Fit for Life

[DonQuixote]

He has been noticeably absent - off into the woods methinks.

Here's hoping he isn't becoming part of the "dark side".

 

[Kulindahr]

162
Order​

It was a sight both welcome and dismaying. Rigel looked over the array of men, horses, wagons, and artillery. True to their word, the Arsenal team had six of the new field cannon, which sat in a row looking for all the world like a scene from the U.S. Civil War – which hadn’t even occurred in the Yankees’ timeline; to them, these were 1878 Sheffield-Armstrong rifled cannon, Foxcroft modification. Rigel had learned that over breakfast, where he’d been surprised to discover that the very Indian-looking, dark-skinned and olive eyed Ravi a hyphenated last name, Grinyer-Foxcroft. To Rigel that sounded Dutch and English, which suggested South African, which in that timeline made perfect sense – India and South Africa remained solid parts of the Empire.

He sighed.

“I heard that”, Rita called softly. “You thought it would be a simple, small expedition, maybe a hundred people, just a few wagons that we’d leave with the Escobars, so we could ride heroically to see Lord MacNeil, with a romantically thrilling adventure to search out a strange alien city with riches of metal.
“Poor Rigel. Got a little out of hand, didn’t it?”

“Something like that. Tanner’s happy, though – he has a real little army to command.” Somewhere in that mess the Major was reviewing final details – with a hundred Mounted Rifles, nearly cavalry now that they were outfitted with what Loren said were Highland Hussars cavalry sabers, a full meter of razor-sharp steel forged with one enemy in mind: Others – backed by five dozen lancers, courtesy of Sir Patrick and former Quistadors and Escobars, supported by a full hundred archers, plus foot soldiers bearing spears, swords, and (more useful, in Rigel’s mind) older rifles, he probably had more details to attend to than Rigel.

“You only worry about the details that get past them”, Rita commented. “And now you’re going to tell me to stop reading your mind, and I’ll say I just know you well enough.”

Rigel laughed. “And then someone would say we should get married – but now you’re taken. And maybe I’ll marry an Escobar princess, to bind the realms.”

“Since Ryan and Antonio are marrying north, that would be a good choice”, she replied. “I just hope you find love pulling you to practicality, as they did.”

Rigel scowled. “I’ll marry where the Snatcher or whatever’s in charge of destiny here wants me to. We’ll probably run into some Chinese in trouble, and rescue them, and I’ll fall in love with a girl who turns out to be the Princess-Heir or something, so I’ll have that throne and have ten million Chinamen to throw against the Others.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“Want me to sound happy? Tell me just how we ended up with so many wagons.”

Rita laughed. “That’s not too hard. There are eight wagons of trade goods – plows, wood stoves, block press, and so on. A wagon of old-model rifles and supplies for Osvaldo makes five. Then there are four wagons of supplies for each cannon, making thirty-three. The Yankees sent that team of translators, high-tech engineers with no tech to make high but speak a lot of languages, and that’s thirty-four wagons. Two wagons carry blacksmith shops good enough for just about anything you might need, and two more carry flamethrowers in Ughyr’s new model – those could have been packed into one wagon, but it would have been heavy, and if there’d been some wild accident we could have lost all the flamethrowers at once. So that’s–“

“Thirty-eight – just to let you know I’m really listening.”

Rita chuckled. “Good. Don’t forget the Engineer wagon, which even though you have your own Cutter now is still coming, and the Healer-Herbal wagon. Each of those wagons has at least four people with it, which comes to over a hundred and sixty people. I won’t list your soldiers, just say that there are four hundred twenty-two of them. Add those to the people with the wagons, and you have almost five hundred. Then there’s us and our squires, helpers, aides, and attendants, plus Lady Escobar and hers, along with the Refuge Council’s investigation commission, and that’s another hundred. So there are six hundred total people – so far”, she added with a twinkle in voice and eye.

“Why ‘so far’?”

“Because every twenty people on this trip needs enough supplies to fill a wagon. Six hundred people is thirty twenties. That’s thirty more wagons – total of seventy. But thirty more wagons require teams, and that’s another hundred and twenty people, which is six more wagons. Those six wagons have twenty-four people, which means they need still another wagon for their supplies.”

Rigel groaned. “It’s like a landslide. Now I have seventy-one wagons, right?”

“You skipped a step – seventy-seven. That’s a lot of wagons, and that’s what your quartermaster–“

“I have a quartermaster?” Rigel couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“Yes – now, anyway. Wonderful kid named Eldon Galbraith. One of the one’s who’s been depressed since they got here, just going through the motions. Seemed suicidal after Mervynn’s death. Eraigh got him interested in the expedition, then brought him by when people were arguing over supplies – some leftenant and a wagoner and a smith. Eraigh told me Eldon sort of woke up: he grabbed the tablet from the leftenant and told them to shut up, then started asking questions. I don’t know where his ability came from, but there were only thirty of the wagons gathered then and it was already a mess, and he cut through it like he was Radar O’Reilly with a grasp of everything they needed before they knew they needed it. He got Ryan to surrender his biggest chalk board–“

“We have chalk yet?”

She shook her head. “Not the real thing, but a tolerable substitute. He’s using plenty on that big board, just inside the cavern. Every new wagon arrives, he slots it into place. The layout you’re seeing is his – the camp layout was set up to get people to this formation more quickly; this is to let everyone slide into their order of march without making a tangle. Tanner’s in awe of him, and every last person in charge of anything respects him. If a smith says he needs another anvil, Eldon just nods and can state every last detail that will need to be changed. You should like him – when it hit seventy-two wagons, he put his foot down and said no more, and then he went to King Artur.” She shook her head, remembering the audacity of the move – but also the results.

“Okay, why’d he talk to Artur? He’s supposed to go through me!”

Rita chuckled. “I don’t think he understands ‘supposed to’, when it comes to doing his job – even if he appointed himself. He went to Artur because he said the expedition had gotten too big to defend itself properly. He came back with an extra five dozen warriors – they say they can run like scouts, if not like Scouts; Chen has been drilling them. But he also came back with enough rifles that each wagon will have two.”

“That’s a hundred forty-rifles!” Rigel objected, angry.

“Yes – but Eldon knew something that got Artur to agree to divert that many. He doesn’t have them yet, only ninety-ish; the rest will catch up before we hit the San Rigel hills.” She looked at him pointedly. “Why didn’t you tell me about Oran’s little escapade?”

“What do you know about it?”

“It’s a deal with your new Sir Montdragón, who is madly dashing to Fincado de la Vega to set his part into motion. It involves contacting the thieves in a city I think is called Zaragosa. It uses a refugee, someone’s castellan named Enrico. And the idea is to replace one of the Quistador Counts.”

“Close”, Rigel conceded. “Enrico is a legitimate noble and unwilling refugee. He’s not a castellan, the family name is Castellán. Zaragosa is his father’s town, not the Count’s – I don’t know the Count’s city, but yeah, Oran’s job is to get the thieves there to get the gates to the Count’s castle open. Enrico’s supposed to be camped in the city with a whole batch of volunteer Celt ‘slaves’ who will storm the castle once the thieves do their part. Antonio’s loaning some riflemen – and leaving the man and his father with some as a token of alliance. Also a purchase.
“If Eldon messed up that purchase of rifles, there won’t be a new Count, there’ll be a lot of dead people.”

Rita grinned ruefully. “Oran made sure of that – he got Tanner to sign off to let him command all the riflemen in the area. He’ll just order them to turn over their oldest rifles.”

Rigel rolled his eyes. “He needs more authority. I was going to make him head Scout over the north, but maybe I shouldn’t tie him down.”

“Let him define ‘the north’, and that will work fine – except maybe you should let Casey have it. Don’t be surprised – Oran says he’s grown up fast since he met Brother Thaddeus who’s now Bishop Theodoro.”

“Huh. Oran for now – Casey when he turns eighteen. Frak! We’re all having to grow up a lot faster here.”

