The commander nodded. “Your orders shall be transmitted, immediately.”
The Prophet had devoted much of his personal time to see that sophisticated weapons had been recreated from lost technology. They had relearned how to make cast iron and now had a factory to forge cannons and cannonballs. They also had a huge store of gunpowder. Martin planned to use these weapons to take Steamboat and, later, Stonegate. Once the Prophet’s armies took these two cities, the rest of the old Alliance would fall into their hands.
He had been little interested in small firearms. Big guns, the bigger the better, that was his passion. He insisted that his technicians devote all of their time, energy, and expertise to guns that could knock down walls. For a moment, he wondered if that single-minded focus had been a mistake, but he quickly dismissed the thought.
Martin downed another glass of elderberry wine before speaking. Then addressing Selena, he asked, “So, my sweet, what do you suggest I do? What is your desire in regards to our enemies? How shall we deal with this Donald?”
Turning to face the commander, Selena smiled, her red lips parting to display her sparkling white teeth.
“Order the generals to bring me the head of Donald of Goldstone,” she said.
“Issue that as an order, commander. Of course, the Black Caps might reach him first. But should they fail…see to it that either the generals, or Colonel Balek Brown, bring us the head of Donald of Goldstone!” roared the Prophet.
Chapter 21
†
The Battle for Steamboat
The sound of war is in the land—a great destruction.
Jeremiah 50:22 HCSB
Philip and Crispin left Owl Hollow early, the day after they’d helped bury the dead Raiders. It was just before dawn as they headed out for Steamboat. Philip was sure that once the enemy got news of the fatalities from the last attack, retaliation would be swift. But their first concern was to deliver their message to Wesley Fletcher as soon as possible. As they headed north, Philip stayed alert, pressing their horses to hold a ground-eating trot. Crispin preferred to go on foot, but horses were faster.
Crispin normally wore no armor, but since he was travelling horseback he had agreed to wear a short-sleeved mail shirt that had been captured from the Raiders. He also took a short-sword and had filled saddle bags with dried trail food. He wore no helm, but a strip of leather around his forehead tamed his unruly sandy hair.
They headed much farther west this time and took the main road north. Travel was faster, even though the detour cost them miles. The road was rutted from the passage of heavy wagons, but they found the route strangely deserted, both by the Diné scouts and the enemy. Early on the third day they neared the valley that they sought. They had just arrived at an overlook about thirty miles west of Steamboat when Crispin noticed some movement along the river valley to the north.
“Look, Philip, what on earth is that in the distance?”
Philip turned his eyes in the direction that Crispin was pointing. For a while, he couldn’t make out exactly what it was. Then, in horror, he realized it was the Prophet’s Northern Army heading slowly east. In the middle of the file, they could see several large cannons being pulled with six-horse hitches.
The marching army seemed to stretch for miles. The columns of marching men seemed to writhe like an enormous serpent with a crest of steel-tipped spears. But this was even more dangerous than any mythological creature. It reminded Philip of a force of nature, like a mighty river in flood. On the flanks they could see dozens of cavalry units, with armored flanks flashing like trout.
“They’re heading for Steamboat!” yelled Philip. “Quick, dig in your heels…we’ve got to get there before they do!”
Crispin spurred his horse and fell in behind Philip on Victory, who could gallop faster than a cougar chasing its prey. As they rode toward Steamboat, Philip’s heart was thumping, sweat pouring down his face. He feared that the vanguard of the army would already be at the city gates.
After a hard ride, the stone walls of Steamboat finally appeared before them, displaying turrets where ancient stone-throwers showed themselves, warning strangers to beware. A long line of wagons bearing fearful farm families awaited admission at the gates. Obviously, the outlying farmers were well aware of the approaching army. Philip started to take his place at the end of the line, but Crispin gave him a cheeky grin.
“We don’t wait in line! We have an important message to deliver.”
Philip was reluctant, but when Crispin galloped to the front of the line, he followed. There were many angry shouts, but Crispin kept shouting back that they had to deliver a message. The guards also seemed angered at their bold appearance, and there was another shouting match. But Crispin gave as good as he got, which won them a stalemate. Finally, a much-irritated captain of the guard appeared. It was Wesley Fletcher’s name that finally bought them entrance. As a wealthy merchant and a prominent politician, he apparently had influence.
The streets were filled with confusion caused by refugees and knots of armed men. Farm families in wagons lined the pavement. Every open area was filled with tents, household goods, and excited children. Soldiers in mail used the butts of their spears to keep a lane open on the main street. They passed a tree-fringed square that had been turned into a stockyard full of bellowing cattle and bleating sheep. They had to slow their horses to a walk, as they forced their way through the crowds. Fortunately, Crispin knew the way. As soon as they found Wesley Fletcher’s house, they dismounted and ran to the front door, knocking loudly.
“Just a minute, just a minute,” came a female voice from inside. The curtains parted behind a barred window. Philip could see a striking, auburn-haired young woman and knew that it must be Amber. The smile they received was worth the hard ride. Her face vanished, the lock squeaked, and the door opened.
