The Sunrise Lands

  “Are you at war with Boise?”

  “No . . . no. Not now. But we have had . . . clashes . . . in the past.”

  “Then you should get friendly with Boise,” Ingolf said bluntly. “And they with you. Or the Prophet will pile your heads in a pyramid next to theirs.”

  “One thing at a time, Bishop Nystrup,” Rudi said calmly, nodding.

  The older man fell silent and Rudi looked at the map. Three lines converging on a spot . . .

  “What’s Thurston doing sending troops down here? I mean, I know he claims the whole continent, but it’s a bit outside his usual stomping grounds.”

  Nystrup’s daughter spoke up unexpectedly; she was some sort of aide or secretary to the bishop as well as his child, but usually rather quiet because it was an irregular thing, a wartime emergency measure and a sign of how hard pressed they were. Now she said, obviously consulting a mental file, “There’s good water at Wild-horse Lake, and at least a thousand acres of pretty good land that could be brought under the furrow near it. And a lot of underused grazing. Enough land for a big village, maybe two medium-sized. He could be planting a colony. We considered putting one there, before the war started.”

  Ingolf cut in: “From what I heard while I was there, everyone in Boise has to serve in the army for three years when they turn nineteen, and then they get land or a workshop or something when they muster out, if they don’t stand to inherit one. They tried hard to get me to enlist while I was passing through there—I ducked out by night—and they offered me land at the end of the hitch. It would have been tempting, if I hadn’t had places to go.”

  A grin. “Haven’t had that damned dream since I met you, Rudi. You don’t know how good that makes me feel!”

  Rudi nodded absently. The new farmers build his country’s strength and they’d be loyal to Thurston, too, probably, he thought. Smart.

  Aloud: “So that’s why a column from Boise might be heading south.”

  “Not just a column,” one of the twins said. “The flag-pole has a golden eagle on top.”

  “That’s either Thurston himself, or a very high-ranking panjandrum of his,” Ingolf agreed.

  Rudi looked at Bishop Nystrup. The older man nodded. “Thurston is ... hands-on, they used to say.”

  Rudi nodded. “Now . . . if I had a couple of hundred of the Prophet’s horsemen, what would I be doing here?”

  Ingolf spoke. “Something important. They wouldn’t be risking elite troops like this except for something major.”

  “It’s not likely that two forces are this close by ac cident,” Mathilda said thoughtfully. “And when one’s hiding and the other’s not, that’s pretty obvious—the Prophet’s men are here to attack the Boise force. Which is another argument that someone important is heading it up.”

  “The false Prophet is at war with us, but not with the United States of Boise. Yet,” Nystrup said. “To at tack them would be reckless, even for the madman of Corwin.”

  “Who is a madman, eh?” Rudi pointed out. “And possibly possessed by something that’s no friend to hu mankind. But certainly crazy at least, and given to doing crazy things.”

  “One more thing,” one of the twins said. “We got a look at what we think is the Corwinite commander. He’s a pretty ordinary looking guy.”

  She looked at Ingolf, her tilted blue eyes consider ing. “Except that he’s wearing a patch over his left eye. Didn’t you mention you got the one who was holding you prisoner that way?”

  “Yeah,” Ingolf said, his tough battered face flushed.

  Interesting, Rudi thought. That’s a killing rage, if ever I saw one. And Ingolf isn’t a man governed by anger, usually.

  After a long pause, the easterner went on: “Still, we should go south with these folks. No sense in running into the Prophet’s men earlier than we have to, and we’ve got places to go.”

  Rudi shook his head. “But along the way, things to do. We go north, and we save this General Thurston by warning him, that we do.”

  * * * *

  Epona pawed the roadway, where a little gravel had survived the rare but violent summer thunderstorms of twenty two years. Rock rattled off her steel-shod hoof, and a puff of khaki dust went up around it as she stamped. Rudi crooned soothingly and ran a hand down the black arch of her neck, muscle like living metal under the gleaming coat. He thought he saw a twinkle of metal northward; that might be a Boise scout giving them a once-over. Well, they wanted to meet them. . . .

