Dies the Fire (65 page)

“Pretty piece of work,” he said.

Havel nodded gravely, grinning to himself. He wasn't quite running a Potomekin village setup for the good sheriff, but he
was
putting the best foot forward.

“Lord Bear,” one of their more recent recruits said, taking the reins as Havel and his guest swung down out of the saddle.

Havel felt his teeth gritting. Breaking people of calling him that was probably more trouble than it was worth, and most seemed to like it better than “Boss.” Giving Astrid a sound spanking for coming up with the idea was almost certainly more trouble than it would be worth . . . but it was so
tempting,
sometimes!

He steered Woburn past the portable smithy—they had a real blacksmith now, freeing up a lot of Will's time—the arrow-making operation, the armor-assembly area from which Astrid and Luanne had been reprieved for awe-the-locals purposes, and on to the bowmaking benches.

Interesting,
Havel thought.
When he's actually working, our Bill looks almost trustworthy. The problem is you have to stand over him to keep him working.

Right now he was opening the insulated hotbox and checking a bow-limb curing there, the half-S shape secured between plywood forms with metal screw-clamps; the box reduced the time needed for the glue to set hard from a year to weeks, at the cost of a slight loss in durability. An assistant had a hardwood block clamped in a vise; he was shaping the riser into which the limbs would be pegged and glued, roughing out the shape of the pistol grip and arrow-shelf with a chisel. Shavings of pale myrtlewood curled away from the tap-tap-tap.

Havel nodded towards the pots of glue, planks of osage-orange wood, bundles of dried sinew, pieces of antler, and a box of translucent lozenges sawn from cow horns.

“We'll always have
those
materials.”

“You've been thinking ahead,” Woburn said respectfully.

They passed the school, taught open-air by Annie Sanders when there was time, with a folding blackboard and students from six to twelve. Reuben Waters, Billy's eldest, made his typical entry—Annie dragged him in by one ear, with occasional swats to his backside along the way. She thought the Waters kids were salvageable, and they did seem a bit brighter than their parents.

Astrid galloped her horse past a deer-shaped target—and the arrow flickered out to go thump behind the shoulder. Others were on foot, shooting at Frisbee-sized wooden disks rolled downhill, or at stationary man-shapes; the shooters were crouched, kneeling, walking, as well as standing in the classic archer's T.

Luanne was on horseback too, picking wooden tent pegs out of the ground with a lance as she galloped. It made a dramatic backdrop for Will's horseman-ship class with its jumps and obstacles.

Hope she doesn't dig in and knock herself out of the saddle while our guest is watching,
Havel thought.
She's the only one we've got yet who doesn't do that all the time!

Those just starting with the sword were hacking at pells—posts set in the ground, or convenient trees—or slicing pinecones tossed at them. He didn't have anyone riding the wooden hobbyhorse just now, learning to swing a blade from the saddle without decapitating his mount—it was essential, but he had to admit it looked so . . .

Dorky,
he thought.
There's no other word that fits.

Except for Astrid and a few other fast-growing teenagers, all those at weapons practice were working in chain mail, to get used to the weight and constriction and sweat-sodden heat of it. That was only marginally more popular than the regular exercise sessions wearing the stuff, jumping and running and tumbling and climbing ladders.

My sympathy is underwhelming, you poor little darlings,
Havel thought.
Try humping an eighty-pound pack through fucking Iraq.

Pam Arnstein had one of her fencing classes going for the better students, with Signe as her assistant.

“The targe”—she insisted on using the fancy term for
small round shield—
“is not there for you to wave in the air! Keep it in front of you. Remember it's a weapon like your sword—weapons are kept face to the enemy. Pivot the rear foot as you move—heel down, Johnson! Passing thrust—passing thrust—cut—cut—forehand—backhand—at the man, not at the shield! Stay in line, in line!”

Impatiently, she called Josh Sanders out from the double line of pupils. Havel watched with interest as she drove the brawny young man down the field in a clatter and bang of mock combat.

