A Meeting at Corvallis (36 page)

“Lacho calad! Drego morn!”

That was Eilir's party, dashing in at the gallop from northward along the road. Eilir herself was silent of course, but she was the first to throw her Molotov cocktail on a load of massive timbers; it was a quart glass bottle with its neck wrapped in oily cloth that gave off a long, thin line of black smoke as it smoldered. Glass shattered, and the sticky fluid within spurted out, caught fire and burned as it dripped and spattered over the dry Douglas fir wood. The flames were a fierce red-orange; the stuff was made of gasoline and laundry soap and rubber dissolved in alcohol and turpentine, until it had the consistency and stickiness of thin honey. More arched out as her team of six dashed down the line of wagons. By the time they'd pulled up near the wrecked bridge, pillars of smoke and fire were beginning to rise from the wagons. Better still, burning the heavy loads of timber would turn the steel members and fasteners into twisted, useless scrap, and those were a whole lot harder to replace than the shaped wood.

All that came out of the corner of her eye in an instant. If there was one thing in all the world she was certain of, it was that she didn't need to check on Eilir doing her part.

Astrid's eyes flicked over the action nearer her as Asfaloth's forehooves touched down again. Alleyne's man was down with a stub of broken lance-shaft sticking from his chest. Two of her Dúnedain riders were down likewise, dead or crippled, with their horses running free. The rest were in a melee with the Protectorate men-at-arms, horses circling and snapping as blades swung in bright, glittering arcs. As she turned she saw the tall figure in the green plate armor use the stump of his lance to break a swordsman's arm, and then cast it aside and sweep out his own long blade, bringing up the shield with its blazon of five roses. Astrid set another arrow on her string, rode close and ended a duel with a shaft between the shoulderblades, neatly cutting the shield strap that ran diagonally across the back. At that range the bodkin came out the front of the man's hauberk and went
thunk
into the inside of his shield.

She'd learned combat from Sam Aylward and Mike Havel. The rest of the Dúnedain running up had graduated from those same hard schools. Or something similar for John Hordle; he ran straight into the mass of enraged horses and bright steel with a wicked grin on his red ham of a face and the bastard sword in both hands. His first stroke took a man's leg off at the knee, just in the gap between the mail of his hauberk and the steel-splint shin protector…

The fighting was over in moments, with only a whimpering left that ended as steel was carefully driven home. A dozen or so of the laborers ran up to her, brandishing their bloodied tools or weapons snatched from the fallen Protectorate troopers. She stood in the saddle and held a hand up; beside her Alleyne raised his visor with a red-splashed steel gauntlet.

“Silence!”
he shouted. Quiet fell. “Listen to the Lady of the Dúnedain.”

“Or listen to this,” John Hordle said, hefting his great sword.

The workers were rebels, but they'd lived in the Protectorate for a long time—half their lives for most of them, from their looks. They were used to obeying armored men.

Astrid went on quickly, with the growing crackle and roar of the burning timbers in the background: “There will be soldiers here soon. We have to get you to safety. Cut the oxen loose from the harness, take as much food as you can carry, and weapons, and nothing else and follow.”

They scrambled to obey, pulling sacks of hardtack and beans and flitches of bacon and strings of dried sausage and blocks of cheese off the supply wagons, loading them onto their own backs or the bicycles of dead crossbowmen; the more alert stripped the weapons and gear from the enemy fallen, and drove the oxen into wild, stampeding flight with shouts and spear-prods. Dúnedain guides divided the labor gangs into parties of twenty or thirty and led them away quickly, up into the trackless hills. Her riders went after the enemy horses with their lariats.

And we must give the mercy stroke to any of the workers who are badly wounded,
she thought; there were enough horses to get the hurt Dúnedain out, but that was all.
It would be no kindness to let them fall into the hands of the
yrch
again.

Astrid herself rode down to the edge of Puddle Creek, reining in beside Eilir.