“You know why it’s hard to think of Casey as growing up?” Rita asked softly. Rigel frowned and shook his head. “Have you paid attention to Austin? Lady Escobar couldn’t believe he enticed any of the Foe – she says he’s too old. We were watching him tease us in the baths, and since then I got a good look in the cavern baths. I checked out Casey, too, and then others.” She caught his gaze fully. “Rigel, they don’t look any older than when we came here.”

 

[DonQuixote]

Hmmm,
The Life Gem at work? Or something else/more?

What a great logistics review - right down my alley.
I think I like Eldon, already!

The detail you build into this story continues to amaze me, Kuli.

And the traveling speed of this expedition will be?
And they have HOW MANY miles/kliks to travel?

Good thing they boys don't appear to be aging - they may well be 100 by the time the whole shooting match gets to House Escobar and then on to New Britain, lol.

Somehow, I think they will be moving much more quickly than I can imagine.

 

[Kyanimal]

Eldon sounds like a true Gem! Seems that without his logistic skills, "The Expedition" likely wouldn't get out of the Cavern!

Hmmm ... not seeming to physically age. Then, again, they've only been here for ... what? ... 3yr.? ... 4? And, yet, all that's been accomplished would likely take 10yr., or more, anywhere else. So ... just how old are the "aged" elders? And, being closer to the Life Gem, are the Celts older than everyone else?

There are many fascinating, and, I'm sure, still unknown, forces at work in this world. Can't wait to see what unravels, yet to be revealed!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kulindahr]

The detail you build into this story continues to amaze me, Kuli.

Sometimes there's lots of detail because I have to get that much clear to be able to continue writing. But you don't see a lot of it -- like the chart of the wagons, detailing which one carries what and even where some of them are going.

And the traveling speed of this expedition will be?
And they have HOW MANY miles/kliks to travel?

Well, horses move only a little faster than foot, around 5-6 kph. Wagons tend to move less, around 4kph but as low as 3 if heavily laden. One way to go faster is to spread the load among more wagons, but more wagons means slower getting into camp, and of course more wagoneers which means more supplies which means more wagons....

As for exactly how far -- I once had a sketch of where everything is; don't know what happened to it.... Anyone want to try making a map from the information in the story?

Good thing they boys don't appear to be aging - they may well be 100 by the time the whole shooting match gets to House Escobar and then on to New Britain, lol.

Somehow, I think they will be moving much more quickly than I can imagine.

Heh. Sometimes I worry about the denouement coming before everyone's favorite boy gets knighted.
So I invented something new in the story line to make sure that doesn't happen.

Quickly? Not enough for Rigel....

What a great logistics review - right down my alley.
I think I like Eldon, already!

Eldon sounds like a true Gem! Seems that without his logistic skills, "The Expedition" likely wouldn't get out of the Cavern!

LOL
Sure they would. But it would take twice as long, and be a traveling mess. Tanner would have his part organized... and that would be about it, except for arguments about who was in charge and then no one really trusting whoever Rigel selected to really do it right. I suppose Rita could have handled it, but it's sort of outside her job description.

When Eldon showed up, people noticed that he made sense, and he ended up in the top slot for the simple reason that he had the biggest "respect account" -- just about everyone realized he knew what he was up to, and most were relieved to let someone else settle issues while those who actually were competent gave way because he could handle everything, so ceded him the big picture, leaving them to take care of their own sections.

Hmmm,
The Life Gem at work? Or something else/more?

Hmmm ... not seeming to physically age. Then, again, they've only been here for ... what? ... 3yr.? ... 4? And, yet, all that's been accomplished would likely take 10yr., or more, anywhere else. So ... just how old are the "aged" elders? And, being closer to the Life Gem, are the Celts older than everyone else?

Think about Maolmin....

 

[Kulindahr]

163
The Pickled Cock​

Oran chewed on his lower lip and glared. Don’t shoot the messenger, he told himself when he’d finished counting to ten. “Okay, you were a good choice to come”, he told Dugal, “and you got here fast. And I’m not going to complain about almost an extra dozen Scouts and scouts to use. But letting Celts plunder the town was not part of the deal, and Enrico isn’t going to like it!”

Dugal shrugged. “You’ll think of something. No – Casey will think of something so truly mad that Enrico will accept your plan just to escape Casey’s.”

Oran laughed. “Yeah.” And that was how they did it.



The walls of Burgos loomed. Oran, Meckayh, Ewan, and Owen lay as close as they dared, in the edge of a grove only a hundred twenty meters from the tower nearest counterclockwise from the city gates. It was their second morning of watching. “Ewan, Owen – take your messages”, Oran instructed. “This morning will work. Meckayh, let’s go get that firewood and skins.”

Two thirds of an hour later, two rugged-looking peasants trudged in from the forest to join a group of a dozen others. The taller bore a yoke carrying firewood, one bundle on each end and two more strapped to the top; the second bore a small bundle of kindling and another of rabbits skins. Several looked their way as they joined up, and one grunted – a greeting, or a curse? Oran wondered – but none objected to the newcomers among them.

The gates swung open as the ragged bunch approached. Oran and Meckayh hung back till last; they’d learned that the others had destinations for their burdens, and those without had better give way to those with. “What inn most needs wood?” Oran croaked out in rough Spanish to the nearest guard. A serjent saw and came over.

“Wood – and furs?” asked the noncommissioned officer.

“Only skins, señor. For the market. If yourself knows of the curing...?”

There was no hesitation. “No. But an armload of wood I could use. Hermenez! One armload. Keep him balanced – this one is polite.” The serjent even steadied Oran’s load while the guard Hermenez took four fair-sized chunks from each upper bundle.

“Try the Pickled Cock, for wood”, was the advice. “An abundance of guests, they may be short. The barman there should know where you can leave your furs.”

“Many thanks”, Oran again croaked. And the barman will get a cut, and you’ll get a cut from him. It struck him as a stupid way to run a society, but since he’d made the effort to discover that the gate guards lacked for wood and had to provide their own, and found some of good quality to use as a bribe – the rabbit skins had been backup – he couldn’t exactly condemn it greatly.

With snow still on the ground here, he could only think of one reason an inn might have had a lot of guests recently: they were rich people visiting the Count, enough of them that the castle hadn’t been able to hold them all – or maybe the Count didn’t trust some of his guests. That suggested the inn was near the square that the castle fronted on, so.... – he ran through Enrico Castellán’s description of the town – they wanted to go right, then left. He led, Meckayh trudging dutifully – to any observer, anyway; he could feel her amusement, and was glad it wasn’t annoyance – in his footsteps.

If Austin had been along, he’d have been disappointed. The inn’s sign was a large barrel with a rooster stuffed in, its feet and tail protruding. Oran figured it was a joke of some kind, but didn’t see it. If the barrel had been on its side, he might have taken it the way Austin surely wood have. Meckayh, though, was amused; maybe she got it – he’d try to remember to ask her, later.

“Is that good?” Meckayh asked. The barman had offered to handle the skins for them, which had been fine with Oran. But he didn’t know if the tiny silver and t6wo copper coins he’d gotten really were a good price, at least ordinarily.

“For there – I could have gotten more. But a peasant haggling well would be strange, even a free peasant. At any rate, it will get us a hot snack” – after a cold breakfast in the woods – “and a warm lunch, later. Tonight....”

“I won’t be your sell-woman”, she warned.

“I know”, Scout Two replied, frustrated. “But we haven’t figured out what else you can be if we don’t have a place yet.”

Meckayh didn’t want to agree, but had no choice. If they’d dared bring one of Captain Montdragón’s men, they might have managed, but they knew too little to be improvising. “So make your idea work”, she said. “Though if you’d gotten more for those skins, I could play your bought-woman and we could get a room.” Oran didn’t tell her they still could; he was carrying coin he hadn’t mentioned – but it wasn’t what he preferred... partly because he wondered how far she might take the role.

