Rudi Mackenzie's most recent victory opens the door to further onslaughts against the Church Universal and Triumphant, but it also leaves him and his family more exposed than ever to the vindictive acts of the Powers of the Void. His daughter Princess Órlaith already has foreboding thoughts about the future of their dynasty... (P.S. Of this writer, fellow bestselling author Harry Turtledove writes, "Nobody wrecks a world better than S.M. Stirling, and nobody does a better job of showing that people remain people, with all their high points and low, in the wreckage.")
The Given Sacrifice (Emberverse Series #10)by S. M. Stirling
Praised as a “truly original combination of postapocalyptic sci-fi and military-oriented medieval fantasy,”* S. M. Stirling’s Novels of the Change depict a future without technology, where people must master skills from ages past in order to survive. Now, to ensure that survival for all he cares for, a king faces his greatest challenge in the… See more details below
Praised as a “truly original combination of postapocalyptic sci-fi and military-oriented medieval fantasy,”* S. M. Stirling’s Novels of the Change depict a future without technology, where people must master skills from ages past in order to survive. Now, to ensure that survival for all he cares for, a king faces his greatest challenge in the latest chapter of the New York Times bestselling saga....
Rudi Mackenzie has won the battle that expelled the enemy from the new High Kingdom of Montival. Now he must free the people who live in the state once known as Idaho from occupation by the legions of the Church Universal and Triumphant and pursue them to their lair over the mountains. There he will finally confront the forces behind the Churchthe Powers of the Void.
Yet even a victory will not end the conflict forever. The Powers of the Void are malevolent and infinitely patient, and the struggle is one that involves the entire world. They threaten Rudi not only in the present, but also in the future represented by his children, Órlaith and John. Rudi knows this.
And as his heir Princess Órlaith grows up in the shadow of her famous father, she also realizes that the enemy will do anything to see that she does not live to fulfill her parents’ dream....
Read an Excerpt
Seven Devils Mountains
(Formerly western Idaho)
High Kingdom of Montival
(Formerly western North America)
June 12th, Change Year 26/2024 AD
I am so fucked, Pilot Officer Alyssa Larsson thought, as the glider hit a pocket of cold air, shocking and utterly unexpected.
The nose went down and she had a feeling like her stomach was floating up into her throat, like skiing down a steep slope and going over a bump into a jump.
Like falling, in other words.
Get out of this pocket, fast! Dive out! training and reflex said.
She did. Her hands and feet moved on the controls of the glider with delicate precision, coaxing the last ounce of performance out of the GlaserDirk 100. Air whistled by, the loudest thing in the profound silence of the sky; the cockpit was paradoxically stuffy and smelled of lubricants, ancient plastic and fresher leather and fearsweat. The fallingsled sensation went away, but she’d gone down three or four hundred crucial feet. Her head whipped around, and she saw uncomfortably high ground all around her, a situation that had gone from chancy to bad all at once. This was unfamiliar territory, known only from the mapthat was the whole point of reconnaissance flying, but it made things a lot more dangerous. Over the country she knew well the spots for likely lift were all as familiar as the feel of her bootlaces. Here, not so much.
Of course, I know where the nearest three landing points are. Only now I can’t get to any of them.
She was over dense forest, with a sawtoothed ridge of nearly vertical rock directly ahead; she could get to it, but not over it to the steep rivervalley beyond. Alyssa shoved the goggles up on the forehead of her leather helmet, hiding the snarling faceon bear’s head worked into the hide there. Her eyes peered at the air over the ridge.
Shit. No birds.
Birds were a good way to find air moving upward; lots of them didn’t like to flap if they could avoid it. So probably no updraft directly ahead. She was sweating and her mouth was dry, but there was no time to be afraid. Her hand moved on the stick, very gently, no rudder, just the shallowest of banking turns to cruise along the face of the ridge looking for a spot where there was an updraft.
