Fit for Life

[Críostóir]

I'm a bit surprised no one commented on the original name of Elzbédt.....


Anyway -- Harry, that order's on the grill!

Oh, wasn't it supposed to be obvious that her name came from Elisabeth?

 

[Kulindahr]

Oh, wasn't it supposed to be obvious that her name came from Elisabeth?

I meant the other half. Remember how Anaph and the Celts and Lumina know her?

 

[Críostóir]

I meant the other half. Remember how Anaph and the Celts and Lumina know her?

Arggh. Now I'm going to have to go back and reread that part. Because no, I don't remember any of it at all. I remember that she was a Healer and that she left a torque for Lumina. That's all.

 

[DonQuixote]

Makenzie vs. Kennessee, or words to that effect, right?
I figured it was a Celt bastardization of her "rightful English surname". Perhaps she knew she'd not be overly welcomed to the Scott/Irish clans as a limey?

 

[Kulindahr]

If I can get the characters to work right....

It was Knayz’ee --- that box in there is supoosed to be a dot indicating the K is pronounced without aspiration, sort of back in the throat. But K'naz'ee works, too.



BTW, I found the pic I need.....

 

[Kulindahr]

Selection​

Snow fell outside the castle. It wasn’t sticking, but it was a warning: time to organize for winter. The harvest was in; Eraigh had nineteen student Druids sorting grain, picking the best for seed. A third of the harvest from the new crops would go for seed, to meet all the promises made; it seemed to Ryan that half the people in the two Valleys had complained loudly, but he’d been firm: that was an investment for the future, so next year there would be abundance.

Iron was no longer a problem, nor nickel or copper. Galmat was promised from the eastern clans, but none had arrived; his only consolation was that with winter on, the need for brass would lessen; he didn’t expect any military action in the deep snow.

His office door opened. “Message, lord.” The messengers knew better than to waste time waiting for permission to speak. “Fifty riders arrived at the Springs. Regent Ortega sent them. Former Guardians, swore to Ortega to serve you. Promised they’d still be Guardians, on the border.”

It was a long message for the semaphores, but Ryan was glad for the details; this would take planning. “Reply: send to Castle FitzWin. Wait for orders.” Maybe there was some risk in putting them in Rigel’s castle, though with the hundred two stoneworkers and other laborers there, all armed with sword and spear and all trained, he wasn’t too worried. He’d much rather have them there, anyway, than at Cavern Hold – a name that had come in from Fincado de la Vega and stuck. It reminded him of Anne McCaffrey’s Pern novels, with Holds and Lord Holders. Most of those Holds were in or centered or caverns, so he found the name appropriate – and it didn’t look much like an ordinary castle, anyway, with three towers, now, reaching not just to, but through the cavern roof. He’d ordered a small castle built on top, really just walls connecting those towers. One of their Celtic knights would get it – his first vassal! Ryan found the idea humorous, putting a vassal in what would for all practical effects be the upper section of Cavern Hold, but as a symbol it would be potent: not just Rigel’s Snatched, but anyone could rise to be a lord.

He knew Rita worried that they were warping the structure of Celtic society. Ryan didn’t care; as far as he was concerned, they were doing what was necessary to make a bridge between Celt and Quistador. Besides, there were tens of thousands out in the Clans who weren’t going to change their ways just because some strangers landed next to them and did things differently.

But he didn’t have time for philosophy: it was an hour and a half to lunch by his water clock – a klepsydra or klepsidron; his memory wouldn’t commit to one or the other. Before lunch he had to review the apportionment of supplies and confirm them. After lunch Eriagh wanted him to inspect something, then he was supposed to visit the Hold school, followed by a review of the training at Tanner’s Academy, and he still needed to take Equisetum out for a good long ride!


“Eraigh, what is this?” Ryan indicated the structure that had oak trees for pillars, their branches the frame of the building; stone walls butted into the bark deep enough he would have said they’d been there twenty years. A porch was framed by straight-trunked ash trees; branches made railings, and overhead intertwined with the oak to support a porch roof. It was a rambling structure, the center square and orderly, but wings stuck out at strange angles, and towers rose – some between trees, some around them.

“Druid Hall”, Eraigh told him. “We did it together. There wasn’t any place to call our own, except the Gathering Place at the Stone. Smiths have their Smithcraft Hall, leather workers have their Leathercraft Hall, so now we have Druid Hall.”

“It’s big”, Ryan observed.

“It can hold a half-dozen dozens. Twice that is planned.”


“Oh, come on!” Ryan exclaimed. “You don’t even have twenty yet!”

Eraigh laughed softly and shook his head. “We have five dozen, lord Ryan. They come from the villages, hoping they have the spark. Almost half who come, do. The others live here and study the lore and laws. They’ll be Lesser Druids.”

Ryan was a bit perplexed. “Anaph planned this?”

Eraigh smiled. “I’ll tell him when he gets back. He’s High Druid, but I’m the Master of Druid Hall.” He said it with such confidence Ryan had to reevaluate the young man. He’d grown, certainly, but the real growth was in his confidence and self-assurance. But the meeting when Eraigh told Anaph how things were going to be, that he expected to be interesting.

Ryan looked around the little hanging valley. The sides were terraced, the bottom more level than he remembered, the ridges along the sides smoothed. He visualized the differences; the volume shaved off the ridges to round them was about right to level the floor. “You changed the land”, he noted.

“For harmony”, Eraigh said. Ryan had to agree it felt harmonious, balanced, and peaceful. He made a connection.

“You tapped the LifeGem.”

Eraigh smiled again. “Yes.” He didn’t elaborate at all.

“Have you been to the Stone?” Somehow it seemed wrong that someone so young might have done so.

But Eraigh shook his head. “I know I’m not ready. I don’t have the... inner strength Hedraing has. I have the peace inside Urien doesn’t, but that’s not enough.” Ryan sensed hesitation, then the young Druid student went on. “He isn’t harmonious. The Stone would destroy him.”

“What about you?”

“I wouldn’t be able to pass the Pool.”

Ryan nodded slowly. “You’re just right to head Druid Hall”, he decided. “I’ll write up the grant of land... well, I guess I won’t be sleeping much tonight.”

“I can help with that. Who will you make the grant to?”

That gave Ryan pause. By Rigel’s rules, Eraigh wasn’t old enough to get a land grant. But he didn’t see any reason it had to go to an individual. “To the Order of Druids.” He chuckled. “Some of your people will scream about the Druids essentially being my vassals.”

“Are the craft Halls your vassals?”

Ryan had never considered that – there really hadn’t been time. He smiled – he had a model available, one he’d been thinking about before lunch. “No – and they shouldn’t be. I’ll have to draw up a decree declaring autonomy for the Crafts. Rigel will have to approve it, I guess.”

“And Anaph”, Eraigh asserted, “for the Clans.”

“Or the king he’s going to choose.”

“Or him”, Eraigh conceded. He turned to face east. “Anaph is at the end – he’s spoken to all the Clans now. Maybe he’s found his king.”



Bribery – he was resorting to bribery, Anaph thought. But he had been all along; this was just another drop in the bucket. Clan chiefs around, watching, Anaph concentrated and reached out through the foundation of the land, the continuous, though somewhat fragmented, bedrock of the continent. He’d tried it before to see if it would work – no sense doing something for the first time when it was critical..

The LifeGem reached out to him, welcoming its Guide – never its Master; no one could master it. Energy flowed both ways, his meager tendril providing structure and aim, its mighty flood filling him for the next step: the Stone. That touch was utterly different from the LifeGem – stern, aloof, solid, impassive, a cold flame against the LifeGem’s brilliant yet friendly flux. Energy met energy, flows meshed – and he reached out to the Snatcher.

In the forest around, kilometers around, DNA in thousands of deer shifted: when these next bred, their offspring would be elk, if they mated with another similarly changed – if they mated across the temporary lines, the result would be sterile ‘mules’. A tiny tweak gave the ones changed a different pheremone, so they’d be strongly attracted to each other.

But that was a future only he could see and believe in. These clan chiefs, to be known as Princes once there was a king, needed to see something now, so they would believe in the future. So he bargained: a favor for a favor. He considered what was asked, as well as he could; the Snatcher was strange. It communicated better this time than before, though – maybe it was learning? Deciding the price was too high took a twentieth of a second; he added something else to his price. It was accepted.

A fox leapt out of nowhere, then another, and another. In all, there were forty-nine – the chiefs would take the seven times seven as a good omen; in reality, it was sheer chance.

Anaph didn’t even know who caught and held him, except it was one of his young warriors. He kept his head up. “Don’t hunt them for a year; then only one for each greater clan chief, and only males. The next year, each clan chief may take a male.” There was more to say, but he was too exhausted.

“We will consider your king”, the Malcom declared.



Anaph woke to see snow falling. It wouldn’t stay; the air was too warm. But the change was happening. A walk seemed appropriate, to welcome the shift of nature.

The sound of chopping called to him. The Druid came to a clearing, a meadow with cold-weather flowers starting to bloom – alien flowers, but with earthly DNA woven into them. On the far side of the clearing, a young man, a bit older than Anaph, clad only in a light kilt and sandals, whirled and leapt, a great sword in his hands striking over and over at a trio of thoroughly hacked trees. A collection of stumps attested to the regularity of his practice sessions; the lack of logs or limbs to his sense of order and conservation. There was a power in him, and a spark.

Anaph extended his Druid senses. Astonished, he stepped backwards at the shock: the lad didn’t have just a spark, he had... yes, the Elder spark, and something similar but beyond that; the Druid spark, and the Scout spark!

The lad spun. “Druid”, he stated. The great sword came to rest on the broad shoulder.

Anaph walked forward. The lad was calm, confident – and closed. He was ready to fight – or not; it didn’t seem to make any difference to him.

“What’s your clan?” Anaph asked, stopping just out of sword’s reach – not that he needed to.

