Katherine MacLean - The Kidnapping of Baroness 5

The handsome older officer of recruitment, the little boy, and Lady Witch followed the track of the nomad band, galloping past farms and long deserted store buildings and empty churches to a crossroads. There was an inn at the crossroads that usually welcomed travelers with the aromas of breakfast or lunch. Now there were no welcoming aromas and all doors were open and silent.

With an arrow nocked and ready, the soldier sidled his horse up against the wall and listened. No sound. Little Billy slid down from his saddle. He ignored their fierce gestures for caution and ran into the inn. “Innkeeper Roger, Innkeeper Roger, Lady Witch is here hunting the nomads.” There was no answer to the shrill childish calls going through the rooms of the inn, but there was a thump, whispers, and rustling from the hayloft above the stable and feet on the creaking ladder, and at last the innkeeper and his daughters appeared, brushing hay from their clothes. He was pudgy and beginning to age at about twenty-two. They were twins still growing. They whispered, “Are they gone?”

The soldier was impatient, “We’re following their trail. They are long gone.”

The older of the two girls said politely, “Your permission, Lady. We must go see what the thieves have taken.” The two girls ran to the inn, and let out shrieks of rage. “Pappa! They took all the kegs of wine.”

He remained looking up at her, absently combing straw out of his hair with spread fingers. “Can you do anything for us, Lady?”

“Not until we catch up. How long since they were here?”

The innkeeper looked at the Sun. “More than an hour.”

The soldier snorted. “By the time we catch up they will be having a party with your wine.”

Lady Witch felt forlornly that she should have warned them all somehow. She offered an excuse. “I was away from home, and when I returned my pigs had been stolen. It will interfere with my magic. I must get them back.”

The innkeeper stayed looking at her, still absently combing his hair with his fingers. “I heard the pigs squeal in both wagons, but I did not know they were your magic pigs, Lady. What becomes of the magic if they are eaten? What becomes of the lords whose names they carry?”

“God knows,” said Lady Witch. “I must get them back. The Baroness is about to give birth.”

“Give birth to what, Milady?”

“Do not meddle in magic,” she replied sharply. “I must be with her when she delivers or there will be—ah, something happening.” She made a vague gesture indicating nothing in particular and avoided his inquiring gaze. “I am not here to attack the nomads. Lord Randolph is sending soldiers from the fort for that. I need to be by the side of The Baroness when she delivers, to complete the Magic.” She made the word sound mysterious and important. But it was important. Was there no one else in the Solar System doing research on prions? Did they all think that the shortening of life on Earth was only a radiation effect from the time the magnetic poles reversed and would wear off? It was not wearing off, and the level of knowledge was dropping as each generation was given too short a time to pass on more than survival skills to the next generation. With five years delay most of her friends could die. She braced herself for danger. “Get me something to wear that looks like one of the nomad women. I must get into their camp.”

They brought her a brown dress. She tied it to the saddle. “Let’s go! Hurry!”

The soldier had watered the horses and was splashing water over his head and arms. He rose, dripping, and mounted.

The girls came out and passed up water bottles. “We hope you hit them with lightning, Lady Witch.”

She could make no promises of what she could do against armed men, so she was silent. The innkeeper apologized, “I would like to go with you to fight but I have to stay and protect my daughters.”

Again they galloped down the turnpike extension, enjoying the level footing of weeds over underlying cement that let their horses run smoothly. Later and closer to the ocean they stopped at a looted farm and helped the family pick up the wreckage of their doors while they listened to their description of the nomads who had just left. Their hens and eggs had been taken, the milk cow had been driven away and some of the garden tools and all of their good clothes and best pots had been loaded into their own wagon and driven off with their horse.

The soldier helped them rehang the barn door on its hinges and listened to their story of barricading themselves in their house and hearing the thunderous bursting of the front doors. The house had been invaded and plundered but not one of the family had been hurt or killed, which put a better aspect on the looters.

Excitedly discussing it, the farm family collected eggs laid in stray corners and invited Lady Witch and the soldier to sit at their table, and promised a big tomato omelette breakfast with corn pancakes and butter.

Billy was hungry and eager, but Lady Witch wanted to push on and catch up with the looters. The family agreed to shelter the little boy and let their nine-year-old boy volunteer to guide Lady Witch on a shortcut to get ahead of the nomad army, now slowed by the weight of loot.

The boy guided them away from the road, down a muddy bank of high reeds and into a great saltgrass marsh. The horses protested and walked carefully down a slope of yielding roots to where a small rowboat lay anchored on drying sand. The sand was as hard and flat as a road. The boy gestured them to follow and began to run. They trotted, following the track of hard damp sand. The dampness became puddles then a stream. They followed the sand path downhill. Dark banks of wet roots became higher on each side, and the marsh spread out before them to distant shores of trees. Toward the sea the shore road was hidden by trees. Ahead, puddles widened into shallows of salt water, reflecting banks and sky. The horses advanced into the bright blue shallows with careful steps, found the bottom was hard sand and began to trot again. The boy had run ahead and around a curve; the horses rounded the curve, galloping, and passed him, their hoofs splashing.

Water deepened to the horses’ knees. The horses stopped, snorting uncertainly, looking out on a widening bay.

Lady Witch and the officer of supplies drew rein and looked around. To their right the lad waved, waist-deep in another stream. They turned to it and the horses trotted uphill again, snorting and splashing in the shallowing water. The banks were walls of roots populated by small scuttling crabs, they made cool shade against the hot sunlight and a wall they could not see over.

The boy climbed a bank and put his head over the edge. They stood up in their stirrups for height and looked over. They were almost at the edge of the marsh. Ahead, stands of thick bushes and high pines cut off the view of the sea. In the silence, a redwinged blackbird sang a high trill, a cow mooed, a calf bawled, a pig grunted. High voices called directions.

The lad signaled caution. They dismounted and led the horses up a damp sand track. The sun shone hotly on their backs and heads, and the wind shifted toward their faces and brought them a slow rumbling of ocean waves and the aromatic smoke of pine twig fires starting.

They put their heads together for quiet talk. “They are starting campfires,” mumbled the officer. “Dinner next. You had better move fast, Lady.”

Startling them, one of their horses whickered interest in the smell of strange horses. There was an answering whinny from the direction of the nomads’ encampment. Lady Witch and the soldier gently held the horses’ nostrils to silence them. The soldier handed the reins to the boy and murmured, “If they both start talking to the camp horses, we’ll be under a pile of nomad soldiers. Take them back home.”