The aircraft was losing one foot of altitude for every forty it went forward towards a sheer slope, and there weren’t that many feet left before you ran into the trees and rocks below. She was moving faster than a galloping horse, faster than a pedalcar on rails, faster than virtually anything else in the world except a peregrine falcon stooping or a catapult bolt, and when hundreds of pounds hit at speed . . . the gentle floating of the glider would abruptly transition to nasty unChanged calculations of kinetic energy release and the strength factors of human bone and tissue. Her bone and tissue. The only good thing was that this wasn’t happening over enemyheld territory; it was pretty well uninhabited around here these days.
If I can get this thing down in one piece, we can bring in a horse team and pack it out.
They’d been built to disassemble, and been modified since to do it more thoroughly.
“All right, my beauty, let’s do this,” she muttered.
Some of her older instructors had been pilots before the Change, when powered aircraft could just bull their way through the air. Most of the time she agreed with the modern school which held that dancing with the invisible currents of the skyocean was preferable, but right now something to just push would be welcome. And aesthetics be damned.
“Well, shit, Bearkiller,” she told herself as she leveled out again, sparing a quick glance downward.
“OK, the Bear Lord was aloft in something a lot less aerodynamic and with a lot higher stall speed than this over mountains not all that far from here when the Change hit. With Dad and Aunt Signe and all in the backseats. Uncle Mike walked away . . . well, swam away . . . from a real hard landing, the rest of the family survived too; so will you if it comes to that.”
Although he just barely survived. Holy Mary Mother of God, if he hadn’t
Since she’d gotten her wings a little while ago she had a much better grasp of what a combination of blind luck and superlative piloting had been required at the very beginning of the Bearkiller legend. Her mind blanched at the thought that the whole world she knew including her personal self wouldn’t have existed if her aunt’s future husband been just a little less skillful or fortunate.
So I’ve got to live. Maybe as much depends on me!
She turned away from the ridge to try and get closer to base. That ridge ahead was going to be really close, looking like a fanged jaw reaching for her. Her gut tightened in an involuntary effort to haul the sailplane upward by sheer willpower. She absolutely needed to climb at least a bit, but she couldn’t put the nose any higher. If she tried she wouldn’t climb, she’d just drop below stalling speed and fall out of the sky like a leaf in autumn as the wings lost lift.
Like a leaf in autumn except for the last crunchy bit. Just a little more, then slam the stick down once I clear the crest to get some margin back, then go looking for an updraft
Speed was dropping. Dropping fast, too fast. Reflex tried to make her turn the nose down again, but that would mean diving into the mountain slope so bloody damned close below.
Just another hundred yards . . .
Stalling felt like slipping backward an instant after the controls went mushy.
Oh fuck me, what utter brassassed moron came up with this mission in the first place
The left wingtip brushed the top of a tall larch less than a second later. Whirling impact, battering, tossing, the scream of tearing metal. She shouted and flung her arms up in front of her face.
High King’s Host, Boise Contingent HQ
County Palatine of the Eastermark
(formerly eastern Washington State)
High Kingdom of Montival
(formerly western North America)
June 1st, Change Year 26/2024 AD
Fred Thurston was dickering with a wouldbe defector from what remained of the United States of Boise’s army. Rudi Mackenzie stayed in the shadows at the back of the tent, arms crossed on his chest, ignored after a single startled glance and a jerk of Rudi’s head towards Fred. The man who was now High King Artos of Montival kept silent; he was scrupulous in not interfering in the chain of command without very pressing need, and with Fred such was very rare indeed.
Though there’s need more often than I’d like with others.
Artos the First was a young man, a Changeling as it was called herehe’d been born near Yule of that yearbut the High Kingdom of Montival was far younger. Its armies were cobbled together from what had been a dozen separate realms, many of them with a history of mutual suspicion or outright battle. Everything was a makeshift of constant improvisation.
You fight with what you have, not what you’d wish, Rudi thought.