“Malcolm and Vohlkae.” The way he said it, he expected to be derided for the mix.

Anaph nodded. He suspected he was looking at the end of his search. “What rank?”

“In which?”

Anaph smiled slightly at the rejoinder. “Both.” It would be interesting to see which the lad put first.

“In one, priomaech cenn fin, if not out of the hut; in the other, høy blod.”

“A prince in both lines. Did you know you have the idrúdh spark?”

The lad swung the sword and threw it with both hands. The blade sank into a fir, far enough that the tip emerged from the other side, nearly thirty centimeters from its entry. “Is it that which grants me to keep my blood from leaving wounds? to draw strength from the deer or the forest?” Anaph nodded. “Then I know, but did not know how to call it.”

“You also have what we call the ‘Elder spark’.”

The lad considered, then shook his head. “This I do not know. What does it grant me?”

“To remember the laws and traditions, to recall the decisions you have made in judging between others in disputes, to know who stands where.”

“Yes. Of what use is it, when none will have me to judge?”

Anaph noted the forms the lad used; it didn’t mean what the English would, as for example “he came to judge”, but had the sense of “to be a judge”, or “to do judging”. “It has what use you will make of it. There is another spark in you as well.” Anaph had trouble keeping excitement out of his voice; as he described the gifts to the lad, he was realizing what this combination could do!

“That which lets me know a good course, to recall the lay of the land, to sense where ground is firm and not, to remember where I have gone, when I go where no man has gone before?”

The boy within the Druid almost laughed out loud at that; he wanted to tell the lad he should have said “boldly go where no man has gone before”. But it was plain that wherever he went, he would go boldly. “Yes – that is the Scout gift, the gift of finding the way, of knowing how far you’ve gone, and the things you said.” Anaph hesitated over the next one; should he tell it or not? The lad saw right through him.

“What is my other spark?”

No point in dodging... “I don’t know. It’s like the Elder spark, but firmer, or... maybe higher.” He shrugged. “I may be High Druid, but I don’t know everything.”

The lad laughed. “Never have I heard a chief admit that!”

Anaph shared the amusement. A few chiefs he’d met would, but most – never. “But you do.”

“Of course. A man who thinks he knows everything has a very small world.”

“Why do you demolish trees?”

“People who don’t like those with the blood of two tuatha often try to bother me. I come here to this clearing with my sword. Many come here after to see what I have been doing. When they see trees fallen, and the slabs I have sliced from them, most decide they have better things to do than bother me.”

“Effective. How is it you have a parent from each of two tuatha?”

“My father planted his seed in my mother.”

Anaph sensed he was being tested as much as he was testing. He took the answer in stride. “That is the usual way”, he agreed blandly. “And how did they come to be together for this?”

“My father was chasing slavers. He and his party killed some and rescued some of their people. Snow came, and they sheltered with the nearest clan. They came together... and came together.”

But did they cum together? Anaph joked with himself.

“So she gave birth to you, but they could not be bonded.”

“Even so.”

“Thus you were conceived ‘outside the hut’. Does this happen often?” Anaph already knew the answer; he just wanted to hear the lad acknowledge it.

“Often enough.”

“You’ve met others?”

“A score and half again.”

“None joined you in your exile?”

The lad shook his head. “They chose a tuath and were united to it.”

“But you haven’t – why?”

“I will not deny either. I am of both.”

“But that makes you of none.”

The lad laughed softly. “So they say. I do not.”

“You stand against all the clans?”

“I stand for myself. I stand against no one.”

“Except those who wish to... bother you.”

For the first time, the lad truly smiled. “Yes, except those. Yet only as much as is needful. I would rather they respect me on account of my trees, than be harmed.”

“You are a remarkable young man”, Anaph told him.

“What do you wish of me?”

“Why do you think I wish anything but conversation?”

“No man asks such questions merely for conversation. For that, one asks, ‘What do you think of the weather?’, or, “how has the hunting been, lately?’ You asked questions to pin a man’s spirit, to hold it in your hand.”

Anaph chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right – about the questions. You are right about me wanting something of you.” Would the lad figure it out?

The object of Anaph’s scrutiny went to retrieve his sword. He drew it from the tree easily; it reminded Anaph of The Sword in the Stone, one of those stories from childhood that stuck. It was eerily appropriate. Then he walked to each of the trees he’d been attacking, and finished the job of toppling them. After, he came and stood facing Anaph, expectant.

The Druid knew the lad expected him to ask. So be it, he decided; I just won’t ask what he expects. “Why did you chop them down?”

His quarry smiled a little; he indeed hadn’t expected that one. “I won’t be needing them any longer. Besides, a man finishes his tasks; he doesn’t walk away and leave them behind him.” He dared Anaph to contradict him.



Eraigh burst into Ryan’s office. “Anaph has chosen!” he announced, excitement in his eyes.

Ryan’s left eyebrow rose. “Okay... how do you know?”

“I don’t know how I know”, Eraigh confessed. “I just sensed suddenly a... balance struck, of Anaph with a presence who will be anchor and core – the center.”

“Irish, Scottish, Continental Celts – and Norse”, Ryan said, “and now they have a king.” He grinned. “Well, at least we’ll know who to negotiate with.”

Eriagh shook his head sharply and waved his hand as though brushing something away. “There is no king yet – he must be made king. They will come here, to the Stone.”

Good luck with that during the winter, Ryan thought. A strong urge to go look at the Stone hit him. He took Eraigh by the shoulders and walked to the steam-driven elevator closest; they rode together up through the castle, through the cavern roof, and to the top of one of the three towers rising high above the Valleys below.

In the distance stood the Stone, impressive even at this distance. It had made Elders and Wise Women for generations; lately it had made Druids, and a Healer.

“Now it will make a king”, Eraigh said, his thoughts paralleling Ryan’s.

Ryan laughed. “We’d better promote Rigel!”

 

[DonQuixote]

And WHAT, pray sir, did Anaph bargain to the Snatcher in exchange for the Fox?

I like the boy "Arthur". A mix of Norse and Scottish Celt Blood.

Fae meets Valkyrie.

It is going to be an interesting meet with the Chiefs of he Clans.
None respect the boy as such, yet many respect his prowess.

I like the strengths he brings to the table - indeed, he has many sparks.
His seed, planted in the appropriate queen, will reap a powerful bloodline to unite the clans. Perhaps a continental mate with the healer's spark?

I know, healers aren't supposed to pledge allegiance to "a clan".
But, then again, isn't the King to unite the clans? Therefore, a queen from
one of the clans that he is not blood of would be a strong unifying sign, and a healer spark added to his loin's plentiful sparks would also help protect the unified kingdom.

I know we needed an update from "back at the ranch" - and the other excursion of note. This also gives us a sharp wakeup call as to the time that has passed in their journeys.

There's lots of bits and pieces in this chapter. It's late, too, so I'm going to leave my commenting here.

Thank you sir. The journey back will be an interesting one.
And, Young "Arthur", son of Malcom and Vohlkae joining Anaph on the return trip should make an interesting counterpoint to our Heir of House Escobar, indeed.

 

[Críostóir]

It's Lugh! Though of course HIS "tuath" would be Túatha Dé Danann.

Not Arthur. Arthur is Saxon.

And I think it would throw a nice little monkeywrench if our anointed King turned out to have absolutely no interest in copulating with females, don't you? Also: superhero sex!

 

[Kulindahr]

It's Lugh! Though of course HIS "tuath" would be Túatha Dé Danann.

Not Arthur. Arthur is Saxon.

And I think it would throw a nice little monkeywrench if our anointed King turned out to have absolutely no interest in copulating with females, don't you? Also: superhero sex!

We doan need no magic pigskins.


Arthur the legend may have been Saxon, but the name itself shows up in Scot, Irish, and Continental Gaelic, in a variety of forms: Artur, Artair, Arthair, Artu, and the more familiar Arthur. It can even be found in Norse as Arntur, Arnthur, or Arntor.


Lugh, BTW, is found variously as Lugh, Lugus, Lug, Lu, and Luch (ch as in German ach!), or across the water as Leu or Lleu. He's a god, a half-breed (god and man), a man whose parents were destined by the gods to be united, a hero....



So, it's a choice between someone whose father ran around as a pig and a guy who got his sword from some watery tart.

 

[DonQuixote]

I was wondering who this Lugh guy was. I'm not familiar with him.

 

[Kyanimal]

HA! I think the last thing we need is a "King Louie"!!

And, just what IS this amazing young lad's name?? Will Anaph stand as his "Merlin"??

And, so ... promoting Rigel ... Will he be an Emperor before he gets back "Home"?? I can just imagine how he'll "take" to that!

And, yes!, I'm still more curious about the Brits! Will there be a "meet" with The Queen before Rigel & Co. head back North?? I certainly Hope so!

THANK YOU!, Kuli, for this Intriguing tale!! MORE, Please!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Anonymous]

Heya Kuli!

I'm so far behind on the story due to homework and other college-y stuff taking place, so I haven't been able to read all that much. But! I just happened to log on and see that the thread now has its MUCH DESERVED 5 star rating! I wanted to say CONGRATULATIONS!!!!

Anyway, I'll get caught up sooner or later. See ya later!

 

[DonQuixote]

Hi, Anonymous.
Greetings from the far far far side of College.
Keeping the nose to the grindstone and paying your dues NOW is a VERY Smart Idea!

I'm sure we'll all enjoy reading your comments when you post them as you make your way through Fit for Life when School's out for the Summer.

 

[Críostóir]

I was wondering who this Lugh guy was. I'm not familiar with him.

He is, among other things, a Celtic Sun god. When he came to the gate of the fortress of the Túatha Dé Danann, he told the Guardian (whose name I can't remember) what he could do. The Guardian was not impressed with any of the things he said. "But we already have a smith," he would say. "But we already have a medical transcriptionist."*

"Yes," said Lugh finally. "But I can do all of those things." And he was admitted.

