- Joined
- Jan 15, 2006
- Posts
- 122,863
- Reaction score
- 4,153
- Points
- 113
201
Delivery
Delivery
Rigel turned and stared back at the tower they were leaving behind. It was Kevin MacNeil’s work, he was sure: at the first and second camps out from what had become Fort Winchester that his great expedition south had left, the Lost British had strengthened the defenses, added barracks, and raised tall towers – watchtowers, to see if anything moved, but also signal towers, high places from which to watch for signals from patrols. The people holding these positions and laboring to turn them into defensible forts were optimistic, an attitude engendered by the fact that three days before Rigel had landed back in the cove where they’d first “met” the Sea, word had come of another attack on the Wall – where humans had triumphed. This time, the number of Aliens that had reached the top could be counted on two hands, and the humans lost on one. The only real concern had been that the Aliens had tried something new: annoyed – or whatever emotion Aliens had – by the devastating fire of ships close in along the shore, they’d used their own bodies, Alien gripping Alien, to form a bridge to reach Howe’s flagship. Rear Admiral Lord Howe had shown them what oil floating on the water can do when a little Greek fire hit the Aliens closest to his vessel. They’d tried again on the other side of the peninsula, but Signals had done their job well; the same tactic yielded the same crisped, blackened shells floating on the surface. Those shells had provided the ships’ Marines an opportunity for practice: hitting an Alien husk bobbing on the sea with a rifle, from the rigging of a moving warship, made entertaining sport.
Twice as many Aliens had struck, but the Wall had boasted a complete garrison this time, with solid reserves – and there weren’t any gaps to need filling with ships’ timbers. The towers behind the wall, with their cannon, had thinned the numbers of enemy enough that the defenders on the wall could stop and think between actions, a fact that increased their effectiveness threefold, according to General McCutcheon.
“They’ll just keep coming”, Rigel muttered. “They won’t stop.”
Rita shook her head. “They know that, silly. That’s why Shelby and Woodman are beginning to raise the Wall.”
“And put another, higher one behind it”, Rigel recalled. “And during the winter, to make the ground in front of the Wall into a maze of pits and traps.” He grinned bleakly. “And Ravi got them designing land mines.” His inner vision showed an unrelenting assault by the Foe, wave after wave, each bigger, and a never-ending battle by the Lost British to keep strengthening the fortifications. If it went on, they’d lose. He patted the sword at his side: that was where he came in, to change the war by attacking the Foe, instead of waiting for them. Do nothing but react to the enemy, and you have already lost, the familiar inner voice declared.
“And you’re amazed they’re putting forts out here, using our camps”, Rita asserted, “even though it makes good sense.”
“They’ve done nothing but hide for so long.... Now suddenly they’re energized.”
“But it could all collapse”, Rita responded. “And that’s why you’re worried – their Queen doesn’t have enough solid support; lose one tower, one fort, and they could retreat back to their islands.”
Riding beside them, Sir Wade Appleway nodded, but said nothing. He and three companions had been dropped on Rigel just before departure, emissaries “from one kingdom to another”, Kevin MacNeil’s letter had stated. More annoying to Rigel than the fact that he now supposedly had a kingdom was that the young noble carried dispatches for Rigel which he wasn’t to hand over until some moment Appleway wouldn’t specify. Rigel was infuriated every time he looked at the dispatch case, at the fact that here he was, the head of that supposed kingdom, but the emissary traveling with him wouldn’t hand over the letters! So he’d stopped looking, and Sir Wade, in abundant consideration, had covered the dispatch bag with a waterproof leather, then set his own travel gear on top.
Waterproof was becoming a general consideration, too. They’d had a few showers, and while the night before had brought snow, Anaph was certain that at least one big wet storm, well-supplied with lightning and thunder, was coming before snow took over for the season. And as things went, they’d be days from the Constant Hills and shelter when it arrived. That refuge was still twenty days ahead, if they stuck to the camps from the trek south – not that Rigel intended to. “Austin, I don’t like that streak of cloud over there. Pass the word to be ready in case it gets wet.”