She appeared and her hands went to her mouth. “Oh, Crispin,” she said in a small voice. “Can it really be you?” Philip stood by his horse, awkwardly, as the two stared at each other for a long minute. Then they gave each other a lingering embrace. Crispin introduced Philip, and she gave him a shy smile.
“Amber, the Raiders are on their way here, followed by a large army loaded up with cannons. Is your father about?” asked Crispin, anxiously.
“Oh, no, you’ve just missed him. The city council is in a panic. He’s gone on to his offices for another meeting—Quick, let me take you there.”
Leaving their mounts at the Fletcher’s stable, they went quickly by foot along a back street for about four blocks before sighting the city offices. Amber gained admittance and led them into the council chambers. Frantic men in heated discussions filled the room. Their flushed faces glistened with sweat, and angry words reverberated, drowning out the sounds of workmen nailing boards over the windows. At the head of a large boardroom table sat Wesley, looking serious and professional. He was engaged in a discussion with two other men, ignoring the commotion around him. He was not a tall man, about five and a half feet in height, but he boasted a solid, big-boned frame, giving him a stout appearance. Like his daughter, he had a full head of dark auburn hair and hazel eyes. Seeing Amber and the two others, he broke off what he was doing and beckoned them to his side.
“What are you doing here, Amber? And your friends—welcome, what can I do for you? Why have you come? You must know that we will soon be attacked.”
Amber introduced Philip. He and Crispin received warm hand-shakes from the older man. Wesley ordered the two other men to give him a moment, then gave Philip and Crispin his full attention.
Philip spoke hastily, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve. He handed over a small package of oilskin. “We have been sent by Donald of Fisher to deliver a message that he knows the enemy is planning to attack Steamboat, but Stonegate will not be able to send help. He suggests that you consider evacuation.
As we journeyed here, we spotted a large army on the march, armed with cannons and other weaponry. They are not far away now.”
“Cannons, eh?” Wesley looked worried. “Cannons to knock our walls down, no doubt. They have delayed their attack for some time, but this is the first that I have heard that they are moving again. I thank you for the warning, but we have known for days that the army is lurking in the west, like an evil creature. But it is high time to sound the alarm. We will fight to the end to protect ourselves. We will not abandon the city. The Prophet will pay a bitter price if he attacks our walls.”
Crispin piped up. “Owl Hollow was attacked three days ago, but fortunately, we were able to beat off the Raiders. However, we had an advantage of shooting from behind our walls. I don’t think that we would have fared so well if they had cannons.”
“Owl Hollow,” said Wesley. “Yes, Amber told me of your refuge…But what are those antiques you are carrying?”
“They are old firearms, as you say,” said Crispin. “Except these have ammunition and are fully functional. We were able to eliminate most of the Raiders, but not all. Owl Hollow’s secret is secret no more.”
“Donald wants you to have no false hopes,” repeated Philip. “He says that Stonegate is not able to help.”
Wesley accepted the news grimly, scanned the message, and sat in thought for a moment. “I really did not expect anything else, but many here hoped…” His voice trailed off and then he began bellowing orders to the men in the room.
“We just got confirmation that the army to the west has begun advancing again. The vanguard will be here within hours! Unit commanders, to your posts. And get some guards out to protect the last of the refugees, until we can get them through the gates.”
The room began to grow quiet, as the armored officers began to disperse. Wesley spoke briefly with several people, then invited Amber, Philip, and Crispin to a small office, adjacent to the council chambers. He turned and faced them, shoulders sagging. Philip noted deep hollows under his eyes and wondered when he had last been able to sleep.
“Crispin,” he ordered. “I never expected much help from Stonegate, but they seem willing to provide refuge for our folk. Perhaps we should consider evacuation of the noncombatants. I suppose it seems selfish, but I intend to look after my own family first, if I can, and your presence here gives me an idea. I need you to take Amber immediately to Stonegate. Amber…pack some things quickly and ride with Crispin to safety. I will give you a message, pleading with them to at least send out a covering force, in the event we manage to evacuate. Philip, I need you to stay here for a short while, at least. We may be able to make use of your deadly weapon. Time is now of the essence.”
As her father gave Amber a huge hug, Philip could see tears beginning to form in his eyes. They all knew that traveling east, almost alone, was fraught with perils, but Steamboat was certainly even more dangerous.
“Perhaps I should leave my rifle here,” said Crispin. “I have eighty rounds of ammunition, and it might make some difference.”
“No, take it with you. You may have to fight for your lives. General Logan’s entire army is east of here somewhere, so be cautious. When you get to the mountains, find a hiding place and travel at night from there on. Find Donald of Fisher when you arrive. He will find a safe place for you to stay. Deliver the message to whomever is in charge. I will also give you a personal note for Donald, himself.”
“There is talk that the enemy will also attack Stonegate, but I am sure that Donald knows someplace where Amber will be safe,” suggested Philip, trying to ease the seriousness of the situation.
“I have complete confidence in Donald,” responded Wesley. “Now, go…. go quickly, before the enemy arrives here. Amber, take Nemesis. He’s ugly, but he’s big and strong and has the endurance of a bull elk.”
