A Meeting at Corvallis (51 page)

“Sam!” she said happily. “And John!”

John Brown was most of a decade older than her; it had been a year or so since she saw him, and she was slightly shocked at how much more gray there was in his close-trimmed beard. As usual, he looked worried, the deep squint lines of a plainsman graven farther into the skin at the corners of his eyes.

But perhaps with more reason than usual,
she thought.

“Well, we're here, Juney,” he said, and she sighed slightly with relief. “All of us as could make it. Less than I hoped, more than it might have been.”

“Four hundred twenty-five combatants,” Aylward amplified. “Plus twenty-five youngsters along to help with the horses and gear. That's all they could spare. Raids from the Pendleton country on the CORA territories are keeping them hopping.”

“Bastards,” Brown said. He'd been one of the movers of CORA since the Change, and they'd fought the Protector's men together more than once. “They've been goin' downhill these whole ten years. Bunch of murderin' hillbilly bastards, the ones that came out on top there, and then they got into bed with Arminger. Might have been as bad with us, if we hadn't had that help from you the first couple of years.”

Juniper nodded, smiling and acknowledging the compliment; the help had been mutual. Even then her fine ear noticed that his accent sounded a little stronger; speech was changing faster than it had in the old days, without national media or recorded sound to stabilize it. Highway 20 connected the Mackenzie territories with the CORA lands around Bend and Sisters, and the two communities were friendly and traded a good deal, but by pre-Change standards they had less contact than America had had with Bolivia back then.

“Four hundred riders's about all we could bring anyways,” Brown went on. “Sneakin' over the mountains, that is. Not much fodder. Still snow lying up there. As it is, we don't have near as many remounts as I'd like.”

He jerked a thumb behind him, at the invisible peaks of the Cascades. She nodded again, respecting his reticence. One of her Mackenzies would likely be boasting of the feat, unless it was Sam; the Clan was a talkative bunch. To get here from Bend you'd have to leave the route of old US 26 in the Warm Springs reservation—tribal country once more, but friendly to the Clan and CORA—and use old logging trails through the mountains. Hard work with hundreds of horses, and with the season too early for much grass. If they didn't get the mounts down into the low country soon, they'd start to take sick and die.

She said so, and added: “The which would apply to the people as well, so.”

That included her folk as well. Most Mackenzies had
some
woodcraft but only a few from each dun were real hunters who spent much time away from the tilled lands; the rest were crofters and craftsfolk, used to sleeping under their own good roofs within tight log walls every night. Plus they were traveling light in a season still cold and wet—no tents, not much gear and most of what they had brought was extra arrows. In summer these cutover hills growing back towards forest were rich in game—deer, elk, rabbit, birds, boar and feral cattle—but it was early in the season for foraging, and there were far too many of them to live off the land without scattering recklessly. She'd been getting anxious about supplies.

“Where are your folks?” Brown asked. “You got more than this out before they reached Sutterdown, didn't you?”

Behind his back, Sam Aylward grinned. Juniper did too, and waved a hand around. “All within horn call. Just over a thousand, my friend.”

“One thousand ninety-seven as of this morning's call,” Aylward said. “Got a few more in from the southern duns day before yesterday.”

Brown's eyes went a little wider; he'd ridden through their position. “Sneaky,” he said. “They won't be expectin' this at all, hey?”

“Hopefully,” Juniper said, not joining in the smiles of the men this time.

She'd taken nearly half the Clan's fighting strength right out of their territory while the Protector was invading it, and the best half at that, leaving only enough to hold the walls of Sutterdown and Dun Juniper and the southern steadings. It was a calculated risk, but her stomach still clenched and pained her at the thought of the enemy loose among her folk and their fields.

“I see your people all have those funny-looking shovel things,” the rancher went on. “Somethin' new?”

“Eilir's idea,” she said, turning to her First Armsman.

“Eilir's idea, and I hope they work,” Aylward said, shaking his head. “Otherwise I'm the latest in a long line of inventive buggers who dreamed up something extra for the poor bloody infantry to lug about.”

“Any word from the south?”

“Last news from the Rangers is that the enemy 'ave crossed the North Santiam, united their columns and invested Sutterdown. The Rangers slowed them down, though.”

Brown slapped his hands together; there was a jingling from the stainless-steel washers riveted to the backs of his steerhide gloves, and water dripped off the hood of his oiled-linen duster.

“You mentioned a plan,” he said. “What sort?”

“Well,” Juniper Mackenzie said, “first my fiancé is paying a social call. There are advantages to marrying into the SAS…”

Sam Aylward's chuckle matched her own, but he shook his head as he spoke: “Well, strictly speaking, Lady Juniper, Eilir gets the SAS, and you'll be marrying into the Blues and Royals. Officers don't make a career of the regiment. Didn't, you know what I mean.”

Brown looked between the two of them; it started to rain again, making small
tink
sounds on his helmet and breastplate. “You guys are crazy,” he said with conviction.

“Sure, and that's what's brought us as far as we've come,” Juniper said. “But
ná comhair do chuid sicini sula dtagann siad amach,
and the bird's still very much on the nest.”

Then her head came up, and Sam's with it. A cry like a wild swan's echoed through the drizzle; that was the signal for
courier
. Moments later a man on a lathered horse came up. Juniper stiffened at the look on his face: whatever it was, the news was not good.

“Lady,” he said, dipping head and knee. “It's about your son—”

Near Sucker Slough, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 6th, 2008/Change Year 9

“Get the kids ahead, Ruffin,” Tiphaine said.

Her voice was dragging with weariness, and she blinked against what felt like grit rubbed under her eyelids. The impulse to simply topple out of the saddle and sleep was overwhelming. They all looked weary, even the horses, though they'd been changing off every couple of hours. The children sagged in their saddles, eyes dull.

“Hey—”

“Your shield-arm's hurt and you can't fight well,” she said bluntly. “We may have to delay them. Now get going!”

The wounded man-at-arms nodded grimly, and turned his horse up the far bank of the little creek. The strong legs of the warmblood took it in three surging heaves; Rudi's horse was on a long lead-rein, and even half-conscious Mathilda followed with the effortless ease of someone who'd been riding cross-country as long as she could walk.

The little guy keeps his seat well too,
she thought.
Tough kids, those two.

“Joris, get your crossbow. Ivo, have the horses standing by, and get the decoys ready.”

She led the blond warrior back to the edge of the brush. He moved fairly well in the brush; she'd picked experienced hunters for this trip, and the chuckling of water in the brook behind them covered most noise. Tiphaine slung her crossbow, took three deep, quick breaths to force her blood to start moving again, aimed herself at the big white-barked alder that grew from the top of the bank and hit it running. She climbed it with the scampering speed of a squirrel despite the way the papery surface crumbled under her hands. Twenty feet up she hugged the trunk with one arm, reached down to slip the irons into place on her feet and felt them sink into the soft wood of the streamside tree. That gave her a secure stance once her elbow was over a branch.

A flick of her fingers opened the quiver of bolts on her belt, and then she unslung the crossbow and brought the telescopic sight to her eye. The magnification was three times; she could see things more closely, at the cost of losing a wider scan. But there was only one convenient way past the hulk of that overgrown tractor…

There.
The whiplike tails of four dogs showed above tall grass that was mingled dead stalks and new growth. Occasionally a questing head came up, black nose leading in a tan-black-and-white face, trying to catch her scent on the air, but the wind was from the west right now, and the overcast sky promised rain. Even to her human nose the air felt wet and muffled. Long range, very, a good two hundred and seventy yards, but with this height…

Her hand curled around the pistol grip of the weapon, the checked metal surface rough and firm through the thin chamois leather of her glove. One finger stroked the hair trigger, light and delicate.
Tung!
The kick was solid, always a surprise if you aimed well.

The quarrel flew in a long, shallow curve, dipping down towards the leading hound, the one with its nose back down on their trail. A sharp, yelping cry of pain, and the big brown-and-white dog leapt into the air, biting frantically at the light-alloy shaft in its side. She'd never be able to recover that one, which was a pity. The dog disappeared again as she turned the crank built into the high-tech crossbow, but the grass thrashed where it lay. That was also a pity—she'd never have shot at an animal so far away if she were hunting. A kill should be clean and quick.

The animals were disturbed; the scent of blood and their pack-mate's pain would do that, and cover the trail a bit. Their belling sounded louder through the afternoon air,
arrooo, arrooo,
calling for their master's help. She slipped another quarrel into the groove, and brought the crosshairs on a white-furred throat.

Tung.
Her fingers were reloading as the dog collapsed; quickly this time, simply falling down. If only there was time for one more—

The third dog turned, yelping. Riders came around the big tractor just as it would have fled; it stopped in glad surprise, and her bolt went home between its shoulder blades. The hindquarters collapsed, but before the dog died four of the riders were sliding out of the saddle, bringing up their bows and reaching over their shoulders for arrows even as they swung down. She kicked her feet clear of the climbing irons and abandoned them, sliding down the sloping trunk of the alder in a flurry of papery bark and taking a nasty whack on one elbow from an iron even as she did. She'd seen Mackenzie archers in action before.

“That leaves just one dog,” she said to herself with satisfaction.

And before she'd slid ten feet, three thirty-inch arrows went
wheet-wheet-wheet
through the air on either side of the branch she'd used to rest her elbow. The fourth went
crack
into the base of the branch itself, and punched through it with brutal force. After an instant the limb ripped free as its weight levered against the strip of bark still holding it, hitting her on the head as her boots struck the ground. It was only a slight, muffled impact through the mail-lined hood she was wearing, but enough to make her blood race uncomfortably even so. If she'd stayed and tried for one more shot…

“Christ!” she said. Then: “Go, go, go!” to Joris, turning and racing back for the horses.

He paused for an instant to aim, and the heavier
tunnnngg
of his military crossbow sounded under his chuckle before he turned and followed.

“Got one, or at least a horse,” he said as they all vaulted into the saddles and spurred their mounts up in Ivo's tracks.

“Let the spares with the drag go free,” Tiphaine said curtly, and the leading-reins were dropped.
Dickhead. We didn't have time for a fight.

One of the spare horses had a ball of cloth dangling from its harness on a line; that was Rudi Mackenzie's bundled kilt and plaid. As long as the horse dragged it, it would lay a scent trail for the last hound to follow. The horse curved away to the east across the open country, panicked by her slash at its rump with the loose end of her reins. Two more followed it, with the natural impulse of horses; their saddles bore crude child-sized dummies of grass and twigs stuffed inside spare clothing they'd brought along for the princess. They wouldn't fool anyone for long, but they might at a distance, for a little while.

“Boot it!” Tiphaine cried.

They spurred their mounts in the children's wake, and overtook them faster than she'd expected. Ruffin's haggard face turned towards her, grinning despite fatigue and pain.

“The little chief there managed to get away—tangled his lead-rein on a stump and made the horse snap it. I had to chase him down.”

Tiphaine looked at the small jewel-cut face; it had dark smudges under the eyes now, and lack of sleep had stripped away the jaunty humor. What was left was pure determination. She bowed her head in respect, and then spurred her horse back into a gallop.