The Sunrise Lands

  Shocked, she followed the thought. “I . . . Darling, I just want to be of help to you!”

  He smiled. She is my mother, after all. With all that that implies.

  “I know, Mom. You do a great job of keeping the comptroller and the bailiffs in line and the mesne tithes coming in, which frankly makes my life a lot easier.”

  His face went stern. “But you will not interfere in mat ters of high policy again without consulting me. Mine is the final word. Do . . . you . . . understand?”

  Their eyes locked. After a moment hers turned aside, and she nodded.

  “But . . . contacts with the new power in the East could be valuable . . .” she said. “I have assurances from them—passwords and signs—”

  “Perhaps. But I will be the judge of that from now on,” he said. “And not so incidentally, there’s something very strange going on here. That man Ingolf the Cutters are so hot to ventilate saw something out there in the bar barian lands. Rudi and his mother are very interested. Mathilda’s interested. Which means I am interested . . . and I want any information you get. Understood? And I will use it as the Princess requires. From now on, a dou ble block and tackle and a team of oxen couldn’t get me away from her.”

  She nodded again.

  “Excellent. Let’s go down, then.”

  He rose and extended an arm. She followed and laid her fingers on it, and together they paced down towards the hall.

  And someday, one way or another, I will be Lord Protector.

  Chapter Ten

  Dun Juniper,

  Willamette Valley, Oregon

  April 14, CY23/2021 A.D.

  Everyone who could in Dun Juniper was out on one excuse or another, after the long confinement of the Black Months; the bright chill air booming down from the mountains smelled of fir sap, sweet grass, apple blossom, the faint cool scent of hawthorn flowers from the hedges.

  “We should start the quest soon,” Ritva said.

  She was panting slightly after the sword and-targe bout with her sister Mary. Ingolf and Rudi watched with professional appreciation for their quicksilver lightness of movement. The easterner also looked as if he appreciated their looks.

  Hmmm, Ritva thought, looking at him. He is shaping up nicely. Possibly . . .

  Mary took up the conversation seamlessly, leaving In golf looking a little nonplussed. It took a while to get used to their conversational style.

  “The high passes will be open in a few weeks. Or there’s the Columbia gorge; it’s year round.”

  They were all armored for practice; a blunt blade could still kill you. Rudi was in a Clan-style brigandine; the twins wore what the Dúnedain used for light armor on scouting trips, a mail shirt a lot like Ingolf’s but riv eted to a covering of soft dark green leather to make it quieter and less conspicuous.

  A crowd of excited six-year-olds went by, shepherded by a teacher in an arsaid—an ankle-length version of a wrapped kilt and plaid—showing them plants and telling them the names and uses. Usually they’d have ignored Rudi, or waved; he’d grown up here, after all, Chief’s son or no, and Dun Juniper wasn’t all that populous. Now a number of them looked at him with awe, and some pointed and murmured.

  “Now, by the Dagda’s club, how do you start off on a secret quest when everyone knows your face and who and what you are and how that ancient prophecy about you seems to be coming to life?” Rudi said, mouth quirking.

  “Hell with me if I know,” Ingolf Vogeler said. Then he brightened: “But at least I haven’t had any more of those damned dreams.”

  The pasture below the dun’s gates and past the hill side orchards was thick grass starred with yellow dande lion and blue camas-flower; it stretched away on either hand beneath a bright blue sky, and the scent alone was enough to make a man feel as if he were sixteen and had just gotten his first kiss. It must be better for someone recovering from wounds and illness that took him close to death.

  “Sure, and the regard of the Powers can be uncomfortable,” Rudi said.

  He began a pattern of cuts and thrusts, moving slowly at first and then speeding up, feeling muscles warm and stretch. The longsword moved easily in his hand.

  “I doubt you’ll have any more trouble with them, provided we go and see about this sword,” he said.

  “I thought you were the sword,” Ingolf said dryly.

  Rudi cocked an eyebrow at him and grinned. The eastern wanderer was a nice enough sort for a Christian, but he was obviously a bit disturbed to be fulfilling a prophecy made by the pagan gods.

