The Protector's War (81 page)

“Where is the little shit?”

“Eddie!” she whispered. “You're scaring me!”

“Where is he?”

 

“And here I thought you were a man of initiative,” Juniper said, leaning her chin on one palm. “Tsk, tsk. I go to all the trouble of getting my son his own tent—”

On the other side of the table, Nigel Loring laughed softly. “And I thought, dear lady, that it was simply that he
must
have one if young Miss Arminger had her own.”

“
He
certainly thought so.”

His smile died slightly. “Are you quite sure?” he said.

“Quite. As if a little bird had whispered in my ear.”
Or Herself.

He moved the lamp to the other side of the camp table and reached out both hands; she took them in hers. “I'm a bit older than you—ten years—”

“Oh, hush, Nigel; I discovered my first gray hair some time ago. We're neither of us teenagers in lust. We're middle-aged, and friends. Let's see where that takes us.” An impish smile. “And I do covet that fair body of yours, you know.”

“Which I assure you is mutual.”

They were leaning towards each other when the first shout sounded outside.

 

Rudi Mackenzie bolted upright at the soft
thud
of steel in flesh. He made an instinctive grab for the book that slid off his chest, then reached for the knob on the lantern beside his cot. Then he froze; the starlight was just enough for him to see the glitter of cold steel at the entrance to the tent. A huge gauntlet clamped on his ankle with bruising force and yanked him through the entrance and onto the turf beyond in a single motion; behind him the lantern toppled sideways, and there was a rush of flame as the glass shattered and burning wood alcohol rushed out across canvas and cloth.

“Got him, boss!” a voice like gravel dropping into a steel bucket said, and a huge armored figure loomed over him.

“The book, you fuckhead, the book!”

A smaller figure darted through and scooped up the paperback, stuffing it hastily into a pouch at his belt. He swore in relief and then clamped a hand on the back of Rudi's neck.

“Kat, you got the princess? Sorry I was rough, Princess; business. All right—”

 

Juniper Mackenzie had her sword in her hand as she dashed out into the dark; that was a measure of what she felt, because running around in the dark with two feet of pointed, edged metal in your hand wasn't something you did casually. Light flared up a second later, as someone threw dry wood on the low-burning campfires; the wagons were strung out in a pasture alongside the road, and the tents behind them, with the picket line for the horses beyond that. She squinted…

Rowan was there, panting, his ax in his hands. “Sentries dead on the north end—not a mark on them.”

“Damn the man!” Nigel Loring said. “He was talking about launching it with crossbows. Stonebow type, to throw little thin glass containers of it, like pebbles. There would be enough in the carboy of the real thing for some of those.”

Juniper felt her mind whirl. “Mathilda!” she said. “That must be it, why he sent that lady in so-called waiting!”

She whirled; Nigel's hand fell on her shoulder. He'd managed to get most of his armor on, somehow.

“They may still have some of it left,” he said. “Don't go running in blind.”

More and more of her folk were boiling out of their tents. “Rudi,” she snapped; that was in the same direction anyway. “Now!”

A dozen of them formed up on her, and they trotted forward. Her back was to the campfires, but there was light ahead too, a sullen red glow mingled with black smoke that smelled rank and hot; burning canvas. Horses neighed, stark fear in the night, and her heart hammered at her ribs.

Then a great calm descended as she saw that it was Rudi's tent that burned. Katrina Georges was there, armed, with Mathilda against her side. The towering form of Mack, several of the knights she'd seen in Sutterdown, out of their disguises now and back in their hauberks…and Eddie Liu, with her son's neck in his hand, and the other gripping some sort of pistollike contraption…no, more like an old-fashioned water pistol but heavy and bulky. The boy's hands were bound behind his back, and there was a rising bruise on the side of his face.

“Hold!” Juniper cried. “Hold, everyone!”

Liu's smile was white in the dimness, framed by his darkened helmet. “Yeah, Ms. Witch, hold it. 'Cause I brought some Raid on this raid.” He flourished the pistollike apparatus. “We've all got the antidote. But funny, we didn't give any to Junior here. So if I start spraying this stuff, chances are he may catch some. And it doesn't take much, you know? I got some friends arriving soon, like in minutes, and then we'll all take a ride. And you can send an ambassador to see how
your
kid is getting on, hey?”

Juniper cast desperate eyes aside at Nigel Loring. He spoke without moving his lips. “Probably not. There wasn't much of the real agent left. But he
may
have it in that.”

But Arminger would never let my child go, no matter what I did. And he would torment him from spite.

Rudi's eyes met hers; there was no fear in them, only a clear anger, his lips braced tight. Eddie Liu grinned at her.

“
Told
you I'd make you pay, bitch,” he said softly. “Do you like your choices now?”

Hooves sounded in the night, galloping horses pressed to desperate haste. One of the Protectorate knights stooped to take a burning tent pole from the ruins of Rudi's tent, waving it aloft in signal.

Whatever he expected, it wasn't the shaft that hissed out of the night and struck him full in the chest, sinking through the mail and halfway to the feathers. The others shouted and jumped to surround their leaders and the children, raising their shields in a protective fence; Mack swept out the huge blade of his greatsword and poised, growling. Firelight shone on the edges of the hungry swords; then she saw Eilir sitting her Arab behind the attackers, and more of her Dunedain on either side.

Liu jerked Rudi closer and poised the water gun. “One more arrow and he dies!”

“You won't harm my son,” Juniper said, amazed at the calm strength of her own voice. “You know what would happen to you if you did.”

“If I go down, I take your kid with me,” Liu said. “I figure that'll hurt you worse than killing
you
would, and bitch, I've wanted to do that for a
long
time.”

