They entered the stable and Carla unsaddled Ranger. She began to brush him down. Rachel seemed to be thinking about what Carla had told her. She whispered something inaudible. Then she spoke, “But why did they want me? I am not really an important leader. I know you will say that I am on the council, but we both know that I am not a major, well, force, in Stonegate.”
“I think they want to eliminate Don, for one. Somehow they want to get to him through you!”
“How would they know—that he might care for me?”
“There was a spy. I will tell you about that, but we should go back. I am almost finished here.”
“First you must tell me about Don. How did he look?”
†
Annabeth told Don that the night watch tolled a bell at about midnight to signal the change of the guard. She had offered to wake him, but he had insisted that he would stay alert. He fell into a fitful sleep to be awakened by a lighted candle and a gentle shaking of his shoulder. It was Annabeth. He had not heard the bell and was ashamed, feeling sure that she had stayed awake the whole time. With thanks, he quickly arose, dressed, and armed himself.
He arrived at the foot of the staircase to see a light in the kitchen. Deborah and Annabeth had prepared hot buns with ham and cheese baked in and a packet of food for lunch. Deborah saw him to the back door and gave him a long embrace. He kissed her cheek and he could feel her trembling. “Stay well, Don,” she whispered, then quickly retreated behind the door.
Don was glad to see that the troopers were sober and easily roused. They ate the buns as they saddled. It was not long before they were out of the gate and heading toward Estes Park. The gate guard was reluctant to open the gate in the middle of the night, but they insisted and he finally complied. The moon was past full and low in the west, but, as their eyes adjusted to the dark, they were able to find their way well enough.
At first, Don’s heart was strangely light. He knew that every mile they travelled was drawing him nearer to Rachel. He was not sure what he would say when he saw her again. What words could express his feelings? How could he make her understand what had happened those many months ago? Months, only, but somehow it seemed like several years, considering all that had happened. He felt as if he had aged a decade and wondered if she would still be the same person. Would she still have any feelings for him, or was all that as dead as the world he read about in the ancient texts? He had to admit that his longing to see her was tempered with fear.
The two troopers grumbled as troopers do, albeit in low voices. Don took no notice. The cool night air was somehow refreshing, and the stars blazed in the cloudless night sky. They held to a steady trot most of the way. After about ten miles, they slowed to a walk to allow their trail-hardened animals to catch their breath. He could hear the crunch of hooves on gravel, the squeak of saddle leather, and the breath in the horses’ nostrils. But nothing jingled, clanked, or rattled. The troopers had learned well the need to move as silently as possible when in the field.
Their way followed a deep, winding gorge. As the moon set, and only stars lit their path, the darkness fell on them like a blanket. Their horses could find the trail with their night vision, although it looked nearly black to Don. Even in the darkness he could sense the steep slopes on both sides. Though he was riding toward a place of refuge, the growing sensation was that of riding into the throat of a huge beast—a hungry animal with its body blocking the West and its teeth ready to snap shut on him. He had never been able to sleep while riding, though many troopers mastered the knack of it. But it seemed that he was almost in a dreamlike trance.
He sensed that Rachel and Carla were in danger, but how he knew that, he could not say. He breathed a quick prayer to the God above. Strange. Praying to you seems more natural now. Even though I am not sure you are listening. Please protect Rachel and Carla, especially if my fears for them are well-founded!
Dawn was breaking clear, crisp, and red behind them as they entered the park-land and rode in the direction of the lake. They trotted down the causeway for the last mile before they came to the gates of the village. They could see that the old part of the city had been walled, just as most surviving villages of any size. There was plenty of stone in the area, and the walls were twenty feet tall, with corner towers a good ten feet taller yet. There were colored banners fluttering from atop the gate towers, and they made a brave display in the light of early morning.
Don noticed a nearby hill that overlooked the town, and a hill-fort or citadel crouched atop it. The fort would deny an enemy the use of the vantage point, and it made a place for a last stand if the lower village fell. It was an impressive and cleverly built fortification, especially considering the fairly small population. It must have taken many years and was perhaps originally intended as the main defenses before the town walls were built.
Chapter 26
†
The Hunt
All you inhabitants of the world
and you who live on the earth,
when a banner is raised on the mountains, look!
When a trumpet sounds, listen!
Isaiah 18:3 HCSB
Rachel had planned to drive her twin brothers, Levi and Lucas, back to Westerly-stead in her aunt’s carriage and let her frisky four-year-old bay follow behind. She had worried about returning the carriage, but her aunt had said that she had plenty of friends who often visited Stonegate; one of them could easily drive the carriage back.
But the news of coming danger had convinced her that the safest place for the boys would be in Estes Park for the time being. They had both cried and insisted that they wanted to go home, but she finally had to be firm. It was hard to leave their sad faces as she and Carla rode away from the little house. Even though it was just past dawn, they had heard her gathering her gear and had begged her one last time to let them go with her.