“Right, try it again . . . better. Now free-form! I deflect your cut with my blade sloped behind my back, and make a crossing attack, stepping forward to cut in turn to the hamstring . . . so.”

“Ouch!” He stumbled and recovered.

“I knock your shield out of line . . . so. The body follows the sword, remember. Swords first, foot just a fraction of a second behind. Then I thrust to the face . . . cut to the neck—no, don't block with the edge of your targe, you'll get it sliced off. With the surface—that's why it's covered in rawhide. Good parry, now I'm vulnerable, hit me with it—”

Crack!
as leather met leather.

“Sorry!” he blurted, as he knocked her off her feet and onto her back.

The sixteenth-century European blade styles featured a lot of body-checking, throws, kicks and short punching blows with the pommel of the sword or the edge of the shield, too. The brutal whatever-works pragmatism was precisely to Havel's taste.

“That's the first completely correct move you've made today,” Pamela said as she rolled erect again. “You've got the advantage of weight—so use it. There aren't any bronze or silver medals in this sort of fencing. Win or die!”

Havel inclined his helmeted head towards the practice field. “Like you said, Sheriff, it's not just finding or making the weapons, it's learning how to use them.”

“Doesn't look like what I remember of fencing,” he said, shading his eyes. “Watched the Olympics once.”

Havel nodded. The motions were much broader and fuller, with all the body's coordinated strength and weight behind them. He went on aloud: “One of these cut-and-thrust swords will blast right through an épée parry and skewer you front to back, or gut you like a trout. We were real lucky to find Pam Arnstein—that's our instructor there.”

Ken Larsson was working on a drawing pinned to a folding draughtsman's table nearby, looking up occasionally at the sword practice; Aaron Rothman rested his peg leg in a canvas recliner nearby.

Havel introduced them, and the elder Larsson went on: “Pam was a stroke of luck. She's our vet too, and doubled as our medico until we found Aaron here.”

He grinned and jerked a thumb at the doctor, who was starting to look just skinny again.

“Lord Bear's Luck, some call it,” Rothman said. “And
believe
me, I was glad to get a share of it!”

I
really
wish people wouldn't say that,
Havel thought.
The dice have no memory. You've got to earn your luck again every morning.

Four Bearkillers were passing by with a quartered beef carcass in wheelbarrows, heading for the cooking fires and the chuck wagon. Arnstein looked at Havel, who nodded. She halted them, and had the hindquarters hung on hooks hoof-up beneath a tree while she laid down the practice lath, unhooked the wire-mesh screen from the front of her helmet and took up her battle sword.

A whistle brought the novices' practice to a halt; Signe flashed Havel a smile as she helped chivvy them into place, sheepdog style.

“This part's popular, for some reason,” Havel said, as they walked over; Sheriff Woburn was looking puzzled. “But it has to wait for a butchering day. I've got to admit, it's sort of cool to do.”

He raised his voice. “Gather 'round, those who haven't seen this demonstration. And those who want to see it again.”

A few of the neophytes looked as puzzled as Woburn. The rest grinned and nudged each other as they shoved the others closer to the hanging meat.

“Now, watch closely. And keep in mind that this”—Havel drew his sword, and tapped one of the hanging quarters lightly—“is the ass-end of a nice big cow. Range heifer, about seven hundred pounds. Bone and muscle and tendon, just like us, except thicker and more of it. Pam, do the honors on Cheek Number One.”

Pamela poised motionless, then attacked with a running thrust, right foot skimming forward and knee bending into a long lunge. The point of her saber hardly appeared to move; it was presented at the beginning of the motion, and then six inches of it were out the other side of the haunch of beef. She withdrew, twisting the blade.

“Examine that, please,” she said.

The novices did, one of them gulping audibly as he put a finger in the long tunnel-like wound. The tall wiry woman grinned as she went on:

“While not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, it's more than sufficient to let out a
lot
of blood. And now if you'll back off slightly—”

She reversed to her original left-foot-forward stance, poised for a second with targe and point advanced, then attacked again; this time she cut backhand with a high wordless shout, foot and edge slamming down together as if connected by invisible rods and hips twisting to put a whipping snap into the strike.

