Dies the Fire (64 page)

“Spiritual poison—”

“
Shut
up
!
” Juniper said. Then, more calmly: “Whatever the origins of the phrases, keep repeating them and eventually you'll produce a community which hates us and attacks us physically. In which case, why should we fight for one enemy against another?”

Laughton cut in: “We have freedom of religion in Sutterdown, Ms. . . . Lady Juniper.”

“And we Mackenzies do too,” she said, nodding towards John Carson. “Our livestock boss here is a Presbyterian. Some of our clan are Witches, some are unbelievers, some are Christians of various sorts.”

The latter two a rapidly diminishing proportion, I admit,
she didn't say aloud.
That would diminish the force of my point.

“We don't call anyone evil because of their faith. There are many roads to the Divine. We'd just like you to promise to reciprocate, as a demonstration of goodwill.”

Dixon looked out the windows, then back at her.

“You'll take my promise?” he said, sounding surprised.

“I don't like you,” Juniper said bluntly, meeting his eyes. “But I've never heard that your word isn't good.”

The silence stretched; then he nodded. Juniper returned the gesture with an inclination of her head.

“Chuck, rumors are probably flying. Tell everyone we'll have a clan meeting after supper to thrash things out, and an Esbat tomorrow night to call for the Lord and Lady's aid, and would welcome any other variety of prayers as well. We'll need all the help we can get.”

The moon wouldn't be full or dark for the Esbat, but that wasn't absolutely required, just customary and preferred.

“We'll also send out scouts to get our own information. Sam, handle it, and get us ready.” He nodded silently. “John, we'll need pretty well all the saddle-broke horses.”

“Not bicycles?” he said.

“No. Horses are faster over the distances we're talking. And a wagon team at least. Diana, Andy, supplies. And whatever we can spare for the Sutterdown folk, until this is over; slaughter some stock if you have to. Judy, as far as getting our people protected against the plague, and for casualty care . . .”

When she was finished, she leaned over the table to shake hands with the town's three leaders. Dr. Gianelli looked drained, as if he'd had some noxious cyst lanced; Sheriff Laughton was relieved, like a man drowning who'd been thrown a spar. And Dixon, as usual, looked full of suppressed fury.

You did help neighbors. It wasn't necessary to like all of them.

“
L
ord Jesus, Mike, these were a bad bunch did this,” Will Hutton said quietly; his face was grayish.

They bore the last of the bodies out of the Clarke farmhouse wrapped in blankets. They could each carry one easily; neither corpse weighed more than fifty pounds. They'd found these in an upstairs bedroom. It looked as if they'd tried to hide under a bed, and been dragged out by the ankles—a small leg had been severed at the knee.

One still had a stuffed toy bear in a cowboy outfit in his hands when they found him; Havel had wrapped it with the body.

“Bad as I've ever seen,” the Texan went on as they carried them out to where the gravediggers labored. “Bad as those crazy men north of Kooskia.”

“Worse, Will,” Havel said. “More of them, and better organized.”

He didn't add:
And dead is dead; it doesn't matter much what happens to the body.
Hutton was a more conventional man than he, and Havel wouldn't willingly offend him.

And the skin between his shoulders crawled a little at the memory, anyway. It reminded him a little too much of stories he'd heard Grannie Lauder tell, stories of
wendigo
and
mischepesu.
Only those had been stories, something for a kid to shiver over while he sat on the floor in front of the fire. This had been unpleasantly real . . . and in the Changed world, who could tell what was real, anyway? Maybe there
were
man-eating spirits in the winter woods, now.

He didn't want to talk about that, either.

“Glad it's still coolish weather,” he said instead.

The Clarkes had a family graveyard, in a patch bordered by pines and willows near the crest of the low hill to the west of the homestead. The first head-stones marked Clarke were dated before 1914, but these would be the last of that line, he supposed.

More than twenty fresh graves doubled its size, and spadefuls of the wet black earth were still flying up; two Bearkillers helped stand guard, and another six helped Sheriff Woburn's posse dig, their armor and weapons draped across their saddles. The horses all grazed nearby, hobbled, rolling now and then. There was no point in keeping them out of the wheat.

Woburn called one of his men over, turning his back when he drew up a corner of each blanket so that only the two of them need see the faces.

“That's little Mort Williams, all right,” the man said. “And Judy Clarke, old man Clarke's great-granddaughter, her parents came back from Lewiston right after the Change. Jesus wept.”

“I don't doubt Mary did,” Hutton said quietly, crossing himself; he'd become a Catholic to make peace with his wife's relatives, but it had taken.

“This the Devil Dogs' work, all right,” Woburn said with frustrated anger leaking through the iron calm of his voice. “Worse than ever.”

“Devil Dogs?” Havel said.

They stood back from the graves. He'd kept the gruesome work of wrapping the bodies for himself and Hutton while the younger Bearkillers dug. Sheriff Woburn had done the same, pitching in with the disgusting task, which put him up a notch in Havel's view. He'd always respected an officer who was willing to share the unpleasant bits.

“Devil Dogs, the bikers,” the lawman went on. “It's the gang's name. They broke away from the Hell's Angels years ago—thought the Angels had gone soft. Bunch of them were holding a meet at a motel south of Lewiston when the Change came. Iron Rod's their leader, I don't know his real name.”

“Duke Iron Rod?” Havel enquired.