It wasn’t hard to kill an hour nibbling at hot fruit pies from the permanent booth, almost a store-front, down the street. The things were incredibly hot, so twenty minutes were devoted to allowing them to cool naturally. Most of the rest of an hour they spent nibbling and staring at the massive icicles hanging from the inns and shops, evidence that while the ground was still white, the daytime temperatures were breaking the freezing point. Oran wished for a camera; while with his Scout abilities he’d be able to literally close his eyes and see these again, to have not even a cell phone with which to record and share saddened him.

Stumbling about the market, once it opened, and such as it was, used up most of their time until noon. It was galling, putting up with remarks how the fool peasants were spending the coin their master expected on return. Oran could have argued that they were freemen, but Meckayh offered good counsel: “Fool enough to not see what we are, let them suffer their error.” Coupling that with the Bible verse about heaping burning coals on the heads of enemies, that gave Oran enough to fill the empty moments. Only when the serjent from the gate approached them did Oran break and reveal anything resembling the truth.

“Woodman, how will your master say, if you spend all the coin?” the city soldier asked. Oran was surprised; he’d expected the man to go on by.

“My headman expects two coppers”, Oran replied gruffly. “That I keep aside for him.”

“Your headman is a fool, woodman. You are strong enough for five times that.”

Meckayh scoffed. “Your thought is we should tell him so?” A snort punctuated her comment.

The serjent allowed a faint trace of a smile. “More a fool than I judged, then, if he would work you to your limit. May your village fare well despite him.” With that he was gone.

“The guards work like Enrico said”, Oran commented when the man was gone, and they lounged against the corner of an empty market stall. “Staggered replacements instead of all at once. Smart commander.”

“The castle guards haven’t changed at all”, Meckayh noted. “That’s foolish – no man can stay alert five hours, when his fellows doze.” The guard on the walls, and then at the gate, did change, though, shortly after.

“Upper guards change first – Enrico didn’t know that”, Oran recalled.

“Is that important?” asked his comrade.

“Probably not. But knowing more is better than knowing less.”

Oran decided it was time. The square was getting busier, and he wanted to get some hot lunch before he had to wait in a line, so he could go about his real business with something like a crowd. Standing at the booth he’d chosen, a man selling meat pies made for the hand, he watched the streets leading to the square, He found what he wanted just past the Pickled Cock. “Three pies”, he requested, “the pig.” Coins left his hands to be replaced by meat-filled pastry. He caught Meckayh with a toss of his head, and headed past the inn where they’d started the morning.

The little beggar jumped. “If you keep sitting like that, your real leg won’t want to walk when you get up to leave”, Oran commented as he wiggled his rear to get comfortable on the stone walk. “Here – have a pie.”

The youngster was suspicious. “Why would you feed me?”

“Oh, you’re not hungry? There must be other boy–“ Oran grinned at the speed with which the kid snatched the meal away. “Ah, you are hungry. I feed you because you’re hungry, and the good bishop says to feed the hungry. I feed you because if I gave you the coin for the pie, you’d have to share. And I feed you because there’s someone I want to talk to, and I hope you know how to get him a message.”

The young beggar considered how Oran, a stranger, had seen through his disguise. “You are a hand from another city”, he concluded.

“True, and true”, Oran admitted. “I would like to conduct some business here. I may wish to share.”

“If you do business here, you will share”, the boy asserted. “Thank you, lady!” he called as a coin landed in his bowl, though the donor, while decently dressed, was hardly a lady.

“That is for me to discuss with one who can say. You can take a message?”

The boy regarded Oran through a squint. “Can a berry pie follow a meat one?”

Oran chuckled and checked his “show” coin pouch. “Half a one could. My woman will not surrender hers – nor will I. But we might speak of this over another meal, when you have news for me.”

The beggar nodded. “What is the message?”

“That I would like to move some goods tomorrow, and for those who would risk, three nights hence I will share greater gain in a night than they would see in a year.” He’d wanted to say two years, but Meckayh had recommended against bragging. “No brag”, he’d said. “They’ll get to fill a bag from the castle.” She’d countered that it would sound like bragging, while a year would sound like exaggeration – a boasting bit, but not so bad as an arrogant claim of two. It made him wish Casey had arrived; he was the one who knew towns.

“How many?” Helpers, Oran understood the boy to mean.

“Six. Eight would be better.”

A scoff began the response. “More in a night than eight would see in a year? I think your head is cracked.”

“So did my mother”, Oran retorted. “Be here tomorrow – I’ll have lunch for you. If I may work, there’ll be a whole berry pie.”

“The message will be to get out of town”, the boy asserted. “But I’ll take lunch. And don’t try getting an answer faster from someone else.”


A precious billon blanco from his reserve got them a room that night, amazingly in a loft of the Pickled Cock. It was dusty, drafty, and dim, under-furnished and overpriced, but it had one sterling quality: from the cracked window of purple-tinted glass they had a good view of the castle gates. “I’ll take first and last”, Oran announced when they had the door latched and blocked with the chair that constituted the room’s furniture beyond the bed.

“Of course”, Meckayh agreed. “You can’t manage two in a row, and you need your sleep. But first we should make the bed squeak.” Oran spun away from the window and stared at her. Words didn’t come. Meckayh laughed. “Silly man! If our hosts don’t hear the bed squeaking, they’ll get suspicious. Our cats would enjoy making it squeak, but we’ll just have to do it. Or”, she said as though just thinking of it, “I could try myself, and you can watch the castle.” Ears red, cursing silently, Oran turned back to the crack – it gave a clearer view than the old warped glass. After a minute he just had to turn back, though.

“Wow”, was his only comment. Meckayh had hooked her toes on the foot of the bed, and gripped the sides with her hands. He wasn’t just shaking the bed forward and back, but a bit side-to-side every twenty or so seconds. She began panting, and after several minutes added moans, then little sharp cries. Eyes closed, Oran found it easy to believe there were two people on that bed having quite energetic sex. He turned back to his vigil, but when her vocal contributions said she was reaching her finale, he turned and watched again, adding in grunts he imagined would go with what he’d be doing about then. When she collapsed on the thin mattress and lay quietly, he let out a long sigh. She turned and half-glared, then got up and glided to him silently.

“I almost laughed”, she scolded.

“I almost joined you”, he teased, miming peeling his jerkin and shirt off.

“I should slap you”, she responded.

“Well, you were very good – you made me want to be there.”

“Oh.” With a quiet chuckle, she planted a kiss on his left cheek. “Thank you. Now I sleep.” She glided away, then rolled onto the mattress, asleep before she settled. Oran left his post long enough to put their blankets, one from the host and one of their own, over her. Fifteen minutes later he was grumbling at himself, thinking he should have kept one.



Oran frowned up at the girl Scout. “You forget I was taking last?” he asked. Dim light outside told him he should have been wakened at least an hour earlier.

“Nope. I just set it back later. We don’t have anything to do this morning, so you got extra sleep, and now I get some. You have enough coin for some hot breakfast?” Oran nodded. “Good – now move quick, so I can have the warm spot.”

 

[DonQuixote]

And the taking of the town has begun - with a little fun!

A nice installment and lesson on being unobtrusive and effective.

 

[Kulindahr]

For what it's worth, I finally did a (not completely to scale) map for Part 1. I'm amazed -- they hoofed it 234 kilometers from the "landing point" to Fort Tree.

If anyone's interested, once I get another map or two done, I'll stick them in the F4L references thread. I owe that another update, as well. <sigh>

Meanwhile, another chapter is on its way.

 

[Kulindahr]

164
Caught​

Oran waited till his stomach was grumbling before he woke Meckayh. It was well after the gates had opened, three hours later than they’d climbed out of cold beds the morning before. Together they searched the market. “Too late for hot berry pies, too early for hot meat pies”, Meckayh concluded. They settled for warm strips of roast pork, tender on the cut side, dry on the out.

Shortly before lunch, the young beggar was back in his spot. Meckayh dropped back, nibbling at her own meat pie while Oran took two, one to share as promised. He wasn’t even close enough to call out when he sensed something wasn’t quite right. There wasn’t anything he could put his finger on. But in the woods, I’d be warning of ambush, he said to himself. Slowing would have warned watchers that he was aware, so he didn’t, just paid more attention. Hardly aware he was doing it, he scratched his back, unconsciously verifying that the pieces of the little arsenal he wore were in place. He called a greeting, but his eyes were on a group of three servants passing the alley opening three meters close to him than the boy. A faked sneeze let him re-check all the little things which thanks to Casey and Antonio’s influence resided in little pockets and pouches his clothes had once been free of.

