The Given Sacrifice (9 page)

What the hell . . .

It all made no sense that he could see, but there was something fascinating about
the movement of the staff. The way it cast sun-blinks, the rhythmic
intensity
of it, the swooping grace, the humming song that went within it. Moments later he
realized she actually was singing. A wandering tune, hauntingly strange, yet somehow
reminding him of how his mother sang while she was working the churn or getting the
harvest supper ready . . .

“Sleep of the Earth of the land of Faerie

Deep is the lore of Cnuic na Sidhe;

Hail be to they of the Forest Gentry

Pale dark spirits help us see!”

So soothing, not scary at all. She took something from a pouch at her belt and held
up her bunched fingers, blowing across them sharply like someone getting rid of flour
or cat-hair. He sighed and let his head drift downward, onto the deep pine-duff, cool
and damp and friendly, comfortable as his own bed in the attic up under the roof on
the farm as the song went on . . .

“White is the dust of the state of dreaming

Light is the mixture to make one still

Dark is the powder of Death’s redeeming;

Mark that but one pinch can kill—”

Something hard rapped him on the forehead, just under the hood of his battle-smock.
He started awake with a strangled yell and an icy thrust of fear as the butt of the
staff withdrew, reflex sending his hands snatching up his crossbow . . .

. . . and then freezing at the glitter on the honed edges of arrowheads pointing at
him. Six arrows, drawn past the jaw, ready to nail him to the ground.

It had to be his imagination that he heard the thick yew staves of the longbows creaking,
but the barred-fang growl of the dogs was like millstones turning as they crouched
and stared at his throat with fixed intent. The dark woman was leaning on her staff
and panting a little as if with hard effort. She blew out a breath and grinned down
at him, her full lips curving away from white teeth.

“Who’s the naughty laddie, then?” she said, in an accent that held a strong pleasant
burbling lilt. “So, would you be puttin’ your hands on your head the now, or would
you rather be pierced, perforated and sent off to the Summerlands for a wee bit of
a rest before you try life again?”

Shit,
he thought.
So much for my glorious military career and a general’s stars by forty. Shit twice
and on toast.

“Your choice,” one of the archers added helpfully.

“I surrender,” he said, laying down the crossbow, coming up onto both knees and clasping
his hands across the top of his head.

“Now that’s a sensible lad,” she said cheerfully, extending her hand so Alyssa could
stand and move out of the line of fire. “Better not to kill without strong need, for
aren’t we all alike children of the Mother? Merry meet, Lady Alyssa; who would this
likely youngster you’re travelling with be?”

“I’m Cole Salander, Private First Class, United States Army, serial number A3F77032,”
he said sourly, staring ahead.

“Toss the sword belt, number-on-a-list-man,” one of the archers said. “Undo it with
your left hand, mind, and keep the other on your head.”

He unbuckled it and did, which put his sword, bowie, utility knife and hatchet out
of reach; he supposed it was a compliment of sorts that they were being cautious about
getting close to him while he was armed. Another Mackenzie extended the horn-sheathed
tip of his yew stave and snagged the sling of his crossbow, dragging it cautiously
away before firing the bolt into the ground with a
whap
and examining the weapon with professional curiosity.

“And is there any more cutlery, ironmongery or things of a sharp and pointy or otherwise
harmful nature?” the first bowman said. “Produce, man, and no monkeyshines.”

He was a little older than the others, with a cropped blond beard and only a few touches
of war paint and no weird haircut except for it being a lot longer than was common
for men in Idaho, his thick yellow braid tied into a clubbed bunch at the back of
his head. A piece of wolf-tail dangled along with it. A thin collar of twisted gold
lay around his neck, the ends fashioned into the heads of wolves meeting muzzle-to-muzzle.

“Steady now, boyo, and don’t try to befool us,” he said, his voice hard. “That would
not put us in a better mood. You get a whap alongside the head for every one we find
when we search.”