Woburn's face went crimson. “That's new the last little while. He's trying to extort protection money, I mean payments in food and supplies, from the ranchers and towns. Bastard's claiming to be Duke of the Camas Prairie!”

Havel's brows went up.
Have to get the details on this,
he thought.
Doesn't sound right. Or . . . if it's our good friend Arminger prompting, it
does
sound right.

They'd seen plenty of petty theft and one-on-one violence in the first weeks after the Change, and hit-and-run banditry on an increasing scale since, plus what Ken Larsson and Pam Arnstein and Aaron Rothman called incipient feudalism—strong-arm rule. That was mostly by local bossmen, though, and the more unscrupulous ranchers taking advantage of homeless, desperate city-dwellers and travelers as cheap labor.

This didn't quite make sense, not on a purely local basis.

He stood back respectfully and bowed his head with his followers when Woburn pulled a Bible from his saddlebags and began reading a service. He'd fallen away from the Lutheran faith of his ancestors himself, but he'd been raised among believers.

When the rest of Sheriff Woburn's little posse had ridden off towards their homes, Havel gave a short sharp whistle.

The two Bearkillers who'd been riding sentry turned and moved the horses back towards the others. Those got each other into their gear—you could wiggle into a hauberk alone, but it went faster with help—saddled their mounts, and formed up in a column of twos. One at the rear led a packhorse with their picks and shovels.

“Got 'em well trained,” Woburn remarked. “How many men—”

Signe Larsson looked at him in the act of putting on her helmet, then settled it and clipped on the chin cup. Gloria Stevens, the other woman present, snickered.

“—well, troopers, do you have?”

“We've got around a hundred adults now,” Havel said. “Carefully picked. Not all of them have the heft or the inclination for a stand-up fight or to go along when we ride out like this, but things being the way they are, I try to give everyone some weapons training.”

Including even utterly hopeless cases like Jane Waters and Rothman,
he thought.
But let's not talk about that now.
Aloud he went on: “You may not plan on having the fight at home, but . . .”

Woburn nodded. “Yeah, the other guy sometimes has plans of his own, the dirty dog. I can see why you'd want all your people to know how.”

“Your Kate Clarke would probably have wanted to know how, yesterday morning, for example,” Signe said, then dropped back into the column.

Woburn winced a little and looked at the horses, changing the subject: “All well-mounted, too.”

“We've done this and that here and there, helping people out with jobs or problems,” Havel said neutrally.

“We take payment in tools, food and animals, mostly. Lucky this part of the country isn't short of livestock. And as I said, we've got a really good horse trainer.”

Woburn didn't seem concerned to be alone among armed strangers; that made him stupid, suicidal or brave, and Havel thought he was probably the latter. He was also keeping his eyes open.

“All this weird old-time knights-in-armor gear still looks funny to me,” he said. “I mean, I have problems taking it seriously.”

Havel shrugged and drew his
puukko.
He handed it to Woburn, who tested the edge automatically, raised his brows in respect, and handed it back. Havel pressed the blade to his mail-clad body and then ripped it down from shoulder to waist, just beside the diagonal line of the bandolier that held his quiver. The steel cut a bright line along the little interlinked rings with a rattling click.

“Point taken,” Woburn said.

On a man in cloth, that would have worked like a chain saw on wood. Not for the first time, Havel thought how much of a survival advantage it was to be mentally flexible in this Changed world.

Woburn sighed. “I know up in my head that guns don't work anymore, but there are times when”—he patted the vintage saber at his saddlebow—“this doesn't seem real. Plus there's no time to learn how to use it properly. Some of our people have been sewing washers or pieces of metal on coats and dusters. Or making jackets of boiled steerhide.”

A scowl: “A lot of Iron Rod's men use scales fastened to canvas backing, too, recently.”

“I've seen gear like that,” Havel said.
A lot of it in Portland, to be precise.
“It's heavier and less flexible than chain mail, though. We can sell you some armor, and more importantly we can take some of your people through the whole process of making it.”

It was past four o'clock when they passed the Bearkiller sentries; some of them were carrying lances as well as swords and bows, which impressed Woburn. Havel hid a smile as he returned their fist-to-chest salutes; so far, only the unanimous verdict of Will's cavalry manuals kept him trying with the damned bargepoles. They were as hard to manage on horseback as archery!

The Bearkillers' camp was in a clearing just back of the ridge where the lane led down to the prairie; the grassland there covered several acres, interrupted by scraggly lodgepole pines and some aspens. The afternoon sun gilded the tall grass, and cast blue shadows towards the east. A scent of woodsmoke and cooking came from the hearths, and the cheerful sound of children playing, the
tink . . . tink . . .
of metal on metal, the rhythmic
tock
of axes splitting firewood.

More of the wagons' loads had been taken down than was usual for a one-night stopover; Havel wanted Sheriff Woburn impressed, and it had been easy enough to send orders back from the sacked farmstead.

The tents were pitched in neat rows, one per family with more for the single men, single women and outfit purposes; each had a fire in front of it and a Coleman lantern hung from the peak. A latrine trench was behind a grove of aspens, and a canvas enclosure for bathing stood beside a wheeled metal water-tank, another Ken-and-Will joint project; it was built so that a heating fire could be kindled in a hearth at one end. A woman was tossing chunks of pine into the fire, and a valve hissed on top as the water came to a boil.

“Helps avoid giardia,” Havel said.

Woburn nodded; the nasty little parasites were endemic in Idaho streams, including the “purest” mountain brooks.