Dies the Fire

"He's never said a word, it's just obvious the way he perks up when you're there-he's not much of a smiler otherwise. You know, that stoic Fi

"Well, then why doesn't he want to talk about how he feels?" she said in frustration.

"They never do! Listen to the voice of experience. That's a major reason I ended up divorced lo these many years ago. I wanted to talk about why the relationship wasn't working. As far as he was concerned, if he had to talk about it… well, that meant it wasn't working. I insisted. He walked."

"Weird."

"Men are weird. Very nice in a way, sometimes, but weird. Mike. might actually be smart enough to play hard to get. Or he may think you're just too young for him. A strange man in some ways, very private."

"That doesn't make me very happy," Signe said, quirking a smile. "I most definitely want him."

"I don't think Mike's personal energy field is calibrated for happy. Being around him will never be dull, and it could be a lot of fun, but simple happiness isn't in the contract. Be warned." She hesitated. "Besides… it hasn't been very long since, ah, the incident. Are you sure you want to, mmm, get involved with anyone quite yet?"

Signe flushed. "I wasn't raped!" she snapped bluntly.

"Your call. Just a warning-if you do start radiating make-a-move signals and Mike does try something, it's not going to be a cuddle and kiss on the cheek he has in mind, you know. Not that he wouldn't take no for an answer, but he might be really pissed off if you got cold feet."

They both looked up at a sudden sound; Pamela blew out her cheeks in relief at the interruption. Astrid was on watch a hundred yards from the road, where a little rise gave her a view of the ground falling away to northward, mounted and with an arrow on the string of her bow. She reached down and pulled a brass bugle from her saddlebow and did her best to make it sing; what she got was a flat, sourly off-key blatting hoot instead, but it carried.

Everyone around the little caravan stopped what they were doing and grabbed for a weapon-spear, bow, ax, sword, long knife.

Then they relaxed when she repeated the call twice, paused and blew twice again, and spurred in towards the wagons.

"The all-clear," Pamela said. She slid her working sword back into the scabbard hanging from the wagon, and picked up the practice weapon she'd dropped.

"Looks like Josh's got a message from the boss," Signe replied, putting up a hand to shade her eyes.

"Good afternoon," Michael Havel said as his party drew up to the locals.

"Howdy," a squat weathered man in a billed tractor cap said.

The young Indian in buckskins beside him had a bar of white paint across his face at eye level and carried a short lance with a row of feathers on the shaft; he looked along the line of the Bearkillers and pursed his lips. "Did we interrupt a meeting of your diversity committee?" he said. "Everything except Indians, hey?"

"Unless you count me," Havel said equably.

The Nez Perce gave him a shrewd look. "Yeah, you might have some 'skin in you."

"One Anishinabe grandma, but that doesn't make me an Indian. Anyway, we're just passing through-heading for Lewiston, and then points further west."

Several of the locals glanced at each other. Aha, Havel thought. Something they're not telling me about between here and Lewiston, or in Lewiston. Or both. Have to find out about that. Aloud he went on: "Who's in charge here?"

Both the farmer in the cap and the Indian in paint started to.speak. There was a pause, and the older man spoke carefully: "Sort of a committee. I'm Howard Reines, mayor around here, sort of; this is Eddie Ru

"Pleased to meet you," Havel said, shaking hands with both. "Mike Havel. We're-"

"The Bearkillers!" Astrid said proudly.

Hope they didn’t see me wince, Havel thought.

Eddie Ru

Astrid had managed to accumulate a small library of fantasies with lurid covers, scavenged from small-town libraries and abandoned road-stop book racks. They were full of pretentious pseudobarbarian and pseudomedieval names and titles with which she played an unceasing game of pin-the-absurd-name-on-the-donkey.

Some of the books even had useful hints about how to do things, as well as quests for the Magic Identity Bracelet of the Apocalypse, and a lot of the outfit came to hear Astrid read aloud from them evenings around the fires. He had himself, now and then; there really wasn't much else to do after dark but sleep and sharpen your blades or make the night hideous with attempts at song.

If this is what having a kid sister is like, it's a wonder any of them survive to adulthood un-strangled.

He went on aloud: "Yeah, the Bearkillers… long story. I'm boss of the outfit, pretty well."

Reines nodded, face neutral. "How long do you folks plan on staying? We've already moved a lot of our townsfolk and some refugees from Lewiston out to the farms and ranches west of us and they're about full up-"

Ru

Havel's eyes narrowed; neither leader had sounded very enthusiastic in his welcome, but Ru

At a guess, because outsiders are very unlikely to be Nez Perce. With thousands pouring in from the towns, they're nervous about becoming even more of a minority.

"Good thing we aren't pla

He didn't put a hand to his sword hilt, but he did let the metal chape at the end of the scabbard clank against his stirrup iron.

The locals cast careful looks at the Bearkillers. Apart from Will's chain-mail armor, they all wore the steerhide jackets, and they all had bows, shields and helmets; everyone except Astrid had a sword.

That put them a substantial step up on the group facing them, and they probably had the best the Kooskia area could offer. Bowie knives, hunting knives, a machete, hatchets, two bows, improvised spears, ordinary chopping axes lightened for one-handed use by grinding down the pell at the rear of the blade. A few had plywood shields. Nobody had any body armor to speak of unless you counted a leather jacket with some lengths of fine chain sewn to it, and they almost certainly hadn't had the concentrated training his group had-which showed.

They're probably figuring-rightly-that it wouldn't pay to let such well-armed people get too hungry, Havel thought cynically. Another couple of months, and they'd be begging us to stay to help get in the harvest and plant for next year. Probably vagrancy laws will follow after that in short order and any wanderers who don't look too formidable will end up hoeing beans whether they like it or not. Right now, looking formidable will put them in a mood to dicker.

Aloud he went on: "We've got trade goods. Some of you might be interested in taking a look. Also we've got some skilled people-a really good vet, some horse trainers."

If things were a little worse, we'd have to regularly fight for food. Christ, but I'm glad I ended up in Idaho before this happened!

The welcoming committee fell in with them and rode back to the caravan; some of them looked slightly apprehensive, despite their advantage in numbers-Pamela had everyone armed as they went about their chores, and the dozen A-list fighters in camp standing ready. Not obtrusively, threateningly ready, but she wasn't trying to hide it, either.