  “Well, it’s never simple when They are involved,” he said cheerfully. “Both, neither, all at once. You can’t bind Them with words . . . not even true ones.”

  “I suppose if I got the Villains in and out, I can get you there and back,” Ingolf said. His face went bleak. “And I won’t have a dirty little traitor along this time, either.”

  Rudi blinked, not letting his eyes narrow. “I’ll be careful to listen to your advice,” he said—carefully. “You having the local knowledge and the experience and such.”

  Ingolf was examining a practice shete he’d had made up—the long point heavy slashing swords were what he’d trained with all his life, and it would be more trouble than it was worth to switch styles.

  “Just a minute there,” Ingolf said, the flat rasp of his native accent strong. “I’m shepherding you to the East Coast, right?”

  Rudi shook his head, meeting the other man’s eyes. Best keep things straight from the beginning.

  “Indeed and you’re not,” he said quietly. “It’s my quest, Ingolf. I’d rather it wasn’t, but the Powers have marked me for this task all my life, and it’s myself must lead. Not that I won’t listen to you, for I can see you’ll be a right hand man to me, none better.” A smile. “I’m young, but not a young fool, sure.”

  “I’m the best salvage boss in the business,” Ingolf said, obviously not relishing the prospect of being right hand man to someone half a decade younger and still only shaving every second day.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Rudi acknowledged.

  “Hell, I’m the only one who’s ever gotten to Nan tucket and back . . . and I don’t think many have got ten out of Corwin alive, either, or crossed the continent. No offense, Rudi, but you haven’t done any of it. Hell, you’ve never left home.”

  “You’ve done more than a little in the way of travel ing,” Rudi acknowledged. Though I’ve been most places in the valley, and round about it from the ocean to Bend.

  His voice was friendly but with a trace of iron in it as he went on: “But it doesn’t alter the fact that this is my journey. I’d like your help with it, Ingolf . . . but if you can’t accept that, then I’ll go without you, and thank you for the message you brought.”

  The other man’s heavy brows drew together. He grunted without speaking. They’d left unspoken the matter of whether the Powers would leave his rest alone if he dropped out of the matter. Ingolf thought for a moment, then brought the shete up in a salute.

  Mary Havel was refereeing; she waited while they settled their helms. When Rudi flicked the visor of his sallet closed she chopped her hand down.

  “Kumite!”

  Fight!

  His blade flicked into motion towards Rudi’s neck—

  Crack.

  The shete smacked into the young Mackenzie’s buck ler. He knocked it away and thrust in riposte. Ingolf jerked his body back from the waist without moving his feet; it wasn’t a counter Rudi was familiar with, but it worked, leaving him extended and off balance for an instant with the tip of his sword just touching the other man’s mail shirt before his shield knocked it up.

  The easterner used the motion to bring his shete round and down in a diagonal slash that would have beheaded an ox, or taken off a man’s head and his shield arm at the shoulder too. His shield stayed well up all the while, not thrown to one side and leaving an opening. Rudi swayed out of the way as far as he could, and brought both buckler and blade up to meet the blow.


  Crack-clung!

  The force of it drove him down on one knee and numbed his left hand so that he almost dropped his buckler.

  Cenn Cruaich, this one is strong! he thought, eyes going a little wider.

  Ingolf cut three times before Rudi could get back on his feet.The Mackenzie parried with his sword—not directly, which would have driven it down on his own head, but by slanting the metal to shed the blows, ting-ting-ting, a threefold shivering crash faster than heartbeats. The big easterner hit like a blacksmith with a forging hammer, but he didn’t let the force of his own blows throw him off balance either, which was always likely to be a problem with a point-heavy weapon like the shete.

  Rudi feinted a thrust at his opponent’s knee to break the rhythm of the attack and then bounced erect. Ingolf stepped backward and shook his head.

  “That’s enough for me today,” he said. “Too much and you lose more than you gain. I’m still a little short-winded.”

  “You pushed me hard there,” Rudi said, grinning. “Not bad, for an old man just up from a sickbed.”

  “Same back at you, youngster,” Ingolf said in turn.

