For King and Country by Robert Asprin; Linda Evans

Author:Robert Asprin; Linda Evans
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 0743435397
Publisher: Baen Publishing Enterprises
Published: 2002-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The first report of disaster came before Ancelotis' manservant, Gilroy, had even finished packing for the journey back to Gododdin. Stirling, helplessly along for the ride in the unfolding political and military affairs of Britain, jerked around in startled surprise when a great bronze bell began to toll a clangorous alarm. An armed soldier appeared at the entrance to the council hall, moving at a dead run and escorting a boy of no more than thirteen, a runner who staggered with every stride. Mud plastered his clothes and ran in rivulets from sweat-soaked hair. "Attack," the lad gasped out, "attack by raiders near Long Meg and Her Daughters! They've burnt every farm within five miles of the standing stones!"

"The heart of Penrith!" King Meirchion snarled. "We should have hanged that Saxon bastard from the nearest oak! More's the pity you didn't cut his throat, Ancelotis, when you had him at your mercy, and host laws be damned. The Saxons certainly don't abide by them." He strode away, bellowing orders as the alarm bell continued to send its warning reverberating through the late afternoon air, the sound dropping through the open ceiling above the hearth like hailstones.

Artorius met and held Ancelotis' gaze. "I must stay here and prepare the campaign in the south. Meirchion could use your judgement and skill."

Stirling most emphatically did not want to leave Artorius unguarded, convinced as he was that the Dux Bellorum was the IRA's main target, but he didn't have much choice, since Ancelotis agreed at once.

"Aye," his host nodded, "I'll send riders to Gododdin to spread the word, to strengthen the forts and raise an army to send south. I'll take most of the cataphracti who rode with me from Gododdin and try to catch that Saxon bastard before he does more damage. Meirchion was right. I should have killed him."

Within minutes, Stirling found himself in the saddle once more, shouting orders to the narrow-lipped Sarmatian cavalrymen who had ridden with him from Caer-Iudeu. The combined cataphracti of Gododdin, Strathclyde, and Rheged thundered through the great fortress gates and left Carlisle behind in a sea of churned-up mud flung on house walls by nearly three hundred heavily armored horses. Stirling couldn't help the thrill of adrenaline through his veins, caught up as he was in the glittering midst of sun-struck armor, helmets, and spearpoints.

They followed the Roman highway south toward Penrith, a town deep in the heart of Cumbria, which Stirling had driven through on many a holiday. The Cumbrian mountains rose as a massive barrier to the west, lifting their craggy heads from the lowlands around Carlisle and marching straight south through the Lake District. It was less than twenty miles to Penrith from Caerleul's sandstone walls. At a gallop for much of the way, they covered the distance in just a few hours.

Smoke and ruin rose on every side as they neared Penrith. Farms lay scorched, with wildfires still spreading beyond villages that were nothing but smoking rubble. Livestock—cattle, goats, sheep,

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