Keeper of the Black Stones (34 page)

I could hear the locals screaming in the alleys around us, terrified, and wondered fleetingly how long we had before they began to riot.

Reis must have had the same thought. He pushed Katherine, who was stunned and sitting absolutely still, into the back of the wagon, and grabbed the horse's reins. She was no happier about the gunshots than any of the other horses, and was lunging forward and back in panic.

Instead of trying to control her, Reis brought the reins sharply down on her rump and shouted, “Ha!”

The horse didn't need any further encouragement. She shot forward, rushing through the wide main street of the town. We weren't out of the woods yet, though. A shout from Paul drew my attention to the back of the cart, where I saw that one of the Vikings had jumped up before we left, grabbing the edge of the vehicle. He clung to the side now, one hand around Tatiana's wrist, threatening to pull her out of the cart. She glanced to me, mouthing the word ‘help,' and I looked around the cart, desperate for a weapon.

Before I could move, Paul flew into action. He lugged one of Katherine's bags of flour up over his shoulder and heaved it at the Viking. Tatiana
ducked at the last second, and the man took the bag across the face. He dropped like a rock to the road below us.

An ominous bump two seconds later suggested that he met a quick fate via the wheels of the wagon.

“Get down!” Reis screamed, handing the reins to me. He swung around with his rifle, looking for other enemies in the area, and covered our escape.

We stopped twenty minutes later, at a small inn by the road.

“Is everyone okay?” Reis asked. He turned to face us, breathing heavily.

“Are you?” Paul responded quickly.

Reis nodded. “I think so.”

“What now?” I asked, taking in our surroundings. I didn't think we'd been followed, but I didn't trust any of the people here, now. I wanted to know who was around us at all times.

Reis rolled up his sleeve and glanced at his watch. “We've got a long way to go and very little time to get there,” he said. He paused, thinking. “I'm afraid that little incident is going to draw a lot of attention, and that's not good. Word is going to get out about my guns, so our cover is blown.” He jumped off the cart and gestured toward the row of horses hitched to the tying post in front of the inn. “Gather your things. Choose a horse.”

“What?” Paul spluttered, jumping down. “We can't just take horses! What about the cart?”

Reis turned, his face dark. “Listen to me, Paul,” he said quietly. “That little show back there blew our cover. We're labeled as people with guns, and strangers, and guess whose territory we're in right now?” He paused, waiting for an answer.

“Dresden's,” I muttered. He was right–we were in a lot of danger. More
now than we had been. My legs kicked into action at the thought, and I was out of the cart before I knew it.

Reis nodded. “Exactly. Now he's going to be searching for us, and he's going to know exactly who and where we are, thanks to those townspeople. We need to get moving, and we need to move a hell of a lot faster than we were doing in the wagon.”

“So we're just going to go in and ask someone if we can borrow their horses?” Paul asked, shocked.

“Not at all,” Reis replied, smiling. “I have a plan.”

24

D
resden's personal chamber took up the entire room at the top of the castle's tallest tower. It stretched nearly 18 feet from floor to ceiling and housed just under 1000 square feet of living space. Six brightly colored rugs were strewn about the stone floor, with one massive rug depicting the royal crown of England lying at the foot of his bed. On top of the bed was a bright red bedspread made of silk, lavishly embroidered with silver and gold horses and birds of prey. There were dozens of multicolored pillows on the bed–rash signs of wealth in this day and age. Two tall stained glass windows stood on either side of the large desk, and paintings of stars, moons, and horses decorated the plaster walls in purple, gold, and turquoise. To anyone else, the chamber was breathtakingly beautiful, lacking nothing and even flaunting colors and materials that the royals called their own. To Dresden, these sumptuous decorations and signs of wealth were the hard-won gains of his climb to power. They were ostentatious, but they were also his due. He didn't hesitate to remind people of that.

Dresden himself was sitting at his desk, recording the day's goals, when the Bishop of Fairhaven rushed into the room, his nose swollen and bloody. Both of his eyes were blackened. He had one of his priests with him, presumably for moral support. Dresden looked up, frowning with displeasure.

“I do not recall summoning you,” he said, going back to his journal. “What on earth happened to your face?”

“I was attacked!” the Bishop snapped angrily. “A ruffian attacked me without warning or reason, and I demand that he be found and punished!
No one should be allowed to strike a servant of God, not in my kingdom!”

Dresden snorted as he leaned back in his chair. Men of the church were flighty and self-righteous, and he had far more important things to do right now. A war was coming, and he needed to be prepared. If things were going to go the way he wanted…

“Make no mistake, your
Holiness
, this is not your kingdom, and you are no more a servant of God than I,” he snapped. “Further, I have important business to see to, and little patience for your petty arguments. I suggest you handle this yourself, or I will finish what this other man started.”

“As lord of this region, it is your duty to see justice done!” the Bishop protested. “Would you allow mercenaries to beat members of the church?” Suddenly his voice grew low and crafty. “I wonder how my superiors would feel about that. I wonder whether they would find another man … worthier of your place.”

