A Meeting At Corvallis

Chapter Twenty-Two

Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon

September 3rd, 2008/Change Year 10

"F olks, we got a problem," Mike Havel said. "We've got to step back and look at the bigger picture instead of getting caught up in the details."

He looked around the table under the awning. Abbot Dmwoski was silently telling his beads. Apart from that, the leaders were looking at him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or two; none of them were what you'd call the nervous sort.

"Well, we've got a murtherin' great battle to win," Sam Aywlard said after a moment.

"No, that's not it. We've got a great murdering battle to fight, and that's the problem."

Havel took a deep breath and pointed northward, across the rolling plain, blond stubblefields and pasture drowsing under the August sun, the stems of the cut wheat glittering in a manner that had already given the former Elliot Prairie north of Mount Angel its nickname with the thousands assembled there. The enemy encampment was just on the edge of sight; mounted scouts from both sides patrolled the empty fields between, adding their mite of dust to the smells of dirt and not-very-clean bodies, frying onions and hay and sweating horses, smoke and leather, sun-heated canvas and oil and metal. He waved aside some flies; no way to avoid them, with so much livestock in one spot.

"Arminger's there, with just over ten thousand men. We're here, with just over ten thousand too."

He pointed skyward. "He's got aerial recon, and we don't, so we're not going to turn somersaults and come down on both his flanks at once; this army doesn't have enough unit articulation or triple-C to do that sort of thing anyway. This is going to be a slugging match, toe-to-toe, last man standing wins. We've got more infantry and it's better, but he's still got about twenty-five hundred knights and men-at-arms, plus the light horse, and they outnumber our cavalry by six, seven to one. So we're talking our pikemen: and pike-women: walking forward with a rain of napalm bombs landing on their heads, to say nothing of the dartcasters and crossbows, and then facing the men-at-arms."

"We've beaten his cavalry before," Eric Larsson said defensively.

"Yeah, brother-in-law of mine, we have, when we managed to make him or whatever goon was in charge do something spectacularly stupid. Or when they underestimated what riding forward into an arrowstorm from our Mackenzie friends was like. That's not going to happen here; for one thing, Renfrew's in charge of that army and he's not stupid. The monks and the Clan made him retreat last time, but nobody's ever managed to sucker punch him. All Arminger has to do is walk up to us and start hitting us with a hammer, and he's a pretty good hammer-hammer general; Conrad Renfrew's better."

He drew in another breath. "I figure if we win, we're going to be real lucky to leave here with six thousand people still breathing-and a lot of those'll be crippled for life, burned, legs and arms ending up on a pile outside a surgeon's tent. If we lose: "

Havel shrugged and smiled his crooked smile. "Well, we don't have to do a count on that because we will be so totally fucked it isn't fucking funny."

Dmwoski frowned, but nodded. Nigel Loring snorted, but did likewise. "You have some idea, my Lord Bear," he said in that excruciatingly cultured English voice.

It went a little oddly with the kilt and plaid he was wearing today; that was probably a lot more comfortable than the armor most of the rest were in.

Havel nodded gravely and answered: "Yeah, I do. A lot of those barons and knights out there would rather be home, fighting the Jacks : why were they called Jacks? Never mind. They've got an uprising behind them and from what the Dunedain say it's getting worse every day. The only reason they're not completely baboon-ass about it is because their families are in nice safe castles, but they're spooked. They want to fight us and get it over with and go home and unload some whup-ass on the revolting peasants. What's holding them here? Norman Arminger, is who. He's bossed them so long they can't imagine not obeying him, not really."

"You're saying that Arminger is the Association's weakness," Alleyne Loring said thoughtfully.

"Yup. He's what makes it an offensive force instead of a bunch of quarreling gangbangers in armor with delusions of chivalry. Remove him-"

"Sandra Arminger is smarter than her husband," Juniper objected.

"And Conrad Renfrew is a better general," Signe said.

