The Protectors war

Juniper nodded decisively. "We're agreed he probably won't attack until after the grain harvest, at the earliest?" After a chorus of nods, she went on: "That's what Mike Havel and Luther Fi

"If Wally and Leigh are leaving me to set up with this new lot, I'll have room for them, and work in plenty. The girl-"

"She's following Eilir and Astrid around like a lost puppy," Juniper said with a chuckle. "But I had in mind her little gift."

Her chuckle raised eyebrows. "It's Laurel," she said. "Or rather her husband, Collin. It occurred to me while we were considering what to do about them that he'll be useful."

"How so?" Judy said. "Frankly, he seemed dreamier than the lot of them, and that's saying something!"

"He's a stereotype of a professional mathematician," Juniper said, gri

A chorus of agreement. Juniper's smile was not at all her usual amiable expression. "And in any case we should do something to him, first, shouldn't we?"

She laughed at the surprised expressions. "We can't loosen his hold until we break his spell of fear. That requires: practical demonstrations. We've been stinging him like mosquitoes. Time to become hornets. Also to demonstrate to him the folly of ruling a hostile countryside, to be sure. You can't be too careful in which enemies you make, and how many, and where."

Chapter Twelve

Near Amity, Willamette Valley, Oregon

May 13th, 2007 AD-Change Year Nine

"St. George for England!"

The bandit in front of Havel started to turn, jolted by the unfamiliar cry from behind him. He jerked his head back with a scream of panic as he realized what he'd done by dropping his guard, then looked down incredulously at the yard of steel through his stomach.

Havel wrenched the sword back. Muscles tried to clamp on it, but the knife-sharp blade severed them as they did; the sensation was hideously like carving a pork roast. The man doubled over with an oooff, like someone who'd been punched in the gut-except that he wouldn't be getting up. Havel turned the motion of withdrawal into a loop, ending in a short economical overarm chop at the man behind the one who collapsed hugging his gut. The sword smacked into bone, and when the bandit clutched at his left arm with his other hand the limb came off in it. He stared at it for an instant and then turned, shrieking like a machine grinding through rock, spraying blood into the faces of his fellows.

"Hakkaa paalle!" Havel shrieked, sword and shield working together in a blur of speed.

A spray of red drops flew through the air as he cut backhand; the frame of a shield cracked like a gunshot, and the arm bone beneath it. He smashed the edge of his own shield into the man's face as he dropped his guard, then thrust over the falling body; the point went home in the meat of an upper arm, and he twisted it like a coring knife:

"Oh, shit, Bearkillers!" one of the outlaws screamed.

"Hakkaa paalle!"

Signe screeched the war cry and killed the man in front of her with a stepping thrust to the neck that snapped out and back in a blurred glitter of steel. Then the bandits broke, backing up fast, crowding each other in the doorway and then turning and ru

And dying. Another horse stood nearby; the rider had dismounted, a big man plying a longbow with wicked skill.

It was the two mounted men close by who were really startling. As he watched, one pulled his lance out of the back of a fleeing bandit-ru

Visors, Havel thought, mentally gibbering. Yikes!

The two horsemen were in full plate armor, cap-a-pie, head to foot, the sort of thing people before the Change would have thought of as a King Arthur knight-in-armor outfit. It was enameled in green, and he blinked and squinted to see the details.

Sallet helms. Milanese style, he thought. Fifteenth century. Agincourt armor, Henry V, Wars of the Roses, once more unto the breach, St. Crispin's Day, Joan of Arc and all that good shit.

The Larsdale library had a book on it, part of a series on the history of arms and armor with illustrations and diagrams. He'd gone through it when they'd considered making some like it; the plate harness was good equipment, not much heavier than a mail hauberk, nearly as flexible, and better protection against arrows or crushing weapons. In the end they'd decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Plate had to be shaped to the individual the way a tailor hand-cut a good formal suit, and the level of time and trouble required was a whole order of magnitude greater than with the mostly chain armor they were using.

"Good day," the first armored horseman said; both bore a blazon of five red roses on their shields. "Saw you were in a spot of trouble with these bandit chappies and mixed it in. Hope that's all right, eh? Had to clear the way, in any event."

The accent was English, in a rather old-fashioned plummy Eton-Oxford-Guards way Havel had heard only in movies before the Change. Mild eyes regarded him from beneath the raised visor, blue and a little watery; a fair mustache shot with silver confirmed his estimate for the man's age, a bit north of fifty. He rode a big yellow horse as if he'd been born there; the saddle was a high-cantled war model, and the stirrup leathers were long, leaving his legs nearly straight. The man beside him was bigger and younger, a lock of yellow hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, eyes blue-and worried.

"Many thanks," Havel said, containing a burst of questions; he hadn't seen anyone from farther away than Montana for years, and now:

"Quite welcome. We'll be moving along then, we're actually in a bit of a hurry, you see-"

"Mike, Unc' Will's arrived!" Signe called.

Do not succumb to information overload, Havel thought, his head swiveling west. A trumpet sounded from there. About time, he thought, and threw up a hand as Will Hut-ton reined in with a spurt of gravel, his lancers dusty and foam on the necks of their horses. He pointed northward with one gauntlet and spoke. "Bossman, Arminger's men are comin' down the road. Troop strength at least. More off to westward, that's why we were late-had to get around 'em. Looks like they're beatin' the bushes for someone, and they want him bad."

Havel bared his teeth as he looked around once more; there wasn't much time, but going off half-cocked wasn't the answer.

"I presume you're no friend of the Protector's?" he asked the older man in the plate armor.

"Rather! The rotter's after our heads, I'm afraid." A calm smile. "Name's Loring. Sir Nigel Loring. Late of the Blues and Royals, and the Special Air Service regiment. My son, Alleyne, and the big fellow there is Little John Hordle."

Havel blinked in shock. All right, information overload has arrived. Then he nodded coolly-it didn't really matter. There wasn't time to gibber and rave and run around waving his arms.

"Believe it or not, I've met a friend of yours, Sir Nigel, and he's told me about you: later, later! Will, get Kendricks patched up and out of here."