Keeper of the Black Stones

by P. T. McHugh

  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.”

  “My Lord?” the Bishop asked.

  “Get out!” he snapped. “I have no further use for you.”

  The Bishop took one last look at the bloody corpse lying on the cold stone floor, and turned to flee the chamber in horror.

  Dresden glanced up to make sure that the man left, and saw his son standing in the doorway. Sloan Dresden had has father’s dark eyes, but that was where the resemblance ended. The boy was almost 6 feet tall, and had rich brown hair, which hung just below his shoulders. His square jaw gave him an air of power, while his shoulders and chest were broad enough to promise physical strength, his forearms well defined and muscular. He looked much older than his sixteen years would suggest.

  He was also very obviously distressed at the corpse lying on the floor.

  Dresden walked toward his son and stopped in front of him, raising his hand to grasp the boy’s shoulder. “Why so shocked, son?” he asked coldly. The boy should not look so upset about the death of someone who had not mattered in life.

  Sloan shook his head, confused. “Why kill him? What purpose did that serve, Father, except to make the Bishop dislike you even more?”

  Dresden smirked. “Have you heard of the Prince of Wallachia? Ruler of Hungary? Vlad the Impaler?”

  Sloan shook his head, his eyes growing cold and withdrawn.

  Dresden shook himself mentally. Of course the boy wouldn’t have heard of Vlad. That situation must be going on right now, he thought, rather than in ancient history, as he knew it. No amount of money spent on an education would have taught his son such things.

  “He was an immensely successful count in Hungary, and ruled successfully for many years. And do you know how he did it?”

  Sloan shook his head again, his expression unchanging.

  “Killing meant nothing to him, son. He cared very little for human life, and eliminated anyone who dared stand in his way. Without conscience. We must take an example from him, my boy. These people that surround us are mere shadows. You must not think of them as human, but as cattle. They are nothing compared to us. Their deaths do not matter.”

  Dresden paused for a moment, allowing that to sink in, then squeezed his son’s shoulder to get his attention. “Now, I have a mission for you.”

  Sloan took a deep breath and looked down for a moment. When he looked back up, his face was flat and emotionless, though something lurked in his eyes. Dresden paused for a moment. He hadn’t expected to test the boy’s mettle so soon, and wondered fleetingly whether his son was ready. Still, he couldn’t take the trip himself, and had no more trustworthy soldier.

  “You heard what the Bishop said about these strangers. It is imperative that we find them. Take your best men and follow the road from Doncaster to Bosworth.”

  The boy frowned in protest. “But Fa–”

  “Don’t question me, boy!” Dresden barked. “Take the road south, search every village, every farm, every hedge! These people must be found, do you understand me?”

  Sloan
nodded wordlessly, his lips pressed together in anger.

  Dresden sighed. He had high hopes for the boy, but his son questioned his orders more often than he liked. “You heard the Bishop’s description?” Another nod from the boy. “Find them, and bring them to me. If they are who I think they are…” Dresden paused. If they were who he thought they were, that made them minions of Richard Evans’. And that made them dangerous. There was only one way to deal with such people, though he didn’t think his son was up to it. “Take Lawrence and his men with you, and use whatever force necessary, but bring them to me alive.”

  “And if they aren’t who you believe they are?” Sloan asked, raising his chin.

  Dresden’s hand flew out, striking Sloan across the cheek and knocking the boy to the ground. “Mind your place, boy,” he thundered. “They are who I believe them to be, make no mistake.” He closed his eyes briefly and tried to control his anger. “I will only be a day’s ride behind you. King Richard will meet me at Lord Bryer’s estate in Nottingham tomorrow evening, to confirm our plans for the coming battle. Bring the strangers to me there.” He watched as Sloan scrambled to his feet, and held out a hand to stop the boy.

  “Do not fail me in this, son. Do not interrogate the strangers, and bring them to me alive. Meet me in Nottingham in two days, with these strangers, or it will mean your life. Do not doubt me in this. Do you understand?”

  Sloan narrowed his eyes with hatred, but did not answer. He turned and stormed out the door, shouting for his horse and men, and leaving Dresden alone in the sumptuous room.

  Dresden sighed, watching his son leave, and began to count the days left until the battle. If these strangers proved to be hard to find, and meant to make trouble…

  25

  I crouched low over the galloping horse, bringing my chest to within inches of its neck, and urged it to move faster. This also made my back a smaller target. I hoped. Looking to the side, I saw Tatiana doing the same, her face dangerously angry. The others were close behind us, their horses breathing heavily.

  It had all seemed so simple when Reis explained the plan. He’d started outlining it as soon as we got out of the cart at the inn. The idea had been simple and straightforward; as long as things went the way he thought they would, everything would be fine.

  As long as things went the way he thought they would. I should have known we were in trouble as soon as he’d said the words.

  It had been agreed that Katherine would do the talking, and the rest of us would keep quiet. We’d already been in the inn’s stable yard, which stood some distance from the inn itself. At least a dozen horses had been tied to the posts outside the stables. They’d been decked out in blankets, saddles, and bridles, practically begging for riders.

  Katherine had dealt quickly with the boys who came racing around, telling them that we would be staying the night, and sending them off to ready our rooms. As soon as they disappeared, the rest of us had sprung into action, grabbing our bags and racing toward the closest horses. Tatiana and Katherine had mounted first, followed by Reis, Paul, and me. We’d been galloping toward the gate in no time.

  Before we’d turned the corner and left the yard, though, the door of the inn had cracked open. Low, guttural voices had sounded through the opening, followed by shouts of alarm. We’d been too late.

  As it turned out, the horses we’d chosen had belonged to a group of soldiers. And well-armed soldiers, at that. They’d been chasing us for the last twenty minutes or so. The last shout I’d heard behind us was for the men to ready their bows.

