by John Ringo
She counted the riders, fifteen, and realized that if the count the guard had given her the night before was right this was half the total fighting force of Clan McClure. If the castle was attacked in their absence it would be hard-pressed to hold the walls.
“Mistress,” McClure said, kneeing his horse over by hers. “You stay in the middle. I know you’re no rider but none of these boyos were before the Fall; you’ll learn as they did. Just grab onto the mane if you feel yourself falling and keep pressure on your feet in the stirrups.”
“What about Baradur?” she asked. He was standing by her horse. There wasn’t a horse saddled for him, she noticed.
“Oh, I don’t ride, mistress,” the Chudai said. “I’ll just trot along.”
“He’ll hold onto your saddle from time to time,” McClure answered her unvoiced question. “Other than that he’ll walk or trot along. It’s their way. We’ll take it at a walk as much as possible but we’ve a long ways to go.”
“I’ll keep up,” Megan said, grimly determined to do just that. “And so will Baradur I guess. You just set the pace you think is best.”
McClure didn’t say anything, just looked at her solemnly, nodded and turned his horse for the gate to the castle.
He kept the horses, who were fractious and obviously anxious to get moving, at a walk as they rode out of the castle and down the slope to the glen below. Megan hadn’t seen much of their surroundings and was surprised by the peaceful beauty of the scene. The glen below was heavily farmed, almost every square centimeter of flat ground plowed, some of it in winter wheat but most waiting for the spring to be used. It was covered in some sort of golden grass that bowed under a light snow cover. The mountains, hills really, rose sharp on every side. The glen was about six kilometers long, open at one end to the sea and narrowing down sharply at the far end, a faint path there ascended into the hills beyond. The castle was about two thirds of the way down the glen on the north side.
“That’s where Chansa’s forces hold,” McClure said, gesturing to where the glen necked down and headed up into the highlands. “T’ other side of yon hills is bandit country. We’ve a small fort up there that keeps an eye on them and a couple more,” he gestured to the south, “up in yon highlands. Easiest way into the glen’s through that pass, but they try to crawl up from the south from time to time as well. As well as landing down at the port.”
“Seems that that would be the easiest way,” she said, gesturing to the sea. There was a narrow tongue of water, covered by hills on both sides, that led out to the actual sea. She could see, as they turned into the hills to the north, the distant true ocean, tossed by wave and wind.
“They’ve got to sail up the loch, lassie,” McClure pointed out. “We get four, sometimes six hours warning. We can set up for them in half that time and by the time they get here we’ve called in help from other clans. Since we’re the only one with a decent port they send us help. We’re still hoping for help from Norau but if we’re without so much as a dock we don’t think we’ll get much.”
“I see,” Megan said, and grabbed at the mane as the horse scrambled up a narrow trail. The trail was paralleling a small stream that ran over mossy boulders towards the glen and was steep, half rocks and half thin soil. She had to concentrate on her riding as they passed through a defile and scrambled up a portion of fallen scree but she found that if she leaned upwards it was easier to stay on the horse. She was slowly finding her “seat” and didn’t find riding nearly as hard as she expected. She did notice that the inside of her thighs were beginning to burn, though, and her legs, which she had thought were in pretty good shape, were starting to tire. As they reached the top of the hills, she wondered how long the trip would take.
Four hours later, feeling as if she had been put in a barrel and hammered up and down, they were sliding down the last of dozens of hills into a narrow glen. She had discovered what a trot was, and didn’t like it. Fortunately, when they were going at the right pace Broomy had a gait called a “rack” which was much smoother. She’d also, when they hit the upper moorlands, discovered what a canter was. That was smoother, but as she had been warned, frightening. And exhilarating at the same time. She had had a hard time staying on the horse and as the rocks of the moorland, which was beautiful as far as she could notice, had flashed by she had wondered if she was going to end her adventure with her head dashed out on one of them. But just as she thought she was sure to go pitching headlongÑher thigh muscles had long since turned to jelly and there was no way she could grip with her legsÑMcClure had slowed them back down to a walk as they reached another narrow defile.