In NeoPagan practice we celebrate Lughnasadh (the Wake of Lugh) on August 1. (Traditionally it was celebrated whenever the first grain of harvest was available, because Lugh also represents the God in the form of the grain that grows from the Earth.)

In my coven we had a bread-baking ritual the night before, and kneaded the dough to this chant:

Lugh, Lugh, Lugh, Lugh,
Art thou ever truly dead?
"Thou shalt see me ever living
In thy bread."​

--to the tune, of course, of "Rose, Rose." Then we would bake the bread into the image of Lugh, shroud it with a cloth, and in circle chant this over it:

Oh, Lugh is dead.
O hero slain!
Oh, Lugh is gone
Into the ripening grain.​

Then we revealed the Lugh-loaf, saying "Behold the Bread of Life!" Then we'd tear him up and eat him.

While that particular ritual is unique to my coven (and thus pretty much ended now that said coven is no more), celebrating the Wake of Lugh at the first harvest has a long tradition in Ireland, from pre-Christian times to the present day. There is a Roman Catholic holiday called Lammas (from loaf-mass) celebrated at that time, and Lughnasadh has come down to us in Modern Irish (Gaelic) as Lúnasa, the Irish word for August.
____
*No, of course not. Just couldn't think of another period skill of an appropriate type.

 

[Kyanimal]

Criostoir ...

I found that quite fascinating, and most interesting!

THANK YOU! for sharing that with us!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kulindahr]

Return​

The hills of Refuge, the Constant Hills, were a welcome sight. A blizzard had stranded them for half a day; then it had all melted, leaving them making their way through mud. Rigel had slanted the line so the horses didn’t have to plod through the mess left by the leading horses, but progress had still been slow. Then came three days of heat, driving vapor from the ground to form a thick mist, which impeded them again, then forming a crust over the soggy ground below, making for uncertain footing.

But the hills, for reasons Rigel couldn’t begin to fathom, were generally covered by well-drained soils, and the roads were superb. That meant they were in sight of rest – except for one thing: Lady Escobar had pretty much said they’d be coming back to a war, and their last indication had strongly suggested that this entrance to the Hills wasn’t in friendly hands.

“Frak”, he muttered. “Now what?”

“Circle clockwise and camp a couple of hours from the edge”, Tanner suggested. “If anyone there is hostile, me might be able to draw them out, and make hash of them. We could set up camp to make it look like we’re worn out and sloppy, to tempt them.”

“More riding”, Rigel commented.

“Like we can avoid it”, Tanner said cheerfully. At least we can ride somewhere that could be useful.”


“Rigel – listen.” It was Austin’s hand shaking him, Austin’s voice in his ear. Rigel sat up, leaning on his elbows, ears alert.

“Fighting”, he said. “About half way between us and the Hills.”

Austin nodded, not that Rigel could see it. “Sir Patrick is leading a party to investigate. He was officer of the watch.”

“Okay. Did he alert the ready squad?”

“Yep. They’re along the perimeter.”

“Good. Now I can sleep again till something happens.” He dropped back down and was asleep in seconds.


Austin refused to waken Rigel again for two hours at least. He believed interrupted sleep was useless, so he wasn’t going to let his lord’s sleep get interrupted into little pieces. In the event, that suited Sir Patrick and the guests he’d aided; they cleaned up after the little encounter, then had something hot to snack on, while they waited. Patrick joined the riflemen in cleaning his weapon, too, a process which carefully done took a third of an hour – and after that, they had to resupply with ammunition, little as they’d used.


“My lord.” Rigel knew the rifleman’s face but couldn’t attach a name to it. He acknowledged the salutation with a nod. “Leftenant Aodh sends his welcome, and invites you to his camp.”

“Aodh?” Rigel searched his memory, with no success. “One of Ryan’s graduates? What’s he doing here?”

“Lord Ryan wanted to be sure the horses got where they were going, so he sent two squads to deliver them. The squads had their own mounts. The orders were to avoid returning through any snow. The leftenant decided to be safe, so we all stayed. Lord Ryan also ordered him to seek out opportunities for live-fire exercises.”

Rigel laughed so hard his gut started to hurt. That was just like Ryan, to give an order that allowed a broad interpretation, one that let people provide help that couldn’t be given directly. From the sound of the man’s voice, they’d had some very satisfactory “life fire exercises”.

“So you guide us there in the morning?”

“Early morning, lord. There are hostiles in the area. But they don’t wake up well.”

“So I get another two hours of sleep. Fine – Austin, take care of the orders. I’m going back to dreamland.”


Rigel yawned... again. “Morning came early”, he observed.

Rita laughed. “It always does – that’s sort of the definition of morning, after all.”

Rigel stared at her, mind working slowly, then he joined her laugh. “All right, you got me. Now get me something to drink.”

“Invigorating, stimulating herbal tea coming up.” Rita hummed as she poured from a pot on a bed of coals.

“Hey – I thought I said no fires.”

She grinned at him. “No flame, no smoke. Hedraing helped a little. I don’t know how it works, but we feed little chunks to the middle and they scorch and don’t smoke. After that it’s like burning charcoal.”

“Huh. Nice. Tell him he’s hired.”

“Ha. Oh – he says Anaph reached the end of his journey to the Clans, and something important happened last night. He wouldn’t commit himself, but I think Anaph found his king.” Rita sounded very satisfied about that.

One again, Rigel wished for coffee, or at least chocolate. He settled for Rita’s herb tea and a pile of bacon and some kind of grain.

Rita looked at the sky. There was barely a hint of light in the east, so they had some time. “Rigel, Earl Dennishire gave me something for you”, she began. That was all the farther she got, though; Hedraing walked up, face alight.

“Rigel Lord, Anaph has done something!” he said.

“If he didn’t do anything, I’d be worried”, Rigel quipped. “Is it about this king?”

“No – he did this before that, but I only now understood. He has brought more new animals into the world!”

Rigel almost dropped his cup; he did slop some tea on his leg, and winced. “I thought he was ‘way the heck out east!”

Hedraing nearly glowed, nodding furiously. “So he is. But he Reached from there! and the Snatcher aided!”

Rita ran the information around in her mind. That made twice the Snatcher had helped Anaph with something; the first time had been a huge surprise. [I[This time[/I], she guessed, he asked!] “I wonder”, she said out loud, “if bringing new animals here somehow helps the Snatcher’s plans.”

Rigel liked that wondering. “Hedraing, he must have brought something new to convince the chiefs of something. What would he bring?”

“Things for hunting. Venison is wholesome, but some years many deer sicken, and meat is scarce. Something new to hunt would be a great gift.” The young Druid sounded absolutely certain.

“Or a king-sized bribe.” Rigel chuckled at Rita’s pun, which was, of course, lost on Hedraing. “He must have brought a lot of animals, for that.” She looked to the Druid for confirmation.

“If he brought a great many, I would be able to tell. I say... he brought more than a dozen, less than four score, of animals living and moving.” He looked troubled then. “Of another, they are there, yet not. I do not understand.”

“Don’t ask me”, Rigel said with a shrug. “And I’m ready to wait to see. He brought them, they’re here, we’ll learn more when we learn more.” He looked at the activity by the horse line. “Right now, we have a place to go and a leftenant to meet.”


The early morning hour apparently did the trick – or no one was interested in getting in their way, after all. With the need to walk and lead the horses, for the sake of quiet and a lower profile, their journey took three and a quarter hours. Smells of bacon frying and grains cooking greeted them long before the saw the camp.

“It’s an army!” Austin exclaimed. “Where did Ryan get an army to send?!”

“If he sent a leftenant, he didn’t send an army”, pointed out Sir Patrick. “This is something different – they are all Escobars.”

“How can you tell them from Quistadors?” Rita asked, curious.

The knight shrugged. “Where would Ryan get a hundred Quistadors, and then part with them?” Rita laughed at herself for missing that.

The matter was settled soon enough. A tough- but pleasant-looking young man came riding up. There was a haunted look in his eyes, but he sat his horse with the confidence born of testing and proving his own abilities.

“Leftenant Aodh, Sixth Mounted Rifles, reporting!” The young officer snapped off a crisp fist-to-chest salute. His uniform had a few patches and mended tears, but was otherwise impeccable.

“You’ve been busy, leftenant”, Rigel noted. “I suppose all these men are here to assist you in, um, ‘live fire exercises’?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve undertaken to train them, as well.” His face got more serious. “I have to report I’ve lost seven men, sir.’

Rigel closed his eyes for a moment. Such things came with being a lord – and Earl, for frak’s sake! – but they still hit him, every time. “The burden of command”, he said. “You send men out, and some of them die. So you only have sixteen riflemen now?”

“No, sir. I have two full squads. I asked for volunteers from our... helpers. They’ve taken oath to you, lord Earl. Twenty more are training; they’ve taken oath, too. We have two smiths, here, who are working to make basic muskets.”

A messenger, in local clothes but with a sash of Rigel’s own blue across his chest, jogged up. “Captain, word from undercenturion Orange.” He paused; whoever Aodh was talking to had to be important. Rigel just raised an eyebrow and nodded to Aodh, who nodded to the messenger. “They got the people out, sir. Lost three men and two from the village. They got all of the grain and fruit. Lord’s men were coming, so they torched the village and ran.”

“Thank you, corporal”, Aodh said in dismissal.

“‘Undercenturion/?” Rigel asked. “What sort of rank is that?”

“I thought they should have a different system, sir. Lord Ryan talked about several different ways armies have been organized. Here, they have the word ‘century’. That reminded me of the Ronams, so I started with decurions, then centurions, then in between.” He scowled very briefly. “It’s a mix, because we still have corporals and sergeants.”

Rigel was staring, first at Aodh and then around the camp. “You said ‘centurions’ – just how many people do you have here?” He saw Rita stifling laughter; he ignored her.