They didn't seem inclined to shoot at us,
Eilir signed, resting her bow across the saddle in front of her and nodding across the creek and the wrecked bridge.
So I didn't see much point in provoking them.

“Right,” Astrid said.

The Pendleton mercenaries were back, but the swift water was too deep on this spring day to cross easily, and the bridge was a tangle of twisted metal like some monstrous dish of ferrous pasta littered with whole dead oxen. They might try to get the two wagons on the far side away, but Eilir's group had carefully shot a couple of draught-beasts in each team. John Hordle came up with a dozen arrows clutched in his great right hand; each of them had a wad of napalm-soaked cloth just behind the head, the scent sharp and mineral under the fug of blood and smoke.

“Thought you'd want to do the honors, luv,” he said, offering one to Eilir.

The mercenaries' scar-faced leader reined in on the other side of the river, within easy bowshot, but with a white rag tied to a light spear.

“Neat job,” he called, laughing. “You're that Astrid they told us about, aren't you? Or are you the deaf one? I'm Hank Bauer, Sheriff of Lonerock.”

“I am Astrid,
Hiril Dúnedain,
” she called coldly. “Lady of the Rangers. This is Lady Eilir.”

Sheriff was equivalent to
baron,
in the country east of the mountains. And Rancher usually meant
lord
or
knight,
pretty well, with cowboy filling in for
man-at-arms
.

He chuckled. “You are one mean pair of killin' bitches, I've got to give you that. The big fellah there's no slouch either, I'd guess, or the guy in the fancy armor. Pleasure to meet y'all.”

“Leave this country, Sheriff Bauer, you and all your men, or you will leave your bones here. Go home to your own land and your families.”

“Shit, it's better grazin' land than anything to home, just like the man said,” he replied; the scar made his smile gruesome. “And we left to get away from our families, anyhow. If you're such a great fighter, girlie, why don't you come over here and
make
me leave? I'll give you a kiss if you do.”

The men around him laughed and hee-hawed at her, calling comments they doubtless thought very funny.

“If you're such a great warrior, why don't you come over here and make me fight you?” she called sweetly. “Or send your sister, if you're scared.”

“Watch out!” Alleyne said, snapping his visor down and drawing his sword again.

One of the mercenaries had pulled a light, yard-long javelin out of the hide bucket slung over his back in place of a quiver. It was a long throw…

But the horseman didn't cast the weapon he brandished over his head. Instead he gave a high, warbling shriek like an Indian war cry and put his horse at the water, shrugging off the surprised snatch his leader made for the bridle. The horse hesitated for only an instant and then slid in; the gray-blue surge came to its chest, and then it was picking its way across just upstream and west of the fallen bridge.

Alleyne shouted furiously: “This violates the flag of truce!”

Hank Bauer shrugged, looked up at the white rag, then pulled it free and tossed it aside. He laughed and called through cupped hands: “Hell, you can kill the little fuck for all I care. The dumb bastard's always pulling shit like this! I'd have killed him myself weeks ago except he's my wife's cousin.”

The man charging across the creekbed was young, younger than her, with only a fuzz of yellow beard on a face that also bore a set of black painted chevrons; long blond braids swung from under his steel cap as he howled and brandished the javelin. Alleyne began to wheel his destrier, but Astrid smiled and put out a hand.

“Bar melindo,”
she said:
My beloved.
“Better I do this.”

“Why?” he said.

“Because…” She frowned, not quite certain of what her intuition told her. “I think it may be useful. These men aren't lieges of Portland. They're fighting for money and plunder. And I think that all they respect is success in battle. If they respect us more than the Association…something might come of that.”

His mouth quirked. “And it'll be more spectacular if you do it. You've got a damnable habit of making sense, darling. By all means—he's yours.”

