The bastard sword swung down from left to right, a blow that would have lopped through a four-inch sapling. Havel moved into the stroke, hilt up and blade angled down behind him.
Iron Rod's sword struck his; there was a long skr-rinnnngg as the steel slanted away, redirected by the angle of impact. Even then, the weight of it nearly tore the hilt from his hand.
"My turn," Havel snarled.
The stepping lunge had taken him past Iron Rod, and the Devil Dog was twisted to his own right, locked for a moment by the momentum of his two-handed blow; not even a man that strong could stop a heavy sword instantly after putting everything he had into a strike.
Havel cut, backhand, the saber whistling with the speed of it. Then there was a heavy wet thunk as it struck behind Iron Rod's right knee below the skirt of his scale hauberk- the hamstring parting like a tense cable as Havel twisted and pivoted.
Iron Rod tried to pivot as well, and the leg buckled under him. He struck the earth with a bellow that was more rage than pain. The Bearkiller leader pounced again, smashing one heel down onto the hand that still gripped the heavy sword. Bones crunched, and Iron Rod shrieked;
Havel lashed out with one foot and the metal-shod tip of his boot struck his foeman's skull.
Iron Rod went limp. Havel sheathed his sword and took three paces before he knelt, holding Signe by the shoulders.
"He cut off my nose!" she cried in a thin shriek.
"No!" Havel said sharply.
She quieted; he forced her hands down and washed away some of the blood with his canteen.
"No, it's just a cut. It'll heal-not even much of a scar. The shield and the nasal bar broke the force." He pulled a bandage from the first-aid pouch at his belt. "Hold this to it."
Then he rose, looking around him; Pam had a tourniquet whipped around Ken Larsson's left forearm, he had his good hand pressed to one eye socket: and there was still fighting in the dark. Most of the attackers wouldn't know their leader was down. They'd have to do it the hard way, hunt them down through the night like the huge cunning sewer rats they were.
"Rally to me, Bearkillers!" he shouted.
To himself: "Let's get this cluster-fuck under control."
Sheriff Woburn nodded. "Let's give him his last wish!" he called up to his men. "He wanted to be hung here, and here he'll swing. Prod the bastard out!"
Michael Havel leaned on the pommel of his saddle as the Duke of the Devil Dogs stepped from the window of St. Hilda's tower; there were spearheads behind him, but he moved before they touched him.
Plus I think Sheriff Woburn has decided that his HQ should be here too. Smart man.
The heavy body fell four feet and jerked to a halt as the noose went tight; Iron Rod kicked for a moment and then hung still, his eyes looking out over the fair land of his duchy.
Chapter Twenty-nine
"D idn't know you played country!" Sheriff Laughton called, as he whirled by in the line of dancers.
The late September night was cool, but his face glittered a little with sweat in the red light of the great bonfires. Every now and then someone stumbled on the sheep-cropped grass, but enthusiasm made up for want of grace and a smooth floor.
Juniper grinned as she fiddled; the tune was actually "The Green Fields of Rossbeigh," and Celtic as all get-out even if it did start out with banjo and spoons. At least you could play country or traditional styles all-acoustic. People devoted to rap or metal were just shit out of luck.
The expression on the Laughton's face changed a little as Judy and Diana came in on the flute and the bohdran drum, standing behind her beneath the great oak. Suspended from a branch was the twelve-foot shape of the Green Man, a human form made from wicker and laced with leafy vines and twigs.
But "Rossbeigh" made an excellent toe-tapping hoe-down tune, and her free foot-she was sitting on the green mound with one leg tucked under-started tapping on its own. Her developing stomach wasn't getting in the way, quite, but she couldn't see the tapping toe, either. Luckily, a kilt and plaid made good maternity clothes. She'd hated the Mother Hubbards that were all she could wear when she was bearing Eilir.
The fiddle sang on. American country music started with the Scots-Irish, anyway, she thought. This is where it all came from.
The big trestle tables with the food were off to the side, including heaps of honey-sweetened pastries and fruit-and-nut scones to honor the occasion and-strictly rationed- some homemade ice cream with bits of dried cherries and filberts in it; sugar was the bottleneck there, since they'd used just about every scrap for putting up jams and jellies. Fruit-flavored yogurts were plentiful as all get-out.
People moved from dance to the food tables and back: or sometimes out into the darkness, hand-in-hand; it was an eat-dance-and-eat occasion.
Not to mention a drink-and-dance occasion, she thought. Well, Wine Harvest is another name for Mabon, after all.
There were also a couple of barrels of Dennis's beer and mead, besides what they'd salvaged from a winery. He thought that would be better in a year or two, but it was certainly drinkable now; he wanted to put in a winepress of their own next year.
She finished the tune with a flourish, and everyone came to a halt as the bohdran gave a long final rattle; someone put a mug of the home-brewed in her hand. She drank it down with another flourish to whoops and cheers, and wiped the foam from her lips; nicely hopped, with a nutty undertaste.
"Brigid linn is deoch is ni r? h tu riamh bocht!" she cried to the assembly. "Brigid with us, and a drink, and may you never lack!"
Judy held up an index finger: one only.
A little did no harm, but she nodded no seconds -and besides that, beer went through you even faster when you were pregnant. A buzz of voices rose above the cheerful crackle of the bonfires, sparks flying up into the dark star-rich sky.
The dance was in the open meadow below the gatehouse; the palisade and the tower reared black and jagged northward, the hills forest-shaggy beyond. The bright paint and carving on the great posts to either side of the gate stbod out more clearly for that: the God as Lugh of the Sun on the right, the Goddess on the left as Brigid, carrying the sheaf and surrounded by the flames of wisdom.
Dennis has gone berserk, and it's catching, she thought ruefully. All that seasoned wood just waiting to be carved:
The fires gave off a clean hot scent, mingling with the sappy-tarry odor of the big logs in the structures above and the farm smells that had become the background of her life, and the cool aliveness that poured down from the forests. Children ran around outside the line of dancers; only the infants and toddlers were off sleeping yet. Juniper made an inconspicuous signal.
Best to gather them up now, before they get overtired and cranky, she thought. Besides, there's grown-up business to attend to.
She shivered at the thought, then managed to push it away for the moment. Chuck and Judy caught the eye of Daniel and Sanjay and Mary; they herded the preteens together and brought them over to the little hillock where the musicians had sat.
None of the children were shy around her anymore; certainly not Chuck and Judy's Mary, who had brass enough for three and a real feeling for music.
"Can we sing the hymn now?" she said eagerly. "Dad said we could."
She's calling Chuck Dad so natural now, Juniper thought behind her smile. Now, is that a sad thing, or happy, or both at once? At that, she and Daniel didn't have much of a father or mother before the Change, as far as I can tell. Why bother to have children at all if you don't want to spend time with them?
"That you can," she said aloud. "But first, since Mabon's the Wine Harvest, you should all have a wee glass-it's a special occasion, to be sure."
The children were eager; chances were they wouldn't actually like it much-dry red Pinot Noir was an acquired taste-but it was a chance to play grown-up. Small cups clutched in small hands, they filed past the big wickerwork, vine-woven figure behind her dressed in their Mabon best with ribbons of red, orange, russet, maroon and gold, each pouring a libation for the Green Man and the tree before drinking down the rest themselves.