“Here? Now? Two hundred sixty-eight who can fight. Centurion Green is off by Ono....” He stopped at the look on Rigel’s face. “Sir?”

Rita couldn’t hold it in any longer; the look on Rigel’s face was too much. “You look like someone just pulled your pants down in the gym and you realized you still had on a girl’s panties from a party the night before!”

Rigel considered that. “That misses something”, he informed her. “Throw in ‘You just got a birthday present in a box that would hold what you really wanted, but when you open it that isn’t what it is, and you aren’t sure what it is.”

She laughed. “Point to you.” She turned to Aodh, who was looking at the two of them in bafflement. “Leftenant, how about we find a place to sit, and you start from the beginning?”


Groups of men jogged by, looking purposeful, looking disciplined. The camp headquarters was in a building constructed using three walls of an old ruined tower; a second floor was being built, and the first extended. Six deer carcasses hung over a smoke pit by a butcher’s stall; four meters away was the laundry, an old fish pond with its cracks repaired. At one end a man skimmed off soap suds. A large shed that Ryan would have called an Adirondack housed a fletcher’s operation where two dozen men sat, each doing a single step in the process of making an arrow. Everywhere Rigel looked, there was activity, and beyond – he heard the ring of hammer on metal, as well as sounds he couldn’t identify.

He dragged his mind back to business. “So you arrived at San Tesifón, and that night cracked the Guardian fortress and got their surrender. Then you paid the thieves to tell you all the corrupt members of the city Watch, and rounded them up. You killed a bunch of people working against the Regent. All this took three days, then you left.” He raised an eyebrow; Aodh nodded.
“So you went through the countryside. You captured three estancias held by bad guys, and all the watchtowers along the road to the border. You attacked the border camp and slaughtered tens or dozens of Guardians and captured the rest. Then you masqueraded as Guardians and seized a castle of another disloyal lord, and used his uniforms to get in and capture another. With a few other things, you wrapped up the area north of San Tesifón, so Lord Ortega is in a more secure position.” Another raised eyebrow, another nod.
“You started recruiting locals to replace your riflemen. More volunteered than you needed, so you formed them into a century. You drifted south, and along the–“

A messenger jogged up. “Captain, centurion Gray is on his way to see you. Lots of wounded, so he hopes the Healer is rested.”

Aodh nodded. “Just bring him here. And find Gavin.” There was no salute, but with the level of discipline the camp showed, Rigel knew none was needed.

“Gray went to capture a supply train”, Aodh informed Rigel and Rita. “Sounds like it went bad.”

“Supply trains? Do the disloyal lords have an army out here?” Rita asked.

Aodh grinned. “No, their towns are... having problems. Most of the people on the land support Osvaldo and Ortega, so when harvests came in, we got them to hold back most of the crop. Since there wasn’t much supply, they got high prices.. But three cities are suffering: Balestra, Aguas Rojas, and Segovia Nueva. We’ve cut them off. So the lords try to get food in, and we try to stop them.”

Rigel shook his head in wonder and admiration. Ryan had picked this kid as best for the job of coming down and lending a hand to the Regent. He’d turned that into a serious military campaign! “You’ve basically got them under siege”, he observed. “Leftenant, just how many men do you have under your command?!”

“Here, almost five hundred. About two hundred each at the cities we’ve cut off. Heueil has almost four hundred, maybe more, now. The there’s El Señor de Sombras – he’s the son of a disloyal lord who brought his disagreement beyond just words. He came with two hundred, but now has just about six hundred. That makes....”

“Two thousand, one hundred and some”, Rita declared. “You command over two thousand men.”

Rigel laughed at that. “Ryan isn’t going to believe this! He sent a couple dozen men down here to help a little, and our Captain here raised a whole army!”

Aodh blinked. “I’m just doing my best, sir”, he insisted, avoiding the question in his mind.

“And your best is very good, Captain”, Rigel stated. A grin stole over Aodh’s face. Rigel chuckled. “I can’t let a mere leftenant be in charge of two thousand men, can I? I see everything here organized and busy, you’ve had some excellent victories – so, yes, I just promoted you.”


Lunch had fruit, grain, meat, even a few vegetables. Rigel felt starved, and dug in, watching the camp. One century was getting ready to go – somewhere; another was training; the rest of the men had spent the morning about various chores.

He’d spent the morning reviewing Captain Aodh’s command. The lad was obviously brilliant, with a fantastic memory: the companies in training were following Tanner’s regime to the letter, and everything Aodh and the others had learned from Chen was being passed on. For officers, time in camp meant at least two hours each day studying, which mostly meant reading, writing, and arithmetic. But there was also a class in maps, required for officers, open to anyone. On top of it all, the officers leaned on all under their command to spend no time being lazy, so when they weren’t doing any official training or learning, men were practicing, teaching each other the weapons they knew, pooling ideas for operations – and building, always building.

Chen came and dropped down beside him, a visitor in tow. “Someone you want to meet, lord”, he said. The man scooped up an unattended chunk of wood and made it a seat.

Rigel looked him over. He had the air of someone used to being on his own, even alone, and a little uncomfortable in the hustle and bustle of the camp. A hunter, maybe? Easier to ask... “Why do I want to meet you?”

The man grinned, revealing a hole where two teeth should be. “He said you talk direct. You want to meet me because I command the Renegades. What are the Renegades? We’re folk who mostly want to be left alone, living our lives, without being tied down. Where’d we come from? Some used to be woods people, living quiet humble lives in the forests. Some are runaways, got tired of lords telling ‘em every breath what they could do. Some are refugees, fled from a lord’s injustice or wrath or both. Some are fugitives, wanted for some petty crime or another, mostly stealing to keep their young ones fed. Why are we all together? The lords push and push at the forests, at the wild places, so we rubbed elbows and nearly noses. We had to learn to get along, so we did. The wicked who truly were got our justice, but so long as you haven’t killed or raped or burned, what counts is your life with us all.”

Rigel liked the man’s method of asking the questions he thought would be asked, then answering them. “So what brings you to this camp?”

“Knew that was next. You do, lord sir, you and the young Heir. Heard some of yours were here, fighting for justice. Heard they did away with a lot of Guardians and were standing for the young Heir. Heard he was going to let people go find new homes, not keep crowding together. Heard you have land for those who know what to do with it.
“We know what to do with it. So we came looking. Maybe the young Heir will pardon us as needs pardoning. Maybe he won’t. But we don’t like the folks who don’t like him, so we’re for him. You don’t like them either, so we’re for you.
“Your people don’t know the countryside. We helped them keep hid, showed them this place, guided raids, talked to the locals. We know what lords are doing what. We go out to learn and come back with what we find.”

Chen was grinning. “They’re scouts, guerillas, provocateurs, spies. Some have the Scout spark. They’re sort of Aodh’s special forces, secret agents. If there’s a way in or out of somewhere, they know it.” His grin reached across his face. “And they know people inside the cities – like Miguel knows.”

Osvaldo had come up behind Chen and the Renegade, and listened. Now he spoke. “You must be Martín d’Estrada. You’re a thief and rapist.”

Martín spun around. “A thief I have been, but never a rapist! The accusation was a lie!”

“We can find out”, Rigel cut in before Osvaldo could say anything else. “Austin, get Hedraing.”

Osvaldo chose to leave the matter until Austin returned. He change the subject. “I do not like having men who serve me called ‘Renegades’. Rigel, know you a better name to give them?”

Rigel’s thoughts had wandered to the House of Aragon, wondering if they’d been as successful as House Escobar. They’d started with fewer, certainly, so he could hardly expect another quarter million, but even ten thousand, with the ancient name, could be helpful. It was the similarity of that name to another that now inspired his thought. “Call them Rangers”, he said. “In your service, but free mostly to serve as they see fit, according to their skills. They blend in with the people; let them be your eyes and ears, your hand in places the Watch and House Guard don’t go. Like Scouts, but like soldiers; a bit of the spy, a bit of the hunter, a bit of a bodyguard but in secret.”

“This is from your homeland?” the Prince Heir asked.

Rigel shook his head, thinking it wasn’t exactly the time nor place to explain The Lord of the Rings. “No, from another. But they are somewhat famous in mine.”

“Lady Rita, Wise Woman, what say you?” Osvaldo queried.

“It’s a good name. There’s another place that had Rangers, too; they were the hand of truth and light in dark places”, she responded, thinking of the television novel Babylon 5.

“And the Army Rangers back home”, Austin added. “Soldiers, but more, like Rigel said.”

“Then ‘Rangers’ it shall be”, Osvaldo decreed. “Sir Chen, do you know of these Rangers?”

“Certainly. And yes, they could use my skills”, he added. “Now I see Hedraing is here.”

Rigel looked at Martín. “One who puts his hand on a Druid’s staff cannot lie”, he said seriously. “Osvaldo needs to know for certain of your past. Hedraing?”

The Druid stepped into the little circle and confronted the Ranger leader with his staff. “Grasp it firmly”, he said. “And answer my questions.”

With more than a little trepidation, d’Estrada did as instructed. When he was ready, he nodded.

“Is your name Martín?” Hedraing asked.

“Yes.”

“Is Lolita part of your name?”

“No.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“Yes.”

“Are you of noble birth?”

“No.”

Hedraing nodded. “Answer ‘yes’ to the next four questions. “Have you eaten dung?”

Martin struggled, but he couldn’t get out a “yes”, and said so.

“Would you like to have five wives?”

“Yes.” Martin grinned broadly, showing chipped teeth.

“Have you ever wanted to be a smith?”

“Yes.”

“Is the sky beneath your feet.”

“Yes.” Hedraing looked surprised. “You answered truthfully! How fo you say the sky is beneath your feet?”

Martín hesitated a moment, then plunged ahead. “They say the world is round, like a stone for a sling. If the world is round, then the sky must be round, to go with it. If the sky is round, beneath my feet is the whole world, and on the other side the sky.”