An hour past dawn found her and Carla on a side trail heading northeast through the rugged foothills. Justin and Ranger got along well with each other, and though Ranger was faster, her young mount was not slow by any means. They stopped for a break atop an eastward-trending ridge where there was a good view, and they carefully inspected the landscape for signs of any other riders. Carla was still worried about the two suspicious strangers and feared that they were still around, watching for her. But the normal way to leave Estes Park was on the east road, and they had carefully avoided that way.
“Did Don speak of me?” asked Rachel. “I am glad that he seemed well.”
Carla looked at her for a long moment. “No. I said that we only saw him for a moment. He was leading a patrol south towards Longmont. But he said he would stop back by Annabeth’s. I think he was hoping to see you there. Do you want to see him?
Rachel felt a catch in her throat. It was a good question. “Of course I do. I am sorry I was away. Well, it’s complicated.”
“You should know that Deborah is in love with him.”
“How do you know?”
“She said so. She also said that he still loves you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Those were her very words!”
†
Don rode up to the guard at the gate of the Estes Park village. He realized that he had no idea of where Rachel’s aunt lived or even her name. In the hurry to get away, he had forgotten to ask. Perhaps someone might remember Carla with her bright red hair. Otherwise, finding Rachel could be a difficult problem.
“Hello,” said Don, addressing the nearest guard. “Perhaps you can help us.”
The guard looked at him carefully, no doubt noting his armor and equipment with their gold inlays. The guard approached them, stepping forward cautiously.
“How can I help, sir?” he asked. “Might I know your name and your business here?”
“I am Donald of Fisher,” replied Don. He attempted to p
roject an air of command. “I and my men are allies of Stonegate. We are here to escort two women back to that city.” Don saw the two troopers out of the corner of his eye as they nodded a greeting. Their shields were hanging from the pommels of their saddles over their left knee, and their war spears pointed safely toward the sky. Don had his shield slung in the same way, and his javelin was in its case, next to his bow and quiver of arrows.
“Donald,” said the man slowly. “I have heard of someone by that name. A fighting lore-man. But…” His voice trailed off in confusion, as he looked at the other guard. They stared at each other for a long moment.
Scott, the elder of Don’s escorts, spoke up. “We are from the Blades troop of Ariel,” he said proudly. “Lord Donald, here, is our commander.”
“But you are not really the same one, are you?” said the man. “I mean, what about the big red warhorse?”
Don gave a chuckle. “And why am I not seven feet tall? Those tales are a bit larger than life; I am not.”
“He’s the one, though,” said the other trooper. “No mistake about that.”
“No matter,” said Don. “We are not sure where to meet the women, and we need your help.”
The guards grew more and more uneasy, but did not attempt to argue the point. Finally, one mumbled that he needed to fetch the sergeant of the guard and disappeared through the gate. The two troopers edged closer to the remaining guard, and they had a quiet discussion, which Don ignored. Perhaps describing Carla and Rachel would be the best approach. Anyone who has seen them would remember them.
After about five minutes, the guard returned with an older man armed with a broadsword and clad in a shiny mail coat. Two men with crossbows came out of the city behind him and took positions next the right gate-tower. He wore a helm with a tuft of red decorating the conical tip. He was stout, with jowls like a bulldog, and he was not smiling. He strode up to Don and faced him squarely with arms folded over his chest.
“Now what’s this all about, sir?” he asked, gruffly. “We have been hearing wild stories and rumors for weeks, and I don’t want any trouble here.”
Don explained their errand and had to explain, again, that he was really Donald of Fisher. The sergeant was skeptical of that, yet he seemed to accept that they were not Raiders, at least.
“If you are allies of Stonegate, perhaps you can tell me who commands their forces,” said the sergeant. It did not sound like a question, but Don chose to take it as one.
“I know Lord Cal who commands the horse troops,” said Don. “Two days ago, my men and I met with the marshall of Stonegate, Lord Allen. I also know Lore-master Duncan, and I once served in the Red Axe troop under Gray John.”
“Very well,” said the sergeant. “I think I am a good judge of men. You seem to be who you say you are. How can I help?”
“We are here to escort two women, Rachel and Carla, both of Westerly. They plan to return to Stonegate, but it is too dangerous for them to travel alone.”
“What do they look like? Where are they staying?”
“Carla has red hair and rides a sorrel stallion. Rachel is blonde, very fair and a bit taller than Carla. I don’t know what horse she is riding. Both are young and quite attractive. Let’s see—Oh, yes. Carla has green eyes, and Rachel’s are blue. They are probably at the home of Rachel’s aunt, though I don’t know where it is located or her name, for that matter.”
“I know the ones you mean,” said the sergeant. His voice was decisive, and he put his hands on his hips. “There is no doubt about that. But there is a problem. Two, I should say.”
“What problems?”
“Carla—It musta been her! No two young redheads riding stallions around here. That’s for sure! She didn’t leave her name but she reported two dark-clad men on bay horses acting suspicious-like. She thought they might be Black Caps.”
“Black Caps?” repeated Don. “Where did she see them?”
“Said she saw them in Loveland, and that they followed her here. Also said that if they asked about her to give them no help. We should take them in for questioning, she said.”