Amber nodded, weeping, and embraced her father again. Taking a pen, he quickly scribbled two notes on pieces of parchment, sealed them with red wax, and embossed both with his signet ring. Crispin tucked them into his purse at his belt, and the two departed. Wesley watched them go, then took an old sword-belt down from the wall and buckled it in place. He checked to see that the short-sword was firmly sheathed and squared his shoulders. Then, turning to Philip, he smiled.
“Well, I have done what I can for my most precious treasure,” he said. “Now let us go meet with Marshall Blake and see if those old town guns will work.”
†
Crispin’s horse had served him well during the fast ride to Steamboat and particularly their race over the last thirty miles, but he needed rest. His flanks and neck were lathered, and he looked drawn. Amber’s mother, Barbara, insisted that Crispin trade him for Wesley’s horse, a stout-looking bay.
“Take him, dear,” she said. “He is fresh and is well conditioned. One of the neighbor lads has been taking him out for several hours exercise every day. Now, take care of our Amber, will you? I so hate to see her go, but I would hate her staying here even more!”
Amber entered the house and returned a short while later carrying a heavy coat in her arms and a small bundle. She wore a long green tunic and matching riding trousers. She had looked longingly at her pretty dresses and jewelry and could hardly bear to leave them all behind. She had finally selected her favorite bracelet and necklace and put them in a small linen sack along with some earrings. She folded one nice party dress along with some practical flannel pajamas, a heavy wool sweater, matching wool leggings, and underwear. That had been all she could fit in her leather travelling bag. Amber embraced her mother, and they said a tearful goodbye. Crispin helped her tie her things behind her saddle, and they turned toward the gate. Barbara and her maid, Polly, stood there, forlornly. Barbara shouted one last piece of advice as they left. “Take the Fish Creek Trail. Don’t follow the old highway. The trail is steeper, but the way is much shorter.”
They left town by the south gate. Though Amber was wearing a scarf over her hair, she also drew a hood to conceal her face. It was only a gesture, since the horses were well known. There was no doubt that the gate guards knew who she was, but they allowed them to exit without comment. Then they took a road leading uphill directly east. After a few miles, it changed from a road to a trail, near a beautiful waterfall. They stopped to give their horses a chance to catch their breath, then continued up for several more miles until they came to a second waterfall.
“Fish Creek Falls,” said Amber. “My parents and I often rode up here to picnic. It has a beautiful view.”
Crispin nodded and viewed the scene. Amber, however, looked at him. He had not lost his confident, almost cocky attitude, but the slight stoop of his shoulder and sweat-dark clothing told her that the ride to Steamboat had taken a toll. She eyed the ugly, black rifle slung across his back and recoiled a bit. She knew it was an ancient instrument of death that she had thought was gone forever. She had seen the old antiques rusting on walls, had heard tales of them, and had been glad that their day was done. Now, she realized with surprise, she was fiercely glad that he had it. She wondered if she could use it against another human being, and she did not know. But against the Raiders—she almost thought she could!
They continued climbing up the switchbacks of the trail until they finally drew near to timberline and the source of Fish Creek, then continued though a high pass. They had seen no one else, but there were a few horse tracks, perhaps several days old, on the trail. When the sun neared the western horizon, they began looking for a campsite. A patch of dark timber north of a small lake seemed to be a likely place, and they rode under the sheltering branches and dismounted. Amber fed their horses some oats that Barbara had insisted that they take. Philip walked into the clearing and cut several armloads of rye-grass to give some bulk to their horse’s bellies. They did not dare to let them graze in the open clearing, for fear that they might be seen. They built no fire, for the same reason, and a
te cold sandwiches. Water was no problem, at least. They had filled their canteens at a spring a mile or so back. Amber put on her heavy coat and they huddled together under their saddle blankets for warmth.
It might have been romantic, and it was, in a way. After all, she was sleeping in the arms of a young man that she found attractive. She knew that her mother would have been horrified, under normal circumstances. But this was not normal, and Crispin did not try to take advantage of the situation. Except, being Crispin, he had teased her just a little and had stolen a good-night kiss. She would have been a bit disappointed if he had not done that. But she was also glad that she could trust him.
Dawn was damp and cold, and they could see their breath. Amber appreciated her wool scarf and gloves. They had cold biscuits and spring water for breakfast, and the horses had more oats. Amber insisted that they let them graze for a few minutes when they hit a lush meadow, a few miles farther along. The horses cropped grass eagerly, while Crispin told her the whole story of the attack on Owl Hollow. He seemed sickened by it. “It almost seemed that we had an unfair advantage, Amber,” he said, serious for once. “We had no choice, or they would have killed us. But these rifles—the bullets penetrated their shields and armor like it wasn’t there. Somehow, I would feel better if it had been a fair fight. But we can’t afford to be fair in war, can we?” He looked at her as if her opinion was all-important.
†
Wesley led Philip through the confused crowds to the armory, which was a walled enclosure near the south gate. The wall was brick, about ten feet high, and the rough-hewn gate was guarded by four men with spears. They were quickly admitted and came to a small parade ground where Philip at last set eye on the fabled town guns. They were impressive, but not as big as he had imagined.
The False Prophet (Stonegate Book 2) Page 20
