Tales of Downfall and Rebirth (9 page)

“If the King felt threatened by such as him, we'd have greater worries in Montival than a runaway maker of croissants,” Huon replied. “Hold.”

Artos and his men waited, untroubled. The cook clearly wanted to touch the Sword.

He wanted the truth known.

Flesh met blade; the flat of Chuckwagon Charlie's bare palms slapped down on the metal with an audible thump, like fish on a grill, as he knelt. He said something, his voice low. Begging forgiveness? The words were shredded by the wind, but they carried the flavor of a sob.

“Come.” Huon began striding across the ice to join his King.

Now Charlie was wriggling, strangely, writhing and jerking as if he was caught in a dog's teeth. Guilty after all?

Instead of screaming, or attacking Artos as a magus of the CUT would, he yelled. “Goddammit, Magpie!”

His hands appear to be stuck to the sword.

Jerking, undignified, Charlie put his boot on the tip of the Lady's blade. He gave a mighty yank, and went toppling into the drift, taking half the sword blade and Artos' arm with him.

The party from Montival gasped.

It was a fake, a colored statue. It wasn't the High King at all.

Allie ran to her baker's side, striking the remnant blade with her tomahawk. The King's false arm broke into shards. Beneath the ice, Charlie's hands were frozen to a foot-long length of old steel pole.

She whirled, facing the Baron.

“He reached for your truth-stick!” she said. “He put himself freely to the test.”

A false test,
Finch thought. “He might have known.”

“Did any of us?” She waved a hand, indicating the assembled throngs and their drawn weapons. “Did you doubt this was your precious king?”

Charlie didn't say anything in his own defense. He wrenched himself free of the pole, and dusted snow off his leather pants with the backs of his ice-burned hands.

Up close, the illusion didn't hold. The horses, Finch saw, were mounts borrowed from all around the camp. The host of Montival soldiers was nothing more than snowmen, already slumping and sliding off the saddles.

Charlie said, “I'll go south with them, Allie. Reconcile myself with Artos.”

“They might execute you.”

“Right or wrong, I let those soldiers into Todenangst.”

“It won't be necessary,” Baron said.

The hubbub quieted.

“Charles Frayne,” Huon said, “as vassal to King Artos and his voice in this matter, I release you from the burden of the crime. You were compelled; you bear no responsibility.”

The baker staggered against the horse. “I . . . I should—”

The princess steadied him. Then she reached out, taking the Baron's hand and shaking it. Walking past him, she crossed the drift to lift Lester out of the snow.

“It's like a winter miracle, ain't it?”

“Shut your chatter, Magpie,” she said, but there was no heat in it now.

He shook his cloak, and for a moment there was a creak in his movements: he seemed old, achy, and tired, worthy of every line on his ancient face. Then his eyes gleamed, like those of his totems, bright as hungry birds.

“Well! Allie! You oughta take your new pal here to meet those Wheat Pool bastards. They hate my guts, Huon, or I'da done yesterday. And there's a helluva dance at the end of this thing, if you change your mind about going early.”

The Baron looked to the princess.

“You shouldn't miss the Doubledouble breakfast,” she said, leading him off into the crowd even as it dispersed.

Finch stayed where she was, searching the trampled ground for black-and-white feathers.

Lester interrupted her search. “Guess you know your business,” he said, tapping the satchel where the book of sketches was nestled. “Good portrait.”

“I'd—” She nudged a piece of ice, the false king's illusory crown, with her toe. “I would like to be worthy of this badge.”

“Sculpture, you mean, or trickery?”

“I wish to learn,” she said. “I am the Eyes of the Morrowlanders and your skills would benefit my people.”

“Come back next winter,” he said, “if your boss agrees. In the meantime, our friend Charlie makes an incredible crab-apple turnover. Can you smell it?”

She turned into the wind and it was there: fruit, an unknown spice, fresh flour, and a hint of meat. “Is that real, or is it merely that you suggested it?”

“Should a Scout be so philosophical, little bird?” Lester asked, leaning on her arm for a moment before springing lightly atop a shelf of ice and, from there, to a felled tree trunk. “Seems a little impractical for such hands-on folk.”

“I'm beginning to think ‘should' is a useless word,” she said, hopping up after him, two bird-named people of the forest, balancing on a downed spruce.

“Don't knock ‘should.' She's a tyrant, but she's got her uses. Don't ever trump what is, though.”