Hedraing gazed at him a moment. “I had not thought of it that way. I perceive you are right. Yet half way through the world, does not ‘down’ change to ‘up’?”

Martín screwed up his face, thinking it through. “Then the sky on the other side of the world is both beneath and above my feet.”

“Have you raped a woman?” Hedraing asked, catching the man by surprise.

“No,”

“Have you become drunk and passed out?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sitting?”

“Yes.”

“Have you raped a boy?”

“No.”

“Do you know how to swim?”

“Yes.”

“Have you raped a girl?”

“No.”

“Have you stolen silver?”

“Yes.”

Have you stolen clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Have you stolen from the poor?”

D’Estrada looked ashamed. “Yes.”

“Have you raped a man?”

“No.”

Hedraing nodded. “Lord Osvaldo, you have his answer.”

“And a Druid will not lie concerning this?”

Hedraing smiled. “I grip my staff.”

The Prince Heirlooked troubled, but was satisfied. “Martín d’Estrada, I pardon you of your crimes of theft.” He grinned a crooked grin. “Unfortunately, I must become Heir for that to count.”

D’Estrada chuckled. “Then I must work twice as hard to see you there.”



On the other sides of the Hills, Lord Ortega hoped he was doing the right thing. He was at the Inn of the Red Ham, waiting to meet with a man that in his gut he considered worthy of death. But need changed things, and so he was here and not in the Escobar fortress.

Someone slipped in beside him in the seat at the table in a secluded nook. “Don’t look at me”, a voice said. “Wait until I’ve been gone forty heart beats. Then get up, go upstairs, and ask for Linda Belinda.” The man beside Ortega remained some fifteen seconds more, then vanished. Ortega counted slowly; when he reached it, he downed his mug of beer in a gulp, and did as instructed.

He asked the first person he saw, a boy of perhaps fifteen. “Do you know where I can find Linda Belinda?”

“Twice-beautiful Bee?” the boy asked with a smirk. “Sure. You better have gold, mister!”

He didn’t need gold. Once in the room, he was let into a passage behind the outer wall. A vertical ladder led to a crawlway to an attic. There, behind a low desk, a hooded figure sat, two lanterns behind him, leaving his face hidden in the shadows. It was an eerie effect, meant to make the visitor nervous, meant to keep the man’s identity hidden. Ortega found himself more annoyed that nervous.

“You have business for us?” The voice was deep, almost melodic. It was a voice that could enchant and ensnare. Ortega found it a far more pleasant voice to listen to than most priests.

“You should have been a priest, with that voice”, he declared, “or a singer.”

A chuckle came from the hood. “How do you know I’m not?”

“It seems to me that yours would be a job which demands large amounts of time.”

“Not so much as a person might think.”

Ortega considered that. If, among all the other things he has to do during a day, one was – what? assigning the matter of someone’s death to an underling? – how much additional time would he need? It wouldn’t be like a – he had to fish for a comparison, something with one person doing little but delegating; then it came to him – madame in a brothel, who had to be constantly available in case of new customers, in case of trouble, because the customers would be few and far between... or at least if there were that many killings being done, he’d never heard of it.

He nodded. “Perhaps not. Perhaps it would be a perfect job for, oh, an Examiner.” The Examiners were like Inquisitors, but used by some lords to torture condessions from people. From somewhere in the darkness, not from the hood, came a sudden hissed intake of breath.

“Bide, ‘Tip’”, said the hood. “He tests me. No, Lord Regent Ortega, I am no Examiner. Though on my way to this standing, I killed several. Now, what is your business?”

“Someone suggested to me that you might be available for permanent employ.”

“And if this someone happened to be correct?”

Oretga sensed that indirection was the way to approach this. “I might happen to know of a person interested in offering such permanent employ.”

“Let us say I have a friend who would be interested. What would this person be willing to arrange?”

Ortega had studied the finances of the House extensively and thoroughly; in truth, there wasn’t much to offer. But coin wasn’t, to play with words, the only coin in which pay might be made. “A place safe to retire. A task with a higher purpose. A name with honor.”

“This person of yours thinks such as my friend are concerned with honor?”

“I believe he does. I believe he thinks that all in Refuge consider honor in this time. And I believe all men wish to serve a purpose higher than themselves. And everyone hopes for a place to live out their elder years in peace, without fear of hunger or homelessness.”

“Perhaps my friend has a different measure of honor.”

“How can you think so, if you do not know of what honor I speak?”

“You mean the honor of serving a lord, the honor from his name.”

“But not just any lord.”

“Yourself?”

“Let us say one I serve.”

A deep laugh rumbled from the hood. “Only one stands higher than the Regent. Yet were he standing there, you would not be Regent.”

“Nevertheless.”

Ortega found himself counting seconds as they went slowly by. Finally, the hood spoke. “My friend might be interested. By whose death ought he signal this interest?”

This was the test; Ortega recognized . The hood was asking if he would indeed employ them, or was merely wishing to stop their activities. Perhaps he’d suspected it would come to this, for he had in his mind a single individual for candidate, or rather target. “How far is your friend’s reach?”

“He has friends in other places. State your wish, and I will ask what he might do.”

The Regent Heir of House Escobar took a deep breath, and committed himself. “In a city on the Oval....”



Rigel considered the proposed distribution of forces. You think that my men are enough to tip this balance?”

“I do, sir. The element of surprise of twice the number of riflemen–“

The Earl cut the Captain off. “Might let us take the town, but it will still be bloody. I won’t spend lives that way. I saw you’re making your own powder – how much of a supply have you stored up?”

“We could fight till spring with what we’ve got, if we could make the brass and primers.”

“That ought to be enough. And somehow we need more ammunition for our rifles – and newer rifles for my men, for that matter. For now, though – what metals do your smiths work?”

“Iron, steel, copper. What are you thinking?”

“Is there enough iron to make a cannon?” Aodh’s wicked grin matched Rigel’s, perhaps beat it in intensity.


“Frak – it jars loose!” Rigel swore. “All right, hoist it up.” They didn’t have enough powder to test-fire their cannon, so they’d been dropping a massive log in to simulate the blast. “We get the metal smooth enough to slip inside the wood, and it jars loose. I was sure this would work.”

“This” was a wooden cannon body of carefully selected and carved white oak. The idea was to slip a metal liner inside, to keep the bore from getting steadily larger due to being fired. Outside, iron bands would reinforce the wood. The design and development team stared at the pieces as the hoist lifted the log away, allowing the cannon to tip.

“The surface should be rough”, offered their new observer, Hedraing the Druid. “Then the two will not separate.”

“But if the surface is rough, the liner won’t slip in!”

Hedraing placed his hand on the oak barrel. “It still lives”, he muttered. “Do you have another liner?” he asked.

“Yeah, in case this one failed”, Rigel replied. “You have an idea?”

Hedraing nodded. “If the liner outside is still rough, then yes. Bring it.” It was indeed still rough, so the smoothed one was pulled out and the new one readied. Hedraing set his hands on the oak and began to chant.

“He does magic!” one man swore, and crossed himself.

“No, it isn’t magic”, Rigel assured the man. “He only chants to remind himself what he’s doing.”

“Like the men in a stone gang?” Osvaldo asked. “They have chants which keep them working in rhythm. The words describe what they’re doing.”

“Exactly like that”, Rigel answered. “If you listen close, he’s probably repeating the words, just like the stone gang.” With nothing else to do, they all began to listen, except for Rigel and the head smith, who were more interested in what Hedraing was doing. One man, then another, nodded as they heard the repetition.

“The bore grows greater!” the smith exclaimed. Rigel hadn’t been sure he was seeing it, but he agreed once it was confirmed, and said so.

After fifteen minutes of work, Hedraing stepped back wearily and leaned against the hoist frame. “The liner will slip in. Wet it, and wet the oak inside.” The smith frowned at him, wondering what that would do, but gave a nod to tell the workers to do it.

Hedraing understood the interest. “I bid the wood compress on itself. I will tell it to go back to its shape. It will need water to... sustain itself in doing so.” One man crossed himself again.

The wet liner slipped in easily. They tipped the arrangement to the vertical so the liner could be kept centered in the oak bore. Hedraing sipped tea and set one hand on the wood. From above, the smith’s journeyman called out as the wood closed in, for the benefit of those who couldn’t see.. “Closer... closer... done!” Hedraing worked another half minute.

“It didn’t close evenly”, he explained. “It’s tight, now. The roughness will hold it to the wood.”

Wet oak sizzled and smoked as the red-hot bands were settled on it. The smith had opted for five of them: a pair around the load chamber and a close companion around where the ball would sit, one at the tip, and one halfway between. Rigel thought it was excessive, but preferred to have the smith confident.

All was ready by late morning. The smith bolted and welded two bands to a triangular frame with large pins that dropped into slots on the carriage others had built. The hoist went to work again, lifting the cannon with a crude sling. The carriage rolled under. While three men worked to center it, a loud creak came from above.

“Frame’s cracking!” the hoist man cried. Frantically he played out rope, lowering the great gun. He almost made it, but with a crack! Heard across the camp, the barrel dropped onto the carriage. The smith’s journeyman was there with a steel bar, and managed to guide one pin into its slot, but the other dropped onto the carriage frame. The smith swore.

“Could have cracked the pin!” he fretted, bending to look. Rigel was holding his breath; when he saw Osvaldo doing the same, he laughed; the Prince Heir joined in. “No, it’s fine”, the smith decided. “Tiny bit bent, but it’ll hold. Now – wedges, boys, and the big hammer; we’ll pop that beast into place.”

It took over a quarter hour, but the ‘pop’ finally came. The gun settled into its place, everyone sighed in relief.

“Lunch is waiting”, Austin announced when the final inspection was complete. “And I’m hungry.”



