Nigel grimaced and slammed his sword point-down into the deck. An armored hand came into his field of view, holding a British-issue military canteen; he took it with a croak of thanks and splashed some onto his face before taking a deep draft. When he turned to return it, he saw that the man he'd taken it from was armored as he was, also with the visor raised. A young face, fair, blue-eyed and handsome-much like his own son, and nearly as familiar.
"Prince William!" he said, shocked. "What on earth are you doing here, Your Highness?"
The younger man smiled. "Getting my life saved by you, Colonel Loring-again, it seems."
Their eyes met, in a flash of perfect mutual understanding. So the queen has already started putting the heirs in harm's way. And the prince was unafraid-not young man's bravado, but coldly so. Sent south on this deathtrap of a ship:
Loring smiled. "I see I trained you well, Your Highness."
"You have, Sir Nigel. I suppose that technically I should arrest you-"
They both looked about. The deck of the Cutty Sark was far closer to the water now; barrels bobbed and floated against the underside of the gratings that covered the hatchways, a bonging, rubbing sound like water-filled drums beating in the halls of sunken Ys. Alleyne had organized working parties, dragging the British and Tasman-ian wounded from the piles, carrying them over to where the ships' medics and their helpers were bandaging and sewing at the long ghastly wounds made by scimitar and shovel-headed spear. The Pride of St. Helens edged closer, and so did her longboats.
"-except that I have no choice but to beg your assistance, if we're not all to drown."
"It's my pleasure to serve, Your Highness. There's a village not far up the coast that will accommodate you all, and your wounded, until a cutter can reach Rabat and send a navy ship down to fetch you."
"You realize this is going to make: certain parties at court look complete fools," the prince said.
"All the better, Your Highness."
"Sir Nigeclass="underline" " The younger man stepped forward and grasped his forearm. "Sir Nigel, if you could come back-"
"That would mean open rebellion," Nigel said softly.
"Are you willing to go that far? Do you want me to set you on the throne with the sword's point?"
"Welclass="underline" no," the prince replied.
"I didn't think you would, somehow," the baronet said, smiling grimly. "And I don't think you need to, if you keep your wits about you. Build on this. Tony Knolles will help, and Oliver Buttesthorn. They're both good men."
"I'll remember that, Sir Nigel," the prince said. "But where will you go?"
Nigel shrugged, and looked westward, blinking a little as he saw the sun was already setting. It made a path of blood and fire across the water, stretching clouds like hot gold and molten copper along the horizon.
"There, Your Highness. This part of the Lorings' story is over, and we've pulled up our roots. Somewhere there's new earth waiting for them."
He looked down at the sword that stood quivering in the wood, and his steel glove fell on its pommel. Good-bye, Maude, old girl, he thought. I wish you were here. Aloud he went on as he tapped the sword hilt: "Tilled with this, I fear."
Behind him, his son also looked out over the long slow swell of the sea. "Dawns like thunder" he murmured.
John Hordle ran the swatch of raw fleece down his sword, swearing mildly as that revealed where the steel had taken a knick cutting through bone.
"Sort of traditional," he said. The younger Loring looked at him, and Hordle hefted his blade meaningfully. "Well, it's how we got England in the first place, innit?"
Chapter Nine
Dun Fairfax, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 21st, 2007 AD-Change Year Nine
"Where's it to, Larry?" Aylward said.
"Over this way, by the road."
The Dun Fairfax party rose out of the mist like waders from water as they went up the low rise in the center of the pasture, then sank again as they walked down towards the fenceline, the vapor rising up shin and thigh and torso like an impalpable gray sea. Aylward waited for an instant before he descended into it, straining his eyes against the gathering dark, but there was nothing to see. The spear-points of those ahead of him were last to disappear, right after the spray of raven feathers at the clasp of a man's Scots Bonnet. The air was cool and clammy-wet against his skin, perfect for carrying smells. Garm and Grip were getting excited at the scents, quivering eager but too well mannered to bark out of turn.
"Around here," the shepherd said as they slowed and the fence loomed out of the fog like a darker shadow in the gray-black.
"Just a bit of light, then," Aylward said.
Then as the shutter of the bull's-eye stayed open too wide and too long, glowing through the mist: "I said just a bit, Larry!"
"Sorry, Sam."
"You can close the shutter now."
Aylward went to one knee, leaning on his ashwood spear, and touched the bloodstain. The tacky, slightly lumpy feel was unmistakable when he put his fingertips to the wet ground and rubbed thumb over forefingers; so was the smell when he brought them to his nose. When the moon broke free of a cloud the ground had the black glistening look that blood-crimson took on in low light.
And I know that look, now don't I just? I know it bloody well. His smile was grim.
This edge of the pasture was down near the southwest corner; just over that was the road out into the Valley proper, with Artemis Creek running along its southern side. There was a dense belt of trees along the running water, a narrow strip of grassy field, and then the steep forested hillside, covered in Douglas fir and ponderosa pine. Night and the damp air brought out the scents; turned earth from the field of spring-planted barley just west, and stock and woodsmoke from behind them, an intense sap-laden forest breath from the south, chilly and wet and green.
It also made his left thigh ache a bit, where the Argentine bullet had broken the big bone back in '82, and his right shoulder as well-he'd spent days with it dislocated, lying at the bottom of a ravine, before Juniper Mackenzie stumbled over him back just after the Change. He'd recovered full function, but it still hurt in damp, cold weather.
Well, you were forty then and forty-eight now, he told himself. Not a lad anymore; old flesh doesn't heal like young. Learn to like it; when you're hurting, you're not dead. Aloud he went on, pointing south towards the road:
"That's where they've gone. Over the lane, over the water, and up."
"You think it's people?" Larry Smith asked.
"Stands to reason, doesn't it? There's blood, lots of it, but no bits of wool or skin like an animal would have left. Someone cut that wether's throat, let it bleed out, and then ran off with it. They'll not go straight down the road westward, because that leads into open country-my oath, that's probably the direction they came from. And Dun Juniper's up on the slope to the north. So they'll go south, up the hill, before they work back towards the lowlands. That's if they've any bloody idea where they are at all."
He looked around. Even the men close to him were simply darker patches in the misty night. Once over the river and among the trees, it would be like standing inside a closet-except that in a closet you didn't have to chance a branch taking your eye out, and you generally weren't in the company of men carrying razor-edged blades on the ends of awkward poles.
"Everyone, be careful with the stickers, all right?"
He was glad he'd told everyone to kit up. The brig-andines were twenty-five pounds of inconvenience each, but they didn't make any noise and they'd be extremely helpful if someone did accidentally run his spearhead into a neighbor. Plus they'd be very helpful if it came to a tussle. Any mixup would be at arm's length; even Sam Ayl-ward couldn't shoot well in pitch-dark.