His first words weren’t what the beggar boy expected. “If they’re with you, tell them to leave while they can.”

“Too late”, the boy whispered, but Oran’s ears had told him that. The two pies went toward the beggar’s lap. Oran caught his eyes, and knew the kid was not willing bait. He hoped so, and in fact his opening move had counted on it without thought. In his mind he was Chen, and Antonio, and Casey....

As Chen, he landed on his right shoulder and rolled. As Antonio, his hands were already moving. Shuriken sprouted, one in the throat of the closest man, a second in the shoulder of the second. As Casey, he noted two others coming from across the street. There would be two more from the door beyond the boy. “Get out of the way”, he snapped, quite calmly. Pieces in his mind swirled; as Oran, he gave the kid a kick as he came to his feet. That served to launch a pivot. Back to the wall, he sent a boot knife underhand into the gut of the closest man from across the street, as the one from the alley who was still moving went down from a blow to the head, bestowed with his own weapon in Meckayh’s hands. She retrieved his sharp pointy toys, making them vanish as Oran launched himself from the wall, leaping over the beggar kid as he scrambled for the alley. Hunting knife came from left hip, slashing upward to meet the cudgel coming down at him, while the right hand that had thrown low now drew from behind his neck and recovered forward. Jolted to a halt by the blocking of his cudgel blow, the last of these attackers was as easy target for a shuriken not thrown but slashed across his midsection, over and back. The cudgel fell, hands groped for the wounded middle, and Oran’s knife, forgotten by his foe in the explosion of pain, slashed down again, now across an unguarded neck. It wasn’t a killing blow, Oran observed, now ignoring the man as he turned to face the last two.

Except they were three. Oran made a less-than-perfect throw of the poorly-held shuriken in his right hand, flipping the knife to it as he advanced. He stalked, turning slightly to tell his three – well, two and a half; the shuriken had made its home in a tricep, making one arm useless – that he was a knife fighter.

“I lied”, he told the first. His right hand kept the knife on guard, meeting the attack aimed at him, while his left drew the wood-cutter’s knife, practically a machete, slung on his back, hidden under his hood. The blade cut deep into the man’s left shoulder; bright near-pink blood spouted. A clinical voice told Oran the muscle and tendon were severed, the collarbone snapped, and lung sliced. To get the blade free he fell back, making it a roll with boot on the man’s chest, flinging him away. It was awkward; Oran was only on his knees when the next man reached him. There wasn’t enough room for a real move; crudely he blocked again with the right as he slammed the wood-cutter’s knife backwards into his foe’s shin.

In a way the backside was worse. For half it length it was toothed, nasty shark-fin shaped teeth for sawing nasty roots or branches. It didn’t cut flesh – it ripped, mangled, tore. And when it struck the bone, it didn’t chip, it shattered. The man screamed. That clinical piece of Oran’s mind told him that the man’s other knife, the small one in his left hand, was going to do him some damage even after his opponent was out of commission.

Except it didn’t. It changed trajectory sharply. Oran’s angle of sight didn’t quite show what had happened, but a loud thunk! suggested a very blunt object against a skull. Whoever swung it was very good – the recovery was quick, and he saw it coming for



“Hi.” A familiar face swam above him. “I got your sharp things.”

“Beggar kid.” Oran wiggled his head ever so slightly. “You got all of them?”

“Yes. Five with five points, and three knives. I think the big one’s a knife.” He looked doubtful.

“Yes. For cutting wood.” Oran didn’t remember throwing five shuriken. “Where did I throw five?”

“Two in the guys from the alley – your woman had those. Bars took them, but I took them from Bars. One from a man out of the shop. The other two from the guy who almost got Taps.”

“Who’s Taps?”

“He tapped you – good, isn’t he? I bet your head doesn’t hurt. Maybe a little.”

Oran hadn’t felt anything when he wiggled it earlier. Now he lifted, shook, and dropped it. He’d been clobbered hard enough to knock him cold, but the kid was right – there was just barely a twinge. “Saints, yes, he’s good!” Then he got it. “‘Taps’ – what does he tap besides heads?”

The beggar kid shrugged. “Whatever needs tapped. He can tap a window and just crack it – pieces don’t go flying. Or he can tap a wall and make a hole.”

“So does Bars, um, bar things?”

The small head shook. “No. He does things with bars. He’s a juggler – juggles with steel bars as long as my arm. He ties small bars in knots. He says he can throw a big bar like a spear, but I’ve never seen it.”

Oran remembered Casey saying that thieves got names that fit them – these certainly did. “So what do they call you – ‘Bowl’?”

“You’re tied up. I could hit you.”

Frowning did hurt – had that been an insult? “Sorry. Let me guess – ‘Legs’?”

He got a big grin. “Almost – I’m Leg. It’s ‘cause I have a false leg for begging, but it’s also because I defended myself with a chair leg once, and saved L– one of the girls with a table leg. A castle guard was trying to use her – I’m little, but I know what that means! I tore off a loose table leg and used him.”

“Used him?” Oran thought it was dilly, but the kid wanted him to ask.

“Yes – for practice.”

“Practice for what?”

“Breaking rocks.”

The image that came was of a skull splatting like a jack-o-lantern from a baseball bat swung from the back of a pickup doing fifty. “Lousy practice, I bet”, he said.

“Why lousy?”

“His head was more like a melon.”

Leg laughed. “It was. We threw him in the refuse heap like a melon, too.” He turned serious. “You just woke up. The Queen had plans for you. Someone tried to get you. You saved Taps’ life, even while he was tapping you. So you get to live. But you can’t do business, because people know your face. Since you know my face, you tell me about this sharing.”

Oran caught himself trembling. Five shuriken. He’d thrown two without thinking. That saved Taps.... Yes: he’d actually had time to block Taps, but he’d – well, he’d thrown two shuriken, but at what?

>at what was not there<

Oran’s body tried to sit upright. Ropes disputed the matter. “Leg, untie me. How did you know there was a fourth attacker?”

“You made him a body.”

“Did anyone see him before that?”

“I don’t know. Why?” At least Leg was undoing the knots.

“No one saw him. I didn’t see him – I saw there was... like the wall and everything were all melted and swirled together. I saw what wasn’t there – and attacked it.”

Leg nodded knowingly. “Some people can tell when there’s danger. You saw danger, and stopped it.”

“Yeah.” Oran shook off the loose rope from his arm. “What did you do with the body?”

Leg looked back and forth before he answered. “The Queen has it on ice. It was the only one nobody knew. She doesn’t like mysteries.”

Pieces went click! In his mind. “The head hand in Burgos is a woman?”

Leg shook his head. “A Lady – a real Lady. Here, she’s Queen of Hands.”

Oran stared, then laughed. The local deck of cards had a suit named Hands, generally considered, in games where it mattered, to represent thieves and criminals, and the Queen was always done shrouded in mystery. Here in Burgos, the thieves really had a Queen – and if anyone heard thieves talking about her, they’d think it was the card. On the other hand, would a beggar boy really know? Maybe the card bit was a cover.....

It didn’t matter. “About sharing. Tell her if all goes well, she can fill your pocket with gold.”

“You’re after all the rich folks at the Pickle”, Leg ventured.

“Maybe.”

“They’ve got guards.”

“Let me have eight good companions, and I’ll get the guards looking somewhere else.”

“Looking where?”

Oran shook his head. “Sorry, Leg, but that’s not for a room others can just walk into. And it’s not for someone except at the top.”

Leg grinned. “I knew you’d say that.” He jumped down, landing lightly. “And you still owe me a berry pie!” he called as he scampered off.

Oran didn’t know if he was supposed to be untied and unwatched, but he took advantage of it: somewhere they’d better have Meckayh sound and whole, and it had better be close by.