Cole had two holdout knives, one in his boot and a little one sewn into the jacket
behind his neck. He tossed the blades and his sentry-removal wire garrote and blackjack
after the crossbow, removing them from their hiding places with two fingers and great
caution but no undue waste of time. He didn’t know how long they could hold the draw
on those heavy bows and didn’t want to find out if it meant fingers slipping off the
string and a thirty-six-inch arrow heading his way at several hundred feet per second.

What the fuck happened?
he thought, dazed and unresisting amid the painted faces grim or grinning.
How the hell did I go to sleep with an enemy patrol all around me? Please tell me
I’m not that much of a noob screwup, God. Or . . . did she do something to me?

That was almost as scary as the arrowheads, more so if you thought about it for a
minute. Pilot Officer Alyssa Larsson
was
snickering now. The Clan warriors took the tension off their bows, though several
kept their arrows on the string until he’d been quickly and expertly searched. There
were a few happy chortles and whoops as they found and appropriated the more handy
items in his light field pack as well as his stash of silver coins.

Yeah, OK, you’re happy,
he thought with resigned irritation.

That was one of the perks of capturing someone; everyone knew the (unofficial) rules.
They left him his sleeping bag and some of the really essential gear, and conscientiously
returned the personal letters and family pictures after a glance to make sure what
they were, which meant they
were
playing by the rules. His paybook, map and the other official documents went into
a sack. Alyssa took back the map, papers, knife and compass he’d appropriated from
her.

The wad of green paper money they tossed back with a jocular suggestion that when
it ran out he could just use leaves and grass like anybody else. They had a point,
with the way prices had gone haywire since the President bought it at the Horse Heaven
Hills. His last letter from home had cautiously mentioned that people were
swapping a lot again
, which said volumes in a way the censor couldn’t object to.

“Merry meet,” Alyssa said to the Mackenzies.

The senior archer looked at her, the splinted arm and the spectacular and now colorful
bruises on her face, then back at Cole. His eyes narrowed.

“Merry meet, and merry part again, Lady Alyssa,” he said. “Now, would you want the
whole corp of this one to come back with you still walking upon the ridge of the earth,
or just the ugly head of him in a bag, to be pickled in cedar-oil and nailed above
your door?”

Alyssa chuckled. Cole didn’t think the suggestion was funny at all, and decided he
disliked her sense of humor. Despite her lack of accent she seemed to know a fair
bit about Mackenzies.

“No, he’s been a perfect gentleman, Sèitheach,” she said. “Strictly according to the
laws of honorable war.”

He nodded and took the hand off his swordhilt and looked grimly at Cole, who was trying
hard to hide his relief.

“Well, and doesn’t that demonstrate the Law of Threefold Return, boyo?” he said. To
Alyssa: “Where’s your machine?”

“Twenty-odd miles that way, most of it up and down, as of three days ago,” she said,
pointing northeastward. “What’s left of it, which isn’t much. Thought I could catch
an updraft but hit still air instead and I used a couple of trees and a boulder as
a landing strip. He came along while I was still dizzy. I’d have been in a really
bad way otherwise. I was upside down and couldn’t get at the belts because of the
arm and there was a grizzly sniffing around and I don’t think it was on my side. I’m
a Bearkiller, after all!”

“What happened to the bear?”

“We ate some of it.”

She cocked an eye at Cole. “He put two bolts into it and then took off like a squirrel.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man run up a rock face so fast. Then he shot it dead
while it was trying to climb up and get him.”

“More of them?” the blond archer said.

He ignored chuckles from his followers. Several of them nodded respectfully at Cole,
and a few even murmured something like
bravely done
, but the Boisean’s snap judgment was that their commander was a notable hardcase.

“He didn’t say, but from the way he acted no, not within a couple of days’ travel
minimum. Be careful with him. He knows his way around the woods and he’s quick. No
fool, either.”

The dark woman with the staff used it to swat the bowman in charge on the backside
before she added sharply:

“And taking heads is forbidden. That’s
geasa
for all the Clan as you know perfectly well, Sèitheach Johnston Mackenzie. It’s even
geasa
for McClintocks, the which is saying a great deal!”

“Well, I was just jokin’, so I was,” the man replied a little sheepishly.

“No you weren’t, Sèitheach-me-lad. Not about taking the head, at least, if not the
pickling and nailing.”

