The Tears of the Sun by S. M. Stirling

Author:S. M. Stirling [Stirling, S. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Science Fiction, Fiction, Fantasy, General
ISBN: 9780451464156
Google: PULxtgAACAAJ
Amazon: 045146415X
Publisher: Roc Hardcover
Published: 2011-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

COUNTY OF THE EASTERMARK

CHARTERED CITY OF WALLA WALLA

PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION

(FORMERLY EASTERN WASHINGTON)

HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)

AUGUST 23, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

“That’s that,” Grand Constable Tiphaine d’Ath said, tasting sweat on her lips.

It must still be well over ninety degrees, though the temperature was falling a bit with the sun. She slapped her leather riding gauntlets into the palm of her left hand in a slight puff of dust. The omnipresent grit was one of the things she disliked about the eastern fiefs; her own estates were in the northern Willamette valley, which had a decently moderate climate where things stayed green year-round. Then she stifled a yawn, brought on by the sultry stillness as much as real fatigue. The sun was low in the west, turning the thin clouds there crimson, and the sky was darkening towards night eastward behind the distant line of the Blue Mountains. At least it would drop to decent sleeping weather later. The air here was too dry to hold the heat long.

The end of a long summer day, and she’d been the first to get off the train an hour before dawn after a short period of semisleep on the pitching, clanking vehicle. Since then she’d been supervising while the army she’d brought pitched camp outside Walla Walla’s northern gate and unloaded supplies for the campaign.

Ah, the glory of knightly combat.

“Right, that’s the last of them, my lady,” the commander of the Protector’s Guard said, mentally checking off a list. “The signals chain says the line’s clear as far west as the Wallula Gap. We’re holding the rest of the empty rolling stock just east of the city ready to come back through.”

“Get that started now, Sir Tancred. I want them out of the way and the line and stock ready for military use.”

A final load of boxes came off a railcar and onto a wagon, and a clerk stepped forward and ran a paintbrush over a stencil on their sides while another made a tick on a ledger. The team of sixteen big mules had been led away and replaced by fresh beasts, hitched to what had been the rear of the train and hitched up to pull it back westbound; they leaned into their traces to get the six empty flatbed cars away from the platform. It halted again where the refugees waited to embark.

A crowd of a hundred or so civilians surged forward under the direction of a file of infantry; mostly peasants by their shapeless undyed linsey-woolsey clothing and floppy homemade straw hats, and more than half women with youngsters.

“No, no!” the sergeant in charge screamed. “All you strong ones, hand up your bundles and brats! Then you push to get it started, and then you climb on. You, you, you—”

The butt of his spear flicked out and tapped to conscript volunteers.

“—just grab the handles . . . oh, St. Dismas have mercy, the fucking handles, the . . . these things, these things! Just wait until

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