Dies the Fire (48 page)

“We've come to get you out safe!” she called. “Hold on!”

The voices redoubled, but the door looked strong, and the padlock was a heavy model with a stainless-steel loop as thick as her middle finger. Her heart revolted at the thought of rooting through the clothes of the dead Eaters outside, or among the grotesque filth in the room around the hearth of abominations; both would be dangerous. And the one with the key might have been among those who fled, anyway. She began to look around for a tool.

“Just a second,” Mike Havel spoke, surprising her. “Josh, check the pack-train. I don't think any of those maniacs would stop running that close, but no need to take a chance. And get some torches ready; we'll want to burn the place down when we've checked things over. Ms. Mackenzie, I'll be right back.”

They squeezed past the knot of people in the corridor; Havel
was
back in a few seconds. Oddly, he was carrying a rifle.

“Thought I saw this on a rack in the main room,” he said. “Over by the cash register.”

“But . . . that won't
work,
” Juniper said.

Havel grinned, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “It won't
shoot,
but it'll work fine as a pry bar,” he said. “An ax or a sledge would be awkward, the way the door jamb is right against the end wall. This is a Schultz & Larsen 68DL hunting rifle, of all unlikely things, always wanted one myself. Hell of a thing to do with a fine piece of gunsmith's work. . . . Stand back, please.”

He slid the barrel through the padlock between hasp and body, tested the position once or twice, set his hands on the underside of the stock and put a booted foot against the further wall. That made the skirt of his hauberk and gambeson fall back; he wore copper-riveted Levi's beneath, and the incongruity of it made her blink for a second. Then he took a deep breath, emptied his lungs, filled them again . . .

“
Issssaaaaa!
” he shouted, teeth bared in a rictus of effort.

The lock parted and flew apart with a sharp
ping
of steel striking concrete. Havel threw the gun aside too, panting; the barrel had a perceptible kink in it now.

“Show-off,” the blond youth said, but he smiled as he did.

Juniper ignored them, pulling the latch open and then working the handle of the door; she had to dodge as the heavy portal swung open.

A woman with matted hair and a face covered in bruises and crusted scabs ran out, bounced off Havel's armored form with a shriek, then stopped and stared at Juniper's face. The dim light in the corridor must seem bright to her; the inside of the cold-storage locker would have been stygian-black. And Juniper's molten-copper hair was hard to miss.

“Juney?” the prisoner said.
“Juney?”

“You know me—
Carmen?
” Her eyes went to the other captives.
“Muriel? Jack?”

The slight dark woman threw her arms around the High Priestess of the Coven of the Singing Moon; then the others were around her as well.

“Juney, they wuh, wuh, were going to—”

“Shhh, I know. You're safe now. We cast the circle and made the rite, and She brought us to you.”

J
uniper finished the tune, and laid her guitar aside. Their campfires were in a hollow where the hills began west of Salem, cut off from the flatlands, overlooked by little except the Coast Range forests. A huge oak leaned above the little hollow, and the low coals of the fires lit its great gnarled branches and the delicate new leaves, turning them brown-gold and green-gold. The sky above was clear, frosted with stars and a waxing moon that hung huge and yellow above the mountains; sparks drifted up to join them now and then, when a stick broke with a sharp
snap
amid the coals.

She was feeling pleasantly not-quite-full, although closer to it than she had been in weeks. The kettle had held three big rabbits, as well as some wild onion, arrowhead tubers, herbs, and bits and pieces from both parties' stores; noodles and sun-dried tomatoes and two cans of lima beans they'd found in an abandoned camper.

The smell of it still scented the air, along with the fresh green grass and camas lilies. She'd contributed the makings for herbal tea, and she picked up a cup of it now.

“Good of you to slow down and keep us company for a while,” she said across the coals. “It's been a nice couple of days; a chance to let clean air blow the grue out.”

It was a joy to be able to chat with someone new, as well, the pleasant meandering talk you had when people struck a spark of friendship and got to know each other. Beyond essentials, they'd mostly talked about times before the Change, as if to raise a barrier against the grisliness of their meeting. He'd found her ex-surburban, only-child, déclassé-boho life as a wandering minstrel intriguing; just as she had his hard-grit blue-collar rural upbringing with swarms of siblings and relatives; and they shared a love of the woods and mountains, the trees and beasts.

“No problem, we were heading this way anyhow,” Mike Havel said. “It's been fun, and fun's thin on the ground these days.”

They were a quarter-circle away from each other; Judy was a little farther from the fire, and the second hearth held most of the rest—she could hear Muriel's voice. A dear lady, but given to babbling at the best of times, and more so now; Eric and Josh were going to get an earful of Wiccan herbalism, whether they wanted to or not; at least that was happier than the bursts of tears in the first day and night.

They've been surprisingly patient and gentle with the captives, that they have, with strangers they owe nothing,
Juniper thought.
Good hearts under those iron shirts.

Mike Havel sat with his back against his saddle; his hands worked on a rabbit trap without needing to look at the task, long fingers fashioning the bent willow-withe and nylon cord with effortless strength. In boots and jeans and T-shirt under a battered-looking sheepskin jacket he appeared a good deal less exotic than he had in hauberk and bear-crowned helmet, but just as good.