The stable boy saw the stranger and ran to intercept him. His lord’s horses were flighty, and easily injured, so no one not in the lord’s service was permitted anywhere near, and definitely not in the stables! But the man turned and walked out, turning left. To be sure he was really leaving, the boy went to the door and looked out to watch.. So he didn’t see the other stranger, twice as old but not much larger than himself, with a clout in his hand. He felt the clout, though, but not the hands which caught him gently and guided his fall, nor the arms which carried him to a resting place in an empty stall.

The Mouse regarded his subject with compassion. He truly loved all people, provided they were smaller than himself, and getting this boy in trouble wasn’t part of his assignment. The lump on the boy’s head would need explaining, or he’d be in trouble. Roaming eyes found what he needed: a shelf in the space across from the stall, one used for storage, contained large variety of items. He went over and examined it; such things often were poorly cared for. The Mouse nodded in satisfaction: this one had what he needed. So he brought the boy over and stood him under the shelf in the right spot, then let go so he crumpled to the ground. Then it was merely a matter of slipping the blade of his knife lengthways into the crack that had grown from the pin holding one end of the shelf. A quick twist of the wrist and tug with his arm, and the pin slipped in the widened crack; the shelf teetered, then tipped and slipped completely off its bracket. Pots, small bags, tools, a whetstone and more cascaded off and down. A third of them struck the boy; he’d have bruises, but those and the failed shelf would explain his condition.

One of the tools that fell was what he needed. The Mouse caught it in its fall and turned, not waiting for everything to settle; no one would look past the tumbled shelf and its failed pin. He resisted the urge to whistle as he made his way to the stall holding the lord’s horse. He’d whistled while he worked since a small boy, but this wasn’t the time. He also knew horses; it was a horse that had killed his mother – a lord’s son’s horse, even, so this would be a sort of justice. “I hope you like it, mother”, he whispered as he greeted the animal, then slipped in and lifted a front hoof. The verdain he brought kept the animal happy; it wasn’t exactly good for horses, but they loved it, and it wouldn’t hurt him. The Mouse was very careful not to do any more hurting than he had to; hurting was something mean uncles did, something the Virgin did not approve of at all – and he loved the Virgin; she had been his only mother for years.

The substance he pressed into the hoof wouldn’t hurt the animal. It would make the foot sensitive; when extra pressure hit that spot, the horse would certainly rear. It was a particularly sensitive horse, this lord’s mount, so as its hoof came down again, it would keep rearing. He’d seen it before, in a mood, and knew that then it would buck, to get rid of the extra weight that meant extra pressure on its hoof. He regarded his work, then made a few adjustments to make the spot look natural; the material he’d put there was already turning the color of the bone.

Next came the animal’s feed. There was a special bag of oats – he always did his research, and found out everything about his target’s habits – the lord always fed his steed from before a ride. It hung nearby, high, but this Mouse could scurry up most walls better than his namesake. Instead of taking the bag down, he loosened the ties where it was, poured in the little vial of powder, then stirred with the same tool he’d used on the hoof – after cleaning it in his pocket, of course; it wouldn’t do the poor horse any good, and the beast wasn’t a volunteer in this assignment.

Ties tightened, he dropped down and surveyed his work. All looked normal, but when the horse got some of that feed in him, he wouldn’t be, not at all; he’d get irritable, then the pain in his hoof would enrage him. Every horse he’d tested this on, and used it on before had reacted the same, rearing, bucking, then stomping madly at anything which grabbed at it.

“Sorry, muchacho, but you’ll be fine in a week, after”, he told the horse very, very softly. After a final pat on its neck, the Mouse went on his way, tossing the tool back in by the boy.


“Word from Girona, sir. I thought it important.”

Regent Ortega took the message sheet, about the size of a traditional American three-by-five card. “Thank you, Carlos”, he said to the House Guard teniente.

It was from a friend in Girona – a friend turned spy, since Girona was held by Lord Ramos de Soto, never a friend of the Escobars, nor of the Ortegas. Three days earlier, Lord de Soto had gone riding on his favorite new-breed horse, from his efforts to breed something more suitable for a caballero than the plodding monsters ubiquitous to the Refuge. On a cracked and uneven piece of the hill street sloping from the castle to the town square, the horse had gone berserk. The lord had held on well while it reared, but was thrown when it bucked, and then trampled to death. The horse hadn’t been put down, though, because it seemed to have been trampling things only it could see – and it was a valuable horse

“So”, Ortega said, feeling wounded inside. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a message written days earlier, then called for the runner stationed outside his office. “Take this to the Inn of the Red Ham, and give it to the Steward of Rooms – only to him.” The Regent smiled. “He’ll have a silver sueldo for you – keep it.”

There was no address on the outside, though the boy in his mid-teens wouldn’t have read it anyway; he knew he was better off not knowing, just running where he was sent.

Manuel Augusto Ortega sighed. He’d wracked his brain for days, seeking a way out of the decision he knew was inevitable. The assassins would either work for him or for someone else, so he had to have them work for him; it was that simple. Still, it left a bitter taste in his mouth, and his heart. Perhaps, he thought, if the Heir pronounces it well done, I may feel absolved.....



The gates fell. Rigel allowed himself a feeling of satisfaction; that was three of Bilbao’s five gates. Each ruined gate meant more enemy soldiers committed to holding it. Each enemy soldier committed to holding a gate was one less on the walls, or one less patrolling the streets. “The streets are the key”, he murmured, picturing things inside.

Hunger staked those streets. The garrison, under Lord Amador, was well-fed, for the lord’s own troops had seized all food supplies once it became obvious the harvest wasn’t going to come in. There had been one riot already, put down brutally. Reports via Miguel and the Rangers said the town was ready to explode; all it needed was a light for its short fuse.

He swung up on Tornado and rode with the gun wagon, an interesting device two of the smiths had devised: it had a platform that lowered to the ground; the gu8n carriage was then winched on, the platform raised, and then on four huge wheels the wagon rolled off, much easier to move than the gun itself. Why they hadn’t just put the gun on its own huge wheels he didn’t understand, but so long as it worked, he didn’t care.

The first shot from the new position went high and wide. “Foul ball!” Austin called. In spite of how often he’d already said that, Rigel still laughed. He wondered what it would take to make a bat large and strong enough to send the massive rock flying back at them. This ball crashed into a three-floor building and sent rubble tumbling down. The second shot hit the right-hand tower above the gate; faint screams told it had struck more than stone. The third shot was dead on the right hand gate, the fourth high and near center. Satisfied, the chief gunner began walking his fire back and forth across the gate, pummeling the structure, shaking loose any bolts, cracking planks and braces. Three hours later, the left side gate spun – or the top half did, twisting and flying free into the entry space beyond. Two more shots made a ruin of that side.

Their supply of powder was being strained; the cannon used it faster than the camp made it. So Chen had come up with what followed: he and two Rangers had crept within sling distance of the gate; now they rose up and flung two fat bottles of oil apiece onto the wood remnants of the gate. The cannon slammed another rock into the gatehouse, inhibiting enemy archers from doing their work. Three fire arrows followed the oil, and soon the gate was ablaze. The chief gunner waited twenty minutes before putting two more shots into the mess; the remnants collapsed and became a bonfire.

At the last gate they’d reduced, Oran and four Rangers repeated the process, except two fire arrows went just seconds after the oil; they didn’t have a cannon to do suppressive fire. A Ranger was hit by an arrow as they ran, but he didn’t even slow; soon enough they were clear of arrow range. “Wish we had marshmallows”, Oran quipped, then realized no one who would understand that was close enough to hear. He didn’t try to explain to the two Rangers who looked at him in puzzlement, but said, “Note to self: tell Ryan to invent marshmallows”.


Shortly after midnight, their three trebuchets went into action. Rangers slipping into the city had spread the word: at half-moon, be awake. So when the barrels of bread and bundles of long knives crashed into the city, the people who had listened were ready; eager hands snatched up bread and knives both. By the time the lord’s soldiers had gotten there, all that was left were a few splinters – broken barrels made good firewood, and cord was always useful.

The next day they destroyed the fifth gate, then moved around to smash the hastily-rebuilt first one. Both were set afire, then the second. In each gate, a makeshift wall arose, with plenty of soldiers behind. Lord Amador knew that by ths time his forces were spread thinly enough the attackers could capture a gate and the walls almost any time; that he didn’t baffled and confused the straightforward, brute-force thinking of his mind.

The cannon kept firing, no less often than ninety minutes apart, no closer than twenty. It kept the besieging force from being bored, and kept the enemy annoyed.

Again at half-moon, the trebuchets fired. This time, their loads were skins of wine, padded by bread, and small crossbows, also padded by bread.

So when eighty minutes later Rangers lobbed oil and fire arrows into the gates, and Captain Aodh led the charge, the city was already beginning to riot, and the defenders had no reserves. Aodh was second atop the wall, beaten by a mute Escobar boy carrying their banner. Both were wounded; neither was stopped, and their men swarmed after them.

At the fourth gate, the oil had been mixed with water; the blaze died down quickly. Leftenant Heueil led that charge, right through dying flames. With the smoke and flames for cover, surprise was complete, and they swept over the opposition. Centurion Blue’s men seized the gatehouse, so that by the time Rigel got there with the First, he rode through with no more opposition than smoke and some dust.



“I can’t call you assassins, or... whatever your name has been”, Ortega stated. “What shall we name you?”

“Las sombras”, the Hood, no longer hooded, replied. “We are the Shadows of House Escobar. And we have this rule: unless I send someone, you will know no face but mine, and no names at all.”

Ortega thought about it. Other lords would have objected immediately; he examined the idea. After several minutes he nodded. “If we do not know you, we cannot betray you if tortured..”

“Just so. I am called ‘Hood’.” Ortega was startled, but chuckled. Hood joined him in that. “Another rule: in killings, we reserve the right to say – not, ‘No’, but rather ‘Not now’. We know this business, we know how often one may kill and in what manner before suspicion will grow. If suspicion grows, we are at risk; if at risk, we must go to burrow; from burrow, we are of no use to you.”

