…
Terrible, he thought. And I don't think he recognizes me… just doesn't have the attention to spare.
The bishop sat his horse among several other soberly clad bearded men, and a clutch of what were certainly soldiers and from their years most probably officers. They all wore olive-green uniforms and steel breast plates, mail sleeves, armguards, and round bowl helmets fronted with the golden bee. The armor was dinted and worn, and the square shields some carried were hacked and splintered, a few showing the stubs of arrows. Several wore bandages as well, some seeping red. As he watched one had to scrabble out of his saddle as his horse col lapsed. The stink of dried sweat from them was powerful even by the standards of soldiers in the field, and their faces were thickly covered with sweat-runneled dust.
"Thank you… Mr. President," Bishop Nystrup said as Thurston drew up, his commanders and aides beside him and the golden eagle and Stars and Stripes lofting above.
He spoke humbly; and unless Rudi was wrong, it was a difficult task for a proud man.
The army behind him was still proud too, but it was beaten, even the unhurt. A ragged bristle of pikes stretched backward in clumps that were not really units, mingled with archers and crossbowmen and a single field catapult that he could see; you could sense the weary shuffle that had brought the broken companies this far.
There were wagons full of wounded interspersed among those still walking, their moans and cries a soft threnody of pain below the sound of hooves and wheels on the broken gravel-patched pavement of old US 84. Supply columns from Boise were doing their best to feed them and take care of the injured.
"We'll do whatever we can," Thurston said, swinging down from the saddle and taking the man's hand as Nystrup clambered down stiffly. "And we'll do our best to get your people what you need."
"Thank you," Nystrup said again. "We've already gotten the food and medical supplies you sent, and…"
He fought his face to stillness. Thurston turned his own gaze aside for an instant, to let the man recover his self-command.
Nystrup swallowed. "Our rear guard has broken contact with the Corwinites, but they're close behind us."
One of the Mormon officers spoke. "We'd have had to turn and fight to keep them off the civilians within a day or two."
His eyes met Thurston's, sharing the same thought: And been massacred to the last man.
"Then we'd better coordinate our efforts," Thurston said, his face like brown iron.
"We're willing to consider your terms-" the bishop began again.
"My only terms are that we fight together to put down this madman," Thurston said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Startled, Nystrup blurted: "That's a change!"
Thurston shrugged. "I've made mistakes, but I try not to make them twice… and three times is excessive. I do ask for the military command, but we'll leave the poli tics for when that's been done. I intend to restore your people to their homes, and the US government won't ask for any territory-for anything that your people don't freely grant by their own unforced vote."
He spoke firmly, and loudly enough that both his own officers and the party from the east could hear him. Some of the Mormon military officers behind the bishop blinked in surprise at that, startled out of their exhausted dejection. A few looked suspicious; many glanced at one another, and there was a murmur as the words were repeated backward down the line.
Well, I've never heard a man confess a fault quite that smoothly, Rudi thought, letting one corner of his mouth quirk up. Sure, and I'll have to make a note of that for future reference, unless the gods give me the gift of infallibility.
And a few of the officers behind Thurston exchanged glances as well-doing it with a discreet flicker of eyes rather than any movement of the head.
"Let's get your wounded seen to, your troops fed, and your officers can brief me on what you've got available," Thurston said briskly. "There's a good defensive position about three miles east of here that would do nicely, and shelter these civilians until we can get them west and behind walls."
"Do you think the enemy will attack today?" Nystrup asked; his voice was calm now.
"No," Thurston said; several of the Mormon officers were shaking their heads in unconscious agreement. "Not today. But tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.
They've got their peckers up."
His smile was broad and cruel. "That's the easiest time to trim them off."
"I don't like it," Rudi said quietly, as the sun came fully over the eastern horizon ahead of them.
I don't, for sure and all. Something… something makes me itch. Or gives me a wee bit of a chill on a summer day, and it's not just the prospect of a fight in it. A fight I don't mind, and I have the beginnings of a grudge against this Prophet fellow, don't I just, by the horns!
He stood holding Epona by the bridle a little way from Thurston's command group, behind the Boise line, his companions around him. The grumbling, rum bling clatter of white noise, voices and armor clashing and feet thudding, made it possible to speak privately if you wished. Garbh was lying with belly and chin flat to the ground, ears cocked, quiet, but bristling in rippling waves.
But Thurston himself seems confident enough. Of course, he'd be acting that way in any case, eh? And he's taken a liking to me, right enough, enough to let us hang around, and to tell me his thoughts now and then. Well, and so have I to him and his sons. A hard man, yes, but not so hard as he's been painted. I think he's seen all he's done as… needful, even when it hurt him to do it.
Mathilda spoke quietly beside him as she stroked the nose of her charger. "The game of thrones, the game of swords… I don't like what they do to people. The ones who have to play them."
Rudi looked over at her in surprised affection. "It seems your thoughts are running with mine again, Matti. Well, you may not be liking it… but our host yonder seems a natural at it."
Mathilda shook her head and leaned on her tall kite-shaped shield. "I like him," she said.
"Me too."
"And I was thinking of how much happier he'd be running a big farm and breeding horses… or maybe something like a sawmill or a bunch of riverboats or… he's got the gift for organizing; he reminds me of Count Conrad that way. Him and his lady and their kids, mak ing a home, doing something… really useful, not just necessary, the way ruling is."
There was a wistfulness to her voice. Rudi nodded ruefully.
"I know what you're driving at." He hesitated. Still, when better to say it? This probably won't be our last day before the Summerlands; but then again, it might.
"I've been glad to have you along on this journey, Matti."
She gave him a quick glance, concerned; he could see her brown eyes narrow under the mail coif. At that he laughed.
"No, I'm not fey and hearing the screecher. I'd say so if I were." She relaxed in relief. "I am glad to have you with me, even though it's fair selfish of me. For you're my oldest friend, and you know my mind without my having to speak it all, and I yours, and that is a comforting thing."
She put an arm around him. "You are too, Rudi… remember that night at Finney's farm, back during the war, just outside Corvallis? I was so lonely, and so home-sick, and you and Juniper were about the only ones who were nice to me at first. We were ten, and you told me I was your best friend then. You're still mine. And I'll tell you something else; I'm glad to be here."
He nodded, then grinned slyly. "And while then you were a skinny little thing with a scab on your knee, now you're easy on the eyes, sure, even in a hauberk and greaves."
She snorted and thumped her gauntleted hand on his arm. "Men!"