  He smiled himself; he was doing that a little more often now.

  “All right,” he went on soberly. “I’m the guest here. I’ll just have to hope you can listen as well as you fight, which is pretty damned good. But you’re not going to cut your way across the continent, no matter how good you are with a blade.”

  Off to their right in the next field archers were practic ing, ninety nine of them and a bow captain, most of the dun’s First Levy standing in the staggered three-deep harrow formation.

  “Nock shaft!”

  Right hands went back over the shoulders to the quiv ers, twitched out one of the arrows, set it to the string with the smooth economical motion of an action as familiar as walking.

  “Draw!”

  The varnished yellow-orange staves of the yew bows glistened in the bright spring sunlight as they rose and bent, drawing past the angle of the jaw.

  “Let the gray geese fly—wholly together—loose!”

  The strings of the longbows slapped the bracers all at once, like one great snap. The long arrows slashed upward with a multiple shsshshshsh sound like a distant whickering and came almost to a halt at the top of the trajectory. The pile-shaped heads glinted as they plunged downward towards the target, a line of shields propped near the hedge at the southern edge of the field, two hundred paces distant. The hammerfall of the arrows was still as sharp as heavy hail on a tile roof; they drove deep into the wood, and they would have punched through most armor. Three seconds later the second volley hit, and two more were in the air before they struck, and more followed in a steady nock-draw-loose rhythm.

  “You’re not going to be taking them with you, either,” Ingolf said, nodding at the archers. “Much as I wish we could.”

  Mary and Ritva sighed with heavy patience. “If you two are through with playing little-boy games, what does Lady Juniper say about it?” one of them asked. “About the quest, not who can pee farthest.”

  “She’s not happy about it, but there doesn’t seem to be much choice,” Rudi said. “If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was procrastinating. She has given me the go-ahead. The details are up to me; Mom’s good that way.”

  “No, there isn’t any choice, Sword of-the Lady-Artos,” the other twin said with malice aforethought.

  They unpacked the picnic basket. Rudi unstoppered a jug of fresh milk, and took a long draft of the cool rich creaminess; it always tasted a bit better after the grass really got going again. Ingolf bit into a sandwich of sharp cheese and smoked pork loin and slivers of pickle while Mary and Ritva opened the crock of potato salad. None of them took off their gear, except the helmets; you had to keep yourself used to the weight and constriction.

  “One thing that’s bothering me,” Ingolf said hesitantly. Then he went on: “Look, that . . . Voice . . . told me to go find the Sword of the Lady. But it showed me a sword. That’s sort of . . .”

  “Contradictory,” Mary or Ritva said helpfully.“Is Rudi the Sword of the Lady, or is the sword the sword?”

  Rudi nodded. “That had occurred to me. Well, it’s an oracle—they’re usually gnarly and hard to figure out. But it doesn’t change what we have to do, the which is get to Nantucket, sure.”

  “Get you to Nantucket, like a bolt at a target,” Ingolf said. Somberly: “I’ve already been there, and I wish to God I didn’t have to go again. Even without the weirdness, it’s not exactly a merry outing like sugaring-off in the spring.”

  “Let’s break it down,” Rudi said. “We need to make the preparations; then we need to go, and preferably we need to do it quietly so this Prophet doesn’t get wind of it.”

  “How many people?” Mary or Ritva said. “Nine is traditional.”

  Rudi looked at them, unable to decide for an instant if they were putting him on. It was a very Rangerish thing to say, but . . . he decided they were; the bland butter-wouldn’t-melt was the giveaway.

  “As few as possible,” he said in a quelling tone. “We have to sneak there and back—we couldn’t take enough to cut our way through, not if we turned out all the troops of the Meeting.”

  “Right enough,” Ingolf said, sounding a little reas sured. “But not too small. Most of the country we’ll be crossing isn’t what you’d call easy. We’ll want enough to discourage bandits and look out for one another. Nine sounds good—in fact, I’d be happier with a dozen or so.”

  “We’ve got one asset already,” Rudi said thoughtfully. He pointed at the twins. “You two.”