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli,
This was an exciting chapter.

The Queen of Hands rules the town's underworld.

Oran is extemporizing the others and their attributes?

Where is our lady scout - she was there, she helped, but she wasn't with Oran when he awoke with Legs.

And, was the an internal thought, or did a certain large kitty make the comment about what was not there?

And, by the way, I noticed your Post count as I was dialing in for my read:

59,000 Posts! Wow!

​

 

[Críostóir]

'You made him a body' does double duty here. I think it may be true in at least two senses!

 

[Kulindahr]

The Queen of Hands rules the town's underworld.

I was listening to an old favorite tune -- bet you can guess.

Oran is extemporizing the others and their attributes?

I don't follow.

Where is our lady scout - she was there, she helped, but she wasn't with Oran when he awoke with Legs.

Patience, dear Reader!

BTW -- Leg.

And, was the an internal thought, or did a certain large kitty make the comment about what was not there?

The > < bracketing always indicates kitty-speak (except in Interlude chapters).

And, by the way, I noticed your Post count as I was dialing in for my read:

59,000 Posts! Wow!

​

* resists the urge to begin a mad dash to 60k *

'You made him a body' does double duty here. I think it may be true in at least two senses!

Liked that, did you?

Though I think my favorite line is:

“You’re tied up. I could hit you.”

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli:
Quote:
Originally Posted by DonQuixote
Oran is extemporizing the others and their attributes?

I don't follow.

In his mind he was Chen, and Antonio, and Casey....

As Chen, he landed on his right shoulder and rolled. As Antonio, his hands were already moving. Shuriken sprouted, one in the throat of the closest man, a second in the shoulder of the second. As Casey, he noted two others coming from across the street. There would be two more from the door beyond the boy. “Get out of the way”, he snapped, quite calmly. Pieces in his mind swirled; as Oran, he gave the kid a kick as he came to his feet.

This is what I was referring to.

 

[Kulindahr]

Kuli:
Quote:
Originally Posted by DonQuixote
Oran is extemporizing the others and their attributes?

I don't follow.




This is what I was referring to.

Okay.
I still don't get "extemporizing". It's more like he's employing skills he's learned from the others, and as many students do, imagining the teacher doing it or even imagining being the teacher, while doing the skill.

Now, back to the chapter -- it's on the JUB editing screen.....

 

[Kulindahr]

165
Opening Moves​

“You are a poor rider”, observed Enrico Castellán, to Rodolfo Montdragón.

“I shall arrive, as shall my men. We do not slow you.” He grimaced as he shifted weight in the saddle. “Scout Casey assured me our muscles would adjust.”

“If you would only ride and not wrestle the saddle with your legs, that is so”, the Quistador noble replied. “For me, it was eight days. For one of my men, it was three. Master Weylan instructed. His word said those of us sore too long fought the saddle.”

Montdragón grunted. “I fear to fall, and slow us.”

Castellán laughed. “Then we will rest early. Now, do as I say.”

They rode on. When Montdragón had learned of the plan, he automatically offered to help....


“You’ll be strangers”, Castellán objected. “The Count will be suspicious.”

Samson had mixed feelings about letting Antonio’s new Captain loose. At the same time, he knew how much this venture meant to the future, not just Antonio’s but Rigel’s, and by extension, all the Snatched. Long talks with Don Cortez and others had given him something of a feel for the Quistador society; now he felt confident enough to offer a suggestion. “Don Enrico, there are inns on the great square, yes?”

“Ah, yes, of course! The Fluted Unicorn, the Pickled Cock, and nearby, the Braided Sow. You think Don Rodolfo could stay in one, with his men? Yes, that would work.”

“Not just his men”, Samson corrected. “Succeeding at this is important beyond measure, for many people and many reasons. Don Rodolfo, you have three dozen men loyal to you. I’ll lend three dozen more. Don Octavio and two friends will lead them. You’ll need some who can act the part of young nobles out for hilarity.”

“Ah, Señor Cortez – a good man”, Enrico said. “He is capable for this.”

“Indeed”, Montdragón agreed. “For my part, I have five men who can play the part. We will divide – two groups which can move swiftly should circle Burgos, two more nearly so, and I take another road. Let Don Octavio and his friends come from the others. We must not all arrive the same day, of course.”

“Yet we cannot cause Lord Oran a long wait”, noted Castellán. “He shall be five days ahead of our best speed.”

“It does take time to get a number of different parties of men, arriving separately, into inns near the castle, so it doesn’t look suspicious”, Samson observed. “Even if everyone could reach their roads the same day, we don’t want them all riding in on the same day.”

“Then we shall move a day early”, proposed Don Rodolfo. “My men can move at dawn, if we must!” Don Enrico hesitated, then nodded vigorously.

“And fall out of their saddles”, Samson opined.


And Montdragón was now paying the penalty for skimping training – as were his men. What kept him going was the vision of toppling one of the corrupt men who toyed with the lives and fortunes of others, of wielding his blade on behalf of one who understood honor from the bottom up. What kept his men going was him: so long as he did not flinch, they would not dream of doing so. So he gripped the saddle’s pommel and relaxed his thighs, and prayed to the Virgin that he not fail his men by falling.


Holt stood his ground as the two men on horses rode right up to him, wheeling their beasts at the last moment, like a taunt. He had Artur’s word, Druid-sealed, but if he showed weakness here the men he’d chosen could replace him – the king’s promise was for the tribes, not for him, so he stood fast.

Enrico Castellán looked down at the Celt, whom he judged to be their leader. Shifting his thought to speak in Celt made his head itch from the inside; still, he thanked the Druids who’d gifted him this tongue. “You are ready?” he asked.

“Yes”, was the curt reply. “You come early – that is good. We wish to kill slavers.”

Enrico sat back in his saddle. “This isn’t about killing. If you want to come, there are some rules – and one is you don’t kill anyone you don’t have to.”

Holt almost spat. “I will come if I wish.”

“Not if I shoot you.”

“My men would kill you for it!”

“But you wouldn’t come.” The two locked eyes. Around them, the rest watched with interest to see how this would go.

After a long minute, Holt laughed. “You do not fear death. I will listen to you.”

“I fear death before breakfast”, Enrico related. “Once breakfast is over, I can face anything.”

“Fear would rule you if attack came before breakfast?” the next nearest Celt called derisively.

“No, anger would rule me. I’d just have to kill anyone who got between me and breakfast.” The Celts, and his own men, sounded approval of the joke. “Now, since I’ve had breakfast today, listen: in the city, you kill only those you have to. You set no fires. You harm no women or young. From common people, you take no more than half what they have. Questions?”

“May we bring back any of the Free People?” a warrior called.

“You may ask if they wish to come. If they do, you may bring them.”

“Do they get a share of the plunder?”

Enrico saw where that was going. “Only if some is close at hand – do not go farther into the city. This is fast in, fast out.”

“What of the fire-feeders?!”

Inquisitors; he’d learned that as a name for los Inquisidores among Celts who mingled carefully in Quistador border society. “Bring them. Do not kill them. A fire-feeder whole and able to answer questions may be worth a rifle.” That answer brought scattered laughter and chuckles, since one of the restrictions for the raid was no rifles; only traditional Celtic weapons were allowed. “You don’t want them to know you can do that – yet”, one Druid had advised, and his word had been accepted. The plan was going to make too many suspicious anyway; he didn’t want anyone wondering why so many Celts with firearms just happened to arrive on a raid when he was making himself Count with new firearms.

Arden, Druid sent back by Eraigh from the Hall, spoke up. “We strike not for plunder or the joy of battle! We strike for all the people; we strike for Artur-king! Let riches and blood be little in your eyes; let your eyes be filled with success for friend Enrico, who will stop slavers from his lands, when he sits as city-chief!” Not all the Celts nodded, but enough did to keep Enrico from worrying.

“Good:, he said, waving the Druid to him. “Arden, tell the order.”

