Changer's Moon (29 page)

“Your weapons are far more lethal than ours, with a much greater range. My world fights with sword and bow, lance and sling. With those two-wheeled machines you have mobility and ten times the speed of anything my people know. You would be fighting beside several hundred meien, women trained to weapons who will give the last ounce of their strength to defend the Biserica, not least because they can look forward to a slow skinning over a hot fire if they're defeated. Also a few hundred irregulars, men and boys driven off their land, and some Stenda mountain folk who don't take well to being told what to think. You'd be fighting behind a great wall, defended from sorcerous attack by the most powerful concentration of life-magic in our world. Your numbers are few, but as I said, your range, power and mobility will more than make up for lack of numbers. There might be other allies joining us, but I've been away from the Biserica for some time and haven't seen the latest reports. As for the other side—I think we can count on having to face three or four thousand. Not all of those will be trained fighters, but enough of them to roll over my meien like a flood tide no matter how fiercely they fight. And there is the council of sorcerers, the Nearga Nor. Since they are the ones who started this mess, they're gathering in all the norits and norids they can lay hands on. Norids you don't have to worry much about since they're barely able to make a pebble hop. Norits are something else. Besides things like longsight and flying demons sent as spies and saboteurs, they can compress the air above you so that it falls on you like a stone, turn earth to bogs that suck you down, or open wide cracks under your feet, burn anything flammable you have on your body, including hair and nails, freeze the breath in your lungs, or snatch it away, freeze the blood in your veins. But they can't work their magic from a distance greater than ten or a dozen bodylengths and there are only a few hundred of them—and as long as the Shawar are untroubled, they can block everything the norits throw at us. The most powerful of the nor, the norissim, are very few, one active, the others reduced to shadow extensions of his will. But he'll be concentrating on the Shawar shield so won't be a direct threat as long as we can keep the army from breaking through the wall. With you there, we can stop them. A tough fight, but far from a lost cause.”

“And what happens if we don't choose to come?”

“I go back through the mirror and look for another force to fight for me.” He looked round at them. “And you pack up and start running.”

3

Julia ran from the pain, ran into memory, fading from scene to scene, indirectly taking leave of the struggle that had brought her here, preparing herself for the final yielding.

A hand reached out and caught hers, a strong arm hoisted her into the back of the truck. As she stumbled into the darkness, the dim light from the overhead bulb touched momentarily the flat spare planes of a familiar face, Michael, dressed again in the skirt and blouse she'd given him. She settled herself beside him, her back braced against the steel side of the box. “Making this permanent?”

“This side of the line.”

“They still looking?”

“When they feel like it.”

The truck began filling up, people packing in around them, so they stopped talking and sat in growing discomfort until the smuggler had his load and the back doors were slammed shut and latched. Julia heard the rumble of the motor, grimaced as she caught a whiff of exhaust smoke; the truck started forward with a lurch that pushed her into the dim figure on her left.

The truck crept forward, waddled into the street, hesitated, then picked up speed along an empty street.

The hours passed too slowly. There was no talking, a grunt or two now and then, a cough, a sigh, scrapes as one of the fugitives shifted cramped limbs. There was a stink of fear and sweat, of hot metal and exhaust fumes. The uncomfortable jolting as the truck sped through twisting, potholed back roads became a kind of bastinado of the buttocks and heels, but the stale air had its anodyne for that, dulling her mind and senses, dropping her into a heavy doze.

Whoom-crump of a warning rocket. Bee buzzing of rotors, grinding of engines. Man's voice blatting from a bullhorn. You can't tell what he is saying, but you don't need to.

Truck bucking round, racing off the road into the woodlands, roar of motor, chatter of machine guns, bullets pinging off the sides of the truck, punching through, shrieks, groans, a woman keening in the murk, a man cursing. The truck lurching wildly, tossing them all together in a tangle of arms and legs. Screams. Moans. Banging and clawing at the doors, shrieking, howling, confusion, floundering, muddle. They are locked in a bounding, shuddering box with no way out.

