S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

"Sound Fall in!"

She gave him a startled glance and then scrabbled for the bugle slung across her shoulder. The first try was a startled blat; then it rang out hard and clear. Everyone was tired, but they moved fast; horses were resaddled and everyone ready to go within a few minutes.

"Look yonder," he said grimly, as Signe fell in by his side.

The balloon had been winched down. Now it was rising again, rising high and paying out southward as fast as the cable could come off the windlass. The propane flame lit the white-and-red envelope from within, turning it into a Chinese lantern of improbable beauty with each flare as it rose against the darkening horizon to the east.

Havel rose in the stirrups and raised his voice: "Possibly I'm being too nervous, but I'm going to assume that means an attack on our camp. We're going home-as fast as the horses can carry us. Now."

He pulled Gustav's head around and clapped the spurs home.

"Buttercup," Billy Waters said. The teenager standing guard at the Bearkillers' notional perimeter nodded and replied: "Bluebonnet-advance and be recognized."

There was a sneer in the words as he gave the countersign, and Waters felt his teeth grind at it.

You'll be laughing out of the other side soon, you little fuck, he thought.

The twilight was deepening, but the youth's eyes widened at the sight of the men coming up behind the bowyer. A dozen big hairy shaggy men, carrying wrapped bundles in their hands.

"Hey, you guys aren't locals!" the teenager said. He raised his bow. "You stop right there!"

He raised his voice, a warbling yell with a break right in the middle of it: "Camp boss! We got a problem here!"

One of the Devil Dogs shoved Waters aside with a curse; that saved his life, that and Jeb Smith's hand on his ankle pulling him to the ground.

The Devil Dog swept his war-hammer free of the concealing rags and charged roaring, flourishing the massive weapon overhead. The boy on guard fired by instinct, with the same reflex he would have used if he'd suddenly found a scorpion in his bedroll.

The bowstring went snap against his leather bracer, and the Devil Dog's roar turned into a scream of pain as the arrow sank to its feathers in his thigh; the sweep of the war-hammer buried itself in the hillside turf.

Smith went tsk between his teeth and leveled his crossbow from where he lay. The short weapon gave a tung! and the heavy bolt hammered into the boy's body just below the breastbone, and he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Waters stared at the figure that jerked and then lay still:

"Thought you wanted 'em all dead," Smith observed, kneeling to drop the spanning claw over his crossbow's string and hook the crank to the butt.

"Uh. yeah," Waters said, licking his lips. Too late to back out now. Christ, what have I gotten myself into?

"Too late to back out now," Smith said, and Waters started at the words. "Well, get his bow, man. We've got work to do, and you wanted to see to your family, didn't you?"

Waters nodded dumbly and took the weapon and quiver; he already had a sword and knife at his waist, but he'd never pretended to be a blade man. The bow he could use; it had a lighter pull than his regular one, but just as heavy as the models he'd used to hunt deer. Together they ran on through the growing chaos of the camp; he could see fires and hear screams from the darkened town beyond as well.

I'm gonna be a big man here, he told himself. The Duke knows he needs me.

The dark was getting deeper, but only a few of the lanterns had been lit; what light there was came mostly from the hearths and cooking fires, red and glimmering. Figures ran past him amid a rising brabble of voices and the sudden scrap-metal clamor of edged metal striking its kin. Suddenly Smith was cursing beside him; he grabbed the lighter man by the sleeve and yanked him around.

"Jesus!" Smith said. "They're going to see that and Lord fucking Bear's only a couple of miles away. Come on!"

Waters's head jerked around. The balloon was rising again, with a booming roar of propane and a flare of light. He ran in Smith's wake, fumbling out an arrow for the bow.

"We're killing the horses!" Luanne cried.

"We can replace them," Havel snarled over the thunder of hooves.

"Shut up and ride, girl," her father gasped.

The Bearkillers came over the last crest. Craigswood lay below them, T-shaped-one main street, a crossbar and some laneways beyond. There were a couple of houses burning already, and more fires in the Bearkiller camp beyond.

No time to blame yourself, he thought. Just do what you can.

"Will!" he said, dropping back beside him. "We'll punch through Craigswood, and then clear the camp out. When we've finished there, we'll punch back and do the same in town."

"Yeah," the other man said. "How'd you know something was happening when you saw the balloon?"

"It occurred to me that if Duke Iron Rod was smart and had spies in Craigswood, he'd know that sitting and waiting for a siege where we had Ken's doorknockers was a bad idea. Looks like he threw double or nothing. Infiltrated most of his men in small parties, hid them out in ravines or something, and then launched that raid in broad daylight to draw us out."

"I'll take the rear," Hutton said, nodding. "Chance to finish him off, too."

He dropped back along the column of twos, pausing to brief the fighters. Everyone was grimly anxious-they could see their families and moving home under attack in front of them-but nobody broke ranks. Riding fast in the dark was risky enough as it was:

They passed the first house, dark and shuttered; then there were a line of men across the road, barring their way. Light gleamed red on the blades of their swords and axes.

Havel drew his sword, leaning forward with the point advanced and feet planted firmly in the stirrups.

"Haakkaa paalle!" he shouted.

"Haakkaa paalle!" the Bearkillers roared behind him, louder than the thunder of hooves on asphalt.

Waters raised the bow uncertainly.

In and around the balloon wagon were a knot of Bear-killers; a couple of armored fighters, and a tangle of women and children. Not his children, except for Reuben: and then he saw the faces of the others peering over the edge of the balloon's basket; them and half a dozen others and a twelve-year-old to keep them in order, and the weight must be why the rise was so slow. But there were Devil Dogs about, too, and he saw a brief bright glitter from the head of a crossbow bolt as it arched up towards the gondola.

"No!" he shouted.

"Oh, we are so fucked," Smith said conversationally. "I think a move's in order. Portland, maybe."

The other man's head swiveled back and forth; then he shrugged, sheathed his weapons and faded into the darkness. Waters felt an overwhelming urge to follow him: but walked forward instead.

His wife, Jane, was beside Reuben and Angelica Hutton, clutching a spear in an uncertain grip and prodding gingerly at dark figures that dodged about. Astrid Larsson sprang up from behind the massive winch that controlled the balloon and shot, the arrow a flickering streak in the semidarkness; someone shouted in pain amid the scrimmage beyond.

A huge bass voice bellowed: "Out of my way, you pussies!"

Iron Rod's great sword spun in the firelight, a pinwheel of light. The ash-wood of the spear shaft cracked, and the head flew off into the night. Iron Rod bellowed and strode forward, an iron-clad giant, swung again. Jane Waters flew sprawling; the merciful darkness hid what fell. The long sword rose again, over Reuben and Angelica where she stood by the wagon wheel, knife and hatchet in hand, spitting defiance.

Waters shot. The arrow punched into Iron Rod's heavy shield and stood quivering, humming a malignant note under the shrieks and clatter. He dragged his own sword free and ran forward, trying to remember the detested lessons, threw himself forward in a lunge. The point struck something hard and slipped, and he dropped the hilt and pinwheeled his arms as he staggered on the wet ground trying to regain his balance.