"Maybe God did it," someone said quietly.
"In that case, may God damn God!"
"Hey, gently, gently. Let's not discuss the Change, hey?" Havel said.
He got a quiet chuckle from most of those within earshot: that was a proverb for "utter waste of time."
"You know that bit where there's a bluff near the west bank of the river, maybe a mile and a half north of here, maybe a little less?"
Ken nodded; so did Signe and a few of the other Bearkillers, and Major Jones; a good eye for terrain was an officer's trait.
"We put in a fort there-doesn't have to be too big, just big enough to hold out against a storming party until help arrives from the Spring Valley settlements, and we can tie it into the message relays easily enough. And in that fort we put in some of those big-ass throwing machines you built, with a nice view of the river and good thick earth berms in front, and overhead cover. With that, we can interdict the Willamette even at night; it's less than a tenth of a mile across there, even counting that big sandbar, the Darrow bar. We can put obstacles in the riverbed under cover from the engines; come to that, you can rig us up a diving suit, right?"
Smiles broke out around the circle. They became a little strained when Havel turned to the Corvallans. "And I'm sure our friends here would be glad to help with building the fort before they go home, eh?"
Edward Finney winced. "Welclass="underline" look, I've got enough hands back home to get by at a pinch, but a lot of our people are smaller operators-"
"Won't take all that long, not with three thousand strong backs. We may not even have to finish it. I expect that when we show we can cut them off, Alexi will haul everyone back north; we can work some sort of truce-and-ransom thing, which is why I made sure to get some prisoners he'll value. He's probably just hoping we don't have the equipment or the smarts to block the river, and hoping to show the Lord Protector something besides a bloody nose and Corvallis involved on our side. We only need to keep a lid on this bunch here until they realize they can't stay."
Jones cleared his throat. "Ed, we can do that. And if we have to keep people here more than a week, we can call for volunteers again and have a whip-round from the ones who have to go home to get the spring crop in. Everyone can chip in, oh, a couple of sacks of potatoes and some flour, or bacon or whatever. That way the weavers and blacksmiths and factory workers won't be out of pocket for their lost time."
"Yeah, we can do that." He looked at Havel, obviously thinking of asking the Bearkillers to chip in, then reconsidered.
Which is good. Because we just paid in blood. I lost two in every hundred of our militia today, and worse than that for the A-listers.
"And while we're digging, let's figure out how to make the Protectorate pay," Havel said. "I am"-he paused to consider-"a bit peeved."
The Corvallans blinked a bit at the ripple of wolfish laughter that went through the Bearkiller leaders.
Chapter Seventeen
Near Mount Angel, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 7th, 2008/Change Year 9
E ilir Mackenzie flattened as the patrol rode nearer, peering under the branch of a bush with her bow across the crook of her elbows to keep it and the waxed string out of the damp. The damp, bedraggled mixture of twigs and grass in her war cloak's loops would hide her well on this gray spring day. Wetness soaked up into her brigandine and wicked into the padding underneath it, bringing chill and a stale-sweat smell to mingle with the damp earth and oiled metal. The patrol was more of the easterners, strung out along a road that ran between new hedges and old rows of beech trees planted by some nostalgic Swabian a long time ago-many Germans had settled around here, a century and a half past.
The sun was just up over the Cascades behind the ambushers, but that was merely a spot of brighter gray in the overcast sky; they were about a mile from the Abbey, as close in as the Protectorate forces and their hirelings patrolled in daytime for fear of the catapults. The huge white bulk of the fortified monastery and the red roofs above it seemed like a dream in the gloaming, like an illustration in one of Mom's books:
The books that Rudi loved to read. Stop that, girl! We're going to get him back, by the Dark lady and the Dread Lord! Get your mind on business!
Her eyes flicked down the line of enemy horsemen; six of them, riding down towards the southern edge of Mount Angel's hill, before turning back around the other side towards the enemy camp north of Mount Angel town. She couldn't see fine detail, since they were a hundred yards away or better, but it was definitely easterners, not the Protector's own scouts. That was good-they'd let a patrol of those go by. The mercenaries were skilled at their trade, but they tended to be a bit more impulsive than the men who served the Protector and his barons. Plus they were all close relations, which made them hot for revenge when a man was hurt.
Closer, closer, and then they were in easy range.
This has to look good, she thought, then fought down a sneeze as a grass stem tickled her nose, smelling spicy-sweet with new growth. Then: Now!
She hit the quick-release toggle at her throat and shed the war cloak as she leapt to her feet. That was the signal, and the patrol's heads whipped around in horrified disbelief as a dozen archers appeared from the overgrown verge of the road by the orchard.
The last one was hers, by prearrangement. Tricky shooting at this range, but the air was millpond-stilclass="underline"
She let the breath go out between her teeth as she drew the eighty-pound longbow to the ear, pushing out with the left arm and twisting her body into the pull. It wouldn't be too hard to kill at this range, but precision was much more difficult. The broadhead came to the edge of the arrow-rest, and the bow moved up in a single curve as she exhaled. Watch the target, and let thousands of hours of practice tell you where the arrow would go, and hope no twitch of the man or the air threw it off. Let the string roll off the gloved draw-fingers, and you were the bow and the arrow and the target all in the same instant, driving it with your will like a spell.
The cord slapped at her bracer with a sharp impact felt up her left arm even through the metal and tough leather. The release felt right, smooth and sweet, the surge of recoil like a dance. She was so caught up in the moment that she almost ignored the arrows coming back towards her; then she ducked at the unpleasantly familiar feel of cloven air moving on her face. Then she drew and loosed again, and again, using bodkins designed to punch armor now. That startled volley was the only one the riders could fire, though, and that only because they'd been moving with their bows in hand and a shaft on each string. Five of the enemy were down almost at once; most of the Rangers loosed only two or three shafts.
Among the other qualifications, you had to be a good shot to be a Ranger.
Eilir grinned silently as the last enemy trooper galloped off northward, bent over his horse's neck with an arrow in his shoulder; from the look of it the broadhead had just barely punched through the stiff leather of his cuirass, enough to wound but not knock him off his horse. A bodkin would have sunk deeper and done more damage:
But that's the point, she thought with a silent giggle. Then she thrust the bow back through its carrying loops. And thank Luck that nobody got carried away and shot him jor real. Get the horses! she signed. They had to make this look like an ordinary nuisance raid, and they wanted to be chased. No real raiders would pass up the opportunity to snaffle off three good quarter horses and their gear.
The Dunedain ran onto the road, one or two grim but the rest grinning like children pulling off a prank. Sometimes they all make me feel very old, Eilir thought; she and Astrid were the senior Rangers in years as well as rank. Except for Alleyne and John, of course. And John can be like a kid sometimes, too. Alleyne's too serious for my taste. Lovely package, hut he and Astrid were meant for each other.