"Yes. But neither of them is the Lord Protector. He's the one with the: "

He hesitated, looking for a word, and Nigel Loring smoothed his mustache with one finger. "The baraka, the charisma. He's their founder. Their creator, in a way. You think we should assassinate him, then?"

The Englishman looked at his son, at John Hordle, at Eilir and Astrid sitting as leaders of the Dunedain Rangers.

"Oh, God, no. Not an assassination. Sticking a knife in his back would be the one thing that would rally them all behind Sandra as Regent and Renfrew as warlord; they'd rule with Arminger's ghost as their false front, which would be just like fighting him only without the hang-ups that cripple him."

"Ah," Juniper said, her green eyes going wider. "You want to kill his myth, not just the man. I should have thought of that. It's hidden depths you have, Mike. But how?"

"Bingo, Juney. As to how: so, we're agreed he's their weakness. Now, what's Arminger's big weakness?"

"Sweet young girls?" someone said, and there was a chuckle.

Havel smiled himself, but shook his head. "Norman Arminger's big problem is that inside the big bad warlord is a suburban geek weenie," he said. "I thought so when I first met him a bit more than ten years ago-he reminded me of a D amp;D freak and would-be badass whose nose I broke behind the bleachers in high school. When his inner pimply geek takes over, he's the dumbest really smart man you'll meet in many a long mile."

He nodded at a banner standing in the rear of the pavilion, captured during the last week's skirmishing, the black-and-scarlet folds hanging limp.

"I mean, the Eye of Sauron? The Dark Tower? Give me a break! Look at the way he took the Association's setup out of his favorite books-and I mean the storybooks, too, not just the history ones he'd claim he used. He didn't put in all that pseudo-medieval Camelot-from-Hell crap because it was a useful way to build his power; you can tell because he put in the parts that weaken him, too, not just what he needed to please the Society types. He put it in because deep inside the warlord is the professor and deep inside him is the pimple-popper who thought Knights in Armor were so cool. The same guy who couldn't get a date until his freshman year and hated all the girls who turned him down, so he still likes raping teenagers; every new victim is revenge on the ones who laughed at him and his hard-on. And so the Association he's built has one great big juicy weakness we can exploit-a way we can make him walk with open eyes into a trap, because if he doesn't the cracks he engineered into his own system would split it wide open. He can't change it now, not now that it's had time to set, not overnight."

His eyes went to the bear-topped helm standing with his armor on its rack. "That's the problem with calling in a myth. It may start out as an obedient little doggie, but pretty soon you've got the wolf by the ears."

"What precisely are you saying now?" Juniper asked; Signe's eyes were wide with the same alarm.

Mike Havel smiled a hungry smile.

"My lord Protector, an enemy envoy under a white pennant wishes to speak with you," the knight said. "It's a man of high rank."

Norman Arminger looked up from the map table and finished his coffee; unlike most he preferred it just on the hot side of lukewarm and always had. The smell reminded him of the Tasmanians who'd brought the first beans this part of the world had seen since the Change. That was a pleasant memory, particularly the way they'd died:

He wished now he hadn't added the big map of the Association's territory, the one with red pins for Jack uprisings; that looked unpleasantly like a case of measles, and he could see every nobleman's teeth set on edge when they came into the tent and glanced at it.

But it'll be over soon. The monks and those crazy pseudo-Celts and the Bearkillers and Corvallans can't keep that hodgepodge of a non-army together for more than another week or two, and unlike the Conqueror or Roger I, I don't have to worry about mine starving or dying of typhus. They have to come out and attack us. We'll crush them so completely we'll be able to go home, put the Jacks down once and for all and then sweep to the gates of Corvallis before the year's over.

"My lord?"

He shook his head and forced his mind to quiet. "A man of rank? Who?"

"Lord Eric Larsson, sir. He comes with a white pennant and asks leave to address you."

A prickle of anticipation ran down Arminger's spine. Silence fell within the command tent; Sandra folded the file she was reading and sat up on the lounger, and the Grand Constable stopped talking to the supply officer. Half a dozen barons whispered to each other, a rising ripple of sound until Arminger raised a hand.