As they had been going down the defile she felt as if there were eyes watching her and she noticed the riders, and their horses, were skittish.
“It’s the wee folk, lassy,” McClure had said, not bothering to look around. “They hold the true highlands. It’s one of the reasons the orcs don’t come over them.”
“They live up here?” Megan asked, looking around at the apparently deserted landscape.
“Aye,” Jock said, shrugging. “They say it’s the only bit that’s high enough to breathe. You’d think they lived on rocks but they run a few scrubby cattle and do a bit of hunting. And they trade, services, for one thing,” he added, gesturing at Baradur. He had kept up the whole time, seeming to be barely tired by the trip. When they cantered, despite his statement that he did not ride, he had thrown himself up on the saddle behind her and, truth be told, kept her on the horse as much as anything.
“And they’re not averse to a bit of banditry,” McClure -continued, darkly. “There’s more than one reason that we’ve a group this large for the trip.”
She looked down at her bodyguard who grinned without looking up.
“Lovely,” she said, shaking her head.
The moorland had been the only reasonably flat portion of the journey. They had gone up and down for the entire rest of the four hoursÑthe whole time seeing no signs of life except the rough track and, once, a covey of pheasant that had broken into the air as they passedÑand she thought that if they didn’t reach their destination soon she was going to have to ask for a rest.
But as they turned the shoulder of a hill she could see another castle, larger than McClure’s, at the head of the glen.
“Innes?” she gasped, grasping at Broomy’s mane as she slipped in the seat. Riding downhill, she had discovered, was much harder than uphill.
“Aye,” McClure said.
“Big castle,” Megan said. “Small glen.”
“This is only one of six that Innes controls,” McClure answered. “Two others are larger, one as large as Glen McClure. One of them’s on the front lines with the orcs. But it’s two ridges away from here. They lost one in the early days, took it back for a while, then lost it again. Be careful with Innes, lassie. He’s a fine man but proud and he’s a Stuart on his mother’s side.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s a descendant of Bonnie Charlie,” McClure said, as if that answered the question.
“I’m still not following,” Megan said, unsure if this was something that should be common knowledge.
“Charles the First,” McClure said, shaking his head. “Arguably a man with a better claim to the throne of England than the ones that held it in the seventeenth century. King of the Scots, the Gael, for that matter. He wants to unite the Gael and retake Briton from Chansa. It’d be Culloden for sure was he to try. We can hold them in the Highlands, but get us down in the Lows and we’ll be wheat to the scythe.”
One of the group of soldiers began whistling, a haunting melody that caught at her mind. Others were singing low.
“Burned are our homes, exile and death, scattered the loyal men.
“Yet e’er the sword, cool in the sheath, Charlie will come again.”
“What’s that mean?” Megan asked, haunted by the words.
“It’s called ‘Isle of Skye,’ ” McClure said, shrugging. “From when Charlie was force
d to flee for his life. For a long time the Scots thought that Charlie would return. He’d led a force down into Briton to reclaim the throne. Took a fair bit of land. Then he overextended himself. His force was trapped and slaughtered at Culloden Field. Then the Brits came in and emptied the glens, the first modern genocide, ethnocide really, in history. They killed every male that had anything to do with the uprising, forced all the farmers out, exiled half the population, enlisted the men in their armies and sent them overseas to die. The British Empire became one of the largest ever to rule on earth, but it was done with the Blood of the Gael. Three Charles lived in France as a government in exile, then they faded away.”
“Does Innes sing ‘Isle of Skye’?” Megan asked.
“No,” McClure said, darkly. “’Isle of Skye’ is about losing. The men of Innes sing the Bonnie Charlie song.”
McClure grinned wickedly and nodded at a rider with a horn.
“Sound the horn, me bucko,” he yelled.