  Suddenly Paul pulled abreast of Tatiana and me, breathing heavily through his mouth. He looked like he’d been through a war.

  “Can you see them?” I shouted, hoping he’d looked more recently than I had.

  For a moment he didn’t respond, making me wonder if he’d heard me at all. Finally he turned slightly to glance behind us.

  “Yeah, just over the ridge, maybe 50 feet out,” he shouted, bending farther forward.

  Reis caught up to us now, along with Katherine, their faces smeared with dust and sweat. Our horses were tiring quickly, and I could feel that they were beginning to slow. We needed to come up with a plan soon, or we’d be caught. How much longer would Reis run, before he decided to fight it out? Could he do it? Would he even have time to draw his weapons? We had surprised the Danes earlier in the day, but I didn’t think it would work again. Were these men chasing us because of Reis and his guns? Would it even matter? We knew they had long bows; several arrows had raced past us before we’d had a chance to reach the road.

  “They’re gaining on us,” Paul growled, bringing me back to the present. “We don’t have much time!”

  Suddenly a small wooden bridge appeared before us, blocking our path. Beyond the bridge was a dramatic fork in the road. One road led downstream, into the fields and valleys there. The other led directly into the forest in front of us.

  Reis pulled to a quick stop, glancing at first one road and then the other. We paused restlessly, watching him.

  “We don’t have time for this!” Tatiana screamed, looking back at us. “They’re right on our tails!”

  Reis ignored her outburst and stood up in his stirrups, judging the road in front of us and the ravine under the bridge.

  “Reis, we’ve got to go!” Tatiana implored. “Are you suicidal?”

  “Wait!” Reis demanded, finally looking over at Tatiana. “Dismount, grab your horses’ reins, and follow me. Quickly!”

  Tatiana’s face showed utter dismay at his announcement, but to her credit, she did as she was told. Without explanation, Reis led us hurriedly into the ravine and under the bridge. The structure was just large enough to hide us all from view.

  “What are we doing?” I whispered. “Hiding? Under a bridge?”

  Reis held up a hand for silence. “They’re going to be here in a matter of seconds, so I’m only explaining this once,” he snapped. “The road that forks to the left can be seen for miles without obstruction. They’ll take a brief look and see rather quickly that we didn’t go that way, which will prompt them to follow the road into the forest. Once they do, we’ll take the road less traveled, so to speak, which, according to my compass, is the road we need to take regardless.”

  “And if they figure out we’re hiding out down here?” Paul asked.

  Reis turned his back on Paul without answering, reaching into his carrying case and retrieving his assault rifle. “Then we do it the hard way,” he answered, releasing the rifle’s safety.

  Then we heard them, thundering up the road. We reached out and grabbed the reins of our horses, hoping our newly acquired animals would remain relatively quiet. The iron horse shoes of the soldiers’ mounts moved onto the bridge over us, and came to a deafening halt in the center. I looked at my friends, took a deep breath, and waited.

  My heart jumped into my throat when they finally started moving again. The bridge creaked and groaned above us at the weight, and I wondered suddenly what would happen if it broke. Would they look down and see us? Fall on top of us? I could see spaces between some of the boards–would those soldiers look down and see me looking up at them?

  I glanced at Reis anxiously, but found him calm and collected. He was casually resting the butt of his rifle against his right shoulder, the nose pointed up toward the bridge above us. If anything happened, he’d be ready.

  Then we heard the voices. The hair on the back of my neck stood in shock.

  “Sir, what about Lord Dresden’s battle? The road to Bosworth is this way,” the first voice called out.

  “Be damned with the battle! I want those horse thieves strung up for their crimes, and Lord Dresden would want the same,” another voice answered roughly.

  Reis gripped the barrel of his gun until his knuckles turned white, and I gulped. These were Dresden’s soldiers? Of all the rotten ideas in the world, we’d managed to draw the attention of Dresden’s soldiers by stealing their horses? The one man in this world we were work
ing hardest to avoid?

  We listened breathlessly as the horses stomped across the bridge, our eyes on the shadows above us. Obviously the leader had a decision to make. We could only hope that he decided to ride into the forest, as Reis thought he would. If he decided against the forest, we’d be trapped.

  Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the man made his decision. “We find the thieves, kill them, and then ride to battle,” he snarled. The other men grunted in agreement or acceptance, and moved after their commander. Seconds later, our pursuers had vacated the bridge and disappeared into the forest.

  We were free. For the moment.

  Reis nodded quickly and led his horse out from under the bridge, motioning for us to follow. Within moments, we were remounted and tearing down the open road, on our way to Bosworth.

  We rode without incident, not stopping until well past sundown, when we were too tired to ride any farther. Then we led our horses far enough off the road to feel safe, and found a small clearing in the trees.

  “How much farther do we have to go?” I asked once I was off my horse. I glanced at Doc’s watch and noted the time. Past 10, and this would be the 19th still, as impossible as that seemed. We were making progress, but tomorrow and the day after were the only days I had to find Doc. The day after that would be far too late.

  Reis grimaced at the question, then tried to put on a lighter expression. “We’re moving a hell of a lot faster than we were. Tomorrow evening should put us in Bosworth, the morning after at the latest. As long as nothing comes up.”

  “As long as nothing comes up?” I gasped. “Reis, we have to be in Bosworth by the 21st, you know that! If we’re not–”

  “Jason,” he interrupted, holding up one hand, “I know. You know I know. We’ll get there, okay?” He watched me, waiting for a response, and I nodded grudgingly. Reis hadn’t let me down yet, and he knew how important this was. If he said we’d get there, I’d just have to believe him.