Gurk!
Cole thought, restraining an impulse to take one of his hands down and rub the back
of his neck with it.
OK, she’s a witch.

There were rumors about that, too. He hadn’t believed them until now. Of course, there
were also rumors about the Cutters, the Church Universal and Triumphant, and what
their High Seekers could do. Officially
they
were supposed to be friends and allies who just absolutely
loved
the reconstituted United States centered in Boise and wanted to bring their stamping
ground out in Montana back under the Constitution. Cole most certainly didn’t believe
that
. He’d met a couple, and the only way they loved anyone else was the way Cole loved
a ham sandwich with mustard and a pickle. Witness the way their cavalry bugged out
at the Horse Heaven Hills when everything went to shit, and left the infantry-heavy
US forces in a world of hurt. Two of his brothers hadn’t come back from that fight,
and nobody knew what had happened to them.

So OK, the westerners really do have witches. But it sounds like she’s a
good
witch. Anyone who’s against chopping off my head is pretty damned good as far as I’m
concerned. Christ, this all just gets better and better, doesn’t it? “Sorry, sir,
they took me prisoner ’cause a witch cast a
spell
on me, which is why I went to sleep, really it is, honest.” That’s sure going to
go over well, assuming I ever get to report in. Sergeant Halford will ask me if their
dogs ate my homework, too.

“And don’t jest on things the Goddess-on-Earth made
geis
!” the woman continued. “We may be Gaels, but this isn’t Erin in the ancient times
and you’re not the Hound of Ulster nor yet one of the Red Branch.”

“Yes,
fiosaiche
,” the man named Sèitheach muttered.

She frowned. “I . . . there’s something strange about this one. That’s why he caught
at me like a wrong note in a song. I’d not have found him otherwise, not if this were
just a matter of humankind. Yet I can’t say precisely what. It’s not that he’s a banewreaker
himself, I do not think.”

“What should we be doing with him, then?”

“Why, I’m but a
fiosaiche
,” she said blandly, stepping back. “You being the bow-captain here, it’s your decision,
not a matter of brehon law. War’s for a warrior, not a priestess or a foreseer.”

A couple of the archers grinned and Alyssa snickered. Then the
fiosaiche
started looking at her arm, probing gently along the splint. She hissed slightly
and her eyes went blank at the pain.

The witch-woman nodded. “Thin break, right enough. It should heal well, and that’s
a good job of splinting. Provided you get some rest and don’t put any strain on it!”

When the bow-captain—

Whatever the hell that is. Some sort of rank, probably. I think this guy’s a platoon
sergeant or something like that.

—snapped orders the Clan archers went on grinning, but they obeyed promptly too and
without argument. Presumably a
fiosaiche
was something like a chaplain or a political officer or both. Though she looked a
lot nicer than any of the zampolits—what were officially called morale officers—he’d
ever met.

“We’ll sweep along the river until dark and lie out tonight, forbye there may be some
of this one’s friends about,” the bow-captain said. “Remember how well he was hidden.
The next one may be more twitchy with his trigger, so keep an eye out for sign unless
you want a bolt in the back. Caillech—”

That was the girl with the wings painted on her face.

“—you and Talyn—”

The guy who’d been covering her and bossing the dogs.

“—take the lady and the prisoner back to camp. You’re up to the walk, Lady? It’s a
fair bit of a way and nothing but deer-tracks, and those of an exceeding steepness.”

“That’s Pilot Officer, bow-captain; I’m no lady among Mackenzies. And it’s walk or
crawl, isn’t it? War isn’t a hunting trip. I broke my arm, not a leg.”

The man named Talyn nodded to Cole as he took his hands down and got to his feet.
It felt strange not to have a sword at his waist or a crossbow in his arms, like being
naked in public. The Mackenzie’s voice was not unkindly as he pointed southwest with
his longbow.

“That way, Cole Salander of Boise. If the Lady needs assistance, give it, and do it
well. Oh, and just so we understand each other about any thoughts of skipping off
into the woods with rude unseemly haste like a Jack in the Green—
urghabháil dó
!”