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"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 gri
"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 fu
"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 San-tiam, 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 fiance 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 na comhair do chuid sicini sula dtaga
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 crosscountry 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 ru
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 pityshe'd never have shot at an animal so far away if she were hunting. A kill should be clean and quick.