The Protector's War (67 page)

“I hope this works,” he grated; there was a cut on one cheek, dripping blood into the short brown beard that covered his jaw. “I lost better'n a dozen good men.”

“Cost of doing business, Sheriff,” Arminger said. Then he chuckled: “And now…what a disappointment this is going to be for our Native American brethren. Yet another bitter blow of fate; how tragic.”

He waved his sword around his head, and then pointed it forward. A bugle sounded. The entire force broke into a trot forward, pouring over the hillcrest in a line six hundred yards long, spears bristling out, giving a long wordless shout as they halted again. The black banner with the lidless eye reared upright beside Norman Arminger, streaming backward from its crossbar.

The whooping of the Indian war band turned to screams, but even their light horses took a moment to halt when the whole hundreds-strong mass was in full gallop. A few arrows flickered out at the Protectorate troops, but an instant later the front rank of crossbowmen knelt to a barked command and their stubby weapons came up to the shoulder.

Tunggggg!

The short, heavy, pile-headed bolts flashed over the hundred yards in a multiple blurred streak. When they hit they hammered home until only their vanes showed, slamming through cloth and light armor alike.

“Reload! Second rank, take aim! Fire!”

Tunnnggg!

The kneeling crossbowmen of the first rank dropped the hooks of their spanners over the strings of their weapons and spun the cranks as the second fired over their heads. The war party ahead was in chaos, some trying to turn their mounts and get through the press to their rear, others charging, more struggling to control their bucking mounts, and then the standing rank of crossbows shot.

Tunnnggg!

“Reload! First rank, take aim!”

Tunnnggg!

Arminger grinned like something that came hungry out of a forest deep in winter, raised his sword again and made a gesture. Over on the right of the line the men-at-arms stirred as a bugle rang, bringing their shields up and around to rest under their eyes. Their horses came forward in a line, walk-trot-canter; then the lances came down with a long falling ripple and the riders booted their mounts up into a hand gallop, keeping their dressing to present a line of points. He could hear their hooves drumming on the hard ground, and their deep uniform shout:
“Haro! Portland! Haro for the Lord Protector!”

Their long legs made the big horses fast once they got going, despite the weight of man and gear they carried. There was no crash of impact when they struck the war party's milling chaos—you always expected one, but two parties of horsemen weren't baulks of timber or metal. Instead there was a multiple thudding, massive dull sounds as the eleven-foot lances slammed home, lifting men out of the saddle, many of the ashwood shafts breaking under the strain. A few of the armored men went down as horses tripped or staggered. Many more of the Indians fell, spitted on the lance points or thrown as their lighter mounts were bowled over by the destriers. And the warhorses were trained to stamp on fallen men…

Then the Protector's lancers were through the loose formation of the war party, turning, dropping lances and pulling out their longswords or swinging maces with serrated-steel heads.

I
do
hope the Indians have the sense to run away quickly,
Nigel thought. Lightly equipped, they had no chance at all against full-armored men-at-arms and their tall mounts.
Though if they could get them to chase too far, and scatter, they might give them all the trouble they wanted.

Hordle grunted agreement to the unspoken thought, then shouted: “Look out!”

Another knot of Indians was there, a dozen men seeming to boil up out of the ground—out of a little hollow that ran southeast towards the river, but startling enough all the same. The man leading them had a classic twin-tail feather bonnet fastened over a steel cap, and red-and-white chevrons painted on his face and leather breastplate. Loring slapped his visor down by reflex, and the bright day turned dark except for the long narrow horizontal line of the vision slit. He began turning his head side-to-side automatically, the only way to keep from being blindsided in a melee.

“Guard the Protector!” the commander of his guard shouted.

Shields snapped up around the lord of Portland. Which was commendable discipline and focus, but it left the rest of the party uncomfortably exposed. Hordle drew and shot in one smooth motion; a warrior went back over the crupper of his saddle with an English clothyard shaft through his chest. Then he threw down the yew bow and swept out his longsword, turning the draw into a two-handed swing that chopped through a foreleg and sent the horse tumbling and the rider falling to die screaming at his feet. Two men in leather and paint came in on either side of Loring. There was no time to feel fear, or do anything but let his body respond with drilled reflex; a hatchet bounced off his shield, and the heavy machete saber of the other was still upraised when the wielder ran onto the point of the baronet's sword. Teeth broke, and then the thin bone of the brainpan; he let the falling man's weight pull the weapon free and then cut to the left over his shield with a savage overarm stroke that laid flesh bare to the bone. Another attacker came at him on foot with a light spear in both hands, but Pommers reared and lashed out with his forefeet. The heavy
click
that he felt between his eyes was the destrier's ironshod hooves smashing bone like matchsticks under a hammer.

Sheriff Bauer and the Indian leader in the feathered bonnet circled, steel beating on steel and cracking on hard leather; then Bauer head-butted his opponent when their swords locked at the guards, and the two men fell to the ground in each other's arms—their horses very sensibly bolted out of the press, away from the sound of pain and the stink of blood. The men rolled beneath the hooves of the melee, each with the other's dagger-wrist locked in his hand; dust hid them, and there was a sound like a dog worrying at a bone, a shriek of pain and Bauer came out on top, snarling in triumph with the lower half of his face wet red with blood. He spat something aside and stamped the heel of his boot down half a dozen times, howling with glee and waving his bowie knife overhead.