“Says the illusionist,” Finch said, and she raised her nose to the freezing air and the cooking crab apple wafting on it, and spread her arms like wings before jumping down to the ice and sliding, twirling like a child, laughing as she cut through the eye-opening bite of the northern wind.

by
Kier Salmon

I'm Kier Salmon, jack of many trades, master at a few. A list of many of the things I've done includes sales clerk, teacher, secretary, executive assistant, programmer, mental health worker, interpreter, copy editor, and first reader.

I have been honing and working on my writing skills in the midst of doing other things like earning a living, being a good witch and community member, and raising my adopted daughter.

My first story, written when I was fifteen, was in Spanish, because I was living in Mexico—I was there between my ninth and twenty-seventh years. I am still fully bilingual.

My first commercial publishing was in
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword & Sorceress VI
and under my previous last name of Neustaedter. Then things like real life got in the way and I dropped the idea of writing professionally and focused on earning a living. I'm fairly sure that was the wrong decision. Since 2003 (Beltane) I've been working as S. M. Stirling's first reader, and I've been editing and running his fan-fiction Web site since 2005.

A number of other stories are yammering to be told and between his blunt pointers and the work I do telling people “No, no, no! You can't do that!” I have seen my skill level rise. I'm pleased to present a post-Change story in this anthology.

“Y
o
u're such a fool!”

Colin laughed and juggled the rocks higher and higher, dancing and turning on the narrow path, his great kilt folds swirling around his knobby knees, his dark blond ponytail jouncing on his shoulder blades. One by one he slapped the rocks out of sequence, each one flying over the steep drop-off to the north. He caught the last one neatly and began to toss it, up and up and up, snatching it out of the air as it plummeted down and tossing it again.

“. . . And why would I be being a fool?” he asked, catching the stone and turning a bright inquiring gaze to Robin.

She sniffed. Colin reflected that even at twelve she could do a disdainful sniff to rival his stepmother Esther's. As he'd turned sixteen, he'd found himself trying to read female attitudes the more.

He tossed the single stone thoughtfully as they continued to move down the path through the Siskiyous, keeping at a steady dogtrot.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Oh-ho, it's worming the secrets out of the chief's son, is it the now?”

She shrugged and pulled slightly ahead as the trail narrowed, her neatly pleated great kilt flashing stripe, sett, stripe, sett. Colin opened his mouth and shut it. He should really go first, but with two of them alone on the ridge of the world, one position really wasn't safer than another. She was paying attention, eyes, ears, and her sixth sense, and he did the same, still holding the stone.

They'd left Stronghold around midmorning. The aching blue sky of a perfect brisk May day, piled as high with cloud-banks as the earth below was wrinkled into steep ravines and winding valleys, soothed him. Robin was pulling ahead and he pushed himself a bit harder.

“Got it!” she said as he came up to her. “You play the fool every time somebody starts bullying. You did it this morning at practice with that murderer Malcolm!”

Colin clicked his tongue at her. “Well, aren't you the wee bright lassie,” he drawled, dodging her sudden fist to the arm. “Di' na, lassie. I'm not truly mocking you the now. But keep that quiet. As I told tha' great brawling bully: when I've the inches and pounds of my sire, I'll smash and bash my way through battle just as he does—I don't think! My faither ain't stupid!

“But Malcolm Robson took two good blows to his kidneys and needed to allow and honor my win. So I made him a laughingstock.”

“Robson's got no honor,” spluttered the girl. “Murdering bastard . . .”

A cold finger touched Colin's neck. He placed a finger on her lips. “Ah'm thinking we maum go a little milder the now . . .”

She shook off his touch, brown eyes already scanning the forests, barren mountain ridges and arching sky, her ears obviously a-prick and her mind,
the real sixth sense,
thought Colin, working.

They stood quiet for a few minutes before meeting eyes and shrugging slightly. “Something,” said Robin, her voice now low. “But I can't pinpoint it.”

“Truth,” answered Colin, “truth. Keep alert. We have a serious errand to your da and mam, what with young Derek lying on death's threshold. There's no wrong with your anger at the man, for Derek's the second child he's hit too hard. He's not long for our company, not w' two laddies laid out and me but just escaping this morning thanks to Greer Tennart. When m' faither told me to bait him the morn, we di' na expect it to be so effective. Arguing that he nivir meant for to hurt none rings well hollow the now. And Greer did flite him well . . . I reckon the other men will be dishing out yet more scorn today.”

Robin's lips had tightened at the mention of her brother's injury. She scanned the rugged land before them again and opened her mouth, and shut it abruptly, freezing. Her eyes met his and they scanned the trail again. Without a word they moved forward at speed, footfalls now as soft as possible and climbed off the trail, up and behind a large rock face overhanging the ravine.

