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shape when this whole crazy experience started.
There were three or four donkeys, used as pack animals. The only horses were
carrying half a dozen fighting men. These were all evidently leaders, and
there was no chivalrous nonsense out of them about offering weaker folk a
ride. This small cavalry squadron, wearing chain mail over regular clothes,
was led by the short, forceful man, Artos--that had turned out to be his name
and not the name of the village.
Armed with short spears, knives, shields, and the only two swords that Marge
had seen since her arrival, the cavalry since dawn had been maneuvering in and
out of sight of the trudging foot column. Sometimes they went trotting ahead
to scout the way. At other times they dropped back, or vanished along
hedgerows to one side of the road or the other, Marge supposed to look out for
ambush or pursuit. Among the people on foot, ten or a dozen men and boys were
carrying spears and short blades, serving as immediate armed escort.
Marge had heard frequent mention of something called the Strong Fort. It was
the place they were trying to reach, and she gathered that they might possibly
get there sometime tomorrow. She supposed that meant at least one night spent
in the open, in what promised to be an uncomfortable camp. Marge wasn't
looking forward to the night.
A distant whistle, intended as a signal, broke in on her thoughts. Everyone
around her was galvanized by the sound.
"They fight!" one of the Ladies near Marge gasped. The whole small column,
men, women, and children, had already quickened its pace into a run. The
whistle had sounded from somewhere in the rear, where a few minutes earlier
the cavalry had dropped back out of sight.
file:///G|/rah/Fred%20Saberhagen/Fred%20Sab...hagen%20-%20Dracula%2005%20-%20D
ominion.htm (148 of 186) [2/5/2004 12:21:16 AM]
Saberhagen, Fred - [Dracula 05] Dominion
Marge, surrounded by grim, whitedusted, gasping faces, ran with the rest. The
pace was not an all-out dash but a long-distance lope, and so far she was
keeping up. Somewhere far in the rear, the men of the cavalry shouted, going
about their warriors' trade. Now already the older people in the column were
beginning to lag helplessly. No one was going to wait for them. The younger
adults pressed on, dragging the smaller children with them as best they could.
Before Marge was totally winded, another whistled signal overtook the
refugees. Stumbling with relief, the fleeing column straggled to a halt. Some
sat down where they were. Heads turned back. Within a minute, Artos rode into
sight at the head of his tiny squadron, all of whom had apparently survived
the skirmish in good shape. Artos had his sword in hand, and when he waved it
briefly, signaling the walking people to move right on, Marge could see that
it was stained. The horses of the cavalry, skittish now, snorting, walking
quickly, brought their riders forward, overtaking the pedestrians.
"And the new sword?" an old man, walking, asked Artos anxiously. The speaker
had fallen in beside the leader's horse, on whose saddle Marge now noticed
there were no stirrups. None of the saddles had them, she assured herself,
looking around. How did the men manage to stay on?
Artos nodded in reply to the old man, who had
Eowerful, gray-furred arms. "Excellent. You srged well."
The First Lady, hiking nearby in white gown and well-worn sandals, put in a
few words grumpily: "There was no time for a proper consecration or the sword.
And at the Strong Fort there's no lake big enough to do it properly."
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"Then, mother," said Artos, clapping hand to the hilt of the weapon he had
just wiped and resheathed, "the consecration will have to be in the using of
it. Forward!" He kicked lightly at his mount's flanks with his heels, and led
his squadron cantering ahead.
One of the ladies murmured: "Oh, if only Ambrosius were still around. Artos
needs his help, his magic.
We all do."
"Ambrosius is dead, girl." The First Lady spoke bitterly. "Save your breath
for walking."
Near midday, with the sun as high as it seemed likely to get in the mild sky,
there was a halt beside a brook, for which the paved road made way in a simple
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