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.”
“Yes,
fiosaiche
,” the man named Sèitheach muttered.
She frowned. “I . . . there’s something strange about this one. That’s why he caught
at me like a wrong note in a song. I’d not have found him otherwise, not if this were
just a matter of humankind. Yet I can’t say precisely what. It’s not that he’s a banewreaker
himself, I do not think.”
“What should we be doing with him, then?”
“Why, I’m but a
fiosaiche
,” she said blandly, stepping back. “You being the bow-captain here, it’s your decision,
not a matter of brehon law. War’s for a warrior, not a priestess or a foreseer.”
A couple of the archers grinned and Alyssa snickered. Then the
fiosaiche
started looking at her arm, probing gently along the splint. She hissed slightly
and her eyes went blank at the pain.
The witch-woman nodded. “Thin break, right enough. It should heal well, and that’s
a good job of splinting. Provided you get some rest and don’t put any strain on it!”
When the bow-captain—
Whatever the hell that is. Some sort of rank, probably. I think this guy’s a platoon
sergeant or something like that.
—snapped orders the Clan archers went on grinning, but they obeyed promptly too and
without argument. Presumably a
fiosaiche
was something like a chaplain or a political officer or both. Though she looked a
lot nicer than any of the zampolits—what were officially called morale officers—he’d
ever met.
“We’ll sweep along the river until dark and lie out tonight, forbye there may be some
of this one’s friends about,” the bow-captain said. “Remember how well he was hidden.
The next one may be more twitchy with his trigger, so keep an eye out for sign
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.”
“Yes,
fiosaiche
,” the man named Sèitheach muttered.
She frowned. “I . . . there’s something strange about this one. That’s why he caught
at me like a wrong note in a song. I’d not have found him otherwise, not if this were
just a matter of humankind. Yet I can’t say precisely what. It’s not that he’s a banewreaker
himself, I do not think.”
“What should we be doing with him, then?”
“Why, I’m but a
fiosaiche
,” she said blandly, stepping back. “You being the bow-captain here, it’s your decision,
not a matter of brehon law. War’s for a warrior, not a priestess or a foreseer.”
A couple of the archers grinned and Alyssa snickered. Then the
fiosaiche
started looking at her arm, probing gently along the splint. She hissed slightly
and her eyes went blank at the pain.
The witch-woman nodded. “Thin break, right enough. It should heal well, and that’s
a good job of splinting. Provided you get some rest and don’t put any strain on it!”
When the bow-captain—
Whatever the hell that is. Some sort of rank, probably. I think this guy’s a platoon
sergeant or something like that.
—snapped orders the Clan archers went on grinning, but they obeyed promptly too and
without argument. Presumably a
fiosaiche
was something like a chaplain or a political officer or both. Though she looked a
lot nicer than any of the zampolits—what were officially called morale officers—he’d
ever met.
“We’ll sweep along the river until dark and lie out tonight, forbye there may be some
of this one’s friends about,” the bow-captain said. “Remember how well he was hidden.
The next one may be more twitchy with his trigger, so keep an eye out for sign
Similar Books