“Scout Oran leads friends to the castle gates. Holt leads two score to raid the city wall where it is the castle wall. Scout Oran seizes the castle gates. Friend Enrico, you attack the castle through open gates. Scout Casey, if he is here, lends aid in seizing the city gates. Some of your Celts aid from within. Leader Holt enters through the city gates. We plunder for no longer than fighting in the castle lasts, then carry home what we may. You shall be Count, friend of the Free People.”

Enrico nodded. “And Caballero-Ayundante Montdragón takes and holds both gates and the wall from city gate to castle, so you can return home without fighting your way out.” The others nodded agreement. “Good. Señor Montdragón is well on his way. Let us be off as well.” Three hands gripped three wrists, forming a triangle between them. Knowing their parts, they went in confidence that the others would be in their places when the hour arrived.


Oran pounded on the door to the room where he and Meckayh had been kept for five days. It opened in – when unlatched from the outside. He’d had most of one day on the streets, in Leg’s company, but then the Queen had put having him in her bed in the scales for getting help. He’d thought about going, and just sleeping, but doubted anything positive would result. But he didn’t have time to play around any longer.

The small shutter slid open, revealing a familiar face. “Taps, tell the Queen she needs to talk to me.”

“You need to talk to her? She knows.” Taps yawned. “Listen, Points, a lot of us respect you for loyalty to a wife you don’t have yet, but she’d do anything for you now – you’ve become a challenge. Talk to her on a pillow.”

Oran sighed. “No, Taps – she needs to talk to me.” He watched wheels turning.

“Well, that’s different. Why does she need to talk to you?” Taps spoke carefully, as though it were an exercise in concentration.

“So this place doesn’t get burned down.” It was dramatic, but possibly true. “A score of friends of mine are outside the city. If I don’t go out to join them, they’ll come after me.”

Taps drummed in the wall with a long stick. “They have to find you.”

Oran made himself sound confident. “Taps, who saw the man no one else could see?”

“You did, Points.”

“My friends already know where I am.”

Waiting for the skilled enforcer to work his way through two unconnected thoughts and come up with a connections was painful. Feeling Casey in the back of his mind made it agony: the younger Scout was pacing another pattern, telling Oran he’d connected with yet another force that was part of the plan. How three groups here to aid could already be in the city baffled Oran, though he was certain that if Runner would calm, he could think clearly enough to see it – but Runner wasn’t going to get calm until Oran could move at will, and now Casey was telling him that two more groups were coming in! His best guess was that Enrico had contacted other friends, though the possibility that Enrico traveling with Antonio’s new Captain, Montdragón, had spurred some inspiration he wasn’t grasping yet was beginning to feel firmer – but just what had they concocted? Though to an extent it didn’t matter: what he knew for certain was that maybe half a thousand people were waiting, ready to wield weapons – waiting for him.

“You saw through what hid the man, and they can see through what hides you?” Taps ventured.

Oran found himself impressed at the depth of the thought – may as well drive it home with a correction, he decided. “They already do. They’ll come straight here.” Fast, too, if Oran signaled, something he and Casey had worked out in an hour of wild joking: if h`e moved around and around the walls as fast as he could, then back and forth between the corners, making an “X-box”, it would – as Casey had chortled with excessive giggling, be time to play, and the game would be “Scout Force: Rescue!” But he didn’t want to send that signal; it would make the whole mission a lot more difficult, and result in a lot more shed blood.

A bag over his head was the price, once again, of going to the Queen. The ties were undone, his hands free. When the door closed behind Taps, either Oran was alone with her, or any attendants were very, very quiet and still.

“Take it off.” Her command was regal, but betrayed frustration. “Your game wearies me. Why should I not just kill you?”

Oran chuckled. “First, because you’re smarter than that, or you wouldn’t be in charge here. Second, because if you did, the half a thousand warriors waiting outside would make you their target.”

“You wish my aid getting half a thousand men into the city.” Her tone showed mixed amusement and disbelief. “What, so you mean to overthrow the Count?”

“If I did, would you help?” The two, gazes locked, stared at one another.

“You cannot mean to....”, she breathed. “You would have to get into the castle, for that. Half a thousand is not enough, even if a dozen fight like you.”

“Almost half of them are already in the city”, Oran told her, sensing it was time to start laying down cards for this deal. “The rest will be when I say so.”

“You say that to get released.”

“I can tell them from here.”

She was intimidated, just a little. “You saw the no-man. Your friends see where you are – do they see now?”

“They do.” Just at the moment, Casey was jumping up and down from knowing Oran had actually moved. “They’re glad we’re talking.”

The Queen of Hands knew when to set things out, as well. “You need six men. What skills?”

“Eight. You tell me the skills – that’s why I need men from here.” He made her wait two heartbeats. “I need to open the castle gate on the great square.”

Oran saw the pieces falling into place behind her eyes. “You have filled the inns on and near the square with men.” She scowled. “The Cock holds many of the Count’s friends.”

“They’re yours”, Oran stated. “I and your eight open the gate, your people can do as they wish in the chaos.” Things suddenly made more sense; she’d given him the angle he was missing: Enrico and Montdragón were packing the inns with more fighters, Quistador fighters, to shift the odds more. Those were the groups Casey had bee reporting, small bands which would become one.

“You are not Quistador enough to be Count.”

Oran laughed. “Queen of Hands, you’d have to drug me my whole life to make me Count! My realm is much larger, and freer. No, I do this for another, who–“

“What is your price? How does this other hold you?”

“It’s a long story, not mine to tell. For now – there’s a friend, who with me is aiding one whose success will have benefits for my friend. So – can you get us into the gate house?”

The Queen laughed. “So direct! If you can provide a distraction.....” There it was: she was committed. Scout Two sent Runner an image of running up the city walls; moments later it came back, a whole pack of cat-like Celts racing up to tear at the men on top. Back he sent it, with the pack panting in eagerness, waiting for Runner’s command. Excellent comrade, he sent.

Oran nodded. “I can arrange that. Tomorrow night would be best.” He hoped she thought he’d been thinking how to do it.

Her scowl didn’t make her prettier, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “Haste brings blood. The next night.”

It was a day he hadn’t wanted to spend. On the other hand, he and his fellow Scouts didn’t need to follow the roads to catch up with Rigel, and Rigel was hobbled by five dozen or more wagons. She was right, too; he’d want a day to do the scouting he should have been doing the last several. “The next night.”

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli,
Oran has become quite the adept fly fisherman - moving the fly around the surface, attracting first the guard's then the Queen of Hand's attention, inviting them to bite, then, BAM - caught in the plan with visions of grandeur.

Love the details. Poor sore buttocks on Montdragón and his men.

Let the Games begin!

 

[Kulindahr]

In the "For what it's worth" department....

I just finished the map of their travels from Fort Tree (the place near Torc Falls) to The Springs. They hoofed it 240 kilometers!

That's the first part of Part 2, chapters 27 -- 31 (posts 162 - 215).

 

[Kulindahr]

166
Maneuvers​

“Count Nevarez! The Castellán whelp has returned!” Shock colored the officer’s tone.

The Count set his knife down carefully. His toy would keep. “See that the scars heal purple”, he ordered. A burly servant hissed assent, the lack of a tongue making ordinary pronunciation impossible. He wrapped the barely-pubescent girl who was the Count’s present human canvas in a blanket steeped in herbs to prevent infection, and bore her away. Drugged, she observed much, felt little, and would remember less. “So some of them lived”, he ventured, offering his hands to another servant, to be wiped gently and carefully.

“Señor, I think a third of his men did not return. But” – the man swallowed hard; the Count paid only occasional attention to the adage to not punish the messenger – “he has slaves! Hundreds of them!”

Cold self-control kept the Count from moving his hands and ruining the cleaning job. Rage infused him, warring with shock. “How?!” he snarled. “How could that useless, misbegotten leaving of a rabid sow....?”

“My Count, there is always luck. Perhaps the savages were drunken in worship to their trees?”

Nevarez thought about that. “They are savages”, he conceded. “So they are bound for the pens?”

