dust of the state of dreaming
Light is the mixture to make one still
Dark is the powder of Death’s redeeming;
Mark that but one pinch can kill—”
Something hard rapped him on the forehead, just under the hood of his battle-smock.
He started awake with a strangled yell and an icy thrust of fear as the butt of the
staff withdrew, reflex sending his hands snatching up his crossbow . . .
. . . and then freezing at the glitter on the honed edges of arrowheads pointing at
him. Six arrows, drawn past the jaw, ready to nail him to the ground.
It had to be his imagination that he heard the thick yew staves of the longbows creaking,
but the barred-fang growl of the dogs was like millstones turning as they crouched
and stared at his throat with fixed intent. The dark woman was leaning on her staff
and panting a little as if with hard effort. She blew out a breath and grinned down
at him, her full lips curving away from white teeth.
“Who’s the naughty laddie, then?” she said, in an accent that held a strong pleasant
burbling lilt. “So, would you be puttin’ your hands on your head the now, or would
you rather be pierced, perforated and sent off to the Summerlands for a wee bit of
a rest before you try life again?”
Shit,
he thought.
So much for my glorious military career and a general’s stars by forty. Shit twice
and on toast.
“Your choice,” one of the archers added helpfully.
“I surrender,” he said, laying down the crossbow, coming up onto both knees and clasping
his hands across the top of his head.
“Now that’s a sensible lad,” she said cheerfully, extending her hand so Alyssa could
stand and move out of the line of fire. “Better not to kill without strong need, for
aren’t we all alike children of the Mother? Merry meet, Lady Alyssa; who would this
likely youngster you’re travelling with be?”
“I’m Cole Salander, Private First Class, United States Army, serial number A3F77032,”
he said sourly, staring ahead.
“Toss the sword belt, number-on-a-list-man,” one of the archers said. “Undo it with
your left hand, mind, and keep the other on your head.”
He unbuckled it and did, which put his sword, bowie, utility knife and hatchet out
of reach; he supposed it was a compliment of sorts that they were being cautious about
getting close to him while he was armed. Another Mackenzie extended the horn-sheathed
tip of his yew stave and snagged the sling of his crossbow, dragging it cautiously
away before firing the bolt into the ground with a
whap
and examining the weapon with professional curiosity.
“And is there any more cutlery, ironmongery or things of a sharp and pointy or otherwise
harmful nature?” the first bowman said. “Produce, man, and no monkeyshines.”
He was a little older than the others, with a cropped blond beard and only a few touches
of war paint and no weird haircut except for it being a lot longer than was common
for men in Idaho, his thick yellow braid tied into a clubbed bunch at the back of
his head. A piece of wolf-tail dangled along with it. A thin collar of twisted gold
lay around his neck, the ends fashioned into the heads of wolves meeting muzzle-to-muzzle.
“Steady now, boyo, and don’t try to befool us,” he said, his voice hard. “That would
not put us in a better mood. You get a whap alongside the head for every one we find
when we search.”
Cole had two holdout knives, one in his boot and a little one sewn into the jacket
behind his neck. He tossed the blades and his sentry-removal wire garrote and blackjack
after the crossbow, removing them from their hiding places with two fingers and great
caution but no undue waste of time. He didn’t know how long they could hold the draw
on those heavy bows and didn’t want to find out if it meant fingers slipping off the
string and a thirty-six-inch arrow heading his way at several hundred feet per second.
What the fuck
Light is the mixture to make one still
Dark is the powder of Death’s redeeming;
Mark that but one pinch can kill—”
Something hard rapped him on the forehead, just under the hood of his battle-smock.
He started awake with a strangled yell and an icy thrust of fear as the butt of the
staff withdrew, reflex sending his hands snatching up his crossbow . . .
. . . and then freezing at the glitter on the honed edges of arrowheads pointing at
him. Six arrows, drawn past the jaw, ready to nail him to the ground.
It had to be his imagination that he heard the thick yew staves of the longbows creaking,
but the barred-fang growl of the dogs was like millstones turning as they crouched
and stared at his throat with fixed intent. The dark woman was leaning on her staff
and panting a little as if with hard effort. She blew out a breath and grinned down
at him, her full lips curving away from white teeth.
“Who’s the naughty laddie, then?” she said, in an accent that held a strong pleasant
burbling lilt. “So, would you be puttin’ your hands on your head the now, or would
you rather be pierced, perforated and sent off to the Summerlands for a wee bit of
a rest before you try life again?”
Shit,
he thought.
So much for my glorious military career and a general’s stars by forty. Shit twice
and on toast.
“Your choice,” one of the archers added helpfully.
“I surrender,” he said, laying down the crossbow, coming up onto both knees and clasping
his hands across the top of his head.
“Now that’s a sensible lad,” she said cheerfully, extending her hand so Alyssa could
stand and move out of the line of fire. “Better not to kill without strong need, for
aren’t we all alike children of the Mother? Merry meet, Lady Alyssa; who would this
likely youngster you’re travelling with be?”
“I’m Cole Salander, Private First Class, United States Army, serial number A3F77032,”
he said sourly, staring ahead.
“Toss the sword belt, number-on-a-list-man,” one of the archers said. “Undo it with
your left hand, mind, and keep the other on your head.”
He unbuckled it and did, which put his sword, bowie, utility knife and hatchet out
of reach; he supposed it was a compliment of sorts that they were being cautious about
getting close to him while he was armed. Another Mackenzie extended the horn-sheathed
tip of his yew stave and snagged the sling of his crossbow, dragging it cautiously
away before firing the bolt into the ground with a
whap
and examining the weapon with professional curiosity.
“And is there any more cutlery, ironmongery or things of a sharp and pointy or otherwise
harmful nature?” the first bowman said. “Produce, man, and no monkeyshines.”
He was a little older than the others, with a cropped blond beard and only a few touches
of war paint and no weird haircut except for it being a lot longer than was common
for men in Idaho, his thick yellow braid tied into a clubbed bunch at the back of
his head. A piece of wolf-tail dangled along with it. A thin collar of twisted gold
lay around his neck, the ends fashioned into the heads of wolves meeting muzzle-to-muzzle.
“Steady now, boyo, and don’t try to befool us,” he said, his voice hard. “That would
not put us in a better mood. You get a whap alongside the head for every one we find
when we search.”
Cole had two holdout knives, one in his boot and a little one sewn into the jacket
behind his neck. He tossed the blades and his sentry-removal wire garrote and blackjack
after the crossbow, removing them from their hiding places with two fingers and great
caution but no undue waste of time. He didn’t know how long they could hold the draw
on those heavy bows and didn’t want to find out if it meant fingers slipping off the
string and a thirty-six-inch arrow heading his way at several hundred feet per second.
What the fuck
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