Dies the Fire

"The filth destroy what they can't steal," Woburn said bitterly. "We can't farm if we have to stand guard twenty-four hours a day! But if we leave, get out of range, we're homeless, we're road people ourselves."

Ken Larsson nodded. "You're spread out too much," he said. "Even resettling townsfolk on the farms, the properties are too big and too widely scattered, which means every household's on its own and impossibly far away from help. What you should do is group together, village-style, with settlements of… oh, say fifty to a hundred people, minimum, in places with good water and land. Then they could defend themselves-run up earth walls and palisades, too, maybe. And have specialists where they need them. We're all going to run out of pre-Change tools and clothing eventually."

"I can't make people give up their land!" Woburn said, scandalized.

Ken shrugged. "They don't need most of it," he pointed out. "This area"-his hand took in the Camas Prairie- "produced wheat and canola and beef for hundreds of thousands of people. Now it only has to feed the few thousand people who live on it; and that's going to take only a fraction of the area, which is lucky since you won't have the labor to work more anyway. What would be the point in growing more when you can't ship it out? To watch it rot?"

Woburn looked sandbagged. "Hadn't thought about it in quite that way," he said. "Haven't had time, I suppose."

Havel cut in: "Essentially, what Iron Rod's trying to do is charge you rent for living here, by making life impossible for people who won't knuckle under. You have to winkle him out of his fort. And you also need a standing force; full-time fighters, well equipped and trained."

Woburn's eyes narrowed. "You asking for the job?" he said softly.

The obvious drawback was that a standing force would be functionally equivalent to Iron Rod and his merry band, and might well end up with similar ambitions.

Havel laughed and shook his head. "Emphatically, no!" he said. "We've got a destination further west. But you ought to think about raising some rangers or soldiers or whatever you want to call them. And if you can't afford it… well, think about whether you can afford Duke Iron Rod."

Woburn took a deep breath; he looked relieved. "Thing is, Mr. Havel, I was wondering-"

"Whether we could get rid of Iron Rod for you," Havel said. He looked at Ken Larsson, who nodded imperceptibly.

"I'd heard that you did some work like that elsewhere," Woburn said.

"Not on this scale, we didn't. I've got forty people I'd be willing to put into a fight," Havel said. "Forty-five if I stretch it and include some damned young teenagers. Getting into a stand-up toe-to-toe slugging match with the Devil Dogs by ourselves isn't on. I'd like to see the people who did that"-he pointed towards the sacked farmstead, invisible in the gathering dusk-"in hell where they belong, but I'm not going to get half my people killed to do it. And frankly, Sheriff, this is your fight and not ours."

Woburn's face dropped. Larsson went on: "There are things we could do, though, as… ah, contractors."

Condottieri, Havel thought silently. Which means, literally, "contractors."

He nodded, as if reluctant. Ken Larsson took up the thread smoothly: "When I was studying engineering, back in the 1960s, I had a professor who taught us the history of the field. And until a couple of hundred years ago, what engineers mainly did was build forts and engines to knock 'em down. Now… "

Twenty-five

The warriors of Clan Mackenzie arrived on horseback for the joint muster with Sutterdown in the cool just after dawn, with a horse-drawn wagon behind them. Each wore jack and helmet, had spear in hand, bow and quiver slung across their back, sword and buckler and long knife at their waists; each carried three days' worth of jerky and crackerlike waybread and cakes of dried fruit in their saddlebags.

The birds were waking as the stars faded, and the stubble-fields to either side were silvered for a moment with dew. Many flew up from tree and field at the rumbling clatter of hooves.

At their head Juniper Mackenzie rode, in her rippling shirt of mail. Her helmet had a silver crescent on the brows, and the standard-bearer beside her carried a green ba

The refugees from Sutterdown and its farms looked on-the ragged fighters grouped together, listening to a sermon from Reverend Dixon, and the families camped on either side of the road; she could smell the woodsmoke of their cooking fires and the boiling porridge-one thing the Mackenzies had in reasonable quantity right now and could spare for gifts was oatmeal.

A loud Amen came from the Sutterdown men as the Mackenzies reached the encampment-and it was all men in the armed ranks, she noticed.

Well, we had our ritual, Juniper thought. They have a right to theirs. People need faith in a time like this; if not one Way, then another. There are many roads to the same goal.

She felt far calmer than she'd feared; increasingly so, with every hoofbeat that carried her away from home. Calm in an almost trancelike way, but her mind was keenly alert, and she felt as nimble as a cat. That was one thing she'd asked for at the ceremony last night, but she'd never led a war-Esbat before-against whaling and nuclear power stations, yes; for help in battle, no. She wasn't sure how it worked. There were certainly enough crows around today, bird of the Morrigan.

The Sutterdown leaders waited to greet her, beside a table set by the side of the road. She threw up her hand and the column clattered to a halt; then she dismounted and walked towards them, leading her horse. Cuchulain padded beside her.

"Whoa!" she said suddenly.

She pushed back on the bridle to halt the animal as a small form darted out from the crowd; the mare snorted and danced in place, hooves ringing on the asphalt, trying to toss its head and failing as her grip on the reins just below the jaw calmed it.

The child was a girl, about six, her face smudged and long tow-colored hair falling over her grubby T-shirt. She wore jeans and sneakers, and she stood belligerently in Juniper's path with her chubby arms crossed on her chest; there was a shocked gasp from the onlookers as she spoke up in a clear carrying treble: "Are you the Wicked Witch?"

Juniper laughed, and went down on one knee. That brought her head about level with the girl's; she'd long ago found that children generally didn't like being loomed over. Particularly by mysterious strangers, she supposed.

"You're half right, little one," she said, looking into the cerulean blue gaze.

It was like and unlike Eilir's at the same age; just as fearless but solid and direct, without the fey quality she remembered.

"What's your name?"

"Tamar."

"That's an ancient and wonderful name, Tamar; a princess of long ago was called that. My name's Juniper, like the tree," she replied.

Her other hand went out for a moment to calm the mother who was hovering, waiting to snatch her daughter back.

"And I am a Witch, yes. But I'm a good Witch."

"Then will you make the bad men go away?"

"Yes, darling, I will do that. I promise."

Tamar glanced to either side, then leaned closer.

"Can you really do magic?" she whispered.

"Why, yes I can!" Juniper replied, keeping her face serious. "In fact-"

She'd been palming the half-eaten Snickers bar while she spoke; not without a pang, because they really didn't have many left. Now she produced it with a flourish, and the girl's eyes went wide.

"- I can make chocolate appear."

Tamar's eyes went wide as she recognized the silver-foil wrapping; she probably hadn't had any candy since right after the Change. But she restrained herself nobly; Juniper held the bar forward.