Even if you were fighting the biggest war since the Change. Certainly the biggest in North America since then, if you didn’t count the desperate scrambles in the months after the machines stopped. Not the biggest in the world, probably; Asia still weighed heavily in the ninetenthsreduced total of humankind. Rumors trickled in now and then across seas piratehaunted when they weren’t empty. They spoke of warlords fighting each other and invaders from Mongolia and Tibet across the ruins of China, and the bloody rise of Mahendr Shuddhikartaa haiMahendra the Purifiercarving out a new empire called Hinduraj on the Bay of Bengal. . . .
The world is wider and wilder than we can know. But this is the part the Powers have set me to ward.
The defector and Fred had gotten down to cases more rapidly than Rudi would have considered tactful at first, which was another reason he was leaving this in his friend’s capable hands. Someone who’d grown up among Boise’s folk would understand them in ways that Rudi never quite could, even bearing the Sword of the Lady. The officer wouldn’t be his subject unless and until he came to an agreement with Fred, and even then only indirectly.
He and Fred had gone all the way to Nantucket and back together on the Quest; they were comrades and allies, but lord and sworn follower as well. Fred had come to understand the relationship those words implied, but most Boiseans didn’t. Worse, they thought they did understand it.
Being ignorant is truly bliss compared to being misinformed, especially if you’re aware of the depths of your own ignorance. As Mother says, it isn’t what you don’t know that will kill you, it’s what you think you know that just isn’t so.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the officer said at last, saluting; he hadn’t been invited to sit.
“I’m not President yet,” Fred replied sharply. “There’s a little matter of elections first. I expect to win them . . . but I also intend to do it fair and square.”
The man looked very slightly anxious; he was in his thirties, with Brigadier’s insignia on his loose olivegreen linseywoolsey field uniform of boots and pants and patchpocketed jacket. Fred wore the same kit, the uniform of the realm that called itself the United States of America and ruled much of Idaho from its center at Boise, but without marks of rank at all apart from the StarsandStripes badge on the shoulder. That ostentatious plainness was a statement in itself.
“But we have an agreement, sir?” the man said.
“Certainly, Brigadier Roberts. Unless you insist on having the personal parts in writing? That could be embarrassing down the road, unless we altered some of the details.”
So you’d better hope I win the vote went unspoken between them. And use what influence you have to make sure I do. Someone else might not consider themselves bound by our negotiations here.
The man licked his lips; they were thin, like his face, and together with his cropped blond hair and pale yellowish eyes gave him the look of a wolf that had gone a little too long without a meal. Those eyes flicked towards the back of the big tent. The High King had never made any secret of the fact that one of the things the Sword gave him was the ability to tell truth from falsehood. By now, nearly everyone believed it.
Or more precisely, I can sense the intention to deceive, Rudi thought. The which means my simply standing here keeps him . . . relatively . . . honest.
Though with a man as fundamentally untruthful as this, whether anything he said was true at heart would be a matter for philosophers to split hairs over.
“Of course not, sir. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust your word.”
And oddly enough, he does trust Fred’s word. Wise enough not to judge others by himself, at least.
Fred nodded. “Report to my chief of staff, and we’ll slot your men into the overall TOE. He’ll show you where to plant the eagle.”
He stood and returned the brigadier’s salute, then shook hands. The man left, his stride growing brisker with relief, and there was a clank as the armored guards outside the tent’s entrance brought their big oval shields up and thumped the butts of their long ironshod throwing spears to the hardpacked earth. Silence fell for a long moment, amid the smell of hot canvas and dust and horses and woodsmoke from the encampment beyond. There were soundsvoices, someone counting cadence, the massed tramp of booted feet, iron on iron from a field smithybut they were curiously muffled.
“I don’t like that deal at all,” Fred said quietly, when the defector was well out of earrange, looking at his right hand and turning it back and forth. “I’ll do it for threeandahalf thousand men . . . to save threeandahalf thousand men . . . but I don’t like it at all.”
Rudi Mackenzie smiled wryly as he came forward and sat across from him.
“I don’t like it either, Fred. And neither of us likes fighting battles, but you do as you must, not as you would. You must have seen it with your father; I certainly did with Mother, by Nuada of the Silver Hand who favors Kings! It may mean dying for the people. . . .”
