"Afternoon," he said, holding up his empty right hand when the riders came near.
The sheriff looked at them, giving their horses and gear and faces a quick, thorough once-over; he was a lean hard man with tired blue eyes and light-brown hair going gray at the temples.
"You're no bikers," he said; his men relaxed a little too.
"Jesus Christ!" one of the riders muttered to a companion. "It's King Arthur and Xena the Warrior Princess."
"Shut the hell up, Burt," the sheriff said. "What's going on here?"
Havel pointed up the laneway, then back over his shoulder.
"Our outfit's passing through. We saw the smoke from that ridge back there, and thought we'd take a look. Someone killed everyone at this farm, burned their grain stores and canola and hay, killed some of their stock and ran off the rest, and I think sprayed Roundup on their standing grain. It's real ugly in there. Signed by Duke Iron Rod, whoever or whatever he is."
Several of the men cursed; one turned aside, hiding tears. The sheriffs long face seemed to acquire some more lines.
"We're too late," he said. "Henry, you go check."
A fist hit the pommel of the sheriffs saddle, making the horse sidestep. "They hit three farms this time, and led us by the nose from one to the other! Now they're headed back."
He shook himself and looked at Havel. "You're passing through? You look a lot better fed and armed than most of the road people we see."
"Thought we might stop and feed our beasts up a bit, if you can spare the grazing. And we can trade," Havel said. "We've got a farrier and smith, a first-class horse man, an engineer, couple of construction experts, a leatherworker, a doctor and a really good vet. Plus some weapons- swords, arrows, shields, armor."
He held up his recurve, twanging the string after he dropped the arrow back in its quiver.
"Plus the ones who made this, and our armor." That raised some eyebrows. "So we won't be begging."
"Say!" one of the posse said, nodding towards the image on their shields. "Aren't you the Bearkillers?"
As Havel nodded, he turned to the sheriff. "Bob Twofeather told me about 'em, remember? They were up on the Nez Perce rez for a bit. They helped with those guys who'd gone crazy and started cutting people up."
Havel nodded. "That was us. We went over to Lewiston, nearly. Once we heard what was happening there we decided to turn back and try crossing into Oregon a little further south."
Everyone flinched a little at that; the Black Death scared even the bravest. Havel took off his own helmet.
"Yeah, you're the Bearkiller jefe," the man said. "They call you Lord Bear, right? Got the scar killing a bear with your knife, was what I heard."
Havel shrugged, mouth twisting a bit in irritation at the fruits of Astrid's imagination. And it was worse than futile to go around correcting every urban legend, like the one about the bear…
It's a rural legend, actually, he thought with mordant humor. Amazing how they spread with no TV. And anyway, it's helpful psyops.
Aloud he went on to the sheriff: "I could bring down some of my people, help you with cleaning up. We don't have the sickness. And you're welcome to share our fire tonight. We should talk."
The sheriff thought for a moment and then nodded decisively. The man he'd sent to the house returned, pale-faced and scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Kate Clarke's missing," he said, which brought more curses and clenched fists. "The rest of them are all there."
"Right," their leader said. "Louie, you go get the doc and tell him I need a bunch of people checked over to make sure they're clean."
He turned to Havel as his rider galloped off southwest-ward. "No offense."
"None taken. We're careful too."
"I'm Robert Woburn, county sheriff. Since the Change."
"Mike Havel," he replied. "Boss of the Bearkillers."
They moved their horses shoulder-to-shoulder, and he stripped off his right-hand glove for a quick hard shake. The back of the glove was covered with more ringmail, leaving only the palm and the inner surface of the fingers plain leather.
The sheriff turned to his men: "We'll get these people buried, and then the rest of you can get back to town and tell everyone what's happened. No use in trying to catch them now. I'll stay here and bring these folks in tomorrow; it'll take all day with wagons and a herd. Henry, you tell Martha I'll be late, but I'll have some guests tomorrow. Jump!"
Twenty-three
Duke Iron Rod-even he seldom thought of himself as Dave Mondarian anymore-rolled off the woman. She was the new one, taken in the latest raid, but she'd stopped screaming and fighting by now. Pretty, though, and young-eighteen or thereabouts, healthy farm-girl type.
"Get out," he said, yawning and stretching and scratching. "Go do some work."
She'd rolled over onto her side; his broad hand gave a gunshot slap on her butt and she rose obediently, stepping into the briefs and belting on the short bathrobe that was standard wear for the new captures. It made them feel more fearful and obedient; and besides, it was convenient.
"Wait," he said, and stood to piss in the chamber pot. "Take that, too."
"Yes, Duke Iron Rod," she said, and scurried out.
I don't care what the Protector says, Iron Rod thought. Duke's fine, but nobody is going to call me grace.
He heard a smack and yelp from the next room; that was Martha, his old lady from before the Change. She liked to keep the new bitches in line.
"Don't make her spill it!" he shouted, pulling on his black leather pants. "You'll clean it up yourself if she does!"
Gotta get the plumbing working, he thought, as he stamped his feet into the heavy steel-shod boots. Pots smell and they're a pain in the ass.
The problem there was that this place was on top of a hill-it was a lot easier to defend from a height, but without power-driven pumps it was also hard to get water up here. The hand pumps on the first floor worked well enough for drinking and washing water, but not to run the toilets on the upper stories, according to the plumbers. Since they didn't change their tune after he hung one of them off the walls, they were probably telling the truth.
The rooms he'd chosen for his own were in the west corner of St. Hilda's, on the fourth floor; this one still had a window, although there was a pair of heavy steel shutters ready to swing across it and leave only a narrow slit. One of the new crossbows was racked beside it, and bundles of bolts, and a half-dozen short spears for throwing.
He liked standing there, or even better up in one of the bell towers, and looking out over the land that he was making his. A white grin split his face as he thought of that: Even fucking wheat-country looks better when it's your very own private Idaho!
Today he went out into the outer room of this suite; it was fixed up with tables and sofas, as well as more weapons racked on the walls and his armor on a stand. It was full of the good smells of food, too, and his stomach rumbled. Martha had breakfast waiting; a big beefsteak with fried eggs on top, and hash browns and coffee. It all still tasted a little funny, except for the coffee, and the cream in that was different too. He supposed it was because it was all fresh country stuff, right from the farms or the cows.
When he'd wiped his mouth he looked at Martha; she was a tall rawboned woman with faded bleach-blond hair, a couple of years younger than his thirty-eight.
"You gotta get the girls working on keeping this place cleaned up. The doc says we'll all get sick, otherwise, especially the kids."
"Then stop the boys crapping and pissing in corners 'cause they're too lazy to go downstairs or look for a pot!" she said. "Or tell 'em to go live in the stable with the fucking horses!"