03 A Meeting at Corvallis by S. M. Stirling

Author:S. M. Stirling [Stirling, S. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2006-06-06T14:00:00+00:00

“Quant’ è bella giovinezza

Che si fugge tuttavia!

Chi vuol esse lieto, sia!

Di doman’ non c’ è certezza.”

Havel grinned at the sound; the war-engine crews were laughing, but with their commander and not at him, which was a good sign. A leader had to show the troops he knew his business, but after that the odd larger-than-life gesture didn’t hurt at all.

A glance at his watch when he reined in beside Signe and the banner again…

Ten o’clock. This is all taking longer than I expected. OK, they want to wait, we’ll wait. This is a delaying action, after all. If I had the rest of our Field Force here, I wouldn’t be worried—not at even odds. Of course, that’s only about a fifth of their army there, and what I’ve got here now is half of mine. Where are the other eight thousand men Arminger can field? Are they all over on the east side of the river, taking on Mount Angel and the Mackenzies and my wife’s lunatic little sister? Or are they going to send another couple of thousand down between the Eola Hills and the Coast Range, swarm Will Hutton under and bugger us for fair, as Sam would put it? That’s what I’d do in his shoes…

He still kept an eye on the Chapman Hill lookout post now and then; they could tell him if Stavarov was trying to get fancy, working a force west around his flank through the hills, or if his own reinforcements were in sight. Instead the next move from the Protector’s ranks came as a surprise.

“What’s he doing?” Signe asked.

A knight had spurred out from the block of men-at-arms, his plumed helmet and the forked pennant on his lance fluttering in the wind. He tossed the lance over his head, whirling the eleven-foot weapon like a baton, shouting something not quite understandable at this distance and putting his horse through fancy footwork. His kite-shaped shield was divided into wedges of gold and black with their points meeting in the center, and a purple motorcycle wreathed in flames painted over it.

“Gyronny or and sable, a Harley purpure,” Signe said, reading the blazonry.

“At a guess, that guy’s folks were gangers, not Society types,” Havel said, grinning despite himself. “It has a certain style. I used to really like my Harley in high school.”

“That’s the Wereton family,” Signe said in a quelling tone. “Of Laurelwood Manor, up near Chehalem Mountain; they hold it by knight-service from the Barony of Forestgrove. Lord Harrison Decard’s their liege. And Mr. Motorcycle out there is challenging all and sundry to single combat. Stavarov’s going to let his hotheads work off some steam. Idiots.”

Havel felt his grin spread wider; here was something besides the tangled complexities and haunting fears of high command….

Speaking of gestures…and I’m not forty yet, he thought. Besides which, this is a delaying action. Playing at El Cid is delay, all right.

He ignored Signe’s horrified yelp and brought Gustav up in a rear that turned into a gallop as he shot ahead, north down River Bend Road.

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