Fred ran a hand over his hair, which was cut short in a cap of soft black rings. “I think I’d actually prefer that, sometimes.”
“We’re all going to die sometime, to be sure. More often ruling well means we have to do things like shaking hands and breaking bread with men we’d rather put facedown in a dungheap with a boot to the back of their necks. The which handshaking and breadbreaking is nearly as unpleasant as death and wears harder on the soul.”
Fred grinned in weary agreement and kneaded the back of his neck. “Thor with me, this sort of thing wears you out worse than a march in armor. And that’s an attractive image. The manure pile and the boot and his face, that is.”
Rudi nodded. “And you can wash muck off your boot, but it’s harder to get clean of that sort.”
He jerked his head towards the entrance, the long coppergold hair swirling about his shoulders. Fred sighed and nodded.
“Should I have been more . . . tactful?”
“No, you were about right, I’d say. He’d smell a trap if you were all hailfellowwellmet and inviting him to sit down for a yarn and a tankard of beer with a slap on the back in good fellowship. And he’d despise you if he thought it was genuine. Best to make it a matter of business and advantage on both sides.”
The king and his ally were both big young men only a year apart in age, with similar broadshouldered, longlimbed builds, both with the smooth graceful movements of those raised to the sword and the tensile wariness of those who’d also lived by it in lands beyond law. In other ways they differed. The younger son of Boise’s first ruler had bluntly handsome broad features and skin of a pale toast color, legacy of his sire’s partAfrican blood.
“Well, it is to our mutual advantage,” Fred said. “And he does have some virtues. He’s smart enough to treat his men well enough that they’ll follow him. Especially now that he’s leading them in the direction they want to go.”
“That always makes it easier, to be sure,” Rudi said.
The High King’s eyes were a changeable bluegreengray, brighter by contrast now as the setting sun turned the big command tent into a cave of umber gloom. He wore the pleated kilt of a Mackenzie in the Clan’s greenbrown tartan, with a plaid pinned at his shoulder over a loosesleeved saffroncolored linen shirt cinched at wrists and throat with drawstrings.
A sword hung at his right side from a broad belt, in shape a knight’s long cutandthrust weapon with a shallowcurved crescent guard and a doublelobed hilt of black staghorn inlaid with silver knotwork. Its pommel was a globe cradled in a web of antlers, at first glance a perfect sphere of moonopal. Then if you looked closer it was like crystal, and within it curves that drew the vision deeper and deeper
Fred’s eyes flicked aside from it, though he was a brave man, and not just about physical danger.
“Was Roberts telling the truth?” he asked.
Rudi’s hand fell to the pommel in a gesture that had become habit. “What do you think?” he asked.
I try to keep from being too dependent on this, Fred. You should too. The more so as neither I nor the Sword will be with you whenever you might need them.
“That he was reasonably sincere, and he’ll keep his wordas long as he still thinks we’re the winning side,” Fred said.
Rudi flipped up his hands in a gesture of agreement. “See, you don’t need the Sword of the Lady to tell you that.”
Fred looked at it again, obviously forcing himself a little.
“That thing is useful. It had better be, after we went through hell and high water to get it”
Rudi chuckled; that was uncomfortably close to being literally true.
“But . . . better you than me, Rudi! I can judge men pretty well, I think, but it would be sort of stressful to know what I read was true. And I’d hate to be incapable of halfbelieving some little white lie.”
Rudi laughed; he’d been born late in the first Change Year, but there were already a few faint lines beside his eyes that showed he was a man who laughed often.
“My sentiments exactly and in precise measure, Fred. But I’m stuck with it; worse, my children after me.”
Fred’s smile died quickly. “Speaking of an inheritance . . . what I really hate about making deals with Roberts and the others who backed Martin after he killed Dad is that he gave them land, land from the public reserve that should have been kept for division into more family farms. Dad always said yeomen are the bedrock.”
“More than they deserve, sure and it is,” Rudi said. “Though finding folk to work it for them . . . that’ll be another matter.”