They lay absolutely still, dark green and rust-red plaids thrown over their hair and faces. Slowly the sound that they'd perceived became more pronounced, regular, and Colin felt his gut twist.
Men, damn! Men, for women do not march in syncopation on these trails. And those who do march are not of the Dells of McClintock.

From the west came a small troop of men, dressed in worn battle camo and laced boots. Billed caps, backpacks, and rattling just the slightest bit from all the hardware they were draped in. Colin kept his eyes in the shade of his plaid, but watched and counted. Swords, daggers, axes, and a few morning stars . . . and where he could see a naked weapon, he could see dried blood. The camo was stained, as well. He could feel Robin stiffen beside him. And slowly force herself to relax again.

They stayed where they were until the sound of the pounding feet faded to the subliminal level that'd first caught their notice. Colin turned his head and looked at Robin. Under the kilt's overdrape, her face was pale. After a long stare into Colin's eyes, she buried her head in her crossed arms, shaking.

“Sherries,” she said, fear and loathing in her voice.

Well, Da, that backfired on us . . . Big time. What do I do the now?
Colin sat up, pushing his plaid off his head and looked west hoping to see smoke.

Gradually Robin stopped shaking. “Sherries, right?” she asked.

Colin snuck a quick look at her tear-streaked face and nodded shortly, still weighing their options.

“There's no column of smoke,” she said, low-voiced, sitting and scanning the western horizon, putting back her own plaid and smoothing down the fluff of hair escaping from her once-neat Dutch braids.

Colin considered. He pointed . . . “Right about there,” he said. Robin followed his finger and nodded.

“There, where”—she choked and coughed, rubbing her wet cheeks—“where the eagles fly . . .” They slipped down from their perch back to the trail.

“And the buzzards and war-birds are homing in.” Colin chewed his lip.
They got them afore dawn, just like the last time. And nobody left to fire the beacon.

The midnight planning with his da, the sneaking about, trying to figure out who was the mole in the hold . . . it had been exciting last night as he talked his way past Sean, Stronghold's teacher and accountant, and bluffed him to the kitchen. Now it all felt like a bad spy movie.

We knew RoeDell was fingered as a probable target. But . . . they haven't finished stripping Rachel's Dell. Da didn't expect them to hit another so fast, not before we could warn them; they've niver before. Now what do I do? Or better yet—now what are they going to do nixt?

“It's going to be like Rachel's Dell, isn't it?”

Colin looked down at his companion grimly. “What do you think, lassie?”

“I'm more interested in what you think, Chief's Son!” she snapped back.

Colin shook his head.

“You were there, weren't you?”

“Well,” Colin picked up another two stones and began to juggle the three, controlling his emotions by the intense focus needed to move the spinning wheel of stones along several planes. It was like the concentration required to not let his voice break during sword practice.

Robin made an exasperated sound and batted one of the stones out over the ravine. “Stop that, you fool!”

He snatched the other stones out of the air and laid them neatly on the trail, before another betraying rockfall sounded.

“I was,” he said shortly, answering the original question. “If RoeDell has fallen, fallen like Rachel's Dell, to the last living creature there, then we don't want to go there . . . at least, I don't want to see it again, and I truly don't want you to see it either.”

The serried ranks of heads hanging on poles dug into the ground haunted his sleep. His father had returned to Stronghold and taken down the skulls of his foes from the battles of Eight Dollar Mountain and Redwood Pass, and burned them. He'd made the taking of heads geasa forevermore on the McClintocks.

“Then there's the problem of where the damned Sherries are headed. To their hidey-hole, which we have yet to find, or to hit another dell? Like wasps they are. If I was alone, I'd try to shadow them. As it is, to get back to Stronghold, we'll have to shadow them all the way to Eight Dollar Mountain, and hope they don't set back scouts.”

“Bravado,” sniffed Robin, trying to recapture her 'tude. “It'd be too dangerous.”

Slowly Colin shook his head, looking east, where the column had vanished. “They take no prisoners. If they wiped out RoeDell—that makes”—he thought for a bit—“close on to two—almost three—hundred people in less than a year's time. We can't sustain those kinds of losses.

“Dangerous to follow them, yes, but we've not . . .” he hesitated.
Tell her or not? What she doesn't know she can't tell anyone.
“We're not sure where they are holing up or why they aren't at least stealing the women and children for slaves. Mebee you should go back, alone . . . If only those men . . . If only I could be sure you wouldn't . . .”

“No fear,” said Robin flatly. “I'll go, but I'll go careful, very careful.”