Squeal and shriek of metal. The truck is tumbling over and over down a precipitous slope. Over and over.…

Bashing into a tree or a boulder and the back doors spring open and the fugitives spill out in a long trail of whimpers moans and silence.…

Bee-buzz of rotor blades, beams of blue-white light stabbing at them, pinning one after another, chatter of machine guns, shrieks. Then silence.

Julia crawls frantically into the brush, fiercely intent on getting away from the slaughter. On and on, brush tearing at her, clawing open her skin, shredding her clothes. Fall into a ravine, rolling over and over, out of control, rocks driving into her, bruising her to the bone, ripping open her flesh.

Slam against the bottom of the ravine, scramble some more on hands and knees, follow the ravine until it dribbles out, on and on, away and away, the noise diminishing, the lights and turmoil left behind.

Finally she collapses on her face, gasping and exhausted.

And a hand comes down on her shoulder, another catches her arms and holds her still.

She struggles. She is held firmly but gently and she cannot squirm away.

“We're friends. Quiet. Don't be afraid.” A woman's voice murmuring in her ear. “Hush now. Be quiet and we'll help you up.”

Julia coughs, croaks out, “Who.…”

Strong hands help her up, support her.

A man, blond and chunky, pale eyes almost colorless in the moonlight. A woman, tall and thin, dark gleaming skin, a broad glowing smile.

The man says, “You're the last, we've picked up the rest of the survivors, got them safe.”

Julia swallows, tries a smile. “One called Michael dressed like a woman?”

The woman laughs. “Sure, hon. Who'dya think sent us after you?”

4

Several others surged to their feet as Havier Ryan sank to squat. Hern flicked a finger at the lanky brown woman with the wounded shoulder.

“Anoike Ley,” she said crisply. “You say the greater part of your army is made up of women fighters. Explain, please.”

Hern raised his brows. “You ask that?”

“It's better to get things clear.”

Hern rubbed at his chin. “Hard to know just what to say. Mmm. Some five hundred years ago an ancestor of mine, Andellate Heslin, rid the mijloc of the feuding warlords that kept it in constant turmoil, and made Oras his capital, built it up from a small fishing village perched on the cliffs above the Catifey estuary. He chose to reward certain women who had been of great service to him in this by giving them a diamond-shaped valley between the Vachhorn mountains and the coast of the Sinadeen.” He smiled. “Not so generous a gift as you might think since he was giving them what they already held, but by making their possession official and backing it with his approval and his army he made life a lot easier for them. That was the beginning of the Biserica as we know it now. In the mijloc we serve the Spring aspect of
She
who has three faces,
She
who is the circle of birth and death and rebirth. The Maiden. The Biserica is the heart of that worship. But you'd better ask Serroi about the Biserica.” He touched her shoulder, smiled at her, his face changing and softening. “My companion.” He looked up, the palace-mask back in place. “Serroi was a fighting meie of the Biserica before her talent for healing bloomed in her. Don't let her size fool you. With a bow I have never seen her equal and I wouldn't be that sure of besting her with a sword given reasonably difficult footing. And she's better than most at using her head. You're good, Anoike Ley, the fighters with you, but I'd bet on Serroi to take you out, singly or in combination.” He chuckled, drew one of the sprinty russet curls between thumb and forefinger. “Or I would have when she was meie. She's a healer now and that's a different thing.” He stepped back. “Explain the meien, if you will.”

