A Meeting At Corvallis

Dunedain taking up residence in this stretch of forest. They're too cursed convenient for woods-running
swine like these otherwise."
Alleyne called to her. "This one's no bandit," he said, as he stripped off a man's sword belt and
tossed it aside.
It was the man Hordle had shot. Blood welled out around the broken arrow-shaft, but he clutched it
and glared hatred at her. Another young face, a little younger than her own, but neatly shaved; when
Alleyne pulled off the coif—a mail-covered, tight-fitting leather hood—his light-brown hair was
moderately long in front, cropped like a crew cut behind the ears. A blunt face with an old scar on one
cheek, and gray-blue eyes. Beneath the armor he was broad-shouldered and thick-armed, not
skinny-scrawny like most of the outlaw gang. It was the body of a man who ate well but worked
sweating-hard with sword and shield and lance while wearing full armor.
"False priest and devil-worshipping whore," he rasped, and tried to spit at her. "Kill me now!"
The sword that lay a little distance away was a broad double-edged slashing type, though with a
respectable point, the classic Norman sword that most of the Portland Protective Association's men
used. She looked down at his feet. Good boots, but no golden spurs. Still …
"Protectorate knight," she said. "A man-at-arms wouldn't be so bold."
She looked up at the priest. "Shall we dispose of them, or do you claim the privilege, Father
Andrew? You saw them first, after all, and on abbey soil."
He shrugged. "The abbot and Lord Bear and the Lady Juniper all agreed this forest of Mithrilwood
was Dunedain land, and that you have the right to dispense justice here, my lady. High, middle and low."
"Only as custodian for the Dunedain Rangers," she corrected, not wanting to claim more than her
due.
Another shrug. John Hordle had been talking in Sign with Eilir. He nodded and went over to the
fallen knight; a muffled scream broke past clenched teeth as Hordle gripped the stub of the arrow
between thumb and forefinger and casually drew it out, then stripped off the mail hauberk. That was
normally a complex business, but the big man handled the other as if he had been a doll, despite
respectable height and solid weight. When the armor had been tossed aside he ripped open the man's
gambeson and shirt over the uninjured right shoulder.
"Ahh," Astrid said.
There was a symbol tattooed there, a circle with a Chinese ideograph in it. She'd learned that Eddie
Liu had adopted that as his blazon in mockery; it was the glyph for Poland, which was where his
maternal ancestors had come from. Liu was very dead, Eilir had killed him last summer, but …
"You're a liege-man of his," she said grimly.
The captive spat at her again, making a worse job of it; his mouth must be dry with pain and shock.
"I'm brother to Lady Mary, the dowager Baroness Ger-vais. My name is Sir Jason Mortimer of Loiston
manor," he said. "Baron Gervais was my liege lord and my kin by marriage. His handfast men will never
rest until we've avenged him!"
Eilir made a clicking sound with her tongue, and Astrid looked over at her. He probably hired the
bandits, she signed. What's the old phrase, plausible deniability?
As if on cue, one of the bound men spoke: "You motherfucker!" he swore at the knight. "You said
there'd be food and women and a place of our own for the winter!"
"We'll keep you for ransom, then, Sir Jason," Astrid said; nobody paid any attention to the outlaw's
outburst. "And it'll be a heavy one." She grinned. "You can explain back home how a pair of girls
captured you. The same ones who killed your liege-lord, by the way."
She turned to the priest and away from the knight's incoherent curses. "Why don't you and your
patrol stay with us tonight at Mithrilwood Lodge, Father Andrew? It's no trouble, we've plenty of space,
and it'll spare you a winter bivouac." At his slight hesitation and frown: "And not all of us are of the Old
Religion. I'm sure there are some who'd be grateful to make confession, if you wished, and receive
communion if you've the Bread and Wine with you."
That seemed to tip the balance. "Most generous of you, my child."
"We've some of Brannigan's Special Ale, too," Astrid said impishly, and just a bit louder. "We traded