He looked out at the sunlit fields, smiling at a world golden and ripe; the command tent was on a low rise, the closest thing to a hill this flat farmland had.

This has to be a desperation move on their behalf, he thought. And if it's the Bear Lord's brother-in-law, I'd better make it a public audience jor maximum effect.

"Admit him under promise of safe-conduct," he said, turning and walking to the chair behind the big table.

It was light, a thing of straps and cunning hinges, but broad enough that he could lounge arrogantly with his chin on the thumb and forefinger-knuckle of one hand. A rising murmur came from the great camp outside as the A-lister with the tall scarlet crest on his helmet rode through the lanes between the tents. Everyone knew who the Bear Lord's brother-in-law was:

Which means I have to be very careful, he reminded himself. There are things our knights take seriously, particularly the younger generation. Charming, but sometimes inconvenient. Who'd have thought it would take on so quickly?

The younger man drew rein outside the command pavilion and dismounted, hanging his helm on the saddlebow of the horse. Arminger made a single spare gesture, and the guards at the entrance uncrossed their spears and braced erect.

Formidable, he thought, reading the man through the war harness with practiced ease; it wasn't much different from an Association man-at-arm's gear, anyway.

Six-three, a bit taller than me, and a hundred and ninety, just a little lighter. Trained to a hair, in his late twenties: at his peak or close to it. I wouldn't care to fight him, but luckily I don't have to. He'd be an interesting match at a half-time game. A few starving wolves, perhaps, and him fighting them naked.

He had a gauntlet in one hand. Arminger's brows went up; and suddenly Sandra was at his side, leaning over slightly to whisper in his ear, her voice a sibilant hiss: "Kill him! Tell them to kill him! Don't let him say another word – kill him now!"

"Don't be absurd," he said quietly, and she choked off her words with a bitter sound like a frustrated spitting cat. "Kill him with the whole camp watching? I'd lose so much face I'd never recover."

Men were crowding around the perimeter of the command pavilion's circle of space now; they didn't push against the guards, but they were pointing and murmuring. Many looked delighted at the break in the boredom; many, especially the young knights, looked exalted. The yellow horse waited on dancing feet, its hide gleaming like polished bronze, and it attracted its share of admiration in a camp where the pursuit of horseflesh was a common obsession.

Arminger made another gesture. The guardian knights wheeled aside, and Eric strode up the stretch of crimson carpet. He halted on the other side of the table with an impeccable bow-low enough to acknowledge he was greeting a sovereign.

"Lord Protector Arminger," he said crisply.

"My lord Eric Larsson," Arminger replied. Most of our nobility acknowledge A-listers as our equivalents, he thought. Can't hurt to do the same. It'll all be very theoretical soon, anyway. "Has your master reconsidered my offer? What message does the Bear Lord send to me?"

As he spoke, he suddenly wished that he hadn't let his taste for archaic vocabulary betray him. He might have known that a Larsson would have a solid education in the classics. Eric's face showed a little of his sudden glee, but that was to be expected in someone still young.

"What does the Bear Lord send unto you? Defiance," the emissary said. "Add unto this, contempt, and slight regard."

And he hurled the gauntlet down on the table. Unit markers went flying from the surface of the map, some of them striking Arminger in the face. Almost, for an instant, he did what his wife was still silently willing he should. When he spoke he slowly stood upright, forcing his teeth apart.

"Be glad you're an ambassador, boy. I can't kill you now. When the battle comes, there will be no such restrictions."

Larsson smiled. "You refuse the challenge?"

"Sovereigns don't accept challenges from their inferiors. Tell your master that."

One yellow eyebrow went up. "Oh, my lord Protector, it isn't my challenge." He raised his voice: "The Bear Lord calls the Lord Protector to account for his many crimes, and will meet him between the armies tomorrow in single combat, with any weapons the Lord Protector may choose, to the death."