Serroi made a face at him, turned. All those eyes. Waiting. She found it easier to ignore the others and concentrate on Anoike Ley. “The first thing I have to say to you is that the Biserica is a refuge for all girls and women who have nowhere else to go.” She smiled. “I am a race of one, a misborn of the windrunners. By a complicated chance I escaped the fire that waited me, and by another set of chances the Biserica became my home, the only place where I found real welcome. First thing anyone sees of me is my skin; most stop there, but not the teachers and the sisters of the Biserica. Hern told you what's going to happen to all of us if the Biserica falls.…” She swallowed, looked over Anioke's head seeing nothing. “There are four types of women who come out from the Biserica. Every village on the Cimpia Plain has a Maiden shrine. Until recent times, every Maiden shrine had a Keeper who was trained by the Biserica. These women taught the children, served as midwives and mediators, advocates for those without hope or power; they presided over the seasonal fests and were involved in all aspects of life in the villages and on the tars. Healwomen are the wanderers, they go where they will, all over the world, drifting back to the Biserica when they feel the need, sending back reports of new herbs and new ways of being sick. They're trained in minor surgeries, herbcraft, treat both men and beasts. And a few of our artisans go out to earn the coin we need, metalsmiths, glass blowers, stone cutters, leather workers, weavers, potters and others, not many; most prefer to stay home and sell their goods not their services. And there are the meien. The weaponwomen. Some girls come to us with an interest in weapons; if they have the necessary eye and hand coordination, the proper mindset—by that I mean no love of hurting and killing—they are given weapons training and taught the open-hand fighting. Meien also earn coin for the Biserica. They are hired on three-year stretches we call wards, sent out in pairs, shieldmates, acting as guards for women's quarters, for caravans, as escorts for the daughters of the rich and powerful especially on their wedding journeys, as trainers—that's enough to give you an idea. We don't fight wars, except as defenders.”

Anoike frowned. “Sounds like you had it pretty good, helluva lot better than here. How come you in a bind now?”

“Power. Groups wanting it. The Biserica is the one area on our world the Nearga Nor can't touch. A prize that mocks at their claims to power. The sons of the Flame who follow Soäreh consider us anathema and want to destroy us. Listen.
Woman is given to man for his comfort and his use.
Biserica women are decidedly not available for such use.
Cursed be he who forsakes the pattern/ Cursed be the man who puts on women's ways/ Cursed be the woman who usurps the role of man/ Withered will they be/ Root and branch they are cursed/ Put the knife to the rotten roots/ Tear the rotten places from the body/ Tear the rotten places from the land/ Blessed be Soäreh the Pattern-giver.
That's one of the fuels that drives Floarin, that and her ambition to rule. And that gives you a good idea what's going to happen to the meien and the others that do what the Followers consider men's work.”

“Hunh, sounds familiar.” She looked over her shoulder at the others. “You want my vote, I say go. I'd like to get a look at that Biserica.” She sat.

5

Julia drifts.

Blocky building, floodlit, inside a double electric fence, patrolled by guard-pairs with dogs running loose, scouting ahead of them. Mobile antennas opened like flowers to the stars.

A car painted official drab moves steadily, unhurriedly along the winding mountain road. It stops at the gate. A brief exchange. The gate swings open.

Watching with Anoike and the rest of the band, hidden on the hillside above the complex (with the rocket launcher and rifles in case of trouble) Julia follows them in her mind, closing her eyes because the waiting is making knots in her stomach. Present papers to the officer in charge. Wait. Papers passed (if they're passed). Escort to the control room. Night shift—only three monitors. Unless the schedule has changed since the press aide took her through when she was researching her thriller. That was before all this, when even a quasi-military operation like that below was eager for favorable publicity to ensure the continuation of its funding. It was amazing where a writer could get when Parliament was debating the budget. She opens her eyes a moment. They are already inside the building. Michael as driver, their expert on electronics. Georgia, career military until ordered to shoot into a peaceful though noisy march of protesters, handling atmosphere. Pandrashi, silent and muscular as aide and bodyguard and carrier of official papers in a neat though rather large leather briefcase. Inside the building. Marching with crisp, unhurried steps into the throat of the enemy.

She counts the seconds. Opens her eyes again. The car sits undisturbed. No alarm of any sort.

Control center. There by now. Escort darted and unconscious. Guard likewise. Nightshift tucked away in a storeroom, thumbs wired to big toes, gags in place. In the center of the main board a locked black box. Inside, six fat red buttons that trigger the destruct charges in the six armed spy satellites in orbit above the UD. Any attempt to pick the lock or break it sets off very noisy alarms and transmits a warning to the nearest base. But the guard has a key. If nothing has changed. Boasting of their efficiency, the press aide volunteered this bit. If there's ever need, if the country is invaded or one of the satellites is knocked from orbit, the Colonel doesn't have to be on the premises. He can phone instructions to the guard, give him the proper password and wait on the phone till the guard reports the destruct charge is activated.