The Given Sacrifice (17 page)

The roughly shaped boulder tumbled away into the distance, turning to a dot. Then
there was a puff of dust from the great ramparts above the blank steel surface of
a gate, and the hard
tock
sound of impact echoed back. At this distance imagination had to fill in the way
the wall would shake underfoot, and the deadly whine of fragments of shattered rock
and concrete like flying gutting-knives. A rock that size packed a lot of energy into
its travelling mass, and when you stopped it all at once . . .

Almost at once another sound came from the wall, a metallic chorus of catapult springs
that had started their lives in the suspensions of heavy trucks releasing and sending
paired levers slamming into their stops. Little threadlike blurs went streaking towards
the trebuchet. The crew interrupted their celebrations to throw themselves flat as
the four-foot darts from the springalds and scorpions came in; one struck the frame
of the stone-thrower with a long
tannnnnggg
and flipped upward in pieces.

Nobody seemed to be hurt this time, but the artillery duel was producing a steady
trickle of casualties . . . presumably inside the walls too. He was only slightly
less unhappy about that. He wanted those men on his side, or at least going back to
their farms and workshops and helping to repair the damage. Every one killed or crippled
on either side was a loss to Montival as well as to themselves and their kin.

“Hurrah!” Rudi said sourly. “We could do
that
for fifty years and not knock down those walls. Not to mention I’m bombarding one
of my own bloody cities, technically speaking so-to-speak.”

“You could think of it as a
rebellious
city,” Mathilda said helpfully.

“No, for then I’d have to wonder what I’d done to make folk supposedly my subjects
willing to fight me,” he said wryly. “Artos the First I may be—the Powers insist,
it seems—but Artos the Tyrant I will not.”

“Pass the cider, Tyrant,” Fred said with a crooked grin; evidently he’d been watching
the bombardment too. He went on:

“Both the pontoon bridges are finished, and we’ve got the east bank thoroughly invested.
And the siege towers are coming along, for all the good it’ll do us. We could lose
twenty thousand men trying to storm the walls . . . and I’m not sure it would even
work
, at that. The Cutters have things sewn up tight in there, particularly the gates.
What’s left of the US Army troops aren’t very enthusiastic, but . . .”

Rudi grunted thoughtfully and nodded; the
but
was that in an all-out assault the defenders were almost certainly going to die if
the attackers succeeded in taking the wall, pushed off the inner edge if nothing else.
Which was a powerful motivator for well-trained troops who knew the way things worked.

“Surrender at the last moment is always . . . problematic,” Rudi agreed.

Problematic,
he thought, was a tactful way to put it.
When warriors’ blood is up and they’re primed to kill, they tend to keep on doing
it while anything alive is left before them. Turning your back is suicide, and those
who’ve seen the elephant know it. So it’s kill or be killed.

They had excellent general intelligence about the state of things in the city. There
was a trickle of deserters, men who let themselves down on ropes in the night, or
just shed their armor and jumped into the river and swam for it. He’d interrogated
some of them himself . . . and caught one or two with the CUT’s taint on them. Forewarned,
it was easy enough to spot.

“Then we’ll have to chance the scheme we came up with,” Rudi said. “We have the asset . . .
and the asset is people, who I’d rather not sacrifice unless I must. But without me . . .
and the Sword . . . it will not work.”

Everyone looked unhappy at that;
he
was unhappy, though it made no difference. Mathilda looked positively mutinous. He
raised his hands.

“No, my love and my Queen. There’s nobody I’d rather have by my side for a venture
like this . . . but it is a risk, and it would be a hard day for Órlaith if the dice
came up snake eyes for both of us. Nor can we risk a long regency with her so young;
and the kingdom so young itself. Though Father Ignatius would do a fine job as Regent,
to be sure.”

“I would rather juggle rabid skunks,” the cleric said dryly, reaching for the next
in the stack of State papers. “With respect. Your Majesty.”

“That’s one reason you
would
do it well, my friend, but I hope to spare you the nipping and the stench. So we’ll
go with Fred’s plan.”

“Hey, don’t pin it on me! I just told you about the . . . secret.”

