He unbuckled it and did, which put his sword, bowie, utility knife and hatchet out of reach; he supposed it was a compliment of sorts that they were being cautious about getting close to him while he was armed. Another Mackenzie extended the horn-sheathed tip of his yew stave and snagged the sling of his crossbow, dragging it cautiously away before firing the bolt into the ground with a whap and examining the weapon with professional curiosity.
“And is there any more cutlery, ironmongery or things of a sharp and pointy or otherwise harmful nature?” the first bowman said. “Produce, man, and no monkeyshines.”
He was a little older than the others, with a cropped blond beard and only a few touches of war paint and no weird haircut except for it being a lot longer than was common for men in Idaho, his thick yellow braid tied into a clubbed bunch at the back of his head. A piece of wolf-tail dangled along with it. A thin collar of twisted gold lay around his neck, the ends fashioned into the heads of wolves meeting muzzle-to-muzzle.
“Steady now, boyo, and don’t try to befool us,” he said, his voice hard. “That would not put us in a better mood. You get a whap alongside the head for every one we find when we search.”
Cole had two holdout knives, one in his boot and a little one sewn into the jacket behind his neck. He tossed the blades and his sentry-removal wire garrote and blackjack after the crossbow, removing them from their hiding places with two fingers and great caution but no undue waste of time. He didn’t know how long they could hold the draw on those heavy bows and didn’t want to find out if it meant fingers slipping off the string and a thirty-six-inch arrow heading his way at several hundred feet per second.
What the fuck happened? he thought, dazed and unresisting amid the painted faces grim or grinning. How the hell did I go to sleep with an enemy patrol all around me? Please tell me I’m not that much of a noob screwup, God. Or. . did she do something to me?
That was almost as scary as the arrowheads, more so if you thought about it for a minute. Pilot Officer Alyssa Larsson was snickering now. The Clan warriors took the tension off their bows, though several kept their arrows on the string until he’d been quickly and expertly searched. There were a few happy chortles and whoops as they found and appropriated the more handy items in his light field pack as well as his stash of silver coins.
Yeah, OK, you’re happy, he thought with resigned irritation.
That was one of the perks of capturing someone; everyone knew the (unofficial) rules. They left him his sleeping bag and some of the really essential gear, and conscientiously returned the personal letters and family pictures after a glance to make sure what they were, which meant they were playing by the rules. His paybook, map and the other official documents went into a sack. Alyssa took back the map, papers, knife and compass he’d appropriated from her.
The wad of green paper money they tossed back with a jocular suggestion that when it ran out he could just use leaves and grass like anybody else. They had a point, with the way prices had gone haywire since the President bought it at the Horse Heaven Hills. His last letter from home had cautiously mentioned that people were swapping a lot again, which said volumes in a way the censor couldn’t object to.
“Merry meet,” Alyssa said to the Mackenzies.
The senior archer looked at her, the splinted arm and the spectacular and now colorful bruises on her face, then back at Cole. His eyes narrowed.
“Merry meet, and merry part again, Lady Alyssa,” he said. “Now, would you want the whole corp of this one to come back with you still walking upon the ridge of the earth, or just the ugly head of him in a bag, to be pickled in cedar-oil and nailed above your door?”
Alyssa chuckled. Cole didn’t think the suggestion was funny at all, and decided he disliked her sense of humor. Despite her lack of accent she seemed to know a fair bit about Mackenzies.
“No, he’s been a perfect gentleman, Sèitheach,” she said. “Strictly according to the laws of honorable war.”
He nodded and took the hand off his swordhilt and looked grimly at Cole, who was trying hard to hide his relief.
“Well, and doesn’t that demonstrate the Law of Threefold Return, boyo?” he said. To Alyssa: “Where’s your machine?”
“Twenty-odd miles that way, most of it up and down, as of three days ago,” she said, pointing northeastward. “What’s left of it, which isn’t much. Thought I could catch an updraft but hit still air instead and I used a couple of trees and a boulder as a landing strip. He came along while I was still dizzy. I’d have been in a really bad way otherwise. I was upside down and couldn’t get at the belts because of the arm and there was a grizzly sniffing around and I don’t think it was on my side. I’m a Bearkiller, after all!”
“What happened to the bear?”
“We ate some of it.”
She cocked an eye at Cole. “He put two bolts into it and then took off like a squirrel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man run up a rock face so fast. Then he shot it dead while it was trying to climb up and get him.”
“More of them?” the blond archer said.
He ignored chuckles from his followers. Several of them nodded respectfully at Cole, and a few even murmured something like bravely done, but the Boisean’s snap judgment was that their commander was a notable hardcase.
“He didn’t say, but from the way he acted no, not within a couple of days’ travel minimum. Be careful with him. He knows his way around the woods and he’s quick. No fool, either.”
The dark woman with the staff used it to swat the bowman in charge on the backside before she added sharply:
“And taking heads is forbidden. That’s geasa for all the Clan as you know perfectly well, Sèitheach Johnston Mackenzie. It’s even geasa for McClintocks, the which is saying a great deal!”
“Well, I was just jokin’, so I was,” the man replied a little sheepishly.
“No you weren’t, Sèitheach-me-lad. Not about taking the head, at least, if not the pickling and nailing.”
Gurk! Cole thought, restraining an impulse to take one of his hands down and rub the back of his neck with it. OK, she’s a witch.
There were rumors about that, too. He hadn’t believed them until now. Of course, there were also rumors about the Cutters, the Church Universal and Triumphant, and what their High Seekers could do. Officially they were supposed to be friends and allies who just absolutely loved the reconstituted United States centered in Boise and wanted to bring their stamping ground out in Montana back under the Constitution. Cole most certainly didn’t believe that. He’d met a couple, and the only way they loved anyone else was the way Cole loved a ham sandwich with mustard and a pickle. Witness the way their cavalry bugged out at the Horse Heaven Hills when everything went to shit, and left the infantry-heavy US forces in a world of hurt. Two of his brothers hadn’t come back from that fight, and nobody knew what had happened to them.
So OK, the westerners really do have witches. But it sounds like she’s a good witch. Anyone who’s against chopping off my head is pretty damned good as far as I’m concerned. Christ, this all just gets better and better, doesn’t it? “Sorry, sir, they took me prisoner ’cause a witch cast a spell on me, which is why I went to sleep, really it is, honest.” That’s sure going to go over well, assuming I ever get to report in. Sergeant Halford will ask me if their dogs ate my homework, too.
“And don’t jest on things the Goddess-on-Earth made geis!” the woman continued. “We may be Gaels, but this isn’t Erin in the ancient times and you’re not the Hound of Ulster nor yet one of the Red Branch.”