  “Think the Mormons will be OK, Chief?” Edain asked, looking back over his shoulder at the dust cloud fading towards the south.

  Rudi shrugged. “They’ll be better off than they would with two hundred Cutters hunting them,” he said. Then he smiled. “Rebecca in particular, eh?”

  The younger man flushed beet red under his tan. “She’s a nice girl, Chief, but she was a bit busy and grief-struck for dalliance, nor I so stupid as to try it. And there’s that religion—Horned Lord and Mother-of-All, it’s strange!”

  “All in the point of view,” Rudi said tolerantly. “Many paths.”

  “Do you think they were after the Mormons, then, Chief?”

  “Either them or General Thurston,” Rudi said. “More probably Thurston. And in either case, I’m thinking it would be a good thing to thwart them, so it would.”

  Everyone in their party looked a little tense, in their various ways. None of them were wearing armor, not even the brigandines or light mail shirts that they usually did on the trail; the shields and helms and lances were all back with the wagon and their remounts, in an ar royo and being watched by Odard’s man Alex. The rest of them sat their best horses and tried to look peaceful—they had their swords and bows, of course, but you could scarcely expect travelers to have anything less.

  Ingolf edged his horse closer. “You sure about appeal ing like this to General Thurston?” he said quietly. “I never saw him when I went through Boise, but he’s got a major reputation as a hard-ass, and his people certainly looked that way to me.”

  “No, I’m not sure, exactly. Though they say he’s a law-abiding sort, not one who chops off heads on a whim,” Rudi replied cheerfully.

  Mathilda nodded. “On the other hand, from what Mom and Lady d’Ath and Count Odell told me, as far as he’s concerned, he’s president pro tem of the United States, and everyone else who claims authority within the old borders is bandit scum who deserves hanging.”

  “Well, he’s not the only one with that delusion,” Ingolf said dryly. “Every second bossman out East called himself president back in the old days, from the stories my father and uncles told. Some still do—the Bossman of Des Moines lists it right after governor of Iowa when he’s being formal. Ours in Richland doesn’t bother anymore.”

  “Not so much of that backward nonsense in the Wil lamette,” one of the twins said pridefully. “We’ve got sensible, modern titles, like the Bear Lord or the Chief of Clan Mackenzie or the Hiril Dúnedain.”

  “Or the Lord . . . Lady . . . Protector,” Odard said. “And barons and counts.” He glanced slyly at Father Ignatius. “And sovereign bishop abbots, of course.”

  “The mayor of Mount Angel is elected by the people,” Ignatius said, frowning. “The abbot bishop conducts the Order’s business, not that of the secular population.”

  Which means running outposts across half the north west, Rudi thought. And the mayor listens most attentively to what Dmwoski tells him, to be sure.

  “There’s the Faculty Senate in Corvallis,” the other twin said judiciously. “They’re weird. But not as weird as having a president, like something out of the old days.”

  Everyone nodded. “We are out in the backwoods here,” Rudi said. “Let’s remember to be diplomatic, even when they’re being odd.”

  “I’m always diplomatic when heavily outnumbered by armed strangers,” Odard said with a small dry smile.

  “Prudence is a virtue,” Father Ignatius said. More thoughtfully: “I wonder how long the ghost of the United St
ates will haunt men’s minds? As long as Rome’s did in Europe in the last Dark Age?”

  They turned their horses north and shifted a little forward. Ingolf leaned close to Rudi while the clatter of hooves covered his voice.

  “Is that why Odard’s always so polite and diplo matic?” he murmured. “As far as he’s concerned, we’re armed strangers who outnumber him?”

  Rudi blinked. “Hadn’t thought of it that way,” he replied, equally quietly, then put it out of his mind; he had more immediate worries.

  Though it fits him uncomfortably well, the creature. Have to think about that sometime.

  Mathilda’s horse shifted over towards him as they waited. “Rudi . . . anamchara, why are we really doing this?”

  Rudi sighed. “Partly because I think if the Prophet wants to kill Thurston, we want to preserve him,” he said. He hesitated a minute and went on, very softly: “And to be sure . . . the Powers have sent me on this journey. But I’m not altogether Their puppet. Or so I like to think.”