Norman Arminger felt his face go gray. It wasn't fear-fear of ordinary physical danger was not one of his weaknesses. It was the realization:

I can't say no, he thought, thinking of the young lion eyes on him. Not here, not now, not with all my men assembled and with the uprising back home. They'll accept anything but what looks like cowardice. The old gangers as much so as the new crop of knights, for only slightly different reasons.

"I told you to kill him!" Sandra whispered fiercely.

"And I will," he answered. "After I kill the Bear Lord, tomorrow."

He turned his head, conscious of her slight moan, and met Eric Larsson eye-to-eye. "Tell the Bear Lord that the Lord Protector of the Association will meet him tomorrow with destrier and armor, shield and sword and sharpened lance, at noon between the armies. This fight to settle our differences as men, and not to bind our armies; and there will be a general truce until sunset."

"Agreed, my lord," Eric Larsson said.

He bowed again, made a precise turn and walked out to his horse. It had waited with perfect discipline until he returned; it swiveled in the instant his foot found the stirrup, and he rode it into a canter as it left.

Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon

September 4th, 2008/Change Year 10

Signe handed him his lance. Mike Havel looked down at the fierce, beautiful face with its little nick at the bridge of the nose and smiled.

"Thanks," he said. "See you in about half an hour, I think."

"Kill him, Mike," she said.

"Hey, that's the general idea, alskling," he said, his smile growing into a grin. "We'll be out of this stinking armor and back in bed at Larsdalen inside a week."

"That's a date, buster!" she said.

The other leaders were there, but they left the last words to his wife; he nodded to them and set the lance-butt on the toe of his right boot. There was no point in using the scabbard behind his right hip; he wouldn't be taking his bow to this encounter.

Yeah, gotta beat him on his own terms for this to work properly.

It was almost precisely noon, the sun overhead to minimize advantage to either side. And it was a hot day for the Willamette country, in the eighties; clouds were piling up on the western horizon over the distant Coast Range, like taller mountains of cream and hot gold to match the blue-white Cascades. Soon the fall rains would start, softening the land for the fall plowing and planting; right now the last sun of summer baked pungencies out of earth and horse and man. Dust puffed up under hooves.

A low rumbling spread across the front of the allied army; everyone who didn't have inescapable duties was out today, drawn by dread and fear and hope, protected by the truce. It built to a roar as he cantered Gustav out into the open space. The Protectorate's force was there as well, a dark line across the stubblefields a mile north. Their cheering was more regular, and as their lord emerged from under the black-and-scarlet banner they started beating their spears or the flats of their swords against their shields, a rumbling like ten thousand drums, stuttering through air and ground, bone and flesh. From the south the roaring of Havel's supporters grew louder too, not wanting to be outdone. He surprised himself with a chuckle as he recognized the OSU fight song in that chorus of screeches and bellows and chantings of his name.

The two men cantered forward, meeting midway between the armies; the roar was still loud, but muffled to the point where ordinary voices could be heard. Arminger's coif didn't cover his mouth; not surprising, since he'd be planning on giving orders in any fight he was in; the Lidless Eye was on his shield, and on the forehead of his conical black-enameled helmet, making him look like a caricature of evil. They each leaned their lances forward and tapped the shafts together ceremoniously before raising them upright again.

"Ten years since we last met, isn't it, Havel?" Arminger said.

Mike grinned. "Ten years since I suckered you the last time, Norman," he said.

There were lines graven on the angular face across from him that hadn't been there back when he'd come through Portland so soon after the Change; partly just age, but partly stress too, he judged. It couldn't be easy staying on top of that snake pit he'd built.

I'm going to kill you, he thought coldly. Not least because you're still playing a game, college boy. I'm a working man, and fighting's just another job I do to keep my family fed and safe.

There were none of the melodramatic threats or boasts he half expected, the I'm-going-rape-your-wife-and-feed-your-children-to-dogs; the man had learned control since they last talked. Though of course he'd be quite capable of doing anything of that sort.

The Lord Protector simply nodded. "One of us, I think, will not leave this field alive," he said, and turned his horse.