I'm not one to need a Big Strong Man at every moment,
she thought.
But I'm fair thankful this one came along when he did. Nor is he hard on the eyes, by Macha! Not stupid either, and strong of will without being a macho jerk; the women of the Bearkillers must be fair blind! Nice pawky sense of humor, too.

Tactful questions had revealed he was single so far. There was wistfulness in the thought; they must part, and soon.

“Figured your friends needed some recovery time,” he said. “Cutting our way through that hell-on-earth south of Portland wasn't any fun for us three, either, and hard on our horses—we took it as quick as we could and not founder them. Slowing up for a bit makes sense.”

He grinned: “And besides, while your style isn't what I usually put on the CD player, it's good—and Lord, but I've missed music! The only people in our outfit who can sing at all do cowboy songs. Mind you, it could be worse—one of my father's sisters was always trying to make me and my brothers listen to Sibelius.”

“Cowboy songs? You don't like country?” she said, surprised.

“Oh, I like country a lot. I meant
real
cowboy songs: cows, dust, horses—the old stuff actual trail riders sang to the dogies. Not bad, but sort of monotonous. My tastes run to Fred Eaglesmith, say, or Kevin Welch.”

“Kevin Welch, is it?” Juniper said with a smile; she picked up her guitar and struck the strings, whistling for a second to establish the beat, tapping her foot and then putting a down-home rasp into her voice:

Havel exclaimed in delight when she'd finished, leading a round of applause.

“‘Hill Country Girl'! My favorite tune—never thought I'd hear it done right again!”

Juniper laughed. “We have
céili
all the time; well, all the time we're not working or too cursed tired.”

“Kailies?” Havel said, which was roughly the way it was pronounced.

“Singsongs, really; the word's Gaelic. Music and dancing; I was a professional, of course, and I can handle several instruments—not badly, either, if I say so myself—but Chuck's a good hand on the mandolin and Judy can do wonders with a bodhran drum, and Dorothy is a piper, and plays a mean tenor banjo as well, and most of my old coveners can carry a tune. There's a lot of sheet music at my cabin, of course; it was my base and as much of a home as I had. I specialized in Celtic music and folk and my own stuff, but it's not all we do.”

Havel whistled. “Sounds better than a CD player!”

“More fun, truly. What do your people like to entertain themselves with of an evening, then?”

“Well, we
try
to sing something else, now and then,” Havel said. “Angelica knows some Spanish folk songs. Astrid—Eric's younger sister—does readings from her favorite books, or just tells stories; she and Signe both draw and sketch, and they've been teaching some others; and we have games, play cards . . . I do wish we'd had a good musician, though. Maybe we'll get one.”

“You don't have a bad voice, Mike,” she said. “It just needs training.”

“Haven't had the time,” Havel replied. He hesitated, and went on: “Is Juniper your real name?”

“It is now,” she said cheerfully, putting the tea down and strumming a little to accompany her words. “And has been these fourteen years; it's my outer Craft name. I was sort of militant about it then; put it down to being sweet sixteen and at outs with my parents.”

“Er . . .” Havel said. “I'm sort of a lapsed Lutheran myself. I haven't known many Wiccans.”

Juniper laughed: “And the ones you did see tended to the impractical? Endless discussions of anything under the sun? A preoccupation with dressing up? Sort of flaky, overall?”

She watched his embarrassment with a slight smile; he was about the most relentlessly practical man she'd ever met, on first impressions. He was probably trying desperately to avoid saying words on the order of
some of my best friends are flakes.

“Well, that's not entirely mistaken,” she said, taking pity on him. “But there are all types in the Craft, from herbalists to dental hygienists, some varieties more flamboyant than others; not to mention the different traditions, which are as distinct as Baptists and Catholics. My coven, the Singing Moon . . . well, we're a straightforward bunch. A musician—myself—a city gardener, a nurse, a couple who owned a restaurant . . .”

“Certainly sounds like you've been doing well,” he said with relief. “Anyone who's alive and not starving and has a crop planted is!”

They looked at each other for a moment while she let a tune trickle out through her fingers. Then Havel cleared his throat and gestured at the piled rabbit-traps he'd wrapped in a blanket for carrying.

“Guess I should get these set,” he said, then coughed into one hand. “Ah . . . care to come along?”

“I'd be delighted,” Juniper said gravely, suppressing her smile—men had fragile egos and big clumsy emotional feet. “It's a useful skill, setting snares for rabbits. Learned it from your grandmother, did you say?”

“Her younger brother, Ben.”

They both picked up their sword belts and buckled them on. As she rose and turned to slide her guitar into its battered case she saw Judy smiling at her from across the flame-lit darkness, raising her hand in the gesture of blessing.

Juniper stuck out her tongue briefly, and turned to follow Havel into the darkness. They both stopped for an instant beyond the reach of the firelight, staring outward to let their eyes adjust; she noticed Havel noticing what she'd done, and his nod of respect.

The moon was a week past full, still huge and yellow, shining ghostly through tatters of cloud, and the stars were very bright—even now she wasn't quite used to seeing them so many and so clear in this part of the country. Together they made it easy enough to find your way, if you were accustomed to nighted wilderness.

After a moment they moved off the trail, through long grass thick with weeds, where a spiderweb shone like silver with beads of dew. Havel moved quietly—very quietly for a big man, and in unfamiliar country. Juniper followed him up the slope, through overgrown pasture towards a line of brush and trees behind a wire fence.