Rain smacked Devon in the nose as he glared at the sky. To the east blue sky reigned, sunshine lighting the rolling savanna; to the west, white clouds sailed a deeper blue, but above his caravan a raft of dark grey plowed along, a finger out of the southwest. “All right”, he growled, “the wagons get their rest. Circle ‘em around, tent up, and – crap, rebuild the things if needed. I don’t feel like traveling in the rain, and I won’t feel like traveling on wet ground.” He stared at the sky like it was a personal insult. “I wonder if Rigel’s out in this.”
Seven eager faces looked at Oran. “Don deLambert, please speak with us, without Don Antonio.”
Oran noted Caval among them, but no Guillermo. “Okay, but stop with the ‘deLambert’ thing. I’m Oran. Caval, let’s get Guillermo started on his riding lesson first.”
The d’Aragon horseman wasn’t alone. Cristobal stood beside him facing a group of six, patiently running them through basics of riding. Oran smiled – not only had Guillermo blossomed into a real rider since his morning of nude riding, but now Cristobal seemed to be stepping up to be an instructor. The Scout let his former-Quistador friend finish his list before interrupting to call him over. “Guillermo, you know those – drill these fellows”, Cristobal directed before joining Oran.
“Where’d the six come from?” Oran asked.
Cristobal rolled his eyes. “They were with Guillermo at the horses. They thought they could each have one. I told them no. You weren’t here, so I started them on the foundations so they wouldn’t fidget.” He used the English word, though speaking in Spanish; Antonio had used it a few days earlier and Cristobal seemed to like it.
“Works for me”, Oran responded. “Since you’re teaching, keep doing it – you can tell, Guillermo can show. I have to talk to some people.” Curiosity poked up. “Why are they here all of a sudden?”
Cristobal grinned. “Guillermo is like a hero now, after he went loco and rode naked. One Elder said riding was given him as a gift. Many d’Aragon think the idea is exciting. Some wanted to learn. Six got picked by their elders.”
Oran chuckled. “Good thing they limited it. Okay, if anybody argues, tell ‘em I said you can use blankets and saddles to practice. Have fun.” Cristobal saluted, fist to chest, and Oran returned it with the British palm out, index finger knuckle to eyebrow version Chen had taught the Scouts.
Caval introduced his friends once they’d settled in a back room of the inn. The third, a slender, dark-looking fellow who looked a little like a picture of a gaunt Don Quixote Oran remembered, with the very Spanish-sounding name Inigo, spoke up the moment introductions were over. “Don Oran, Don Antonio will take us north, yes?”
That was something Antonio didn’t want known yet. Oran wasn’t surprised someone had made the connection, though. “Why would he do that?” he asked, stalling.
“You cannot deny you come from the north!” another protested. Oran remembered his name as Velix. “Don Antonio and his lancers, they look like the old pictures! You are Conquistadors!”
Oran shook his head. “No, we’re not Conquistadors. That’s a long story, though.” Better to let things out than be accused of hiding anything, he decided. “But we live not too far from where they are. Don Antonio is almost a neighbor to them.”
“An independent lord!” one called Mirin exclaimed softly. “I knew it – I knew no Conquistador would come after us!”
“Or if they had, they’d have slaughtered us the moment they did”, Inigo commented. “Oran, in truth, is Don Antonio an independent lord?”
Oran chuckled. “Independent, no. Independent of the Quistadors – that’s what they call themselves – yes.” They stared. Obviously that was a thought that hadn’t occurred to them. Oran decided to push it. “He serves the same lord I do – I’m more Don Antonio’s ally, really.” Again they stared, internal visions jerking and changing to adapt.
Mirin was skeptical. “Where are your retainers, if you are his ally?”
Oran grinned. “I don’t travel with retainers. I’m a Scout. Except for some companions, I work best alone.” Moments later, he was giving a description of what a Scout did, and was capable of. He saw no reason to hold back – except for the ability to communicate over distances, and the partnerships with the great Cats. They were enthralled by tales of Scout exploits, though each was edited to give no impression of how far away it had been or where. Mention of the Celts brought excitement, but Oran refused to say more.
“How long did you travel, coming here?” demanded Velix. “You hide things from us.”