Rudi nodded. “It needs the Sword, and only I can wield it.”

Ignatius said nothing more; he’d argued against Rudi’s scheme, then taken the High
King’s decision as final and switched stride without stumbling to bend all his efforts
to make it work. Fred Thurston grinned, and poured himself a glass from the jug of
cider that hung in a rope sling, sweating through the coarse pottery—it was fermented
just enough to make it safe to drink without boiling or chlorine.

“It’s
almost
worth missing the birth to have Virginia safe away from this and not able to argue
with me,” he said. “This way I get to go along without sweating blood every minute.”

“Todenangst wasn’t all that safe,” Mathilda said soberly, then laid a hand on his
arm when he winced. “Sorry, Fred. I know it must have been hard, hearing that Virginia
was there and in danger, her and the baby, after you thought she was so well guarded.”

He snorted. “Rudi and I had a cussing contest. He only won because the Sword lets
him speak more languages. I learned how to say
motherfucking son of a BITCH
in eight or nine. It sounds really odd in Elvish.” Then he looked towards the city.
“I hope to hell this comes off for a whole raft of reasons.”

“This Cole Salander is a good man, and has his wits about him,” Rudi observed. “And
a most powerful degree of motivation.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. I’m going to bump him up a few grades. Provided we all live
through this. And your cousin Alyssa is even sharper, I’d say. Between them they may
be able to pull it off.”

Rudi raised his glass; the cider cut the dust very satisfactorily, just sweetly acrid
enough.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said. Then, overriding someone’s throat-clearing: “And yes,
there’s enough for more. That’s what you were about to say, wasn’t it?”

Mathilda jerked in startlement; Ignatius kept writing; and Fred’s head whipped around.
Rudi’s hand had already been going to the pitcher.

“No fair,” two soprano voices said in a disturbing almost-chorus. “You’ve got the
Sword.”

The etiquette of the High Kingdom was quite flexible in the field—Rudi and Mathilda
had made sure of that, having spent enough time in the Protectorate in their youth
to see how you could get sewn up in ritual like a cross between plate armor and a
cotte-hardie. Certain people had access without prior notice or challenge from the
guards, first and foremost his companions on the Quest.

Some of those people could move
very
quietly, and liked to show off about it even now.

His half sisters Mary and Ritva were among both categories. Signe Havel’s daughters
weren’t Bearkillers except by birth; in their teens they’d decided to live with their
Aunt Astrid and uncle-by-marriage Alleyne Loring in Mithrilwood, what had once been
Silver Falls State Park. That . . .

Eccentric lady,
Rudi thought charitably as he waved them to the table.

. . . eccentric lady Astrid and Rudi’s elder half sister Eilir Mackenzie had founded
the Dúnedain Rangers a few years after the Change, inspired by a series of books that
Astrid had insisted on calling
The Histories
and which she’d been obsessed with even before the Change. She was dead now, in the
spectacularly successful rescue of Fred’s mother and sisters and sister-in-law from
Boise last year. The folk she’d founded were even more devoted to her martyred memory
than they’d been to her charismatic person.

The Dúnedain specialized in what the ancient world had called special operations,
well taught by experts in the early years. In peacetime they hunted bandits and man-killing
beasts and escorted caravans and led expeditions to the dead cities. In time of war
they were even more valuable, the more so as the High Kingdom fitted so neatly into
their founding myths.

“Mae govannen, maethyr
,” he said:
Well-met, warriors
.

“Mae govannen, Aran Raud, i ’wanur vîn,”
they replied, putting their right palms on their hearts and bowing before they sat:
Well-met, High King, our kinsman.

Among the Dúnedain eccentricities was using a language from the books . . .

Pardon me, from
The Histories
,
he thought.

. . . though that had its practical benefits since very few outside that fellowship
could understand it. One of the many minor disturbing things about carrying the Sword
was that it had made him fluent in
that
tongue as well . . . including immense amounts of grammar and vocabulary, which the
long-dead Englishman
hadn’t
invented but which fitted perfectly with the rest and included all the elements you’d
expect in a living speech. In fact, he spoke
two varieties
of it, one of which
felt
more formal than the other; Ranger scribes had been pestering him for details ever
since he got home.