The sounds of battle died in midscream; nothing was left of the Indian war party but a few fugitives spurring their horses eastward, pursued by crossbow bolts and Bauer's men, their horses rested and their quivers filled. The Protector's lancers regrouped and cantered back to their place on the right of the line, while stretcher-bearers went forward to pick up the wounded men.

Or at least the Protector's wounded men,
Loring amended with distaste as he wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, flicking his visor up.

Spearmen were attending to the wounded Indians.

“That was just dangerous enough to be good sport,” Arminger said; his own sword was out, and red. To Loring: “It isn't beating these range-country rabble that's the problem, it's catching them. Damned hard to make them stand and fight if they don't want to—it's big country out here.”

That disconcerting grin showed again. “I'm not the first overlord of farmers to have that problem, either. It'll get worse, when we get tribes of real nomads who follow their herds and live in tents—but that'll take a generation or so.”

No, it wouldn't do to underestimate this man. I wish I knew more about his enemies, because I suspect we're not going to Tasmania after all. Not via a ship docked in a city the Lord Protector controls, at least.

“Much obliged,” Bauer said to Arminger, casually wiping at his mouth with one hand and spitting to clear it of blood, then picking at something stuck in his teeth. “You killed off better'n half of that bastard's 'chete-swingers. We can beat the rest. I owe you one there…Lord Protector.”

“Think nothing of it,” Arminger said, wiping his sword. “And now,” he went on, “it's time to go look at some nerve gas.”

 

John Hordle swore with soft, venomous fluency as he looked at the strips of treated paper and watched the reagents change color. The green chemical suit covered him from toe to the pig-snouted, goggled mask; the longsword slung over his back jarred horribly with the high-tech survivals.

“There's enough still here in the soil to kill a regiment of rhinos, slow and nasty,” he said after a moment, his voice muffled. “And it's leaking out as vapor all the time. The bastards must have spilled and burnt everything! This land won't be safe for…bugger me blind if I know when it
will
be.”

“Twenty or thirty years,” Nigel Loring said, watching the disposal crew from the
Pride
moving from one bunker to the next, the view dim with the moisture that was fogging the inside of his suit's eyepieces. “Longer if there's a drought and I wouldn't really fancy being a fish close downstream when it does rain at last.”

The landscape they moved through must have been bleak enough at the best of times, a stretch of rolling sagebrush prairie. The bunkers were sunk into the dry, gritty, brown-gray soil, with more dirt heaped over the Quonset hut–shaped roofs; most of them had black scorch marks around their doors, where gasoline had been poured inside and set on fire. Those and the tire tracks on unsurfaced roads were the only marks of man, and there wasn't even the odd bird or jackrabbit to enliven the scene. He could see why this area had been picked as a war-gas depository. Sweat rolled down his body in greasy trickles under the stifling cover of the protective suit; it was worse than a full suit of plate armor, which didn't have to be air-tight.

And hauling each breath through the filter added an extra touch of torment, to go with the subliminal fear that the neutralizing chemicals had gone off and you were corroding your lungs out from the inside. Or that the day would suddenly grow dark as a tiny droplet of nerve agent touched your skin. They had syringes of nerve-gas antidote, and it wasn't even a toxin itself like the earlier versions, but…

“At least we're not finding much in the way of intact material,” Loring said.

Hordle grunted. “We're finding a good deal of bloody nothing, with a scoop of sod-all on the side.”

At that moment a series of muffled shouts went up from the squad of crewfolk they'd trained, and green-covered arms waved. Hordle and Loring exchanged glances and then headed over, the sound of their own panting loud in their ears inside the head-covering hoods.

“These look like the spray tanks you told us about, but they're empty,” the bosun's mate of the
Pride
said.

“Let me take a look,” Loring said.

The sheet-metal dispensers
were
upside-down and empty, thank God—but one of the small drums nearby wasn't. Loring rocked it with a foot while he wracked his memory.
Yes, VX, without a doubt.
Not much of it; the container was only about a liter in size.

He froze for a moment, then turned and pointed. “Get a couple of those shells over here, bosun,” he said casually. “I recognize the type; it's loaded with VX, sure enough. Use the dollies. We'll decant the nerve agent into these spray tanks; much easier to move it half a mile in these.”

The Tasmanian gave him a dubious look, but obeyed; he'd had six months to establish his authority. Hordle bent until their heads were nearly level.

“That's not going to do the Lord Protector much good,” he said, nodding towards the shells. “That's a binary mix and you need the shell to—”

“No, it
won't
do him much good,” Loring said. The muffling hoods and distance would keep the conversation quiet. “But he won't know that until he tries to use it, will he, now? In fact, even our assistants here don't have a clue.”

“And he'll have that one carboy of real VX to test, too,” Hordle said. His tone suggested an admiring grin. “You're a cunning old colonel, sir, if you don't mind me saying so. I'll go help move shells.”

 

Crossing Tavern, Willamette Valley, Oregon

May 12th, 2007 AD—Change Year Nine

 

Mike Havel paused with a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. After a long moment he set it down, and began to laugh. After a moment, the others at the table joined him.

When silence had fallen, Havel looked around at the other leaders; all of them good security risks, but…

“We'll have to be careful about this,” he said. “That
has
to stay secret.”

If true. Hmmm. How to check on it? Aylward vouches for Sir Nigel, which is a powerful argument, but I save perfect trust for God, and He's not eating breakfast with me. The Change…changed people, often enough. By Jesus, it changed me!

Juniper nodded. “And Mike…we were worried enough about the Protector when all we knew he had was his men-at-arms and castles.
That
hasn't changed.”