  The Boise scouts came in sight. They were a file of eight light cavalry spread out in a fan centered on the road. All of them were well equipped with saber at waist, bow cases at their knees, short chain mail shirts and flared bucket helmets modeled on the old army’s style; the armor was covered with mottled camouflage cloth. Their swords stayed in the sheaths, but they were riding with arrows on the string, and they swung out to check the open country on either side of the western party with professional thoroughness. Rudi held up his open hands in the peace sign; the others sat their horses, trying hard to radiate harmlessness. Father Ignatius smiled benignly and signed the air as the strangers drew closer.

  “Peace be with you, my children,” he called.

  Their leader was a wiry dark woman about thirty, the only female in the squad, with a set of chevrons riveted to the short sleeve of her armor. She reined in half a dozen yards from Rudi once the surroundings had been searched and looked him over; first with businesslike appraisal, and then with a different sort of glance.

  “And with your spirit, padre.” Then: “All right—you, the tall, blond and handsome one,” she said dryly, letting her bow rest on the horn of her cowboy style saddle. “Who the hell are you guys, and what the hell are you doing here? You’re sure as shit not locals.”

  Her eyes took in their gear. Rudi knew she’d be see ing the quality of their horses and details of weapons and clothing, and also that they couldn’t have gotten this far without more mounts and transport and equipment than was showing.

  “We’re travelers from the far West, from beyond the Cascades,” Rudi said, putting calm and warmth into his voice—his mother had helped train it. “And we’ve got urgent news for your commander.”

  “For the president, eh?” She looked at him, then turned in the saddle. “Smith, tell Captain Valier we’ve got some wanderers who want to talk to the bossman. Rojas, take my binoculars, get up on that hill and keep an eye out for company. There may be more of them than they’ve mentioned.”

  “Sergeant!” they both barked, and turned their horses to obey.

  The rest sat watching the comrades, while not ne glecting their surroundings either; not exactly hostile, but extremely businesslike. The infantry came into view, marching like a giant spear tipped centipede behind the eagle and the flag of the Republic. . . .

  Rudi took in the hoop-and strap armor, the heavy throwing spears and big oval shields, and then the of ficers, one to each eighty men, with the sideways crests on their helmets and vinewood swagger sticks in their hands. . . .

  “Bet I know what General Thurston’s favorite historical reading is,” he said softly.

  “Yeah,” Mathilda replied, equally sotto voce. “I rec ognize it all—Osprey Men-at-Arms 46, Roman Army from Caesar to Trajan.”

  Other volumes of those illustrated histories were a staple of military education in the Willamette; he sup posed he shouldn’t be surprised they were used elsewhere, too. And wasn’t Thurston supposed to have been a soldier before the Change, an officer of the old US Army, trained at West Point? Not all that many of them had survived.

  They mostly died trying to feed people and keep order, Rudi thought. Well, against Fate even gods cannot contend, much less even the best of men.

  Doubtless Thurston had studied a lot of military history. There was a battery of field artillery along with the troops, six dart casters and shot throwers, which wasn’t something you expected out here—the mechanic arts weren’t as advanced in the far interior. Or so he’d thought . . .

  The scout sergeant motioned them off the road, and they reined aside politely. The standard-bearer passed, and then the first block of soldiers; Rudi whistled silently to himself as they didn’t even glance aside.

  “Now, that’s discipline, by God,” Odard said from his other side.

  The Boise cavalry sergeant waved to the small group of horsemen that followed the block of infantry. One of them spoke to a signaler, and a bugle blatted. The entire column came to a halt—a step and a stamp and a short harsh shout, and every man was waiting like a statue. Another blat and they relaxed, reaching for their canteens or turning to stare at the strangers.

  Rudi could hear a couple of them speaking softly to each other.

  “. . . use the rest, by Jesus.”

  The other answered, in a mock-childish falsetto: “What are soldiers for, Daddy?”

  The first grinned and poured a little water from his canteen into his hand before rubbing it over his dusty face. He made his voice deep and gruff as he answered: “To hang things on, my son.”