“That makes sense”, Ortega granted. “I’d rather not do much killing, anyway. And when you do, I definitely don’t want details. Like this horse accident – I could spend days trying to figure out how it was done, to get a horse to throw and trample its rider in a way that looked totally innocent, and then I would want to ask you. If I know you’re not going to tell me, then my curiosity will die quickly and I won’t waste time over the matter. So an order from this side: unless you see a reason to, never tell how it was done.”

Hood smiled, his first real smile. “That is another rule. You learn this quickly. Here is another one: when the Heir is seated, he will not know who we are. You are our contact. His hands must be free of this.”

Ortega felt his burden grow; he had so wanted to pass this on! But this, too, made sense. “I will tell him only that a man came to me saying he could put eyes and ears in many places, in his service, but the man deals only with me.” He glared at Hood for a moment. “You know you have just stolen my hoped-for peaceful years.”

Hood chuckled. “Lord Ortega, I know you better than that: you would have been dissatisfied with ‘peaceful years’. It is in your nature to want to accomplish things. This, at least, you may accomplish from peaceful, pleasant surroundings, without need to face blood or sweat or tears.”

“It remains to be seen how peaceful they will be.”

“Your years? I assure you, they will be peaceful. If necessary, I will order certain actions without your knowledge – but you and the Heir will be safe.” The passion was incredible.

Ortega had no response.



“Lord Amador.”

The young man in exquisite armor stared at Osvaldo coldly. “Lord Heir Amador. My uncle took his life last night. I call you murderer.”

Rigel stepped forward. “Your uncle took his own life – the blood is on his hands. He had declared his loyalty to men in rebellion against the Prince Heir. The Prince Heir acted lawfully by freeing this city from a rebel’s grasp.” His voice had started cold and hard, but changed.
“Your choice now is whether to pledge your loyalty to the proper line of House Escobar, or be counted a rebel. What your uncle did to himself isn’t important to that. The only thing important is whether you will throw your life after his.”

Young Amador glared at Rigel, but under the latter’s unwavering gaze, looked away. Silence reigned for over a minute, then he looked back. “Give me a day.” He looked beyond the plaza in front of his castle. “And repair my city.” He turned and left them, withdrawing into the castle.

“He has a fair complaint there”, Rigel said before Osvaldo engaged in anything like a tantrum. “It was our troops who set fires and tore down buildings.”

Osvaldo subsided. “I blame your Captain Aodh, then, friend Rigel. The men follow him.”

Rigel nodded. “Except for my few, this army looks to him. So – let’s find the man.”

Aodh was at the town cathedral, chasing soldiers out. He was outnumbered, and while the men were exiting, they were taking loot with them. “Good thing I brought the First along”, Rigel commented to Osvaldo. “First Rifles, form line”, he ordered softly. That took four seconds. “The First will advance.” Leftenant Jarlan passed on orders. Rigel led, half a length ahead of the line. “Stay back”, he instructed the Prince Heir. “If anyone’s going to get hurt, it shouldn’t be you.” Austin, though, stayed with his lord.

Tornado nearly kicked a man laughing over whatever he had in his hands. The man cursed, looked up – and froze. As Rigel urged Tornado slowly forward, the man backed up, bumping into another. It became a chain reaction, and as men turned and saw Rigel and the First, quiet spread. The quiet itself drew attention; within two thirds of a minute, motion and noise had ceased.

Rigel stood in his stirrups and let the silence deepen. He didn’t know how many men were in the cathedral – some fifty had come out – so he didn’t wait long. “All of you who were in the cathedral”, he said conversationally, “should have been there to pray. When you go to church, you give an offering. Now, if any of you happened to take something instead, please go back and return it. When you come out, I will have some of you searched. If anyone has anything from the cathedral, I will then have everyone searched. Anyone carrying something that belongs back in the church... will be on latrine duty for the next month.” His tone when he finished was very much like if he’d said, “There will be a potluck after church, with chocolate cake.”

About half the men started moving immediately. More moved as companions “suggested” they return things they’d taken. On the right side of the cathedral steps, and argument ended in four men holding a fifth while two other searched him. A half dozen appointed themselves inspectors; they searched each other, then every man who came out of the cathedral.

It was Austin who heard the whimpering. “Rigel, someone’s crying!” He didn’t wait, just rode Titanium up the steps and into the narthex and on into the nave. The building had pews, so he abandoned his horse and went on foot.

“You’re not going with him?” Osvaldo asked.

Rigel smiled and shook his head. “No, he’ll handle this, whatever it is. If he needs help, he can holler.” Osvaldo asked his question with his eyes and brows. “He’s going to be a knight, Osvaldo. He has to do things on his own someday. I don’t think there are any assassins hiding in there, so he may as well do it on his own.” Osvaldo nodded.

“Block that movement”, Jarlan called, pointing with his saber at men at the edge of the crowd who were edging away. The two riflemen at the end of the line moved that way, and told the men to stop. When one objected, the rifleman flipped the reversed bayonet off the muzzle and snapped it back on, adding half a meter in length to his weapon, never taking his eyes off the man. That one and the others swallowed hard, and backed up.

Austin came running from the cathedral, visibly angry. Now, Rigel decided, was the moment assistance might be good.

“Raped?” he asked when Austin delivered his report. The squire nodded. Rigel grabbed Aodh. “Is the Sixth here?”

“In the counting house – some money boxes were spilled before I could stop it.”

“Captain, your men are fine in camp, but out here they need more discipline”, Rigel said, his voice dangerous. “Until they have it, you will conduct no more operations. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. For now, get the Sixth over here. No man leaves this square.” He watched the young Captainl leave, then grabbed at a man just coming out of the church.

“Are you a good actor?” Rigel asked. “There’s silver in it for you.”

“What am I acting?”

“You’re innocent of hiding anything, but my squire thinks you did, and I’m stopping an argument between you. Can you do that?”

The man nodded and swore at Austin as his answer. Austin grinned and yelled back. When he got a yell in return, Austin reached to try to search him. The man backed up. He kept backing until he came against a half-column in the wall, then pushed Austin. Rigel strode over then and separated the two.

Most of the eyes in the square were watching them. Very few saw the Sixth come out of the counting house, bayonets fixed. Those who did remained silent.

“Something is missing”, Aodh declared as loudly as he could. His voice cracked from nervousness. “No one may leave until this matter is corrected.” He nodded to his men before jogging to join Rigel. “What’s really happening?” he asked.

“Just stay here”, Rigel ordered. “Pretend you’re keeping this man here. Oh – and give him a sueldo when we come back out.”

“That was mean”, Austin said.

“Think of it as a fine for poor discipline.”

“He got off easy”, Rigel’s squire responded.

“I’m not done with him yet.” They’d gotten a half dozen rows up the nave. “Where’s this girl?” Austin’s reply was to lead the way; two more rows and a left turn, into a half-domed side chapel set apart by heavy hangings.

She was on the floor in a ball, shaking and sobbing quietly. Austin went and touched her shoulder. “My lord Rigel is here. Please tell him what happened.”

The girl, perhaps fifteen, practically exploded into Austin’s arms, her sobs growing louder as she felt safe. Rigel didn’t touch her, just waited. “Tell him”, Austin repeated.

Rigel was impressed by the way she pulled herself together, adjusted her hair, and settled her breathing. He gave her a small, reassuring smile, barely enough to move his lips, but enough to be seen. “I am Valentina Raquel Espinoza”, she said. “My father works at the counting house. Some days I come with him, and while he counts, I come to pray.
“Men were coming in, rough men, so I came to the chapel of San Valentin. Two came in and found me by the altar, kneeling. One grabbed me roughly, the other laughed. Then the laughing one... dropped his pants. While he was on me, another came, then two more. Two only held me, or stood keeping others out. Three... had me. Then they took the candlesticks and other things and left.”

“Could you identify the men?” Rigel asked gently. He wished she didn’t have to go through this, but how else was he to find the rapists?”

“I can.” She bit her lip so hard it bled. “But now I am ruined. My father will throw me out.”

“I’ll take care of you!” Austin exclaimed valiantly. She looked at him dubiously, then at Rigel.

Rigel chuckled. “He’s my squire. He can afford to take care of you. And he’ll probably be very good at it.” He stood and offered his hand.

“I’ll show you the side way”, she suggested, taking it and rising. “So you won’t scare them away. You do have them all in the square, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do”, Rigel answered, thinking that if Austin were straight, this girl would make him an excellent wife. For that matter, he realized suddenly, Austin might do well to have a wife, for appearances in the two Spanish societies. And maybe the British one, he added.

As they came out the door of the sacristy, off the transept, Rigel nearly laughed for his luck: not a block away was Hedraing, apparently heading for the square. Rigel whistled loudly; it drew the Druid’s attention. Hedraing came jogging over; Rigel wondered how well that worked in those robes.

“I was looking for you”, Hedraing stated when he got close.

“That’s a good thing”, Rigel responded, “because I could use your help. Let’s take care of my matter first.”

Valentina peered around the lavishly carved corner of the cathedral. In under five seconds she had found her attackers. “There”, she pointed for Rigel. “The hairy one, the square-faced one, and the unshaved one – he has a finger missing. They did it. The round one and the blocky one just held me and watched the curtain.”

Rigel whistled, Austin following suit a moment later. Tornado and Titanium came trotting from the cathedral to them. They mounted mostly out of sight; Rigel made sure no one could see when he lifted Valentina up behind him. “Stay hidden”, he cautioned. Men would know something was out of the ordinary just because they’d gone in the narthex and come out on this side, but he didn’t want them to know just what was up until he was ready.

“Rifleman Cruz”, he called, recognizing one of the replacements in the Sixth. “I require help – no, I’ll come to you.” The subterfuge got them almost all the way there; less than a horse length away, the unshaved one of the three caught sight of a girl’s leg bounce on the saddle as Tornado sidestepped a hole. He turned to run.

