Keeper of the Black Stones (22 page)

“You've returned from Abergavenny?” Dresden asked shortly.

The man before him bowed quickly. “The Earl's men were there, as you said they would be.”

Dresden grunted. “And?”

“We watched for several hours, my Lord, but saw no sign of our men or the Earl himself in the village. I went to Henry Tudor's personal encampment to warn him, as you ordered.”

Dresden nodded. Richard Evans had gone to Abergavenny for the same reason he had sent his own men–to seek a stone. Dresden's men had not found it, but Evans must have. He'd gone home, then, but he would be back. And when he returned…

“What did Tudor have to say? I assume he didn't recognize you as one of mine.”

The soldier shook his head. “Henry Tudor does not know me as your man, my Lord. Nor did he know of Oxford's presence in Abergavenny. He
was not pleased with the news.”

Dresden chuckled. Evans had entered that village without permission from Henry Tudor, and had left himself vulnerable in doing so. Henry Tudor was not secure in his position yet, and disliked being disobeyed or disrespected. Dresden had seen an opportunity to bring Evans down in the Pretender's eyes, and had sent his best men to see it done.

“What does he plan to do?” he asked quietly.

“When Oxford shows himself, my Lord, he will be arrested and taken before Henry for his act of dissidence.”

He nodded once at his soldier, satisfied, then turned and walked quickly toward the stairway, having already forgotten his son and the swordplay in the stable yard. A more important mission beckoned.

“Ready the men and my fastest horses,” he barked. “I want to be there to see him arrested. We ride tonight.”

The stone beneath him hummed and pulsed in time with his heart, beating as it bore him through time. The world rolled around him in a mad, chaotic parade of events, people, and places, and he held tightly to both sanity and courage. When the ride came to an abrupt halt, he stilled, forcing himself to breathe. Forcing his muscles to relax. He lay on the stone in Abergavenny for longer than he'd ever had to before, filling his lungs with oxygen and slowly exhaling, counting backwards in his head to control his heart and mind.

The world finally came to a standstill around him, and Doc opened his eyes. The jumps were becoming more difficult. It had never taken him this long to recover before, and it worried him. He wondered, for the hundredth time, about the physics of jumping through time, and the effects on his body. He had come to love his role in the past, and almost depend on it, but found himself wishing more and more often for a reprieve from the pull of the stones. Perhaps…

All thoughts scattered as his memory abruptly returned. He'd jumped in a hurry this time. Jason had been asking strange questions, and had nearly made him miss the window. What was the boy on about? Why the sudden interest and the obscure questions about time travel? Surely he hadn't … Doc paused as more memory returned, and his breath caught in his throat.

The last thing he'd seen before the world went black in the jump was his grandson at the bottom of the ladder, staring at him. Jason had found his way into the hidden room. He'd seen the stone. He'd seen Doc make the jump.

Doc leapt from the stone and moved quickly to the other side of the room, turning to watch the stone for movement. No one had ever followed him through the stones before, and he wasn't sure it was even possible, but if Jason had run forward and touched the stone while the window was open…

After several minutes, though, the stone's glow faded to stark black, and the symbols returned to their places. Doc breathed a sigh of relief. Jason had stayed in the future, then. Where he was secure, and safe.

Doc, on the other hand, had work to do. He had to accomplish not one, not two, but three goals in a mere four days. He must work to gather an army, one large enough to confront Richard III. He had to lead that army into battle and defeat the old king, to ensure the safety of both history and the world. His thoughts touched gently on the idea of failure, and then moved quickly on. He didn't have the time or courage to think about that, at least not right now. The third goal … stop Dresden by any means necessary. Doc didn't understand what the man was trying to do, but he knew that it would bring danger–and perhaps devastation–to the world around him. The second goal, though, should end Dresden on its own.

Once Richard was defeated, Dresden would lose his sole supporter. His power would be eliminated. He would, in fact, be a wanted man. Left here to face justice for his actions, Dresden would end his story in the simplest way possible–by fading gently into history. Doc would return home and do his best to forget that any of this had ever happened.

At that thought, he went quickly about the process of rebuilding the Earl of Oxford. He found his heavy cloak in the corner of the room, where he'd left it prior to his trip home, then wrapped his belt around his waist and
hefted his sword, measuring the weight of the heavy, thick blade. As he strode toward the door, his shoulders growing square and his hands flexing into fists, he felt the persona of the Earl settle over his body like a mantle. His face lengthened and lost the elderly softness he maintained as Doc. His mouth firmed, his eyes narrowed, and he stepped through the door into the past.

He didn't find what he'd expected. Someone had evidently told Henry of the Earl's presence in Abergavenny, and the bloody fool had taken offense. The erstwhile king's men had arrived while he was absent, attacked the Earl's own men, and laid an ambush for him. He'd already been facing an impossible task, with a scant four days to secure his goals. Now, instead of marching out to gather men and arms, plan the march, and prepare for the coming battle, he was being forced to report to Henry's encampment to satisfy that man's paranoia. The Earl shook his head in disgust. He didn't have time for this, and neither did his mission.

His men were allowed to keep their horses and arms as tokens of good will, and so rode out of Abergavenny as guests rather than prisoners. The one hundred men surrounding them, each with a hand on his sword, spoke against this position of trust, and the Earl snorted. This fickle turn of events worried him.

He glanced anxiously at the road ahead of them, wondering how long this would take, and whether he would still have time to gather the men he needed. His eyes roamed the rock-faced hills above him, seeking answers. Jagged rocks, small trees, and brush covered the hills, making them an ideal place for a hidden rendezvous.

This was not a safe road, he realized suddenly. If he were setting up an ambush himself, he would seek a location like this. The hills were covered with trees and thick brush, ideal for hiding, and the road below was exposed and vulnerable. He had already wondered at his arrest, and now the possibilities seemed frighteningly clear. An exposed road, an indefensible position… His breath began to come faster, and he bit his tongue on the last thought. If someone were to attack them here, there would be no protection, no–

A sudden movement on the hillside ahead of him caught his eye and he stiffened, ready to jump to action. He squinted toward the movement, seeking desperately to find order in the brush. Then he saw them.

A band of ten armed men sat, observing, at the top of the small hill. They were not in a position to attack, and would have failed with such a small force. They were there, then, to watch. In the middle of the band sat a small man, dressed in black or dark blue. Even at this distance, the Earl could see the sunlight glinting off the blond, nearly white hair, and recognize the arrogant bearing of the man's shoulders. Dresden, then, come to watch the arrest of his enemy. Standing in plain view, no doubt, so that the Earl would know what he'd done.

With that realization, the Earl found his true answer. Dresden had somehow managed to get into Henry's camp and capture his ear. While he wasn't putting the Earl in any true danger, he had cost him both time and strength–two things that were more important now than they ever had been. He began counting swiftly in his head, trying to estimate the damage, and making judgments and decisions as he came to them. The battle would happen in four short days. It would take a full day to get to Henry's encampment and sort through this business. After that, he would have to gather his own men and those of his king, and push them as hard as he could to reach the battle grounds.

He would have to pray that they got there in time.

A grunt of frustration passed his lips. It would be a long shot, at best, and he wasn't sure he would be able to do it. The road to battle–and the fight afterward–would be chaotic and dangerous, and many of the men there would die. They had no choice, however; if they failed to reach the battle site, Dresden and Richard would win, and history would be derailed.

Many of his men would die in the coming week, but their deaths would mean the safety of the world at large. If they got there in time.

He spared one moment to thank God that Jason was safe at home, in the future, with Reis to protect him. That, at least, guaranteed the family's future.

16

R
eis tore out of the private drive at about 80 MPH and took the onramp to the freeway on two wheels, his hands wrapped firmly around the steering wheel. I clung to the passenger's side door, my thoughts racing along with the car, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Paul remained uncharacteristically quiet, wedged in between us.

“How long do we have?” Reis snapped. He swerved abruptly to slip Doc's car in front of a semi truck, missing its front fender by mere inches.

My thoughts stalled for a moment, trying to understand Reis's question. My head was a whirlwind, and didn't want to settle. Then the answer was there, clear and bright. “The window opens at 12 noon,” I answered quietly. “That gives us…” I looked at the digital clock on the car's dashboard. “Less than two and a half hours.”

Reis nodded, and his mouth settled into a grim line. “And it takes over forty-five minutes to get back to the house. That isn't going to be quick enough.” He stomped on the accelerator, pushing the car to speeds it had probably never experienced, and we shot past the other cars and trucks on the freeway.