  Well, they’re human after all and not machinery, Rudi thought; then he made his face solemn and straightened in the saddle as the command group approached.

  That’s him, he thought.

  Lawrence Thurston was a tall man, about Rudi’s height and built much like him, lean but broad in the shoulders. He wore the same armor as his men on foot; it looked adaptable that way. His helmet crest was transverse, but dyed in stripes of dark blue, red and white, and he carried a round shield marked in the same colors.

  When he pushed back the hinged cheek pieces of his helm and then slung it to his saddlebow Rudi saw the face of a man in his fifties, with some gray in his short sable cap of hair and hard blunt features, broad nose and thick lips. His skin was the dark brown that the pre-Change world had miscalled black, a shade that reminded Rudi of Will Hutton, the Bearkiller ramrod until last year. He rode with straightforward competence but not a natural horseman’s seat, and his mount was a strong-bodied brown gelding, good without being in the least showy.

  “Right, western Oregon,” he said, looking them over.

  His knob of a chin turned towards Mathilda and Odard. “You and the boy there are from Portland, the group that’s resurrected King Arthur and the Round Table, right?”

  Mathilda bridled at the words and the clipped tone. “We’re Associates of the Portland Protective Association,” she said curtly.

  The twins smiled sweetly, and Ritva spoke before he could ask: “And we’re the cuckoos who live in the woods and think they’re elves,” she said politely. “Though really that’s just a scurrilous rumor and a narrow, bigoted stereotype.”

  “Mae govannen, cáno,” Mary added: Hello, General in Sindarin.

  “Mae govannen,” the general replied. “A secret language is sometimes useful.”

  “And Edain and I are Mackenzies,” Rudi said.

  Some men—and women, for that matter—had baraka, a force of personality that made them hard to resist; it was a gift of the Powers, and Thurston had plenty. Rudi had more experience than most with it, and set his mind like a wall. His voice was dry as he went on:

  “You know . . . kilts . . . bagpipes . . . witchcraft . . . pagan gods.”

  The dark eyes considered him levelly for a long moment; then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

  “OK, I’ve spent my life trying to resurrect the United States. I don’t think that’s insane . . . but I’ll agree it’s obsess
ive,” he said; there was a trace of a soft drawl ing accent in his voice, overlain with decades of Idaho. “The Scottish discarded the kilt for all but ceremonial reasons in the First World War because they used too much cloth. Trews were logistically more supportable. And there’s no finer sound than bagpipes in battle. As to the rest, ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.’ That’s from the Constitution of the United States, which is your Constitution, too. Well met, all of you.”

  Then Thurston’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Ingolf. “I recognize you,” he said. “My intelligence people debriefed you last year. Got a fairly wild story, along with some useful stuff on the eastern states and some even better information on the Prophet.”

  Ingolf nodded. “I didn’t mind telling them what I knew. It was the pressing invitation to stay that had me doing a flit. Reminded me too much of Corwin.”

  Thurston shrugged. “I can always use more good men—and so can the country.”

  Then he turned back to Rudi. “I thought I placed your faces. I know who you all are, too; there’s been a hell of an uproar out there in the West lately.”

  Mathilda winced, and Thurston noted it with a quick flicker of his eyes. He went on: “Why shouldn’t I spank you and send you home to your parents?”

  “Sure, and I didn’t think you recognized our parents,” Rudi observed.

  And it’s a wee bit impressive you know who we are. Has anyone taken a photograph of me?

  There were cameras around, though not many, but they were large and distinctive and he didn’t remember posing for one since before his voice broke.

  Or does he have men keeping files on us, complete with sketches? Then after a moment: Not a bad man, really, I think . . . but very focused.

  “I didn’t think that you recognized the Portland Protective Association’s sovereignty either,” Mathilda observed.

  “I don’t recognize your parents,” Thurston said. “Not as legitimate governments. But swords have a certain weight in themselves these days, and when I’m not in a position to immediately restore the nation’s authority, I have to make tactical accommodations with de facto regimes. I could gain a fair bit of goodwill by handing the young lady there back to her mother.”