They continued until they were about a thousand yards apart. This was no tournament with rebated lances, or even a outrance, and there were no heralds or trumpeters. Each horse reared and came down moving fast, building speed in lines of dust across the reaped grain stalks. The black-armored figure grew with shocking speed, only a pair of eyes visible on either side of his helm's nasal bar, and the shield expertly sloped. Arminger wasn't a kid jagging out on testosterone and dreams of glory; he was a man not long past his physical peak, trained to a hair and immensely experienced.

So, gotta think outside the box, went through him as the lancehead came for his life.

Then: Crack!

He caught the lance on his shield, just. The force of it punched him back and sideways, out of the saddle. The ground came up and hit him with stunning force, and he tasted blood. Doggedly he shook off pain and struggled to his feet, spitting to clear his mouth. A half-dozen yards away Norman Arminger struggled to free himself from the wreck as his horse sank and threshed and screamed, with three feet of lance driven into its flank; the broken stub protruded just in front of Arminger's left knee. Havel took a step forward, and hissed at the sensation in his left leg and hip; it was like nerves being stretched out naked and scraped with serrated knives. He made himself move nonetheless, the backsword coming out as he advanced, the targe on his left forearm.

"Pain is weakness leaving the body," he muttered to himself. "Shit. Let's go, Marine."

The lord of Portland managed to get himself free of the high, massive saddle, but at the cost of abandoning his shield beneath it; the Bearkiller would have been on him while he pulled and tugged otherwise. He drew his heavy dagger with his left hand instead, holding it point-up with his sword overhead, hilt-forward. His eyes fixed on the limp Havel couldn't quite keep out of his walk.

"You swine," Arminger said with quiet sincerity. "You aimed at my horse. Deliberately!"

The northern army seemed to share its lord's prejudices; a huge chorus of hoots and groans came from them. Laughter and roaring cheers came from the allied host behind him.

"Why is it," Havel said, grinning, "that you evil bastards always get indignant when you find out you don't have a monopoly on ruthlessness? It's only a horse, Norman-and you're better than I am with a lance. If God had meant us to be lancers, He'd have given us hooves."

"Haro! Portland!"

"Hakkaa Paalle!"

The longsword flashed down. Crack and the curved leather of the targe shed it, but he didn't overbalance, and the smashing punch of the Bearkiller's backsword caught on the dagger. The hilts locked and they strained against each other for an instant, face panting into face in a perverse intimacy.

Christ Jesus, he's strong! Havel thought, as they disengaged and Arminger blocked a cut at the back of his knee, turning the longsword from the wrist like a ribbon-saber. Got the edge on me there, only by a bit, but it's there.

He'd counted on better speed and endurance, but the wrench to his hip was slowing him, draining away agility. The other man's lack of a shield would help-he couldn't just tuck his shoulder into it and try and overrun with a rush. It balanced out:

They circled, Arminger moving on the outside of the curve, Havel turning on his right heel. Engage, a flurry of strikes, back. The Portlander was breathing harder, sweat runneling down his face, but Havel felt the weight of his armor too. Try a stepping lunge for the slit in the hauberk exposed by the lack of a shield The hip betrayed him, and Arminger's dagger knocked the point wide. He snarled and reversed the strike, slamming the pommel of his sword up at the other man's armpit. The strike hit, but not quite on the nerve center, and the armor and padding muffled it. Arminger's fingers flew open, and the dagger went flying, but the arm wasn't disabled; he grabbed at Havel's shield, dragging it down and pinning that arm as their swords locked. Swaying, pushing, and he hooked an ankle around the bigger man's and pulled.

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, Luanne. More stood at a distance, silent, waiting.

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 grinned, feeling the fierce beat of her will even then. "We're both hammers, you and I, that's our problem-and Lord, didn't we make some lovely sparks together! Remember when we fought those bandits in the ruin, and it turned out to be a porn-video store? And I said I still live, and you thought it was Tarzan, and it was John Carter?"

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 Luanne and all, but you're ramrod. Always: thought you should be: back at the start, remember? And you wouldn't take the job."

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-"