“O! Charlie is my darlin’ my darlin’ my darlin’
“Charlie is my darlin’ the young cavalier!”
* * *
Malcolm Innes was tall and fair with blond hair that reached nearly to his waist, a chiseled chin and bright blue eyes. Looking at him Megan couldn’t believe that there was anything in his head at all. But she found herself wrong.
“McClure thinks I’m mad,” Malcolm said, gesturing with his chin at the older laird. They had retired to the local laird’s office and sat by the fire sipping warmed mead as Megan’s legs screamed in agony. Her feet were resting on the side of one of the largest dogs she had ever seen, nearly the size of a pony. Its shaggy fur was twined in her toes. This dog, along with a group of others, had followed them into the room and flopped down at her feet. She had propped them up when she saw the others do so. “That I’ve gone off my rocker with being a descendant of Charles the First. Don’t tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not,” McClure said, taking a sip of mead. “But it’s a Gael madness and for that I forgive you.”
“I don’t think I can retake Briton,” Innes said, grinning and leaning forward, tight as a spring as he presented his case. “Or set myself up as king. Yet. And I know I can’t without the aid of Norau. But I can bring in the allegiance of ten clans, all of them blooded in war. I’ve more cavalry than anyone in the highlands. I’ve more supplies than anyone in the highlands. My men are better trained and better equipped because I can recycle them off the line. If Norau wants to retake Briton, and they’ll need it as a jumping off point for an invasion of Ropasa, they’ll need my help. And if they’re on my side, I can bring in all the clans. This pretense of being Charlie’s heir seems crazy, but like McClure said it’s a Gael madness; the Highlands will follow a Stuart, especially if it means retaking the throne that was stolen from us.”
“That was…” Megan did the math in her head. “What? Three thousand years ago give or take a few centuries?”
“Doesn’t matter, lassie,” McClure said, shrugging. “You heard the lads. This is mother’s milk to the Gael.”
“The term is ‘cultural meme,’ ” Malcolm said, leaning back. “Memes hold on for remarkably long periods of time. Gael children were raised with the words murmured to them by their mothers, who had forgotten the meaning but liked the tune as a lullaby. You can find it anywhere that there was a strong strain of the Scots Gael, the southeast of Norau for example, or Anarchia before it was shifted. And here in the Highlands the strain is strong and deep. Hell, the theme of ‘the king will return’ permeates all Indo-European cultures. It’s a philosophical basis for the Christ myth that existed long before he did or did not actually live. I can help Norau ride that meme to victory.”
“And your price is the throne,” Megan replied.
“It’s a prize that I’ll pay for,” Malcolm said, leaning back. “With the strongest, and largest, allegiance they’re going to get.”
“Campbells won’t like it,” McClure said, grinning.
“’No dogs, tinkers or Campbells allowed,’ ” Malcolm said with a grin. “I can even swing the Campbells if Norau is behind me. And the Chudai will follow me; I’ve the blood of the British kings in me as well and they’ve been loyal followers of the Briton standard for so long it’s nearly lost in history.”
“Norau has its own legions,” Megan pointed out. “They’ve never been defeated.”
“There’s no such thing as enough soldiers, lassie,” McClure said. “Never.”
“I’ll give you what you need for now,” Innes said, shrugging. “Some food from our stores, clothes for your people. What I want from you is to present my case to the leaders of Norau, Sheida and that war-leader of theirs, Edmund Talbot.”
“Jock?” she said, looking at McClure.
“Aye, mistress,” he said, formally. “They’ll need the support here and Malcolm can give it. If the price is Briton, that’s cheap enough.”
“I’ll establish a constitutional monarchy, of course,” Malcolm said, shrugging. “Like Norau’s. But I’ll rule. My ancestors were here before there were Scots. We were here before the Romans, before the Saxons, before those Johnny-Come-Lately Normans. We’ve waited for thousands of years to reclaim what is ours. And the time is now.”
