Well, even bandits probably have families who love them, Havel thought. Then: This ought to be interesting, as he reined in by the Mackenzie leaders.
"Juney, Sam, good to see you," he said. "Lucky you happened to be in the neighborhood. That's why we got reports the Protector's men out east were all running around like headless chickens!"
"You always were a bit too headlong, mate," Aylward said.
Juniper Mackenzie made a tsk sound. "Mike, how often do I have to tell you there's no such thing as coincidence?" she asked, grinning slyly, then nodded to Signe. "Merry met!"
"Hi," Signe said flatly. "I'll get this organized. Looks like the gang had a fair number of prisoners here."
She turned her horse aside, towards a series of wood-and-wire cages that gave off a stench even more noisome than the rest of the bandit camp. Eric and Luanne slid from their saddles; the young man whooped as he threw his arms around the Chief of the Mackenzies and swung her around. His wife was almost as enthusiastic; Havel snorted and turned his eyes away.
He watched Sam Aylward instead. For once, the air of hard cheerful competence deserted the ex-SAS archer. He looked at his compatriots with his eyes bulging and his jaw dropped; he stuttered for a moment before he managed: "Sir Nigel? Young Mr. Loring? Little Johnnie?"
The big bowman grinned at him. "It's not King Arthur and the Round Table, nor yet Robin Hood neither." Then his eyes dropped to Aylward's kilt. "Oh, sod all, Samkin! Don't tell me you've gone Jock?"
Havel gave a snort of laughter. " Lot of explanations coming," he said. "But this isn't the time." He slapped a mosquito. "Or the place."
The land around the Crossing Tavern was crowded; with Will Hutton's troop, twenty-one Mackenzies, a dozen freed captives from Crusher Bailey's camp babbling their thankfulness-and, beneath a great garry oak, a row of men who sat bareback on horses. The rope nooses about their necks ran up to where the ropes were fastened to the outspreading branch above; most were silent, and a few who'd babbled or begged were gagged. From where Michael Havel watched, the tall round shape of the tree was silhouetted against the sun going down behind the hills to the west; birds twittered in it, rising in a cloud when the humans disturbed them too badly-once when a bicycle-borne Mackenzie came up from the south and started calling for Juniper; the clansfolk hustled him off Havel noted the action out of the corner of his eye and then ignored it; he had more pressing business.
Crusher Bailey was the last of the row, glaring, his lips moving silently as he mouthed curses. A sign hung around each bandit's neck, written in charcoal on a board: ROBBER, MURDERER. Crusher Bailey had that, with additions:
RAPIST-HORSE THIEF-HOUSE BURNER-CHILD STEALER.
The folk of the tavern watched silently. Will Hutton walked down the row, holding a coiled lariat in his left hand, the end loose in his right. Each time he flicked a beast's rump with the knotted end, the startled animal lurched forward and another figure hung swinging and kicking below.
Mike Havel looked up at Crusher Bailey when there were only three left. "Got anything to say, Crusher?" he said calmly. "I'd really like to know about your connections."
"Yeah, I've got something to say," Bailey said, and spat at his captor. The gobbet went splat on the ground between them. "I say you aren't any better than me, just got a bigger gang. And you ain't worth a pitcher of red piss, either! None of you are!"
Bailey clapped his heels into his horse's flanks, and the animal bounded forward. His body twitched and kicked briefly, then hung limp as it swayed gently back and forth; the outlaw's heavy frame had given him a quicker death than that of most of his followers.
A murmur of surprise came from the onlookers, and Will Hutton stopped in his progress down the line of nooses. Havel smiled a crooked smile and shrugged as he looked at the older man: "Business aside, some men it's just a pleasure to hang, Will."
"Yep, purely a joy," the Texan said.
The last outlaw looked down at them from where he sat his horse, between Crusher's body and the rest of the swinging gallows-fruit; it was Bailey's brother, the slight ferret-faced man.
"I should have gone first," he said. "I'm the eldest of the Bailey brothers. It was me got Crusher through the Dying Time, and we didn't eat nobody neither."
Hutton nodded gravely. "Sorry about that. Your brother sort of broke the flow. You ready?"
The outlaw looked up at the setting sun. "Figure so."
Will slapped the rope across the horse's haunches, then looked down the row of dangling bodies. "Dirty job, but someone's got to do it," he said.
"Bingo," Havel said. "Now people around here can sleep a little easier at night-and use this road more."
A long sigh went through the crowd as the last of the outlaws died; a cool wind from the west went through the leaves of the tree above, making a sound louder but not much different. The limb was nearly as thick through as Signe's waist, but it creaked under the burden it bore. Havel glanced around-nobody was within immediate earshot, if he spoke.
"Sorry about Reuben, Will. He was a good kid."
The older man's face grew harder still; he glanced up at the bough. "He was a good kid, once he was away from that trash father of his-even before, I reckon. And he was growin' into quite a man, too. Reminded me of my boy Luke: "
Havel nodded, hiding his surprise. He hadn't heard Hutton mention his eldest child in years; Luke Hutton had been in Italy the day of the Change, doing a hitch as a paratrooper.
"Just one more score in the bill Arminger's runnin' up," the Texan went on. "I expect Angel will want to hear Astrid tell the story: sort of hoped: Well, never-no-mind." He sighed and set his shoulders. "There's always work, thank the good Lord."
Havel nodded. "Speaking of which." Then he turned and called: "Arvand Sarian! Front and center!"
The black-bearded innkeeper came forward uncom-pelled, and he looked Havel in the eye, his arms folded across his chest, standing silent and proud. The Bearkiller lord nodded somber approval, and called over his shoulder.
"Signe! Get that boy out here, would you?"
His wife came forward, leading a boy of about five by the hand; he was dark-haired, and despite gauntness and haunted eyes had the strong family resemblance Havel had noticed among Sarian's kin; Signe patted his head as he looked up at her with a tentative smile.
"There's your dad, little guy," she said, turning him towards the innkeeper and giving him a gentle swat on the bottom of his ragged cutoff jeans.
The boy's eyes went wide. He ran shouting to the tavern keeper, to be swept up in a huge embrace. Havel waited until Sarian had handed the boy off to the child's mother-the decencies had to be observed. When the tavern keeper turned back, the eyes that had been coldly defiant were wet with tears. When he spoke it was in his own language; it took a moment for him to shift back into English, and the accent was stronger when he did:
"For this: this gift of my son: " He sank to his knees. "I give myself to your judgment, Lord Bear. Let me be punished, not the rest here; they only did as I told them."
Havel nodded again in approval; it was well said, although the man didn't have much choice in the matter, considering how many troops were on hand. He took off his mail-backed gauntlets and tucked them into his belt before standing with his feet planted apart and his left hand on the hilt of his backsword.