A Meeting At Corvallis

They crashed to earth, side-to-side. Arminger wasted an instant trying to shorten the sword and stab; the edge grated over Havel's hauberk, and then he raised it high to hammer the pommel down.

Crack.

Something gave in the left side of Havel's chest, and the coldness of it radiated out into his body like cracks in ice on a winter pond. But he'd dropped the long sword and had his dagger out now, and as the brass ball on the pommel crashed down on him again he let the rest of his body go limp and focused, draining the strength into his right arm. And thrust, the will a point of rage and effort like the knife, and the narrow point punched into a ring of the hauberk and broke it, sank deeper.

Crack.

The pommel struck in the same place, and Havel's mind went blank for an instant in a sheet of icy white fire. Arminger fell forward onto him, gauntlets scrabbling at the wheat stems. Havel pushed, pushed again, slowly and laboriously climbed to his knees. He took up his sword and used it to climb erect, right hand only-the left was limp, and the whole upper left side of his body was coming and going in waves that washed out further and further.

The Lord Protector looked at him, and one strengthless hand fumbled at the dagger driven up under his short ribs. He tried to speak, or perhaps only to scream. Havel took a staggering step, and placed the point of his backsword on the coif at the base of the other man's throat, and leaned all his weight on it.

"Signe," he wheezed. "Mary, Ritva, Mike: Rudi."

Something crunched beneath the steel. Havel's hand slipped away and he went to his knees. Blackness.

Aaron Rothman was bending over him, fingers infinitely gentle in their probing. Tears were falling into the stubble on the doctor's face.

Mike Havel said nothing, squinting against the sun. He felt clear-headed, but weak, and there was an enormous weight on his chest that was just this side of pain. Gradually he grew aware of other faces around him-Signe on one side and Juniper on the other, looking unaware of each other for once, Eric Larsson and Will Hutton, Lua

Definitely not good, he thought, and tried to raise a hand. It took considerable effort; someone took it, Signe.

"Arminger's dead," she said, knowing what he'd want to be certain of. "Some of his men are leaving already."

He sighed, and turned his head to the doctor. "The word, Aaron."

"Oh, God, Mike, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, there's not a damned thing I can do that wouldn't kill you quicker-ribs, heart-if I had a pre-Change trauma room, maybe-"

"The word." "Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. That's all I can say."

"Well, that sucks!" Mike Havel said, and started to laugh, then controlled it; not a good idea if his shattered ribs had punctured things inside, and there were a few last things to do.

"Aaron, you're a good guy and a good friend. Help look after my kids, will you? Face it, you were born to be an uncle!"

The doctor turned away and fell to his knees, sobbing into his hands. Havel looked up; there was a tree casting some shade, they must have carried him back on a stretcher, and the light dappled his face, dazzling glimpses of sun and blue through shifting green.

Pretty damn good world, he thought. Right to the end. This isn't a bad way to go, not bad at all. I've seen and heard a lot worse.

Then he pushed heavy eyelids up. "Hey, alskling," he said.

Signe leaned forward; her hands felt very warm as they gripped his, which meant his was getting cold.

"Alskling," she said back, her eyes searching his.

"Look after the kids, and tell em I loved them; God knows it's true enough. Tell em I wish I could have seen them grow up. Never expected to be a dad: that was more fun than anything except you. Help look after the Outfit. Couldn't have done it without you, kid."

"Goddamit, Mike, don't leave us!"

He gri

Sleep was calling; she was nodding, crying and laughing at the same time. He went on: "Just: keep in mind: all the problems aren't nails, OK? And you're twenty-eight. That's how old I was when I met you the day of the Change, and my real life was just starting. Don't make this the end of yours."

She kept hold of his hand; the words got softer despite his best efforts.

"Will," he whispered. The weathered brown face leaned towards him. "You're boss of the Outfit for now. Don't forget that election come January. Listen to Signe and Ken and Eric and Lua

He nodded and set a hand on Havel's for a moment, where his wife gripped it. "I'll do my best, Mike. Mighty big boots to fill."

"Eric." The blond head so like his wife's bent. "Brother: you always had my back: "

His eyes closed. A moment later he opened them again, watching all of them start. Then it was too much effort to speak; he'd managed all the essential things.

You did pretty good, Marine, he thought, as the bright light faded above. You found Signe and made some great babies with her. You fought that bastard Arminger to a standstill for ten years and then killed him. You got a lot more than you thought you would, when the plane's engines cut out over the Bitterroots.

It all became a tumble of images, and then suddenly his thoughts were clear for an instant:

I was father to the land. I saved my people. I was: King.

"By: earth," he said, more of a movement of the lips than a thing of throat and air. "By: sky: "

Another breath, and it did hurt a little now. The next was harder. The women leaned over him, the mothers of his children. He blinked once more. His own mother, her black braids swinging as she rocked his hurt away. She was singing to him:

"Manabozho saw some ducks

Hey, hey, heya hey

Said 'Come little brothers, sing and dance';

Hey, hey, heya hey-"

Chapter Twenty-Three

Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon

September 5th, 2008/Change Year 10

J uniper Mackenzie woke with a start. The tent was dark, but dawn had broken outside; Nigel's bedroll was empty, and there was a stale cold smell, slightly fusty, that she associated with war. She scrambled into kilt and shirt, socks and shoes, then buckled and belted her plaid as she stood outside, breathing in freshness and wood smoke and cooking smells. A flight of geese went over high above, the first of the year heading south and sounding their long song.

The memory of sorrow clutched at her, like a hand at her throat as she heard the keening among her people, rising and falling and then rising again into a saw-edged wail of grief, the heavy silence from the orderly rows of the Bear-killer camp, the Latin chanting from the chapel-tent of the warrior monks. Nigel turned and she leaned into him, hugging fiercely.

"He was a brave man," he said. "I've never met a braver."

Her head nodded against the rough surface of his quilted tunic. "He was the father of my son."

Then she took a deep breath, and another, standing and raising her head proudly, accepting the strength of his arm without leaning on it.

"And: he was the given sacrifice that goes consenting; the King who dies that the people may live," she said. "I knew it from the begi