“Ah – no, my Count. You hear the tumult? He is bedding them in the square! He said he wishes you to see his success, that since you thought him unable, he did not want you to be able to say he brought less than he did.”

The Count laughed darkly. “Too late bold. I would have a full count, anyway – part of those are mine.” His eyes flicked where the servant had gone. “Are there girls?”

The officer lifted his hands, palm up. “I did not see. There seemed to be children.”

Nevarez nodded. “If there are twin girls, perhaps I shall reward him. Letting him enjoy a hope a few weeks might be amusing – Conrad and Felix would find it so.” He stomped a foot. “Quickly – send orders he is not to camp by the Pickled Cock!”

The officer nodded. “He may camp in the square, then?”

“He may.” The answer came with a scowl. “And he may have them to market before I break fast”. Nevarez snapped. The officer understood the dismissal; he backed out, and ran – far better to break a neck running than to be punished for going less than “quickly”.



“That’s the Count”, Castellán told Oran.

“I could hit him from here”, a Rider commented. “Bow, not rifle. He’s confident.”

“A confident fool”, Enrico responded. “Too certain of the hold fear gives him.”

“Fear’s like a glass glove”, said Dugal. “It feels strong, but squeeze too hard, and it shatters.”

Oran half-smiled, half-frowned at him. “Where’d you get that?”

Dugal grinned. “Wise Woman Maolmin. I guided her coach to visit three villages. She said that when your glove of fear shatters, you lose what you held – and your hand is hurt, too.”

“Definitely a wise one”, Enrico declared with a grin. “May the Count’s glove sever his grip forever!”

“Truly that is why we have come”, stated Rodolfo Montdragón. Oran had worried about him being seen in the square, but the man’s flair in his role had banished those: he’d stalked out of the Fluted Unicorn, the image of a spoiled, arrogant, and drunken noble’s son coming to see what all the noise was, staying to laugh, and drifting naturally to the one whose accomplishment this was. “Come morning, he may eat those shards of his glove.”

“As long as you cook for him”, Oran quipped. “Okay, Dugal – the light is good for now. Go ask Druid Arden about the weather. If the clouds will stay the same or get thicker, I want to hear a wolf howl.”

“And if the sky will lighten, a wounded fox?”

Oran chuckled. “That’ll worry the guards! Sure – but I hope I don’t hear it. Now get – give Casey a hug from me and say I’ll see him in the Count’s sitting room. If the dark holds, he can move in two hours.”

Casey brushed snow off his sleeve. The clouds hadn’t just thickened; some had dropped lower to bestow scattered snow flurries on the area. At least it was sort of dry; the kind that if you brushed quickly, you wouldn’t get wet, but wait a second and moisture would seep into your clothing. An actual clump of snow smacked him on the shoulder, but he didn’t look up. Bored? He asked Streaker. The reply was an image of a great cat on tip-toes mincing its way toward the city. He might have giggled, but it also came with an image of Oran perched on a branch, waiting to pounce.

“Almost time”, he told Dugal softly. His friend nodded; that meant it was now his job to pick the moment. The moonless cycle had begun just days earlier, so he set his attention on the Garland, the brightest splash of stars visible to the west. When a cloud crossed and covered it, he howled. Casey grinned at him admiringly and punched him on the shoulder – and sent his own message, though Streaker already knew his part.


The Count sat up in his bed and snatched for his bell. That noise! “What was that?!” he demanded of the servant who appeared.

“I will learn”, the youth said, and vanished. The hellish sound continued, some demonic howl alternating with a chorus of devilish screeching and yowling.

“Padre says it is the cats the Bishop spoke of”, the servant said a pair of minutes later. “But he fears what it means, that a beast of the forest sings with them. He is saying a Mass, that they would become silent.”

Unsatisfied, unhappy, knowing that if he ordered hunters out to kill some of the beasts they wouldn’t obey – oh, they’d go, but wouldn’t find anything, or so they’d say – Nevarez sent the youth for strong wine. When the noises fell silent, he crawled under the blankets and wished for morning.


On the castle wall guards, unaccustomed to any great need for discipline, drifted toward the part nearest the forest the sounds came from. Curiosity drove them, but so did fear of the unknown. The Bishop may have told the Count and other nobles what the yowlings of the past few days were, but that word hadn’t come down to the common folk. Nor was it agreed to be the whole truth, either, and so it was that some eighty minutes after the Count had retreated into wine, a priest in red, black, and white processed out of the closest tower, trailing two others and four acolytes.

“Inquisitors come to chase the demons away”, one guard whispered.

“What do I care?” another jested. “They keep me awake for my watch!” Soft laughter answered that; no one with a love of life laughed more than softly where an Inquisitor might hear.

Streaker hissed; it was echoed from at least three other great cats – Runner, Swiftbreeze, and Slider, were close by. Casey felt dirty in a way that needed no further image. He broke cover to check on the Celts who’d been working their way toward the walls to stage a raid. “Dugal – let’s go.”

“Go?” His friend was rightly confused; the Scouts weren’t to get involved in this.

“That’s Inquisitors up there. We’re going to pass the word they aren’t to get away. You watch them – if they start to leave, give the order. Come on.”


Oran knew it was coming, and passed the word. “Soon”, he told his mismatched gang of eight – young, old, tall, short, male, female, skinny, heavyset, but with the right skills. He wanted to rinse his mouth out, the sense of filth and disease the cats radiated when Inquisitors were around was so strong.

“Magic”, the skinny kid at his elbow whispered.

“A gift”, Oran insisted for the third, or maybe fourth, time that night. “Something nasty over there – my friend will start the raid.” The kid nodded, his grin unseen, and checked himself once again. He was the lead, so he reviewed: bare feet, pants tight, knee guards snug, ropes ready. With no shirt, he wore only two knives above his waist, but two crotch sheaths between his legs made it four, and he had two of Oran’s shuriken in his headband.


An owl call drifted from beyond the walls. Enrico snapped out of his half-slumber, not to give orders but to get ready. Five of his men, who had with a few others been enjoying the attentions of four Celt woman warriors off and on since the gates had closed, now began staging an argument. A torch lit, then another. In that light, two men grabbed a woman and held her for a third to take, the four of them naked and in plain sight of the gates. A whoop from the nearest gate tower told him one guard had seen. A third torch lit, revealing his youngest companion pumping hard with the youngest willing Celt girl, who was doing a superb job of appearing not willing at all. Enrico didn’t comprehend why to many men seeing a man just old enough to father children having his way with a girl even younger was exciting, but he didn’t need to understand in order to know that guards who were supposed to be paying attention to their duty would be rushing to stare – thus staring into torches which would destroy their night vision.

The commotion served to give his whole camp an excuse to rouse, too. He let the apparent turmoil spread half a minute more before signalling torches for himself. A minute went to gathering soldiers to escort him to investigate a well-staged fight from which one woman was stealthily ‘escaping’.


“Not yet”, Oran cautioned. Castellán was doing his job well; guards would be moving off their posts, away from him and his eight. But he wanted to know that Montdragón was moving. That took over half a minute, but then sounds of apparently drunken and half-asleep late-night carousers came from the north, near the Fluted Unicorn. He smiled grimly, and swatted his skinny lead man on the rump.

No cry rose to announce they’d been seen. Ponce, the skinny kid with the rope, whipped up onto the roof in a flash and was sprinting along the secondary ridge before Oran even had a good grip. Other thieves seemed to flow out of their two windows and up along the eaves, waiting. Only Oran and Cuchilla, girl knife artist, rolled onto the roof itself and so got to watch Ponce at work. Oran had to keep from blinking; he didn’t want to miss this.

Ponce sprinted right to the end and launched himself into the air. He couldn’t possibly jump to the castle wall, but he didn’t need to; the reason for the jump was so that he wouldn’t have to climb so far along the rope attached to the heavily-padded grapple he threw as he jumped. With his own speed added to that of his throw, it sailed up in a shallow arc and thudded down behind the crenels before Ponce had lost enough altitude to be back down to the height of the roof. He’d judged the length well; two meters pulled in, and he was hauling himself toward the wall. Behind him, Oran launched Prick, a kid his own age with two reasons for his nickname – or maybe three, Oran decided, seeing the way those bare feet gripped the roof slate and tightened the rope Ponce had left railing behind him. Oran himself wrapped an arm around Prick’s waist and braced himself; Cuchilla did the same to him, all business now, no longer pretending to “miss” and trail fingers across his crotch.