What People are saying about this
“A wonderful mix of alternative history, postapocalyptic fiction, and classical fantasy genres…filled with intense action and plausible military strategy.”—PNC–Minnesota Bureau
“S. M. Stirling develops characters that readers can relate to on a personal level.”—SFRevu
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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I've read the whole series. The first three several times. I found this books rushed, choppy, and uninspired. Its clear Stirling was phoning in the last few of this series.
THE GIVEN SACRIFICE was certainly a fitting end to a fine series. The only part that was wholly predictable was that Rudi died in battle at the end. This was preordained, both by the title and by the fact that Rudi's father, Mike Havel, died in battle at the end of the first Change series. The first part was a very satisfying wrap up to the Prophet's War. Getting many units of the Boise army to defect to Montival in a believable fashion and taking the fortress city of Boise via subterfuge was elegantly done. The Morrowland Scouts were a very nice touch, a subplot that added to the tale of the ultimate fall of Corwin. Sethaz's death seemed a bit anticlimactic, I would have expected him to be harder to kill. The second part took us through the twenty years of relative peace after the war. Montival flourishes and they start to repopulate parts of California. Several of the first generation, the last that knew the world before the change, pass on. Sandra's death was very effective. Juniper left as she would have wished. It is on a trip to Northern California with his daughter the Crown Princess that Rudi ends up dying in battle against corsairs. Some have complained he dies too easily. I think it was realistic and fully in keeping with where the story was going. So this Change series installment is complete. Stirling certainly could start another Change series, these tales could go on indefinitely. I'm not about to try and guess what Stirling will do next. If this is the final installment of Change tales, I am fine with that and if it isn't that is fine too.
Great story as usual. I am happy with the ending and look forward to a new chapter in the change universe. This book focused on the conlusion of the war of the Prophet and was satisfying in that regard. I won't spoil the story by talking about the ending, but if you enjoyed the other change books you will enjoy this one as well.
Have to say I was disappointed with this book. It was short on story and very long on descriptions. I enjoy someone painting a picture of a scene but when you start to get lost in the minutiae of clothing styles, food and architecture, it detracts from the story. This could have been significantly shorter. It reminded me of Jordan's Wheel of Time series - a great series that gradually got lost in verbose descriptions and did very little to advance the story. It seems to happen to a lot of writers as they become more famous, no one edits them or they just run out of ideas. Maybe it's time to move on from this storyline.
This is a short story which was very disappointing. I was just getting into the story when it ended.
A little different by its nature. The first half is a long denoument to the Rudi MacKenzie storyline. The second half is the story of the next generation- his suddenly teenage child and heir Orlaith who takes over as the new star, much as Rudi took over from Juniper Mike and the Larssons in Sunrise Lands. But this happens mid novel. It makes this novel kind of light weight, but you have to read it if you've read the last six or want to continue in the Changed world. Not disappointing just not as impressive. It is like an extended epilogue followed by a long prologue rolled into one.
For those of us who have been with this long saga for so many volumes, this novel is an entertaining (if slow) continuation of a favorite series. Some important action takes place in this book, but much of the tale focuses on lesser characters, battles, and trivial details. Popular main characters come into play more in the last pages. Although I will miss this series when it is over, I have to guess that there will be only one or two more volumes. It already feels like the author is stretching the story a bit. However, I still love this series and will always take pleasure from any addition to it. Michael Travis Jasper, Author of the Novel “To Be Chosen”
Warning - SPOILER ALERT!! If you are invested in the Change series as I was, do NOT read downwards in this review section to Mr. Tobin's review! How inconsiderate is he? I would have liked to discover myself without him spoiling the end for me. Thanks a lot Mr. Tobin!
It's SM Stirling for crying out loud. Must read, awesome writing, incredible plots, dialogues, and action. He's got it figured out. Read them all.
I find that mr Stirling is slowing down the events to keep one major event per book in the series.Still a most enjoyable read. My version of the book did not remember the page and I had to keep going to the library section instead of the home page on my nook. Dean koontz odd series works fine, so must have been to do with either the load or book! I am looking forward to the next instalment.