Colin bent for a stone and then hesitated, looking up at Robin. They made an aborted movement and froze. Around the spur came a man in plain breeks and a shirt.
Can't get off the trail fast enough . . . for sure he's seen us. Two smaller people against one medium-sized man . . . tricky . . .

“He's not dressed in camo or a kilt. Who is he?”

Colin felt the blood drain out of his face as he recognized the man's gait and short rusty hair and bent hurriedly for the stones he'd put down. He fended off a sudden exasperated push from Robin.

“Let be,” he hissed, scowling. “Play along, do!”

He had the rocks up and whirling and began to dance along the narrow trail, sideways, chattering. “. . . So that was Ma's reaction to Da marrying LaTonya . . . but she and LaTonya got to be good friends, 'cause LaTonya's new husband, after she ditched Da, was this guy, Goah, and he came over to work in something called Sirk deh soly. He taught gym at the local school; taught me a lot of things, Goah did. Anyway, he did kid-care for all the kids. We were really a tribe . . . Goah had two plus the other with LaTonya, Mum had two before Da, and three w' Da, and LaTonya had t' one w' Da. He's always liked kids.”

Colin felt like he was going to pant and controlled his breath strictly and grabbed another rock and spun around, the pleats of his belted feileadh mor flaring and brushing against Sean's pants. Even expecting to find the man close, it was startling and his voice cracked embarrassingly when he let out a gobbled sound and lost his rhythm. Sean startled back, his arms up to shield himself as the egg-sized rocks thudded around them.

“Damn you, fool boy! What the hell are you doing here?”

Colin swallowed and cowered back just a little bit, only enough to convince Sean, without convincing himself. He was remembering an unexpected encounter in the dark passages of Stronghold just hours before. “Taking Robin home!” he said. He shot a quick look over his shoulder and then back to Sean. “I pushed Da to let me do it. I din want her to come alone this way.”

“Why are you taking Robin home?”

Colin frowned.
When did Sean leave the morning? Did he not see the kerfuffle at sword practice?

“Shhh,” he said low. “She doesn't know all about Derek, yet.” Louder he said, “Me da told me to take her back to talk with her mam and da 'bout Derek being hurt by tha' idjit Malcolm Robson.”

What time did Sean leave Stronghold to get here? And what's he doing in the wake of those Sherries?

He turned to Robin and saw a deeply suspicious gleam in her eye. Panic wanted to grab hold of him, but even as he watched, her face went blank and then suddenly, bratty. When she spoke her voice was a perfect whine.

“What're you doing here, Sean? Did you go to warn me mam to go easy on me?” Her voice, petulant and sulky, mimicked an older voice: Sean's. “Ms. RoeDell, sorry ma'am, Ms. MacRoe, Meestair—Maire, Angus, I've come to warn you Roberta's being sent home . . .”

Sean scowled at her and said, low-voiced, “Sneck it, girl. I needed some missing harvest numbers. I never got to RoeDell—close, but close don't count. I hid up the trail when I heard them climbing up from the Dell.”

“How close did you follow?” asked Colin eagerly, patting Robin on the shoulder. It looked like an absent pat—he pinched her good and hard. She grabbed his arm, clinging and whining under her breath. A second “sneck it” from Sean had no effect on her and Colin again patted her shoulder, turning her into his bony chest.

“Let's go back to that place where the overhang makes the trail a bit wider.”

He pushed Robin in front and she suddenly ran. “Can't catch me!” she cried, her voice thin in the great open spaces. Colin took off after her, hearing Sean's low-voiced curse behind him. Two quick twists of the trail and she stopped at the wider spot, panting slightly.

“Quick, what am I supposed to do? And why is he coming along behind those Sherries?”

Colin nodded. Sean was coming up, fast. “And he's clean! No blood—dunno what that means, but nothing good. Go figure. We can't ditch him, too dangerous if we don't know where he is or what he's up to. Go home w' him—that'll spike whatever plan he has, having to escort you. I think I know where the Sherries are headed. If I'm right, they plan on wiping out two or three Dells at once and plunder them slowly.

“Da's gotta be warned; tell him the next one is in danger, mebee by dawn tomorrow, mebee the day after. He knows which one that'd be. I can't make the distances work otherwise. Only you can warn him . . . or, I only trust you to do that. When you get to Stronghold, run away from Sean. If he doesn't try to kill you, he'll want to send you up to Selmac and the weavers there. Don't let him touch you, or get in touching distance. Go to Esther or Aisha . . . either'll go right to Da. Keep smart; you missing is a lot less trouble than you sent to Selmac. I trust you, stay alive—get the message to Da.”