Ponce reached his destination. While still turning, his third, and heaviest, rope came off his shoulders and was soaring back. Oran held the original line for Prick to scamper across; Cuchilla caught and anchored the second. Then they were all moving, one more light enough for the first line, the last needing both lines together.

“Steel boots!” Oran swore. Almost was good enough sometimes.... He’d just reached the wall, one of his eight was still on the way, and they’d been seen. But Prick was faster than the guard’s reflexes – he proceeded to demonstrate, with a knife he’d had made to match the more personal reason for his nickname, the more overt reason: a long, slender, gently curved blade a bit wider near the tip than at the base, with a slight kink to it about two thirds of the way up, slipped up under the chin and into the man’s brain before he raised an alarm. Oran laughed silently as Prick pumped the blade in his victim as he pumped his hips.

“No time for envy, Points”, Cuchilla admonished. “Or prove to me later it wasn’t envy.” Oran didn’t answer with what came to mind: if he hadn’t actually seen Prick aroused, how could he know if he should be envious? He just swatted her on the rump as she went on by, and turned to help his big man over the top.



“Beauty!” Casey exclaimed. There was a gurgle to go with the scream that erupted as a Celt arrow took up residence at a sharp upward angle through an Inquisidore neck. The next moment the other two priests joined the first in becoming virtual pincushions. It was the signal for a general rush of the wall. Celts sprang up from the shadows, already near enough to the wall to be able to rush it and launch grapples – one enterprising team of six had even managed a ladder, which went sweeping through the dark toward men who’d been mostly watching Inquisitors, throwing away their ability to see anything beyond the wall smaller than a small wagon – and that only with their peripheral vision; with eyes going to and from the torch-lit spectacle the vile priests had provided, their central vision was ruined.

“They could actually make it!” Dugal exclaimed. Casey had to agree; the surprise was incredible.

“Can’t believe I’m glad there were Inquisitors”, he said. “But the plan stays.” Celts swarmed up onto the wall behind a continuing rain of arrows. Once there, they fought, but not to enter the city; their objectives were to draw attention from the city gates, and to bar access to those gates from beyond the tower next to them. Even as Casey thought it, four warriors broke clear of the ragged fight and rushed that building just as the great door swung wide. Only three soldiers emerged – to their deaths, for the Celts were ready, and the soldiers only confused. At the doorway they turned, and two Celts at the top of the ladder started tossing jugs.

“Beauty!” Casey exclaimed again, this time as flames burst out of the tower and one window. “That’s that – time to go.” The Celts on the wall knew how to disengage better than he did; it was time to be somewhere else.


Oran landed on a heavy wooden floor. The description from a former castle guard who was now enjoying an extended, all-expenses paid visit to the brothel of his choice had been thorough; now Oran appreciated that it had been accurate.

It hadn’t included the pair of guards walking toward him, but reflex took care of them; two shuriken flew, one landing in a throat, the other skittering off a copper greave raised in defense. But Cuchilla was already throwing before she’d even landed, and the man’s sword came unsteady to meet Oran’s saber. Two strokes sufficed to occupy him while Prick slid between Oran’s legs to plant nasty barbed stickers through both leather boots and the feet within, right into the wood. One caught, pinning that leg. Ruined footwork did the rest, and Oran hacked sword wrist aside then stuck his opponent through the heart.

One of his men was down – a guard had been standing with a loaded crossbow, the sort of thing no plan could allow for. But so were three guards, and another crumpled as Oran swept his gaze across the chamber. To his left, his big man – no other name had been given – slammed a steel pole across a guard’s back, bending the man over backwards. That was the only guard there, and the pole was for the gate, so big man was doing well. To Oran’s right three guards still looked toward the sex display – and apparent nascent riot -- in the square. Two others had turned and were charging with swords drawn, valiant though hardly brilliant. Another two stood at their posts by the gate mechanism, one staring in shocked surprise, the other reacting.

“Please don’t”, Oran requested as the man pulled to throw blocks that would seal the gate even from here. He emphasized his words with a pair of shuriken in the guard’s gut, not deadly but guaranteed to draw hands from other affairs to clutch at the wounds, and punctuated them with a too-eager saber slash. For a moment a Sunday School picture depicting Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane filled his mind as he watched the ear he’d just cut off got tumbling through the air.

“Please, mercy!” The plea snapped him back. Always inclined to mercy, Oran nodded. Instead of a short thrust to kill, he whipped his blade around and brought it up between the man’s legs, twisting it to flat at the last moment.

“Urk.” The guard’s eyes bulged, his hands clutched at his insulted anatomy, and with a not-quite gratuitous guarantee kick to the temple, was down and out. Big man arrived with his pole, and set about doing the work of two.

Oran’s impulse was to help him, but a pair of guards who weren’t supposed to be around had made an appearance. He was needed, especially, he saw, by Prick, who was down on one knee with blood streaming from that thigh. As his right hand wiped the saber on his own thigh, Oran’s left sent his neck knife into the exposed thigh of Prick’s nearest foe. That man stumbled, and Oran leaped to engage him.

Another member of his team joined big man at the lever. By peripheral vision Oran could see a face half-covered with blood, and guessed the decision to help was as much from not being worth much in a fight just then as urgency to get the gate open. Yet one clank! and then another announced that it was in fact opening. That’s when another unexpected guard appeared.

Oran hated decisions. This one had epaulets marking him as an officer. If he yelled, the game would be over – well, probably. Training took over, tempered by mercy in a way he knew Chen would chew him out for even as he noticed the decision his mind had made. His left arm rose unprotected to block his opponent’s blade as his own sailed true to take the officer just below the ribs. He fell to cover Prick against the attack his saber should have been used to meet.


No orders were necessary; when the gate rumbled, the fake riot ended: Fake slaves grabbed weapons alongside play-acting guards. Over two hundred suddenly quite sober and awake warriors rushed for the gate as it lurched another notch upward. Enrico Castellán and Rodolfo Montdragón tossed salutes in passing, the one on the way to claim a castle and heritage, the other to open a city gate.


Casey grimaced. In the morning his ankle would have to be cut out of his boot, unless he caught a Healer, but he was certainly not going to let it slow him down. “Perfect timing”, he announced as they reached the city gate: not a face could be seen looking their way.

“Race to the top!” Dugal yelled as he swung a grapple and let fly. “Casey, I’m sorry – your ankle!” he cried as awareness cut through excitement and exuberance, Scout to cat, cat to cat, cat to Scout. “Wait for the gate!” Casey nodded, accepting the good sense and telling his pride to take a time out. Now he could slow, and did, walking the rest of the way to the gate, unopposed. Fighting above was very uneven; there should have been a dozen guards, and three dozen Celts made good use of surprise. So Casey only got to lean on the gate half a minute before it began to swing ponderously open. Inside, Montdragón’s men were already storming up the tower stairs to the top, joining Celts who this time very much intended to seize the wall, all the way from the gate to the castle. The Scout paused, more Celts streaming past, as he waited for Dugal.

Dugal caught him as he screamed. “Oran!!!!!!” Knowing it was deep, he gasped out, “Healer!”

 

[DonQuixote]

Happy New Year, Kuli!

The attack commences. A flurry of activity. Good guys down.
I hope the healers are close at hand - we've got some key people seriously hurt.

What a way to ring out the old year and ring in the new.

Thanks for the exciting chapter.

 

[Kyanimal]

Excellent read, Kuli!

Your attention to detail is Awesome! And, I was quite impressed that ALL "weapons" available were being put to good use!

So, the overthrow has begun. Though I have no doubt of the outcome, I hope there aren't too many more casualties among the "good guys and gals".

Onward!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz