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Not just hit, he thought, whistling softly to himself.
The missile was a four-foot, spear-sized arrow with plastic vanes and a pile-shaped head. It had punched right through the metal facing and double thickness of plywood, and buried itself in the rib cage of a rancher's man who'd been leading a horse behind. The man went down, screaming like a rabbit in a trap and flailing with his arms, but the legs stayed immobile. More people scattered eastward, ru
That was well done, Larsson thought, wincing slightly. Still… ouch.
He'd gotten case-hardened since the Change-his mind suppressed memories of the night of blood and screams in the ranger cabin with an effort so habitual that he didn't even have to think about it.
But this isn't just a game of engineers, the way business was a game with money for counters. Or if it is, it's a game with human beings as pieces.
On the heels of the thought came more distant sounds from the castle: six together this time, tu
"The first one was a ranging shot!" Larsson shouted. "Heads down, everyone!"
More black dots came floating out from the castle, from the tower and along the wall. Deceptively slow-looking at first, then gathering speed. Larsson dropped to the bottom of his hole and looked upward. Something went overhead in a blur, and there was a hard whack! sound of metal on metal, duller chunks as steel spearheads buried themselves in wet dirt. There were shouts, but no screams.
Larsson shouted himself: "Everyone stay in their holes until I say you can come out!"
There was no quaver in his voice; he was proud of that. He knew the javelins probably couldn't hurt him… but his gut and scrotum didn't seem to know that, and they were sending very unpleasant messages up to his hindbrain. When he thought about what he was going to do next, his sphincter got into the action.
And I can come out myself whenever I want. I don't want to, but I'm going to do it anyway.
He launched himself out of the trench. The loop at the end of the firing lanyard was about a dozen yards away; the point of his hook sank into the dirt in the middle of it, and he let his backward slither pull it taut.
Chang-whack!
The boulder arched out towards the Protector's castle; before it was halfway the multiple, musical tu
"Now I understand why they had so many sieges in the Middle Ages, and why everyone hated them," he muttered to himself as he tumbled back into the protective embrace of his foxhole.
"Hit!" someone shouted, after the javelins struck. "Broke off a section of the palisade this time!"
He could hear the crew cheering from their trenches and felt like shouting himself… until he realized that he'd just probably pulped several men into hamburger with a three-hundred-pound boulder, and equally probably mutilated and crippled several more.
"But I'm not going to get bent out of shape about it, as Mike says," he murmured to himself, his lips thi
He yelped involuntarily as one of the man-length darts plowed into the dirt near him; it sank a third of its length into the hard-packed rocky soil and quivered with a harsh whining sound that played along his nerves like a saw-edged bow on a violin. Three more banged off the steel framework of his rock-thrower.
And we are not going to stand around cranking Mr. Tre-buchet down again, he thought, swallowing an uneasy mix of terror and exhilaration. Hmmm… next time, really big, thick movable shields to protect the crew?
"All right!" he called out aloud. "Next flight of javelins, one of us runs back-you, Jackson, the minute they hit you get out of your hole. We've given the Protector's men the kick in the ass we promised 'em!"
The crew cheered again. Larsson nodded, looking at the luminescent dial of the mechanical watch he'd found. Just before sunset-though with this overcast, it was hard to tell; it was definitely getting dark, though.
He looked towards the castle-and saw only mud, because he certainly wasn't going to risk his life for a gesture.
"When you want to set a man up for a punch in the face, get someone to kick him in the ass," he muttered to the dirt.
Thanks for getting Astrid off to that bunch of Wiccans, Mike, he thought, not caring to share the thought even with the wall of his trench. Just the thing to keep her fascinated.
With a wrench like a hand reaching into his chest and clutching:
And take care of Pam and my kids, you hear? My strong and beautiful kids. Christ, why did it take a disaster to realize how great they are?
The trail was doubly dark, with the overcast night and the branches overhead. It smelled cold, and wet as well-it hadn't started raining yet, but the wind from the west had a raw dampness to it, a hint of storms to come. They were nearly a thousand feet above the castle at Echo Creek, and the air was colder here, closer to the approaching winter.
Mike Havel gri
Which means we better get this done soon, if it's to be done at all, or we winter at Pendleton. Which would be goddamned chancy for half a dozen reasons.
He walked slowly but quietly, listening to the quick panting of the burdened men ahead-locals from the CORA force, hunters who knew the deer-tracks over these hills as well as their home-acres. He didn't, and neither did Sam Aylward, but they moved almost as easily, instinct and the faint reflected light and the whispering of air through trees and around rocks giving them clues enough. Both were dressed alike, in loose dark clothes and boots and knit caps and dark leather gloves; Havel had his sword across his back with the hilt ready over his left shoulder, and his bow case and quiver slanting to the right.
Aylward had a take-down longbow resting in two pieces beside his arrows, all muffled so that they wouldn't rattle and under a buckled cap. Neither bore armor, besides buckler or targe.
"Wish we could have practiced this more," the Englishman grumbled softly.
They didn't need to keep absolute silence, but quietness was a habit in circumstances like this.
"Too much chance they'd have heard about it," Havel answered in the same tone-not a whisper, which actually traveled further than a soft conversational voice. "That camp leaks like a sieve. Hell, I didn't tell you what I had in mind, until I learned you'd done a lot of hang gliding, did I?"
A soft chuckle. "Run me down on the others," he said. "I presume they're the best-or I bloody well hope so."
"They're the best who happened to have the necessary experience; it's not a sport your ordinary Idaho plowboy takes up," Havel said. "Pam's cold death with a sword, and she's learned the rest of the business very fast. Eric and Signe are pretty good, they've had seven months hard practice and they're natural athletes, and I've seen them both in real action. Good nerves and good muga, both of them, and coming along fast."
Aylward nodded, unseen in the darkness. Muga was a term they were both familiar with from unarmed-combat training; it meant being aware of everything around you as a single interacting whole.