She suppressed an impulse to kiss him—that would not go over well with the target audience just now—and leaned down for an instant, running her left arm through the loops of the shield hanging over the bow-case at her knee. The young easterner brought his horse surging up the shallow bank of the creek and charged her, shrieking; Asfaloth turned beneath her in response to leg and balance, going from a standing start to a gallop in seconds. The distance closed with dreamlike speed, and she let him turn his horse to come in on her unshielded right side. Ten yards away he twisted back and uncoiled in the saddle, throwing the javelin hard and fast.

It seemed to float towards her. Javelins weren't much used here in the Valley…but there was a game she'd played for years…

Her backsword came free of the sheath and flicked from left to right in a long curve, the arc of its flight perfect as a song in the mind of the gods. With a hard
crack
the metal-tipped wooden rod flew by in two pieces, just as the dragonflies she usually practiced on did. A cheer went up from the Dúnedain still watching and another from the mercenaries on the other bank of the creek. The young man's astonishment made his voice break in midshriek; he was goggling at her as they passed in a blur of speed, and she could have killed him with a single sweep of the steel. Instead she wheeled Asfaloth and waited while he drew the heavy blade at his saddlebow.

“'Chete! Give her the 'chete!”
voices called from across the river, among other things, including advice on where to put it.

The man was a wild chopper; he almost killed her in the first exchange because her swordswoman's reflexes couldn't believe someone would just barrel in like that. He also nicked Asfaloth on the neck, and she felt her lips go tight in genuine anger.

Their blades struck, slid down until guard locked with guard in a skirl of steel on steel; the horses shocked shoulder-to-shoulder in the same instant. The easterner rose in the stirrups, throwing the weight of his heavier shoulders against her arm. Astrid smiled sweetly as she twisted her foot, got her toe under his stirrup-iron and heaved her knee upward sharply. The young mercenary's eyes went wide in panic; he yelled as he pitched up and to one side. Then he did something sensible, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and rolling over the crupper of his horse, dropping to the earth on the other side in a back-somersault. He landed stumbling, and Asfaloth was on him before he could set himself; the Arab mare was trained to ride men down. He dodged enough that the impact wasn't bone-crushing, but that sent him tumbling over the ground. He was sensible again, letting the sword go; you could get a nasty cut that way, particularly if only your torso was protected.

When he rose again he was weeping with rage and mortification, tears cutting streaks through the dirt and paint on his face, and losing themselves in the blood that poured from his bruised nose. He drew a bowie knife and waited.

Astrid laughed, and held up her sword, looking from the yard-long blade to the knife. “Do you want to die of stupidity?” she said, and flourished the weapon towards the stream.

The youth screamed a curse at her and hurled the knife, turning and running for the water. Astrid shifted her balance and Asfaloth gave one of her astonishing leaps, landing nearly at the edge of the creek. That let her deliver a ringing slap with the flat to the seat of his buckskin pants as he dove into the water and struck out for the other side; when he rose above the surface his face was as red as his buttocks probably were.

“Here's your wife's cousin, Sheriff,” she called as she sheathed her unblooded sword and caught the reins of the mercenary's mount when it looked like following him. “Tell him thank you for the horse. It's a fine one.”

The scar-faced man was laughing as she turned; some of his companions toppled from the saddle, wheezing and holding their sides and drumming their heels on the ground in mirth. My-wife's-cousin would probably never live this down.

“He won't thank you for it, Lady,” the mercenary leader said, confirming her guess, and then touched the hilt of his blade. “See you another time, without a creek in between.”

“We'll let you get out of bowshot,” Astrid replied.

The mercenary looked at the riverbank on her side; better than thirty archers lined it, and they could swamp his men even discounting the three who had swatches of burning oil-soaked tow tied to their arrows. He shrugged and neck-reined his horse about, calling to his men to take the Protector's crossbowmen up pillion. Then he shouted and leaned forward, and his horse leapt into a gallop southward. The others followed him around the curve in the road in a hooting, whooping mass, bent on only the Gods knew what deadly mischief.