The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change - By S. M. Stirling Page 0,3

we can long delay,” he said.

There was a limit to the number of men you could hold at the point of a blade, and it wasn’t very high if they were brave and knew their business. Which described everyone here quite well.

“That’s the truth. It’s past time to . . . settle . . . these Cutter fellows, Chief,” Edain Aylward Mackenzie said grimly. “Settle them in the Mother’s earth, and send the souls of them off to the Summerlands for a talking-to from Herself.”

Edain was a few years younger than his chieftain, but he was no longer the carefree youth who’d crossed the Cascades.

He came because I asked him; because I was his friend, and his chief . . . I’ d feel guiltier about that if things were any better back home.

They weren’t; from the little they’d heard, the war against the Cutters and their allies wasn’t going well at all.

“It’s tired and weary and plain buggering annoyed with them I am, and that’s a fact,” Edain went on.

The cold wind tousled the other clansman’s mop of oak-brown curls. Usually his gray eyes were calm and friendly, but now they were as bleak as the ocean waves. The long yellow stave of his yew longbow twitched slightly in his grip. The Mackenzies were a people of the bow, and even in that company his friend was Aylward the Archer, as his father had been before him.

Rudi nodded thoughtfully; the Sword of the Prophet and the magi in the bloodred robes had been on their heels all the way from Montival—though nobody had known that was the land’s name when they left. They’d killed and injured friends and kinfolk and sworn men of his, and if the questers weren’t all dead it wasn’t for want of the men out of Corwin trying. Their Prophet himself had set them on his trail, and they’d followed it with bulldog tenacity.

“Hain dago,” his half sister Mary said—they shared a father. “Kill them.”

She touched her eye patch and scowled at them with the one cornflower-blue orb left her; the other had been cut out of her head by another red-robed magus of the Corwinite cult back in the mountains of what had once been Montana. Her twin Ritva Havel nodded vigorously and spoke as her thick yellow fighting-braid bobbed on her shoulder.

“Aunt Astrid has a standard order for situations like this,” she said.

She fell into Sindarin again for a moment, the pretty-sounding liquid trills of the language the Dúnedain Rangers used among themselves—for secrecy, because few others knew it, and because their founders were devoted to a set of tales of the ancient world they called the Histories.

Then she translated: “Behead them every one, and that instantly.”

Rudi’s mouth quirked. That was actually from a different set of writings. But Astrid Havel, the Hiril Dúnedain—the Lady of the Rangers—did have a rather straightforward approach to such matters.

When he replied, it was in the tone you used to quote from a holy book: “Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends.”

He spoke with malice aforethought from the actual Histories; the Rangers weren’t the only ones who liked to read old tales by the fireside in the Black Months. His own mother had told that one aloud in Dun Juniper’s hall many times when he was a child. It was a grand story of battle and adventure, and it had songs she’d rendered in her fine bard’s voice.

The twins gave an identical wince; they’d been too similar even for close kin to tell them apart, before Mary lost the eye. Rangers took their Histories seriously. You could do worse as a guide to life, though he didn’t really think they were as close to fact as most of the Dúnedain imagined. Still, who could tell? The world before the Change had been very strange by all accounts, and it was difficult to tell fancy from truth in those tales. Dragons and Rings of Power were no odder than flying ships and weapons that burned whole cities.

Or stranger than some things I’ve met myself, he reminded himself, his hand on the moonstone pommel.

“I don’t think any of them is Gollum material,” Ritva said, a trace of sulkiness in her tone.

“Though I wouldn’t put it past them to bite off a finger if they got within snapping range,” Mary added.

Her husband, Ingolf, nodded. “Me neither, Rudi,” he said in his flat Wisconsin rasp. “Kill ’em and be