"Thirty ought six," she said. "Or near enough. One of those Garands Walker had with him. Probably him, then. Smith, Valenz, you take six and stay with the medic and Toffler. Message to forward HQ, we need a wagon, a mechanic, spare parts, and reinforcements. The rest of you, follow me."
She drew the pistol at her side. Swindapa brought up the crossbow that hung at her knee, checking to make sure the quarrel was seated properly, and noticed the others doing the same. They spread out into a line across the fields and cantered slowly forward, examining the ground as they went, checking every hollow and patch of trees. In one small copse they found a body, a woman lying facedown in the litter of oak leaves and acorns, not far from a spring that bubbled slowly out of a moss-lined hollow.
Swindapa dismounted. The body was cool but not stiffened, and there was a wound under the ribs, and blood turning black all down the side and flank. Despite the shade, flies were busy already, walking over drying eyeballs and swarming around the rent flesh. She would have been very thirsty, the Fiernan girl thought sadly, with a touch of anger like a bronze gong rung far away. So she was crawling to the water.
She closed the staring eyes, then brought her head up sharply at a sound. A squeaking sort of sound…
"Wait," she said when Marian motioned impatiently. "Wait."
(Casting back and forth, she caught a smell familiar to anyone who'd grown up around infants. She followed it, and another squeaking sound. The baby was swaddled in a pair of wool shawls, hidden in the roots of a half-fallen oak. She opened the bundle, cleaned the infant and her hands with leaves and springwater-it was a girl, she saw- and rewrapped it.
"The mother must have run this far with it," she said to Marian. "It's not hurt, just hungry."
Marian nodded grimly. "You'd better stay here with it, then."
"I will not!" Swindapa said hotly. Then, remembering she was supposed to keep the discipline: "Ma'am."
Marian snorted; the Fiernan could see her smile struggling to break free, and wondered again why she kept the lovely thing caged so often. It should fly like a bright bird.
"All right then," she said. "Let's be on the alert, people."
They rode farther. The low smoldering told them the fire had had its way with the hamlet. Swindapa looked down in bewilderment at the dead sheep; somehow they seemed almost as bad as the people. Ravens rose in a protesting storm of black wings as the horses came near, except for a few too busy with their feasting.
"Why… why kill like this?" she said.
"Because they were interrupted, at a guess," Marian said, her face like something carved from basalt. "That made them angry. Stevenson, Hamid, Cortelone, scout the enclosure. Everyone else, keep your eyes moving."
They did, but nothing moved. Nothing but the wind drifting scraps of bitter smoke across the sun-faded fields, and the grass, and birds and insects. One of the Americans raised his crossbow and shot a raven perched on a body and trying for an eyeball; it died in a spatter of blood and long glossy feathers, and that made her feel worse. The baby fretted.
"Nobody," the Eagle People soldier called Stevenson said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Not even the children. They… put them all in a hut before they…"
Marian nodded. "Let's get going," she said tonelessly. "It's time to put an end to this."
Swindapa let her eyes fall to the wiggling bundle in the crook of her arm. She could scarcely feel the movements, through the armor. Time and past time, she thought, as unshed tears burned her eyes. Then: I'll have to find a nanny goat.
The baby cried, lonely and hurt and alive.
"Another raid, while we wait here," Maltonr raged. "How many struck that place?" Alston asked patiently, looking down over the assembled warriors from her hillside perch. More than I expected. A good four thousand.
"Sixty, from the tracks! It was a slaughter!"
"And… 'dapa?"
The Fiernan hesitated, looked at them both, and then went on reluctantly: "Five warriors are here, from that place."
"Would five warriors have made a difference against sixty armored fighters of Walker's own band?… Well? I asked you a question, Maltonr son of Sinsewid."
"No," he said after a long moment, looking aside. "No, they would not."
"They would have died, Maltonr, died with the rest to no purpose. But this-" She jerked her head toward the assembly. "This can accomplish our purpose and put an end to such things forever. Is that truth?"
"It is truth," he ground out.
"Then let's get on with this."
"Congratulations, Captain," Ian said from her other side. "You've managed to introduce conscription and taxation to the Earth Folk at one fell swoop."
"More like one swell foop," Alston muttered, looking out over the plain. More and more bands of Earth Folk fighters-and would-be fighters-were trickling in. The provisions were coming in, too. "Not really conscription. They're all volunteers."
"Volunteers after you made it plain that the ones who'd joined you would all raid the herds of the ones who hadn't," Ian pointed out. "Thus bankrupting them. All the ones who don't want to go back to farming have to join up."
"Volunteers. And somebody has to feed them. The Grandmothers have always collected this tithe thing."
"For building and maintaining their monuments," he said. "You're handing around the collection plate for the Pentagon. Sorry," he added as she turned to look at him.
The broad-featured black face showed white teeth in a smile. "No offense," she said. Her helmeted head jerked toward the east. "When Walker brings the Sun People at us, they're goin' to come with levies of near every fit man in their tribes. If we don't get some organization into this shambolic crowd, these here'll get ground into hamburger."
"Don't you like my people?" Swindapa said, frowning.
Alston started slightly and turned. " 'Dapa, I like your people very much. They just need to learn some new things, is all." She's been saying things like that too often lately.
Swindapa sighed and looked down from the slight rise. Her expression grew glum. "That is true."
Alston turned again, blinking slightly at the sun that was almost in her eyes. That meant everyone could see her clearly, though. The speech ran through her mind, cobbled together in all-night bull sessions with the Arnsteins, Swindapa, a clutch of Fiernan bards and poets who'd provided local symbolism and would spread it far and wide.
"Warriors of the Spear Mark," she began, raising the microphone to her lips. She waited for the gasps to die down as the amplified sound boomed out. "Friends, allies, Earth Folk-this is your earth. Eastward lies the enemy, those who burn and destroy, those who come to take all the White Isle from you-this sacred isle, this almost-heaven, this village set about with the palisade of the sea against misfortune and the storms of war…"
Half an hour later she licked sweat from her lips, lifting her arms until the rolling cheers died down somewhat, and continued:
"Forward, children of Moon Woman! You fight for your hearths and your families, for the ashes of your ancestors"-luckily the Earth Folk did cremate their dead, which meant she didn't have to find a better metaphor than the author of The Persians-"and the Wisdoms of your faith. Forward! To the fighting! Winner takes all!"
The long slow roar of their voices washed over her like surf. She threw her arms up again in the Fiernan gesture of prayer; and between them was framed the rising moon, just as they'd planned. A growl came from behind the hill, and then Andy Toffler soared over in the repaired ultralight. He'd insisted on flying, and the wound was healing. This time the craft's wings were painted to mimic those of the sacred Owl, messenger and avatar of Moon Woman.