Megan found herself arrested by the man’s fanaticism. It seemed so… unworldly. He was talking about a defeat three thousand years before, and defeats thousands of years before that, as if it were only a minor setback. And, she realized, he was not alone. She thought of the soldiers that she had ridden with to the castle. They had sung the songs and, she could tell, believed in theÑwhat was the term?Ñthe meme. To the Gael the loss of their position, of their lands, was only a minor setback, something that, in time, would be righted.
And many of them thought that the time was now.
“I’ll present it to anyone I can get to listen,” she temporized.
“You’re a Key-holder,” Malcolm said, waving his hand as if that were a minor matter. “They’ll listen. Edmund Talbot will listen. His real name is Charles, after all. And he’s a Talbot. He’ll understand. It may be a ghost, it may be a legend. But legends have won more wars than swords. And Charlie will ride again.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“We’re chasing a will-o’-wisp.” Admiral Dario Sumstad slapped the railing and looked over at the ballista frigate that was maintaining close station. “I hate chasing ghosts.”
“The UFS carrier has to be out here somewhere, sir,” Captain Thahn Clussman said. The captain of the Pierre Franc watched the admiral warily but wasn’t willing to let slip anything but willingness to follow orders.
“It might be,” Sumstad said, turning away from the railing and pacing up and down the quarterdeck. He grimaced as a dragon landed overhead. “But Talbot is a tricky SOB. We know he moved the carriers south, but he could have run anywhere while we get further and further away from the Blackbeard group. Any word from the orcas?”
“No, sir,” the captain reported. “No sign of UFS ships. No dragons spotted except ours. But they have run into mer and delphinos. They’re having more and more trouble with them, as a matter of fact. The mer are using some sort of dart gun that is quite deadly.”
“Put more ixchitl with the orcas,” the admiral grunted. “I know it slows them down, but we have to keep down the losses in the damned orcas somehow.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain replied, walking over to the messenger station.
“Where are they?”
* * *
“We’re currently here,” Shar said to the assembled skippers and their dragon contingent commanders. They were using Edmund’s quarters this time and it was crowded. “Two hundred kilometers northeast of Blackbeard.”
“I thought it was getting warmer,” one of the skippers quipped.
“New Destiny has split its combat forces into two groups,” Chang continued, ignoring the comment. “The main group, with three carriers, is to our north and at last report continuing northward. The s
econd group, two carriers, support ships and landing ships, are approaching Blackbeard from the north. As far as we can tell, they don’t know we’re here.”
“Two on two,” one of the dragon contingent commanders noted. “And they’ve got more dragons.”
“They won’t by tomorrow,” Edmund said confidently.
“Can you tell us why, Admiral?” one of the skippers asked.
“No,” Edmund replied. “But don’t worry about the dragons.”
“The first target is the ballista frigates,” Shar said, lifting up the map and showing a diagram of ships. “You’ll launch before dawn…”
* * *
It was two hours before dawn when the charge of quarters knocked on Gunny Rutherford’s door and entered to wake him. He found the gunny, in full armor, kneeling in front of a candle-lit statue of a bull.
“Four hundred hours, Gunnery Sergeant,” the CQ said.
The gunny stood up and looked at him with distant eyes, then nodded.
“It’s a good day to die,” he said, striding out of the room.
The CQ noticed an odd smell and, half against his will, walked over and looked at the bull. Its back appeared wet and when his fingers came away from it they were covered in blood.
* * *
“The New Destiny fleet is in sight coming down the Stream, sir.” The messenger was braced to attention in front of the Blood Lord commander.
“Well, that appears to be that, Gunny,” Captain Pherson said. Kenton Pherson was a pale-skinned twenty-six-year-old with light hazel eyes and blond, almost white, hair so fine that it was hard to discern on his uncovered head. He stood up and donned his helmet, buckling it down. “They say that god is on the side of the big battalions. Let’s hope they’re wrong.”
