S. Stirling - The Given Sacrifice

“I’ll tend to that, but there’re other things must be done first, and I’m afraid some damage will be done.”

Graber spread his hands in acknowledgment; it was a cost of finishing the job, and you did what was necessary for that.

Consideringly, Rudi went on: “Fifteen hundred riders. . that’s more than I expected.”

Graber gave a rare smile: “For a while I was hiding in the woods with about four men, two of them brothers of my eldest wife, while the Prophet’s hunters beat the bush for us and we put our hands over the children’s mouths to keep them from giving us away,” he said.

“You wouldn’t be the first to win back to power and fortune and victory from such a state,” Rudi observed. “When we’ve more time, I’ll tell you of a man named Temüjin. . it means The Iron One. . in a land far away, but not unlike this in some respects. Cold mountains and vast plains, at least.”

Graber looked interested, then returned to business: “But it’s been obvious for a while now the Prophet is going to lose the war, especially after news got back of the Horse Heaven Hills, and the Midwesterners started heading our way. The Church, the Church United and Triumphant, that is, got a lot of credit for the way they reestablished order right after the Change, but that ran out some years ago. What they had left was fear.”

“And fear alone is a chancy basis for a realm,” Rudi said; leaving unsaid that Graber and his ilk had been among the main instruments to instill that terror.

Mathilda nodded decisively. “Fear leaves you with nothing to fall back on when the bad times come,” she said, echoing things Rudi had long heard her mother say.

Graber inclined his head; apparently he’d overcome any feeling of shock at a woman speaking in a council. Or wearing breeks and boots, which Matti was.

“True, your Majesty. And I had some other good arguments. Not least, that if we wanted to have any say in how things are arranged here after the war, we’d better show we’re willing to fight for the High Kingdom now.”

“Good,” Rudi said. “A most cogent point. I’m going to need a commander here to keep order, and eventually to rule as my vassal. I’ve no desire to import battalions of unpopular alien bureaucrats, and more battalions of soldiers to enforce their writ at the sword’s edge, and then spend the rest of my days reading and annotating the reports of both. Montival isn’t that sort of realm. After things settle down here, the form of rule must arise from the folk themselves, as the years since the Change have shaped them in their hearts. For that I need a man born of these lands who also has a record the rest of Montival will respect, and I think I’ve found him.”

Graber looked blank for a second, and then astonished when Rudi leveled a finger at him; so did some of the others. Rudi chuckled.

“I’ll have to spend more time here than I wish, Major. . hmmm. We’ll come up with some title. . Range Boss, perhaps? Lord of the Eastern Mark? I’ll be wanting a man who understands the land and the folk, for I’ll have other calls upon my time, even though this will be Crown land. It’s not an easy job I’m offering. The lands long under the CUT have been badly harmed, not least in the minds and souls of those dwelling here. It’ll be a lifetime’s work to even begin to repair the damage. Will you take it?”

Graber hesitated for a second or two, then nodded decisively. “Yes,” he said. “It’s necessary.”

Then, shrewdly: “And having a local man in charge will make a lot more Ranchers likely to come over willingly-it’ll be a sign that bygones are to be bygones and that they won’t be excluded from power and office as long as they renounce the CUT.”

“Exactly,” Mathilda said. “And I don’t think anyone will doubt you mean what you say. . my lord. We found you a very determined man when you were chasing us !”

Rudi covered a yawn as the Questers all nodded. “First we must take Corwin. After that. . more work. But building is more enjoyable than tearing down, even when that’s necessary. Even when the building involves cracking a few heads!”

Corwin, Valley of Paradise

(Formerly western Montana)

High Kingdom of Montival

(Formerly western North America)

August 29th, Change Year 26/2024 AD

Corwin was falling.

The Earthly House of the Ascended Hierarchy was falling in fire, falling in blood. Everyone who felt like defecting or just absenting themselves had done so, or been killed trying; those who remained were mind-bound or more often the core of real believers who were simply determined to die in the last ditch for their faith. The Montivallan forces were in no more forgiving a mood, after what they’d seen on the way or in the Prophet’s capital itself and what had happened to those of their comrades unlucky enough to fall into the enemy’s hands.

I would of course prefer that the beithacheen had a change of heart and surrendered, Rudi thought, coughing to clear his lungs, leaning back against a broken table and working his left hand where it ached from clenching on the hilt. But if they won’t, I would very much prefer that the irreconcilables die fighting here, rather than taking to the hills.

The city was smallish and had no wall, but the buildings were stout and mostly stone-built, windowless on their first floors, and all interlinked both by tunnels and enclosed overhead bridges. Many had nothing but slit windows, no other entrance save the tunnels, and every house had to be reduced and then held lest enemies emerge from hidden exits and attack the assault parties from the rear.

Edain turned, cursed and shot in one movement. A figure above them dropped the rock he’d been hefting to shatter on the granite-block pavement and then followed an instant later, breaking himself and lying limp. The narrow spike of the bodkin head stood up from between his shoulder blades, driven through rear plate of the leather armor by the fall. His helmet clattered away and rolled

“This is like me mother goin’ after cockroaches,” he said. “Cursing and splashing boiling water to get the last of the little boogers. Wish we could have just stood off and shot at the place with artillery.”

“If it wouldn’t take forever and a day,” Rudi grunted agreement.

He swigged from his canteen and passed it to the master-bowman. They had their backs resting against a barricade of broken furniture, with the bodies of its Cutter defenders still sprawled around them. The troops with them were a mixture-Boisean regulars, dismounted men-at-arms and crossbowmen from the Protector’s Guard and Bearkiller A-listers, the High King’s Archers and even some of Graber’s Montanans. Under their varied gear the faces were much the same, filthy and streaked with soot and sweat and blood and lined with strain and exhaustion. Stretcher-parties had taken the last of the wounded to the rear a few moments ago.

“Water,” Matti croaked.

He handed her the container, and she splashed a little on her alarmingly red face before she drank, coughed, drank some more. Huon trotted up from somewhere with a collapsible leather bucket that had probably started its life watering horses, and she plunged her head into it for a long moment to emerge blowing.

“If you’re too tired to fight, don’t try,” he snapped. “I need you alive, not to mention Órlaith. We’ve enough troops to rotate.”

“I’ll be fine,” she wheezed. “Just needed to cool down for a bit. Mother of God but that felt good. Thank you, Huon; hand it around.”

It wasn’t very hot, even with the soot and flames from a few structures that had caught fire, though that caught at the throat. He was in full plate as well, though-there was nothing like it for close-quarter work-and he could feel how the heat buildup inside dragged at your strength. Even the very fit just tired faster with this carapace strapped all over the body.