A cold ribbon of ice settled between Don’s shoulder blades. “This is not good news. What is the other problem?”
“The other problem is whether I should arrest you. Your chestnut could be mistaken for a bay.”
†
Philip and Rowan continued to shadow Gray John. They acted as informal liaison between Wesley and the refugees and the Stonegate troopers. The first day of the march found them at the base of the Western Wall, the natural barrier to the plains to the east. The mood of the camp seemed to be a bit brighter, even though dampened by a brief funeral for the wounded that had expired. It was sad that they had lingered so long, but during the day five wounded soldiers had lost the fight for life. They were reverently laid to rest near the road, and the sound of weeping could be heard.
The horse troopers had formed a rear guard during the day. As ordered, the troopers had pursued the Raiders north, but only for a few miles. They had not seen the western element of the Prophet’s army, yet signs of its passage were easy to see. They reported to Gray John that they had found a campsite that was foul, and they had smelled a stench worse than a pig-sty. Philip knew that Gray John was worried about the Prophet’s cavalry, but they had yet to make an appearance.
The old road that climbed in a series of switchbacks was in poor repair, and the woods had encroached, making a narrow path in places. The wagons and carts could make it through, but any large wagons would have required trees to be felled, and, as it was, a few trees had fallen across the road. Hearty axe-men had made short work of them, and it was obvious that wheeled conveyances had not used the road for many years.
Philip was at Gray John’s elbow when he received a report of movement to the east. The scout was excited. “We saw many riders on our trail. Not Raiders. They almost looked like Stonegate horse troopers.”
It seemed to Philip that the troop whirled around in confusion. Gray John barked out orders, and the entire force from Stonegate steadied and deployed to the rear. Philip and Rowan, still with his rifle, rode with Gray John, and the sound of bugles rebounded from the stones of the pass. Then they could see a line of war-spears ahead of them when they came to a vantage point. Philip’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the large enemy force advancing in column. They appeared to outnumber them, but how much he could not say. Gray John was unfazed.
He shouted to the bugler. “Sound the Charge. We will see how they like cold steel!”
The notes of the bugle rang almost in Philip’s ear, and he swore he could feel the ground beneath him shake as Stonegate rode forth into battle. Philip realized that the superior numbers of the enemy did them little good because the way was narrow. He could see the spears of the leading Stonegate troopers crash into the leading enemy elements like a tidal wave, and the battle was joined. The momentum rolled back the enemy horsemen for perhaps a hundred yards, then the battle degenerated into a melee.
Gray John shouted at Rowan. “Time to use that weapon of yours. Ride to where you can see and shoot anyone looking like an officer.”
Rowan obeyed and spurred his mount to a little knoll north of the trail. Philip rode just behind him and took the reins of his friend’s horse as he dismounted. He watched as Rowan surveyed the battle below, then took aim and fired. He fired again and again. Philip struggled to stay aboard his terrified mare, as she tried to escape the strange blasts. Finally, Rowan said, “I am out of ammunition. But I think I hit several of them.”
The battle raged on for at least a quarter-hour, then Philip could clearly hear bugles from the west, enemy bugles. The Prophet’s cavalry was withdrawing. It seemed that they had not expected such a stern reception and had fallen back in confusion.
Stonegate held the field when the battle ended, and a bloody field i
t was. The healer raced toward the front to tend to the wounded. Philip and Rowan also rode forward to try to assist, and they did help a Red Axe trooper extricate himself from beneath his horse—dead from an enemy spear thrust. Then Rowan remounted and galloped across a clearing to catch the reins of a riderless horse. He led it back. The mail-covered chest and flanks showed it to have been from the Prophet’s forces. The unhorsed trooper swapped gear from his dead mount to the captured horse and was soon remounted.
Philip looked at the blood-drenched soil and the twisted bodies of men and horses. The smell was that of a slaughterhouse, and his stomach lurched. The healer was stripping the mail off a pale trooper, and Philip jumped forward to help. The man’s chest had a massive bruise from an enemy spear thrust, and a small wound bubbled pink foam. He helped the healer wash the area and apply a linen bandage. “Will he live?” asked Philip in a whisper. The harried healer only answered, “God knows.”
It was painfully obvious that the enemy was more heavily armored, with steel breastplates providing extra protection for the men, and the mail skirt, or barding, giving the same to the enemy horses. The Stonegate troopers had lost nearly thirty horses in the brief encounter, and seven troopers were dead. The enemy’s losses were almost a mirror image, with thirty-six fallen cavalrymen and five dead horses. The greater skill of the Stonegate troopers accounted for much of that, but Rowan’s gunfire had accounted for about twenty of the enemy losses.
The confusion of tending to the dead and wounded and recovering captured horses and armor began to subside. Gray John rode over to join Philip and Rowan. Gray John slapped Rowan’s shoulder in a mighty buffet. “God bless you, boy,” he shouted. “That antique weapon of yours proved its worth. If we had a half-dozen of those we could chase this lot back where they came from.”
The False Prophet (Stonegate Book 2) Page 27