Rifleman Dalen of the First had been ready for anything; he knew his lord well enough to recognize a subterfuge. His rifle was loose and ready; he swung it now from the muzzle, and swatted the man trying to flee upside the head. The man went down.

Austin didn’t need orders; he put Titanium between the men Valentina had accused and the rest, just as Rigel did the same on the other side. “Everyone else – form ranks!” It struck Rigel that he should have done that to begin with, but hindsight is, after all, a wonderful thing. “You five”, he said coldly, “come along.”

No one expected his swift judgment. Quite simply, Valentina gripped Hedraing’s staff and made her accusation. Each of the five in turn gripped the staff and made their statements. The two who hadn’t raped her had the courage to admit what they’d done; the other two denied it, and the unshaven man was unconscious.

“Wake him”, Rigel told Hedraing impatiently. It took only a touch from the Druid. Unshaven got his turn at the staff; he admitted his guilt, but swore the others had made him do it.

“I find you guilty as accused”, Rigel pronounced from his saddle. “Captain Aodh – you recruited them; you do the honors. I think that” – he changed his mind at the last moment, rejecting the oak – “fir tree will serve the purpose.”

Aodh looked miserable and ashamed, but he did his duty efficiently: three ropes, three nooses, three branches, three horses, and a swat to three rumps. There was a crack! as one neck broke. The other two hung there struggling briefly.

“You two”, Rigel said to the remaining prisoners. “You didn’t actually rape her, so I won’t hang you.” He looked over the sixty-plus men standing in ranks at attention, and an idea came.

“Men! Who has a sister, or a daughter? Raise a hand.” All but four men responded. “Those who raised a hand, form a line.” That took a minute, but he let it; while they were lining up, his two prisoners were getting terrified, imagining all sorts fo things a line of men might do.

“Here’s how it will be”, Rigel told the two. “Listen!” he called to the men. “These two held a girl so she could be raped. Each of you, think of the sister or daughter you love best. When each of these men comes to you, hit him the way you would if the girl had been yours.”

One of the men collapsed on the ground. “Fainted”, a rifleman Rigel don’t know said after kneeling to shake him.

“He’ll wake up once he gets hit”, Rigel responded. “Hold him up for the first one.”

“Yes, sir!” The reply was eager. “Sorry, lord – but I have a sister her age.” Rigel understood, and just nodded.

When it was done, Rigel rode two blocks, stopped by a deep gutter, and threw up.


Gavin was furious. “I’ll be weeks putting them back to wholeness!”

“Don’t”, Rigel ordered. “Only fix the serious things. If it will heal right by itself, leave it. Gavin, they held her while their friends raped a girl! I want them to remember that long enough that if they’re ever in that situation again, they’ll defend the girl – not just stay out of it, but defend her.”

No one had told Gavin that part. “I don’t want to touch them”, he said now.

“Do it”, Rigel snapped. “Crippling isn’t part of the punishment – just be sure they’ll heal right.”


Rita say down at the table by Rigel, who was staring at food he hadn’t touched. “You need something else to think about”, she said.

“Like what?” he mumbled.

“Try this.” She placed the book Earl Dennishire had given her in front of him, shoving his place aside. She’d made sandwiches in the kitchen; a plate of those took the place of his dessert.

Rigel took it. “A book – so?”

Rita laughed lightly. “Rigel, Earl Dennishire gave it to me. You remember, the British lord with the Scottish name? He said you need to know them.” She repressed the impulse to reach out and help him. “Look, that’s a ‘travel jacket’, to protect the book while it’s jouncing around in a saddlebag. Open – that’s it”, she concluded when Rigel saw what she meant and figured out how to slip the book itself from its protection.

“Account of Lost Britain, from the Boarding”, he read, “by Sir Ralph Bennington – and some titles, I guess. Looks sorta new.” He ran his fingers over the cover. “Embossed – nice.” Tilting it made the design plainer: a sailing ship with three decks of guns against a cracked background, the bow of the ship shattering on dry land as the back rode majestically on a wavy sea.

He looked up. “That’s what it means – from the time they got on the ship to... to when they were Snatched!” He looked at the book in growing excitement. “To read someone else’s story....!”

“So open it, silly”, Rita suggested.

Rigel did. The first page inside had a dedication. He read it, and looked at Rita in shock. “What... that’s... holy frak. You read this already, didn’t you? Is it some kind of joke?”

“Who would play it?” she asked softly. “No, Rigel, it’s real. Read the book, and you’ll see.”

He looked back down at the inscription:

For the Grand Duke of Virginia
at Monticello,
Edward Thomas Jefferson
1777 - 184?

 

[Críostóir]

So the English aren't from our universe. ETJ was never Grand Duke of VA in our reality, as far as I know.

Good chapter. It's nice that Rigel isn't infallible. The next time someone commits rape, he'll slash the girl's throat instead of letting her live. Such are the consequences of making the punishment for rape equal to that for murder.

Oh, the Druids can convict; but without a living witness to identify the perps in the first place, who will they question? Everyone? Major civil rights fail.

This will cause trouble in the future. That's good, because it makes the story better!

Aodh grew his army too quickly. That's OK, since I don't like that guy.

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli,
That was certainly an epic chapter of John Wayne WWII proportions.

I tend to disagree with Críostóir re: the fact that the rapists will just kill the girl next time. Knowing that the Druid will be able to ferret out the truth, and this is a Just Monarchy, not a Representative Republic, ALL can be questioned, and the guilty WILL be found and punished - perhaps "treated" to some good old fashioned torture to punish them before they are sent to their maker.

Making the punishment meet the crime is Just. Rape is a horrific crime, and one not tolerated in their society.

I like their siege tactics - attack the defenses from without to draw the soldiers in and off the walls, while infiltrating to spread word to the discontented, downtrodden surfs, then trebuchet in food and arms for an internal revolt to press against the soldiers and unjust lords.

The Leftenant has certainly amassed a Full Bird Colonel's staff - if not a 1 Star General's. They are training hard, but some of the volunteers are sadly lacking in the moral training, yet, as witnessed by the above. It is sad that the rape and plunder were happening - the mindset of traditional conquerors.

But all are being given a good, hard lesson as a result.

And yes, even the Leftenant cum Captain has a lesson coming.

It's good to hear from you. I was starting to get worried about you.

 

[Kulindahr]

So the English aren't from our universe. ETJ was never Grand Duke of VA in our reality, as far as I know.

There wasn't a Grand Duke of Virginia, and Edward Jefferson was stillborn. On such variations do realities diverge.

BTW, it's "British". Didn't you pay attention to the Earl's name back there? He would strenuously object to being called "English"!

Good chapter. It's nice that Rigel isn't infallible. The next time someone commits rape, he'll slash the girl's throat instead of letting her live. Such are the consequences of making the punishment for rape equal to that for murder.

IIRC in the old Uniform Code of Military Justice hanging was the penalty for murder, rape, and piracy. So the next time there's a rape, if he can find the perpetrators, he'll do the same thing -- quick and dead.

As a certain famous general once said, the military is no democracy, nor even a Republic.

And apart from that, Rigel's instincts were correct: demonstrate to the men that deviation from the function of the army being to protect people, not to randomly harm them, and you'll have a more civilized army. Let them run as they please, and all you have is a horde of human locusts.

Oh, the Druids can convict; but without a living witness to identify the perps in the first place, who will they question? Everyone? Major civil rights fail.

A society gets the morals it can afford, but only if misbehavior is punished.

At any rate, I think a Druid is an improvement over lie detectors....

And again, this is the military; further, he doesn't have time to allow the impression that people can get away with rape. Civil rights do not apply.

This will cause trouble in the future. That's good, because it makes the story better!

Aodh grew his army too quickly. That's OK, since I don't like that guy.

Yes, he grew it too quickly -- without quality control, without any more screening than "Will you fight on our side?" It's a failing of character, but also a failing of preparation: his only training was to be a leftenant. Of course we already know he has a few other character flaws.

 

[Kulindahr]

Kuli,
That was certainly an epic chapter of John Wayne WWII proportions.

I tend to disagree with Críostóir re: the fact that the rapists will just kill the girl next time. Knowing that the Druid will be able to ferret out the truth, and this is a Just Monarchy, not a Representative Republic, ALL can be questioned, and the guilty WILL be found and punished - perhaps "treated" to some good old fashioned torture to punish them before they are sent to their maker.

It's also the military, which is really more important.
But a certain part of Rigel's instinct is that there hasn't been any real war in Refuge, with a few small exceptions, and now that there is, he doesn't want the soldiers developing bad habits at the start.

I like their siege tactics - attack the defenses from without to draw the soldiers in and off the walls, while infiltrating to spread word to the discontented, downtrodden surfs, then trebuchet in food and arms for an internal revolt to press against the soldiers and unjust lords.

I didn't get it written in, but the original idea was to merely alleviate the hunger imposed by the lord who had almost all the food seized for the garrison. But then the thought that they might be grateful, besides having anger against those who were starving them...

The Leftenant has certainly amassed a Full Bird Colonel's staff - if not a 1 Star General's. They are training hard, but some of the volunteers are sadly lacking in the moral training, yet, as witnessed by the above. It is sad that the rape and plunder were happening - the mindset of traditional conquerors.

But all are being given a good, hard lesson as a result.

And yes, even the Leftenant cum Captain has a lesson coming.

Without sound military tradition and codes of honor, armies throughout history have tended toward rape, pillage, plunder, and setting fires. Rigel and/or Osvaldo is going to be facing a serious problem when they realize they have an actual army, not just levees, and nothing binding them except a common enemy and harsh discipline.

And Aodh of course had no clue about such things. I sometimes think he needs to be shipped back to Ryan in a box to put through more training... but Tanner is there, now, and can perhaps do something.