  “That’s true, but you’re not usually so perceptive, Rudi.”

  He snorted and went on: “You’re Dúnedain ohtar. Rangers go all sorts of places and deal with all sorts of people; I mean, yeah, you’re my sisters and your dad was Bear Lord, but by now people are used to you show ing up wherever without a lot of fuss. And the Prophet’s men won’t be looking for you specifically yet.”

  “And you’re gir . . . women,” Ingolf said. At their in quiring look: “The Cutters don’t hold with women doing much besides keeping house and raising kids, or working the churn and loom,” he said.

  “Canuidhollin,” Mary or Ritva replied crisply. Which meant roughly: What complete idiots.

  “Yeah, but they’ll be less likely to notice you.”

  “Notice us do what?”

  “Here’s my plan . . .” Rudi went on.

  * * * *

  Dun Fairfax,

  Willamette Valley, Oregon

  April 16, CY23/2021 A.D.

  Edain Aylward Mackenzie stopped and took a deep breath at the entrance to his home. This part of it had been a two car garage in the old days; someone had it told him what that meant once, but he’d forgotten. He told him what that meant once, but he’d forgotten. He was nineteen . . . well, nearly nineteen. All his life it had been the place where his father made bows and fletched arrows, and his mother wove at the big loom, when they weren’t out about the chores of house and farm.

  Umm, Dad . . . he began mentally, rehearsing what he’d say, then wrung the flat Scots bonnet in his hands. Oh, Wild Hunt take it, I could never fool him!

  If he stood here eventually someone would ask him what he was doing; the Aylward house was only one of twenty inside the log palisade that enclosed Dun Fair fax. He took a deep breath, said, “Stay, Garbh!” to the shaggy half-mastiff bitch at his heel, then opened the door and plunged in, blinking as he went from light to shadow.

  There he stopped in alarm; his father was seated at his workbench, bent over with a hand pressed to his side.

  “Are you all right, then, Dad?” he blurted sharply, his own burden forgotten.

  His father grinned back at his seriousness and straightened. “No, I’m not all right,” he said. “I’m old, boy, and there’s no cure for it. Some bones I had broken on me when I was about your age caught up with me for a bit there.”

  Edain was worr
ied still. He was young enough for his gut to think that his father and mother went on like the rocks and trees while he changed. Some of his first mem ories were of sitting like this, watching his father at his bowyers’ craft. Often while his mother made the loom thump at the other end of the big room, amid the smell of glue and varnish, sawdust and linseed oil and wax, with his elder half sister helping her and the youngsters in the cradle or crawling about with Grip and Garm, his father’s hounds.

  But I’m old enough to know different. Even trees don’t live forever, he thought with a chill. Grip and Garm are dead.

  And his younger brother, Dick, was fifteen and insuf ferable now, and his youngest sister, Fand, was twelve and worse.

  Even rocks don’t go on forever.

  And his father was old; in his sixties. His hair was still thick and curly, but the brown had turned mostly gray or white, and the flesh had fallen in a bit on his strong square-jawed face. He still got about well enough and did most of a man’s work, but he’d retired as first armsman some years ago now.

  “So, spit it out,” the elder Aylward went on, leaning back with his elbow on the table with its clamps and vise.

  “Ah . . .”

  Edain shuffled his brogues on the well-swept con crete of the floor. But for the age he looked much like his father, only a finger above average height but broad chested and stocky-strong, with muscled arms and the thick wrists of a plowman or archer—both of which he was. His eyes were the same gray as the older man’s; his hair was a little lighter, with a touch of yellow in the earth-brown, and he wore it shorter than most male Mac kenzies of his generation, though longer than the short-back-and sides his father had always kept to.

  “Ah, it’s a trip, Dad, one that Rudi was talking about,” he said, feeling sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Talking about us doing it together.”

  He was too old now for a swat on the backside, but he’d learned early never to lie to his father. No mat ter what scrape he got into, honesty was the best policy with Samuel Aylward, late of the Special Air Service Regiment.

  “A hunting trip?” his father prodded. “Or a jaunt for the sake of the thing, like that trip to Tillamook?”