Oran nodded. “Yes, I’m hiding things. I’m not Antonio’s vassal, but he’s in command of this expedition. He hasn’t told me I can let you know how far we came, or a lot of other things.” He wondered what he’d tell them if it was up to him, and realized he couldn’t even imagine that – even if he’d been in charge, he had Rigel to answer to, but even if there hadn’t been Rigel, he had to protect everyone else It felt like being on the cross-country team, where you didn’t make choices however you pleased, you always made decisions for the best for the team, even if it was whether to have a second piece of cake the night before an afternoon race. “So while I could tell you how many steps I’ve taken and strides I’ve run to get here, I won’t, until he says it’s good.”
Caval leaned forward. “But he didn’t just happen to come here. You and don Antonio came looking for us – only that makes sense.”
“All the Elders have thought through to there”, Mirin added. “We were first, I believe – but all wait to learn your true reason for coming.”
“Yes!” Velix agreed. “The Ronams are certain you have Ronam blood, but all can see you look like Conquistadors. So why are you here?”
Oran sighed. “Yeah, we came looking for you. Antonio has... an obligation. He just wants to learn enough to make sure he gets it right.” They nodded at that: the whole atmosphere of the town focused on getting things right; it was a major reason behind all the ceremony.
“And you will not speak to us of this obligation”, Caval concluded. “So, we will not ask. Thank you for speaking with us.” The meeting broke up, but Caval and Mirin stuck with Oran. They stopped on the street corner, the two of them facing him quite serious.
“I believe don Antonio seeks the heir to the d’Aragon name here”, Caval related softly. “You have already met him, and the one who stands next after him. Oran, he must speak soon.”
“The d’Aragon meet in four days”, Mirin informed Oran. “If he wishes, I will claim time for him to speak.”
Velix motioned the others close. “Don Antonio will speak – don Oran believes so. There is time – run, we four, to Fevona, Irbottu, Garovib, and Lelejuhan, to bring others to hear him. I run most rapidly, so I will go to Lelejuhan.” The four gripped hands, much like players in a sport in a huddle. When they broke contact, they left at a jog.
Oran took heart from the presence of Tepocah and two other Haudenosaunee. Their knowledge of the People of Peace might make the difference. What Antonio was trying was a risk, but they’d all agreed it was the right thing to do – whether the town would agree was an open question.
As on all previous mornings, they approached mounted, with their escort of lancers who went through their salute and withdrawal. It was common enough that the number of townspeople coming to watch had shrunk to a handful, but this day it was again a crowd waiting to watch the spectacle. Accustomed to the different divisions of the Peaceful, Oran saw at a glance that the assembly was almost all d’Aragon: clearly, they expected something. And why not? This was the day when Antonio would address their gathering – word had gotten out -- so maybe they hoped for something different. Well, they’d get that!
It was the same, now monotonous ceremony, right up until the question about metal. Antonio didn’t say a thing; instead, he solemnly undid the binding on a leather rain cover on Muskatel’s side, and took out the bundle underneath. Oran caught the soft leather wrapping as Antonio rolled the sheath, then the Scout stepped back. Antonio turned to face the Gate watcher. “I have this”, he said, and brought out the Sword of d’Aragon in its leather cover.
“A blade! You know you may bring no weapon within – leave your metal outside!”
Antonio lifted the relic of Earth higher, drawing it a handspan, turning it a little to catch the early sunlight. He looked up at the steel, wondering again if the hand that had forged it in ancient Toledo had been in his own world, or a parallel. With a soft smile the Hunter lowered it again, held upright now before his face. “Friend watcher, it is not my metal”, he declared firmly. “It belongs to one within.”
A man stepped forward beside the watcher, a Roman by dress. “You brought it with you! How can it belong to one here?”
“Because it belonged to his ancestor”, Antonio explained patiently. “It was the blade of the one who sent his people south for safety, and remained to keep their going a secret. Now it belongs to his heir – and his heir is here.” Excitement started stirring among the d’Aragon crowd. Antonio lifted it high again. “It is the sword of the House of d’Aragon. I brought it here to give it to its rightful owner.” He caught the eyes of the Roman, then of the watcher at the Gate. “And I will take it in, and return it to its House”.