Juniper sheathed her sword and raised her hands, and her voice tolled in the flame-shot night: “Eddie Liu, Katrina Georges. I curse you, now; in the name of the Dark Goddess, by the power of the Dread Lord. I curse you in their names and mine, and that curse is this: Death not long delayed. So mote it be!”

Rudi's eyes went wide. One of the knights licked his lips and his sword moved as he crossed himself, but Liu bared his teeth again. “Sorry, Witch Queen, that mojo only works on people stupid enough to believe it. Now we're going to back away, real careful, and if any of your folks get in our way…well, I've got me a
real
good shield, right here.”

More hooves moved in the darkness, not close, but moving fast; Liu grinned. Then it died as there was a sudden ringing clash of steel, a brabble of voices, a stamping and thudding and iron clangor.

“Hakkaa paalle!”

Liu looked over his shoulder. “OK, those are big boys, and they can take care of themselves. Let's go!”

Please, Mother-of-All,
Juniper thought, drawing a great breath.
Hear me, for I'm a mother too. Not him! Anyone, but not him!

Then, in a high clear shout:
“Take them!”

Hanging back was the hardest thing she had ever forced herself to do, but she was no more than a middling hand with a sword, and this was far too dangerous for bows. All she could do would be get in the way of those who
might
save her son. Liu's hand moved, and a stream struck Rudi's neck and the side of his face; he cried out and twisted in the man's hands. Liu shot again, quick as a striking snake, and droplets of the same heavy, oily liquid landed on her face; it had a nasty chemical stink, and the drops itched and burned…and the night did not darken, and her chest continued to pump in hard quick breaths. Then he screamed a curse and used the heavy glass-and-metal pistol to club Rudi down; the boy went to the ground, writhing.

“A Loring! A Loring!”
Nigel shouted as he went forward with darting speed.

Not quite in time, for Mack's first stroke was straight down at Rudi's young body. A desperate leap put Nigel's shield above the boy, but the four-foot blade of the greatsword cut three-quarters of the way through the tough laminate of wood and metal, and broke the arm below it. Mack's steel-splinted boot stamped on the blade of the Englishman's sword and snapped it across, and the next blow sent his sallet helm spinning off into the darkness. Nigel Loring slumped backward, blood running from nose and eyes and mouth, motionless.

The Mackenzies were throwing themselves desperately at the ring of swords now, shrieking and sheerly mad, but many hadn't had time to don their brigandines, and the knights were sheathed in mail and splints of hard metal from ankle to head, armored cap-a-pie. Arminger's men stood shield-to-shield and cast back their rush. Rowan led the next, making for the Marchwarden's giant bodyguard, his long ax spinning, crashing at head and hip and leg.

Crack.
The greatsword struck the tough ashwood and broke it in half. The head flipped up into its master's face and laid it open to the bone; he staggered, blinded by his own blood, blinking it clear just in time to see the second stroke that took him between neck and shoulder.

“Father!” Alleyne Loring cried.

“No!
Mine
!” a deep bass voice bellowed, and John Hordle's bastard sword hammered its way past a shield and sent a man reeling, then turned the stroke of Mack's blade with a grunt of effort, a harsh clangor in the night and a stream of sparks. Alleyne tried to use the moment to take the troll-man from behind, but Katrina Georges was suddenly between them, a sword in one hand, a long knife in the other. The circle of shields was breaking up into combats that raged through the flame-shot darkness, two against one, a pair against three.

Eilir was there too, light glittering from eyes gone huge in a face bone-white pale, shining ruddy-bright on teeth bared in a silent gape as she turned the stroke of Liu's
bao
on her buckler and struck, struck…

Juniper ignored all of it. Instead she saw her moment and darted in, dragging her son free of the melee. His face was a mask of blood, but it was the wound under his short ribs that pulsed red, where the tip of the greatsword had passed after it punched through Nigel's shield. She staunched it with her hands, leaning to put pressure on it.

“Healer!” she shouted. “A healer here!
Now!
”

Her eyes swiveled, through chaos and death. Glimpses struck her vision and slid from the focus of her mind: Mack sinking to his knees, with Alleyne's sword and a spear through his gut, and Little John Hordle's sword sweeping through a horizontal arc towards his neck; Eddie Liu shrieking as Eilir's short sword punched up under the skirt of his mail and sank home; the lance points of Bearkiller A-listers flickering as they rode into the circle of firelight.

Suddenly Kevin of the Rangers threw himself on his knees beside her. “Let mesee…Oh, sweet Goddess, there's too much blood lost—”

He shouted, and the sound carried; battle was dying down, save for someone who shrieked for his mother in a long gurgle that cut off sharply. “I need a donor here! Emergency!”

Shadows fell across them. Juniper looked up, with her son's lifeblood on her hands. Mike Havel stood there, blood on his sword and his face twisted with raging grief; Astrid, supporting Alleyne Loring as he slumped with both hands clapped to a wounded face. And Signe Havel, calm as she stripped the vambrace of her right forearm and pushed the mail sleeve of her hauberk back, lying down beside the wounded boy.

“I'm type O,” she said. “Universal donor. As much as he needs, Juney. As much as he needs.”

 

Mathilda Arminger had to call her name several times before Juniper Mackenzie heard the words. The cold light of dawn made the tumbled filth of the battlefield bleaker and more lost; somewhere a raven croaked, and tatters of mist lay along the ground. She could taste something old and dead in her mouth as she leaned back against the wagon wheel, but it was too distant to make her move her hand towards the water bottle someone had put there.

I should sleep. Fear and grief and raw magic have hollowed me, and I should sleep.