragile, but as far as he could tell it was utterly impervious to any harm. It never needed to be oiled, or wiped down. . or taken to a sharpening stone.

He suspected that it could be dropped into the hottest furnace, or the heart of the Sun for that matter, and not even grow warm to the touch. He wasn’t altogether sure it was physical matter at all as humankind understood the term, perhaps instead an embodied concept , a thought that could be touched. Most of the time he treated it with the same care as he would any fine weapon, from reverence and lifelong habit, but the demonstration was a legitimate use.

The edge struck the pillar with a crack , and a fist-sized divot of the stone-hard material came free with a puff of dust.

For the Triple One has given it into my hands not least to hearten my folk.

Wellman leaned forward, peering. Within the shattered concrete a piece of rebar gleamed, severed clean and smooth. A full swing of a heavy axe in the hands of a very strong man-John Hordle, say-might have done nearly as much. . once. . nearly, but not so neatly. His eyes went back to the supernal blade. Even the shower of dust left the Sword unmarked, sliding off the surface in a little stream.

“This is not just a war of men,” Rudi said. “So the Powers who gifted me with this, and Who are well-wishers to humankind, have told me.”

“Jesus,” Wellman said softly.

“Jesus too, though Him I’ve never met. For They wear many faces, all true and none complete. It’s an hour to dawn, the hour when dreams grow brighter and winds blow colder. We’d best be about it.”

City of Boise

(formerly southern Idaho)

High Kingdom of Montival

(Formerly western North America)

June 26th, Change Year 26/2024 AD

West River Street still existed; along the section facing the river it was the pomerium , the interior cleared strip just within the city wall where no buildings were allowed. It was even called by that name, since Boise under the Thurston family’s rule had always had a weakness for things Roman. Where it met South Capitol a triangular fortress rose sixty feet to cover the gates and the two bridges; the core of it had been, oddly enough, a library building and the whole had an angular, lumpy, improvised but highly functional appearance even now. The ramparts were black against the western sky, though the stars had begun to fade behind them where the mountains a few miles away eastward were outlined against the first gleams of sunlight.

Two hundred hobnailed boots crashed down in unison with each regulation thirty-inch stride, a harsh martial sound echoing back from the walls on either side of the road. Every forty paces the trumpeter up at the maniple standard in the lead blew a short blast on his curled tubae , a signal to make way-unnecessary now just before dawn, but standard procedure and something everyone would be used to. The company-century-guidons swayed at the head of each unit, each a gilt upright hand on an eight-foot pole, garlanded with the actions the unit had fought.

Rudi strode along beside Fred Thurston, about three-quarters of the way along the column of Boisean troops in his friend’s service; the Dúnedain and the detachment of the High King’s Archers brought up the rear amid the baggage carts, giving a fair imitation of the varied auxiliaries that accompanied the Boisean army’s heavy infantry, at least with the streets so dark.