Mary had been identical to her twin Ritva until she lost an eye and acquired an eye
patch during the Quest. The two tall fair young women still looked very much alike
in their mottled sage-green-brown Dúnedain field gear, with three blue eyes between
them and the white Tree, seven stars and crown on the breasts of jerkins that had
light mesh-mail riveted between two layers of soft leather.

“Help yourselves,” Rudi said. Raising his voice slightly. “And you two come in as
well, so that I may punish you suitably for allowing these depraved Rangers to attempt
a practical joke on the ineffable majesty of Artos the First, the shame and sorrow
of it.”

The two women were accompanied by their husbands—though Ritva and Ian Kovalevsky hadn’t
yet found time to formalize their obvious bond. Ingolf Vogeler was a big battered
brown-haired and vastly experienced man in his thirties, originally from a remote
part of the Midwest. Ian was younger, slighter, fair-haired, and hailed from the Peace
River country of northern Drumheller, which he’d left to become a member of a red-coated
band of mounted warriors who kept peace in the Dominions. That had put him in Ritva’s
way as they all returned to Montival, and they’d hit it off. Or Ritva had decided
she wanted him, which would amount to much the same thing.

The poor lad hadn’t a chance once Ritva set her sights on him; though to be sure he’s
able and clever as well as comely, the which does not surprise me, she has high standards.

She’d told him once that she and Mary had thrown dice to see who got Ingolf, who Rudi
considered one of the better all-round warriors he’d met and a good friend to boot.
As well as the man who’d ridden into Sutterdown four very eventful years ago to tell
Rudi that the Sword of the Lady awaited him in Nantucket . . . and had done so with
the Prophet’s killers on his trail.

I’m rich in real comrades, something a King can’t count on, from all I’ve heard and
read. Which reminds me . . .

“Ignatius, do you have that letter from Drumheller that came in with the morning courier?”

The cleric silently produced it. Ian’s ears had pricked up hopefully, and Rudi went
on, sliding it over to him:

“Not from your family, Ian, but of interest still.”

He handed it to the younger man. The northerner’s pale brows went up. “Well, well!
Indefinite detached duty as liaison
, straight from the Deputy Commissioner Western District! That sort of . . . regularizes
things.”

From his looks, he’d been guilty about it too; they were a painfully law-abiding lot
where he came from. Ian went on:

“I’d been worried about that. How did you manage it, Your Majesty? I wouldn’t have
thought the Force, ah . . .”

“Cared much what Artos the First desired? Yes, but they do care what the leaders of
the Dominions want, and Drumheller may not wish to be part of the High Kingdom, but
they do want good relations and they are our allies against the CUT. I merely wrote
to Premier Mah politely asking a favor of her.”

“Thanks!” he and Ritva said simultaneously.

“You’re welcome. Just invite me to the handfasting. No need to inflict
Rudi
or
Artos
on any of the children. Now to business.”

He unfolded the map, and they went over it as dinner arrived. Since the army was now
stationary, and newly come in a rich irrigated countryside that trusted the Montivallan
forces to pay for what they ate, the food was better than usual; skewers of peppered
grilled beef and onions, steamed cauliflower, fresh risen wheat bread, butter and
the luxury of a green salad. After a while in the field you lusted after greenstuff
the way a drunkard did for whiskey, not to mention needing the fiber to keep your
guts in order.

“Mmmm,” Mary said, forking a piece of tomato. “Good thing we’ve been winning the battles—they
didn’t have time to strip the countryside before we besieged the city, and we’re getting
what the townies usually eat. I get
so
sick of trail mix and dog biscuit.”

Rudi’s fist slammed down on the table, making the plates jump. Everyone looked at
him in surprise; he wasn’t much given to displays of temper.

“I’m
tired
of winning battles!” he said, controlling the flush of anger. “I’m tired of killing
brave men whose only fault was to be born in the wrong place and to get levied from
the plow! I want to win this bloody
war
, and get back to my proper work and my family and let everyone else do the same!”