Ritva propped herself against the parapet and looked out, carefully avoiding the hideous knot of dead and not-quite-dead men and animals in front of the gates, although she couldn’t help smelling the greasy black smoke that poured off it. The Cutters were still arriving, and her eyes went wide at the numbers. A catapult cut loose from a tower, and a twelve-pound ball of cast iron snapped out. The targets were far enough away to dodge it, but some of them shook their fists or weapons-probably cursing the impious device, since their faith abominated the complex gearing involved.
“Couple of thousand,” Corporal Dudley said. “Ma’am, they take you really seriously, don’t they?”
He sounded more admiring than not. “It’s my big brother they’re really after,” she said. “And yes, they do take him very seriously indeed.”
“I guess we didn’t travel faster than the news after all.”
The alarm bell stopped; she was suddenly conscious of it because of its absence. Ritva looked over her shoulder and saw that it hung in the tower of a squat-looking church. . not that there was much alternative to “squat” when you used pise as building material. Instead a column of bright red smoke rose from the same square height, shooting into the air and bending gently eastward with the prevailing wind. The sky was still clear and blue-she blinked a little to realize it was only about three in the afternoon-and it would be visible for a long way.
“Like the beacons from Nardol to Din in the Histories,” she murmured to herself.
“It’s a long way to the next ranch,” the redcoat said. “They were big around here even before the Change because it’s dry, and the ones that survived took over the land of those that didn’t. Old Man Keith McGillvery was Rancher here then. . manager, at least, and nobody was going to go to Toronto to look up the stockholders when he claimed the property.”
Ritva nodded absently; she was watching the Cutters swarming around the warehouse and the corrals down by the little lake the dam made.
I’ve actually been to Toronto and I don’t think anyone’s going to be showing up with a title deed, she thought mordantly. Except ghosts. Though right now it wouldn’t be worth much anyway.
Avery McGillvery himself came by, in war-gear with some of his armored retainers in tow; he and his wife greeted people by name, she smiling and nodding and he slapping backs cheerfully and telling them how they’d slaughter the invaders under the wall. He gave Ritva a quick nod as well as he went by, and she put her hand to her heart and bowed slightly. Corporal Dudley saluted.
He’s doing this as a lord should, she thought. Keeping his people in good heart by example. His father must have known the way of it, to have come through the Change so well.
The idea that someone could own land without being there to hold and defend it was another pre-Change mystery; maybe Dudley was old enough to understand it, but she wasn’t, not really, not down in the heart. Then she noticed the roof of the warehouse by the railway collapse in a cloud of dust, with dozens of lariats strung to saddle horns pulling at it.
“They’re making ladders,” she said, as she unclipped the helmet from her shield, stuffed her hat into a pocket and set it on her head. “Tearing out the beams and boards for it there, and from those corrals. And fascines to throw in the ditch, and some mantlets.”
“Jesus, you’re right, ma’am. They’re going to assault. Oh, that’s going to cost them quite a butcher’s bill.”
They glanced at each other: But not as much as it’ll cost us, went unspoken between them.
Counting the redcoats, and one walking-wounded Ritva Havel, the Anchor Bar Seven had perhaps a hundred and fifty fighters to man the walls, and too many of them for comfort were teenagers just big enough to work the crank of a crossbow, or women.
That wasn’t necessarily bad; she considered herself well above average as fighters went, and she’d killed enough men to prove it. On the other hand she was also about five inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than the average woman, nearly all of the weight flat straplike muscle. That made her as tall as most men and stronger than some. Also she was very fast indeed, plus she and Mary had been brought up in the households of warrior nobles with the very best training provided from toddlerhood on. The women she saw on the wall here looked like they were housewives and weavers and cheesemakers and such mostly; doubtless brave when fighting for their homes and families, but only sketchily trained in their off-hours and smaller, weaker and lighter than virtually any Cutter they’d face.
Probably a lot of the menfolk were out with the herds where they could do little good, and had been too far away to get back in time. Coming back now would just mean throwing themselves away against that horde, though they probably would anyway.
This is a. . a very, very unpleasant situation. We really must find a way to say we are so fucked in the Noble Tongue.
“The wall will be a big advantage,” she said, and Corporal Dudley nodded.
She could read his thought: True as far as it goes.
More and more of the Cutters were dismounting, sending their horses to the rear and loading themselves down with extra quivers and bundles of arrows. Pack beasts with more stood behind, and other groups had long ladders knocked together out of beams with fence boards nailed or lashed across them. Ritva put weight on her wounded leg, and hissed as she fastened the chin-cup of her open-face sallet helm. The calf would bear her weight, but only if she didn’t have to use it much or for long.
“The leg works, sorta. Though we Rangers usually prefer sneaking around to this sort of fighting,” she added.
“So do I,” the corporal said dryly. “If you mean prefer it to being trapped and vastly outnumbered.”
“Don’t think of it as being outnumbered,” she said, forcing a smile and ignoring the dryness of her mouth. “Think of it-”
“-as having a very target-rich environment, yes, ma’am, we tell that one too.”
He passed her a dipper of water from one of the pottery jugs that hung at intervals; it was cool with evaporation through the coarse earthenware. She drank gratefully, handed it back with a nod of thanks and spoke aloud:
“Could someone get me a bow?” she asked. “Medium weight. Heavy side of medium.”
The word ran along the parapet, and the weapon was passed down. It was a common-or-garden four-foot recurve, an imitation of pre-Change hunting weapons but with a heavier draw. Honestly made, a sandwich glued together of sinew, a central layer of yew wood and springy horn; the riser was of mountain maple with a fitted handgrip and arrow-rest through the center. She drew it experimentally, into the full deep C-shape; heavy for her, ninety to a hundred pounds, but not impossible. Then she took a seven-foot spear out of a rack and propped it nearby point down beside her shield against the timber rampart; she wanted a weapon with a bit of reach, at least to start with.
There was a pause, most of an hour; she spent the time reciting training mantras and whistling softly and remembering things and trying to ignore her leg. Leaning against the parapet she even managed to doze for a few minutes, though she jerked awake again immediately from a dream of wolverines tearing at her calf. The Cutters were closer then, and starting to look more organized.
I wonder what our section of the Halls of Mandos is like? she thought. Do we just wait there to come back, or what? That sounds boring, unless it’s just a kenning for the rest of the Summerlands. The Histories aren’t clear except that we’re Sundered from the elves, but then, I’ve never met any elves so that’s no hardship, really. Are there sort of news bulletins, so you can find out how things turned out back here? Or scrying crystals, like a palantir?