The blade slanted into the meat with a wet
thwack!
and a great slab of flesh slumped down; they could all see where her saber had cut a deep pinkish-white nick into the surface of the butchered steer's legbone. Flecks of meat spattered into the faces of the closest onlookers.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, could be you,” she said, panting slightly. “Which is why there's no prize for second place.” There were a few more shocked faces among the grins.

Pamela went on: “Lord Bear will now demonstrate what happens when someone hits you
hard
with a backsword, instead of a light cut like that.”

Havel slipped the shield off his back and onto his arm, standing with left foot and arm advanced. Then he screamed and pounced and struck in the same motion, steel whirling in a blur of speed, long blade at the end of a long arm in a looping overarm cut.

A wet cleaving sound sounded under the shout, and a crackling beneath that. When the beef haunch swayed back, they could all see that the steel had sliced through eight inches of hide and meat to make a canyon gape several feet long, and split the heavy legbone beneath—lengthwise. Chips and dust lay in the marrow at the bottom of the cut, shattered out of the bone by the violence of the impact.

A chorus of whistles and murmurs went through the ranks of the novices, along with a dabbing at faces.

Havel spoke: “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we don't bitch and moan about how
hot
and
heavy
and
uncomfortable
the armor is.”

“Supper's at seven,” Havel said; Woburn was looking suitably impressed. “Why don't you look around for a little while? Ken can answer any questions you have. I've got to get out of this ironmongery and there's some business to attend to.”

As he turned away, a thought struck him:
If this Duke Iron Rod really
is
in with Arminger, how many other people are fighting the Protector right now?

 

 

 

Angelica Hutton was just putting a Dutch oven full of biscuits into the embers in one of the fires behind the chuck wagon when Havel arrived, his hair still damp from the bath. There were a dozen working there, amid a cheerful clatter and chatter that didn't disguise the size of the task or the efficiency with which it got done.

“Jane, remember to get the tortillas into that warmer the minute they're done,” she said, her voice friendly but a little loud and slow; then she wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her Levi's and shirt.

The smile died as she and the Bearkiller leader walked aside: “Mike, that woman!” she continued; speaking under her breath, but clenching her fists beneath her chin and making a throttled sound of wordless exasperation.

“Specific problem?” he said.

“She is . . . no, she is good-hearted, and not even lazy if you tell her everything she is to do, but I have met mesquite stumps with more brains! She speaks of nothing but TV shows and the days when she was a cheerleader.”

You could believe that more easily these days; Jane Waters didn't look shapeless anymore—she was even pretty, in a blowsy, faded-rose way.

“And she is a natural . . . what is the old English word . . . I saw it in a schoolbook of Luanne's . . . no, not slut, that means
puta,
right?”

Havel nodded, and the Tejano woman went on: “Slattern, that is the word. She cannot even
cook;
not at all, I do not mean fancy things. Before the Change her children ate from McDonald's and Taco Bell every day! Or from cans and frozen pizza.”

“Not everyone can meet your high standards, Angelica,” Havel said, grinning.
And oh, for the days when even poor people could get
too much
of the wrong sort of food!
“I wanted to check on supplies.”

“Y bien,”
she said, pulling a list out of a pocket. “We've got enough meat, I ordered a steer butchered this afternoon—it arrived a little worn, no?”

He smiled and made a placating gesture.

“If we stop anytime soon, I want to try to make dried and smoked sausage; there is plenty of jerky, but it is boring even in a stew. So we must have spices—sage, garlic. For the rest, we need some sacks of salt, badly. We are short of flour, and potatoes, and down to the last of our beans, rice, and oatmeal. We need vegetables very badly, dried or canned, also fruit—it is not healthy, to live so much on meat and bread, even with the vitamin pills. Shortly we will need clothing, particularly boots and shoes, and especially for the little ones . . .”