Dresden drew a long, whistling breath through his noise, his nostrils pinched. The Bishop was an idiot, but he knew how to play at politics. Just like every other self-serving church official he had met in this period. The Bishop would tell his superiors, he had no doubt, and Richard couldn't afford to lose the church's backing. Not now.

Of course the Bishop could only tell his tale if he left here alive.

Dresden's mouth quirked, and he glanced toward the drawer where he kept his personal pistol. “Well when you put it that way, Bishop, I find it hard to argue with you,” he muttered, his voice smooth and slippery. “Do tell me, then, who was this ruffian?”

The Bishop smiled at the small victory. “There were four of them. I don't know who they were. They were … strange.”

Dresden lifted his eyebrows in mock fascination. “Strange? How so?”

“They spoke…” The Bishop took a deep breath, his eyes sliding to the side. “They spoke like you, my Lord.”

Dresden frowned, his mind trying to make sense of what the fool had
said. Suddenly he noticed something hanging from the man's wrists–gray, dense material, which reflected the light back at him.

He jumped to his feet, throwing his chair against the wall behind him, and strode quickly toward the Bishop to grab his wrist.

“Duct tape,” he muttered in shock, peering closely at the material. His eyes rose to the Bishop's. “What did you say about them?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“They spoke as you do, my Lord. Their accents were like yours.”

Dresden's face grew dark at that. His accent … by this the man meant his speech patterns and words, as well as the sounds of them. When he first came here, his speech had been a large problem. It was, after all, from the twenty-first century. He'd taken pains to alter it and force himself into the habits of the people of this time, to fit into Medieval England.

If the Bishop was saying that these people spoke like him…

“What did these strangers look like?” he growled.

“It was dark, I don't remem–”

“Try,” Dresden said, reining in his temper. If the Bishop had seen people from the future, it could mean big trouble. He needed to know as much about them as possible, regardless of whether the man wanted to talk about it or not.

The Bishop frowned, trying to regain his composure. “The man who did this to me, he was older than the others. Perhaps twenty-five years of age, perhaps older. It was dark, it was hard to tell.”

“And?” Dresden asked ominously. Surely the man had seen more than
that
.

“He had short, light-colored hair, but not as fair as yours, my Lord. He was tall, as tall as Prince Sloan, and sure of himself. He came out of the shadows and attacked two of my men and myself with his bare hands.”

“And? What else? You say that their speech was odd. What else, Bishop?”

“I saw ... I saw two younger men and a woman, perhaps the same age as Prince Sloan.”

“Where were you? What were you doing? What were they doing there?” Dresden's questions came more rapidly as he began to lose his patience.

“I was visiting the healer's daughter. She needed my assistance in her time of need–”

“I don't care what you were doing with her,” Dresden snarled suddenly. “These people you saw, what happened to them? Where did they go?”

“My Lord!” The Bishop drew himself up and looked down his nose, offended at Dresden's tone.

Dresden snorted. These men of the church–always thinking they were more important than they actually were. He obviously wasn't going to get anywhere with this man unless he pushed the issue. He moved back to his desk, where he grabbed the pistol from its drawer and raised it quickly to eye level, to point it at the Bishop's now-pale face. Then he released the safety. The Bishop jumped at the sharp click.

“You know what this is, and what it will do to you,” Dresden noted quietly, his lips pinched with anger. “I suggest that you tell me exactly what I want to know, and quickly, before I am forced to use it. What were they wearing?”

The man gasped. “You would kill me … a bishop?”

Dresden smiled and shook his head. “That would rather defeat the purpose of asking a question and expecting an answer, would it not?”

He shifted the nose of the pistol to the side and smiled again, then pulled the trigger. A loud thunderclap sounded through the chamber, accompanied by a cloud of smoke. When the smoke cleared, the Bishop's priest lay on the floor, dead.

The Bishop jumped in horror, his eyes on his fallen comrade.

Dresden moved the nose of the pistol slowly back toward the Bishop and smiled wolfishly. “Now, Bishop, I believe I asked you a question.”

Suddenly the Bishop found his voice. “The three men were wearing cloaks, brown cloaks. From a distance I would have mistaken them for priests,” he said, his voice shaking with fear.

“And the girl, what was she wearing?”

The Bishop shook his head in confusion. “It was dark. I don't … something different, something strange. Not a cloak or armor. A shirt and light brown britches, perhaps, but nothing like I've seen before.” He gulped nervously.

Dresden's heart clenched for a moment. They were from the future, then. They had to be. The men had taken some care to disguise themselves, but not enough. Who were they? And why were they here? Most importantly…

“Where did they go?” he demanded.

“They left town. I believe that they took the girl with them. North, they went north, I'm certain. I heard the older one tell one of the boys that they would head directly to York,” the Bishop mumbled, squirming toward the door.

Dresden watched him closely. The man was lying, that much was obvious. He didn't know where these people had gone, and would be of no more use. Not that it mattered. If they were here to involve themselves in the coming battle–or to stop him–they would be going in only one direction.

He turned back toward his desk, tucked the gun in his belt, and unrolled the large map, jamming his finger down on the small town. “Bosworth,” he murmured. “That must be where they're headed.”