PICABO, EASTERN IDAHO SEPTEMBER 12, CHANGE YEAR 23/2021 AD
Edain Aylward Mackenzie heard Rebecca squeal in shocked alarm, and then a cry of rage and a smack like wet laundry hitting a rock. He whirled, his hand snapping to the hilt of his unfamiliar shete.
They were in the Covenstead at the center of the town… no, the Saints called it a Meeting House. The center was a big hall lit by clerestory windows around the edge where the bright light of dawn showed. One half was full of pews, the second-oddly-equipped with basketball hoops and a recessed stage, and there had been big folding partitions that could close off one from the other. It smelled of wax and paint and lamp-oil and careful cleaning, or at least those had been the predominant odors until recently.
One of the Cutters was rubbing at his fuzzy cheek. It was Jack, and his face looked as if it had been well and truly slapped. There were a dozen or so there, working on their gear or muscling bundles of loot out to the wagons. Some of them were grinning and haw-hawing-he'd noticed that young Jack didn't get much respect, despite being their leader's nephew. Others looked angry. Jack himself certainly did. Rebecca backed towards the Mackenzie, her cheeks flaming and visibly forcing herself not to rub where she'd been goosed.
Edain elbowed by her; the sooner they were distracted from the Mormon girl, a woman of the vanquished enemy, the better. The men of Rudi's band-Ingolf's-were supposed to be from a friendly or at least neutral realm, protected by treaty. He pushed forward and thrust his face into Jack's.
"Now, why would you be thinking you could get away with that, boyo?" he asked quietly. "The girl's not yours."
Though maybe you can get away with it, if it comes to a fight with these shetes, some part of him thought.
Not afraid, but considering as he would the weight of a billhook and the look of a hedge.
If they don't all just mob me. But I'm thinking the curse of the Goddess is falling on you the now, and me Her instrument.
He was a passable fair-to-middling swordsman… with the gladius- style shortsword and small buckler that most Mackenzies used when things got too close for the bow. He'd never had more than a little cursory practice with the weapon the Easterners had developed from the machete.
Of course, there's no reason for you to know that, he thought, and stared at the blue-eyed Montanan, his own gray eyes as flat and cold as his father's.
Not many men cared to face Samkin Aylward in that mood. Garbh was beside him, growling slightly and eyeing the Cutter in a way that was quite obviously focused on where to bite first. Jack split his attention between the two threats and took a step back.
"Mister, you'd better collar your she-dogs-both of them," he said, his own hand on the hilt of his weapon. "We of the Church Universal and Triumphant don't take back-talk even from our own free women, much less slave bitches."
Someone spoke sotto voce behind him: "Yeah, that's why Jenny chased you round the bunkhouse with that frying pan last Messenger Day and you were hollering about how sorry you were."
His voice rose to a falsetto squeak: "Oh, please, darli n ', don't hit me no more. I promise I'll be good!"
"You shut the fuck up, Lin!" Jack snarled, truly furious now.
He drew the long curved sword at his hip and pointed it at his comrade, then swung around to face Edain once more. The broad point-heavy slashing blade was quivering a little from the tightness of his grip as he spat out:
"Look, mister, you owe me for what your she-bitch there did. You can pay in coin, or lend her to me long enough to teach her manners, or I'll take it out of your hide!"
With an effort at self-controclass="underline" "I'll even pay you for her time, though you rightly should pay me for properly breaking her in."
"Is it that you're after calling me a pimp the now, boyo, or just a coward?" Edain said flatly; he could feel the sweat trickling down his flanks, but nothing showed on his face. "Well, every man chooses his end, they say. If it's the day you want to die, just say so. For if I draw my blade, I'll cut your throat where you lie begging."
Jack's face twitched slightly; there was another haw-haw from behind him. He'd backed himself into a place where he had to fight or lose credit, and Edain had just upped the stakes to life and death.
First time I've ever done that, he thought. In cold blood.
"Hey, fellahs, no need to get all bloody about the bitch," one of the Cutters said. "It ain't worth it. There's plenty more of them. They don't grow shut."
"Maybe Jack wanted this 'un because the others hit him with a frying pan," another added, which got more laughter. "Hell, you know, I'm getting tired of 'em all. I'll be glad to get back home and see a woman who's glad to see me."
"There's one as is, Artie? News to me," one of his comrades said, and they laughed again.
They were all a little more casual than Edain would have expected, and less inclined to take their comrade's part. Mackenzies rarely fought one another beyond a behind-the-barn punch-up now and then. It was against the law, for starters, and if someone was hurt badly a priestess might curse you or your dun outlaw you. The PPA allowed duels, but under an elaborate formal code and only between Associates.
These are wild men, he realized. Guts and skill at arms are everything to them. And they're away from whatever law they have at home, and used to killing from this war they've been having. That works for me now. If I win, that is…
A thought struck him. It was a risk… but less of one than meeting the other man with cold steel. Mostly less for Rebecca; if he lost a fight, she'd be in the Cutter's hands.
"Or we could try a bit of a game, if you're man enough for it," he said.
"Ah, dang it to the Black Void," one of the spectators said. "I was lookin' forward to a fight. All this lying around eating and sleeping soft and screwing's got me feelin' bloody."
"Game?" Jack said suspiciously.
"We'll shoot for her," he said. "Bow against bow."
The Cutter visibly restrained himself from speaking. He looked at the longbow across Edain's back, and his eyes narrowed in thought. Archery was a skill that had spread far and fast after the Change-most rural areas had had at least a few hobbyist bow-hunters who suddenly found their pastime deadly serious business. Bowyers had been rarer and more precious than gold. Edain's father had been a hunter and student of the English longbow from his childhood-it was an old family tradition of the Aylwards-and Western Oregon was full of good yew, which grew like a weed in the understory of the great mountain forests.
But these Easterners were horsemen, raised in the saddle in an empty land. Bows meant to be used from horseback were the only kind they knew, short powerful recurves modeled on pre-Change hunting styles but far heavier on the draw. Those complex constructions of laminated sinew and wood and horn needed months to make and were the single most expensive things most cowboys would own.
To Jack the Mackenzie weapon probably looked like a simple bent stick, the sort of awkward makeshift primitives without real bowyer's knowledge would improvise. His uncle wouldn't have made that mistake, but…
Jack is n 't the sharpest shaft in his family's quiver, I'm thinking.
"Well, if you're that anxious to lose the bitch, I'll take you on," Jack said, confirming Edain's estimate. "Rounders or rovers or at the bull's-eye?"
Then he grinned slyly. "I'll even sell her back to you for forty-five dollars… later."
Edain nodded, but the audience groaned. "Ah, hell, it's not even worth gettin' up to go watch you two shoot," one said.
"Did anyone ask you to come along, Lin?" Jack said. " I didn't hear it. Sitting on your ass sucking on a jug's more your style."
The lanky brown-haired one named Lin snapped his fingers. " I know!"
"You don't know much," Jack said.