The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change (45 page)

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Authors: S. M. Stirling

Tags: #Fiction - Science Fiction, #Alternative histories (Fiction), #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Alternative History, #General, #Regression (Civilization), #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction - General, #Dystopias, #Fiction

BOOK: The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change
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“Where, exactly, is Montival, Mr. Mackenzie? Yah, I’d like to know where these troops are coming from, also exactly.”
He was whipcord and sinew, with cropped yellow hair, a short beard showing the first silver threads and cold gray eyes. Two fingers were missing from his left hand. Judging from his glares at the Sioux, Artos suspected he knew
exactly
who’d removed them.
The Mackenzie met the northerner’s gaze for a moment. “Well, my lord Bossman, what concerns the two of us is where the eastern border of Montival runs, does it not? For my realm stretches from there to the Pacific shores. And for that . . . well, better to show than tell.”
He drew the Sword. This time the
shock
was definite and palpable, if still nothing that a camera or the machines of the old world would have recorded. The Fargo Bossman looked at it, winced a little, and then forced his eyes back to the gleaming length that seemed to draw in the sunlight from outside the pavilion’s shadow until it blazed like the sun itself. Beads of sweat appeared on his tanned brow, and he was visibly compelling his breath to a slow even rhythm.
“What the
hell ..
.” he muttered.
His hands clenched on the arms of his chair, and he was far from the only one. Somewhere a dry sob sounded, under a chorus of gasps.
Artos took four steps backward, reversed the Sword and thrust it downward. Eyes widened as it sank ten inches into the fitted oak-wood planks of the pavilion’s floor with no more effort or sound than it would have made piercing so much water. Red Leaf rose, levering himself up against the arms of his chair with a slight grunt; he was fit for a man his age, but he was also well into his middle years, and he’d been pushing himself very hard indeed. Then he came to face Artos across the Sword, looking directly into his eyes.
“Hope I’m doing the right thing,” he muttered. “Hope I talked everyone into doing the right thing.”
Then he sank to his knees. His calloused hands reached out and clasped the antler-embraced crystal pommel of the Sword, and his eyes went wide in amazement.
“Damn,” he whispered. “And I didn’t think anything weirder than the Change could happen.”
Artos reached out and laid his hands around the Indian’s. For a moment he felt a wrenching disorientation, as if he was Red Leaf rather than himself, and staring at himself; then he was:
A man in a breechclout who raced his horse up a stretch of grass, shaking his Henry rifle over his head, shrieking
Hoon! Hoon!
in savage exultation as the blue-clad troopers fell before the warriors who swarmed about.
A man creeping on hands and knees through tall grass towards a herd of buffalo with spear-thrower in hand and dart clenched between his teeth.
A man who stood and lifted a hand in respect as the mammoth blundered belly-deep into the tundra bog and his tribesmen closed in around its wounded majesty.
A man who drew a flint knife and sang the high wailing chant of his death-song as the sabertooth flattened its ears and slunk closer . . .
And he knew what Red Leaf saw, what the Sioux chief
was
for instants that rang by like lifetimes:
A tall rangy man in buckskins with a flintlock in the crook of his arm, striding westward through a forest whose trees were like cathedral pillars.
A man raven-haired and high-cheeked, a hunter gliding beneath black pines on skis whose toes kicked up powder that glittered like diamonds.
A man blond and cold-eyed, dressed in mail sark and boar-crested helm, who leapt from the bow of a war-boat grounded by a burning village with a sword in his hand and a grin like a hunting wolf.
A man naked but for patterns in blue woad, his lime-dyed hair wild around his face as he ran out along the pole of the chariot between the galloping horses, shaking his spear and screaming defiance at the advancing legion beneath its eagle standard . . .
More, for both of them. Men plowing and planting and building, hunting and herding, fighting and falling, men looking on a woman’s face with sudden astonished wonder, men leading children out beneath the night sky to name the stars for them, dancing joy-drunk in worship of their Gods or weeping in despair, singing as they brought in their harvest or starving in years of black disaster, men laughing, sobbing, dying. Back, back, until two who had the look of close kin stood dressed in hooded leather parkas and leggings by the shores of a lake that one day others would name Baikal. They embraced and spoke, and the words of a tongue long dead when the pyramids rose echoed down twice ten millennia:
“All the kindly spirits go with you, my brother.”
“All the kindly spirits stay with you, my brother.”
One man stood and watched with the tears trickling down his bearded face as the other turned to lead the sundered half of their clan eastward towards the rising sun—
Artos’ eyes blinked, and it had all passed in an instant. His voice was steady as he spoke:
“
Whapa Sa
, Red Leaf of the Oglalla and the Lakota nation, in whose name do you speak?”
The Sioux had only a few seconds more to collect himself; Artos nodded very slightly in respect for his wit and strength of will as he mastered his confusion at the sudden vision:
“I am Red Leaf of the Kiyuska
tiyospaye
of the Oglalla and the Lakota
tunwan
, and I speak for the Seven Council Fires of my people by their free consent.”
“What oath do the Seven Council Fires swear to me? And what shall I swear to them?”
“The Seven Council Fires offer their allegiance to the High King of Montival, their aid and advice in peace and the service of their riders in war. In return they ask good lordship and fair justice as with his other subjects, that they may hold their lands forever untroubled by any enemies and live by their own law and custom, under the protection of the High King’s Sword. So long as he keeps faith with us, and his heirs after him, we will keep faith with him and them; this we swear by the spirits of our ancestors, by the Earth beneath us and the Sky above, and all the
Wakĥáŋ Tĥáŋka
and by our own honor.”
Artos’ rich baritone filled the pavilion:
“And this oath do I hear, and swear in turn: I, Artos, son of Michael, son of Juniper; son of Bear, son of Raven, and High King in Montival. I swear that while they keep faith with me, in my realm the people of the Seven Council Fires shall hold their lands freely forever, and their own laws and Gods. None shall trouble them, or settle within their boundaries without their leave which they may give or withhold by sovereign right according to their own custom. This right I shall defend with all my strength against all men, failing not while I live; and also to them I shall give good lordship and fair justice as my subjects, respecting all right and law. I swear this oath by all spirits of Earth and Sky, of Water and Fire; by the Lord and Lady and by the Sword that They have given me, forged in the World beyond the world. May they and the Sword witness it. To this oath I bind my successors in the line of my blood forever, until the sky fall and crush us, or the sea rise and drown us, or the world end. So mote it be.”
A flash seemed to run through his flesh, and he was conscious for an instant of every vein in his body, every nerve, until it seemed he could see the very coiled matrix at the heart of each cell. Then it passed, and Red Leaf rose and put a hand on his shoulder. He returned the gesture, and the Sioux spoke quietly:
“You realize you’re going to have to spend six months touring around the
makol
repeating that with bells, whistles,
chanunpa
pipes and sweetgrass as soon as this war’s over, don’t you, kilt-boy . . . I mean, Your Majesty.”
“That I will, and enjoy most of it. But let’s win the war first; time’s a-wastin’.”
He drew the Sword from the planks and sheathed it, conscious of a collective exhalation of breath from everyone within sight. This time he sat in the chair at the head of the table, adjusting his plaid as he did.
“Most of you gentlemen and ladies know the capabilities of the Sioux. Who have just, as you saw, joined themselves to the High Kingdom of Montival. Whose eastern border you now know, Bossman Rassmusen.”
The lord of Fargo looked as if he’d bitten into a very green apple. “We never accepted that border as final after—”
Artos held up a hand palm out to keep Red Leaf and his son from interrupting, which they were obviously boiling ready to do:
“You signed a treaty with the Seven Council Fires . . . which now means with
me
. . . and the border was about what it had been before the fighting started, was it not? I will see to it that the Lakota don’t trouble you, and the border will be open for trade. Do you have any objection to that?”
The man looked as if he most assuredly did, but he shook his head. Artos went on:
“Now, I won’t presume to comment on the military strategy of the campaign here, beyond the most general terms; you shall advance west, my forces—”
About which I know absolutely bugger-all, but let’s not become bogged down in details, for all love.
“—move to the east and we crush the enemy between us. Sure, and it would be foolish to try for more; under modern conditions the distances are just too large for close coordination. I shall lead in the west, the great Provisional Republic shall lead here in the east.”
He inclined his head towards Kate Heasleroad, and she returned the gesture with regal calm; Abel Heuisink was fighting down a grin.
“One point I do wish to make. The territories controlled by our enemies are part of the High Kingdom of Montival, and even if they don’t know it the dwellers are my subjects, albeit some are in arms against me. This war is against the Cutter cult, and the regime of Martin Thurston. It is
not
. . . and I would like to repeat that,
not
. . . against the lands or peoples they hold in subjection. I know that wars kill people and break things, nor can a great and numerous host act like so many pilgrims to a holy shrine. War means fighting, and fighting means killing and destruction. But I
will
have pledges that there will be no unpunished killings of civilians, or arson or rape; that in short there will be no wanton destruction or plunder beyond military necessity. These are my people.”
Abel Heuisink spoke: “I might add that Iowa fully agrees with our ally on
that
point. We want to beat armies, overthrow the men who’ve threatened us, and go home, not get locked up fighting peoples.”
“We are avenging my husband, the father of my son, and securing all our lands and peoples against an enemy who have shown themselves to be utterly unscrupulous and insatiable,” Kate Heasleroad added. “Iowa has no territorial ambitions in this conflict.”
Artos nodded.
Which means nobody else should get big eyes either
, he thought.
And I will not have to start my reign with too many of my new subjects cursing my name.
Aloud he went on: “And even purely from a military point of view, keep in mind that not everyone will fight for the Prophet or the Boise usurper . . . but that
anyone
will fight for their home and family.”
There was general agreement, if a little grudging in some cases. Rassmusen spoke again:
“Just one thing more . . . Your Majesty.” The tone was absolutely polite, but Artos thought he detected more than a little irony. “Just how do we in Fargo . . . and Marshall, and Nebraska . . . know we’re not fighting to replace one threat on our borders with another? It’s easy enough for Richland and Iowa and Kirksville to talk; we stand between them and the High Plains and have since the Change. The Sioux gave us a lot of trouble even with this Corwin cult causing problems to their west and distracting them, and obviously they’d be even more of a menace with you and, ah, Montival behind them.”
“Security ...” Artos grinned disarmingly. “Apart from my word, that is?”
His voice was calmly friendly, but the Fargo Bossman was a man of broad experience. He looked a little alarmed, and his pale eyes flicked to the Sword again.
“Nobody doubts your word, Your Majesty. But you’re not immortal. Men die, and not always of old age. Policies change too. Geography doesn’t. Suddenly I’ve got a neighbor that’s over a thousand miles wide, instead of a couple of hundred, and I’m concerned about
my
grandchildren.”
Artos nodded; that
was
a point. “To my word, you’ll have to add common sense. Montival has, will have when this war is won—”
If
this war is won, but let’s be cheerful in public:
“—no more people than Iowa, or only slightly more. Dwelling sparsely in a land many, many times larger; and we have all of old California to the south of us when we need ground for expansion, as you Midwesterners have the empty parts of the Mississippi valley and the lands east of the river.”
“In the long term, though, your great-grandson, say, might get big eyes.”

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