“Doesn’t matter, lassie,” McClure said, shrugging. “You heard the lads. This is mother’s milk to the Gael.”
“The term is ‘cultural meme,’ ” Malcolm said, leaning back. “Memes hold on for remarkably long periods of time. Gael children were raised with the words murmured to them by their mothers, who had forgotten the meaning but liked the tune as a lullaby. You can find it anywhere that there was a strong strain of the Scots Gael, the southeast of Norau for example, or Anarchia before it was shifted. And here in the Highlands the strain is strong and deep. Hell, the theme of ‘the king will return’ permeates all Indo-European cultures. It’s a philosophical basis for the Christ myth that existed long before he did or did not actually live. I can help Norau ride that meme to victory.”
“And your price is the throne,” Megan replied.
“It’s a prize that I’ll pay for,” Malcolm said, leaning back. “With the strongest, and largest, allegiance they’re going to get.”
“Campbells won’t like it,” McClure said, grinning.
“’No dogs, tinkers or Campbells allowed,’ ” Malcolm said with a grin. “I can even swing the Campbells if Norau is behind me. And the Chudai will follow me; I’ve the blood of the British kings in me as well and they’ve been loyal followers of the Briton standard for so long it’s nearly lost in history.”
“Norau has its own legions,” Megan pointed out. “They’ve never been defeated.”
“There’s no such thing as enough soldiers, lassie,” McClure said. “Never.”
“I’ll give you what you need for now,” Innes said, shrugging. “Some food from our stores, clothes for your people. What I want from you is to present my case to the leaders of Norau, Sheida and that war-leader of theirs, Edmund Talbot.”
“Jock?” she said, looking at McClure.
“Aye, mistress,” he said, formally. “They’ll need the support here and Malcolm can give it. If the price is Briton, that’s cheap enough.”
“I’ll establish a constitutional monarchy, of course,” Malcolm said, shrugging. “Like Norau’s. But I’ll rule. My ancestors were here before there were Scots. We were here before the Romans, before the Saxons, before those Johnny-Come-Lately Normans. We’ve waited for thousands of years to reclaim what is ours. And the time is now.”
Megan found herself arrested by the man’s fanaticism. It seemed so… unworldly. He was talking about a defeat three thousand years before, and defeats thousands of years before that, as if it were only a minor setback. And, she realized, he was not alone. She thought of the soldiers that she had ridden with to the castle. They had sung the songs and, she could tell, believed in theÑwhat was the term?Ñthe meme. To the Gael the loss of their position, of their lands, was only a minor setback, something that, in time, would be righted.
And many of them thought that the time was now.
“I’ll present it to anyone I can get to listen,” she temporized.
“You’re a Key-holder,” Malcolm said, waving his hand as if that were a minor matter. “They’ll listen. Edmund Talbot will listen. His real name is Charles, after all. And he’s a Talbot. He’ll understand. It may be a ghost, it may be a legend. But legends have won more wars than swords. And Charlie will ride again.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“We’re chasing a will-o’-wisp.” Admiral Dario Sumstad slapped the railing and looked over at the ballista frigate that was maintaining close station. “I hate chasing ghosts.”
“The UFS carrier has to be out here somewhere, sir,” Captain Thahn Clussman said. The captain of the Pierre Franc watched the admiral warily but wasn’t willing to let slip anything but willingness to follow orders.
“It might be,” Sumstad said, turning away from the railing and pacing up and down the quarterdeck. He grimaced as a dragon landed overhead. “But Talbot is a tricky SOB. We know he moved the carriers south, but he could have run anywhere while we get further and further away from the Blackbeard group. Any word from the orcas?”
“No, sir,” the captain reported. “No sign of UFS ships. No dragons spotted except ours. But they have run into mer and delphinos. They’re having more and more trouble with them, as a matter of fact. The mer are using some sort of dart gun that is quite deadly.”
“Put more ixchitl with the orcas,” the admiral grunted. “I know it slows them down, but we have to keep down the losses in the damned orcas somehow.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain replied, walking over to the messenger station.
“Where are they?”
“We’re currently here,” Shar said to the assembled skippers and their dragon contingent commanders. They were using Edmund’s quarters this time and it was crowded. “Two hundred kilometers northeast of Blackbeard.”
“I thought it was getting warmer,” one of the skippers quipped.
“New Destiny has split its combat forces into two groups,” Chang continued, ignoring the comment. “The main group, with three carriers, is to our north and at last report continuing northward. The second group, two carriers, support ships and landing ships, are approaching Blackbeard from the north. As far as we can tell, they don’t know we’re here.”
“Two on two,” one of the dragon contingent commanders noted. “And they’ve got more dragons.”
“They won’t by tomorrow,” Edmund said confidently.
“Can you tell us why, Admiral?” one of the skippers asked.
“No,” Edmund replied. “But don’t worry about the dragons.”
“The first target is the ballista frigates,” Shar said, lifting up the map and showing a diagram of ships. “You’ll launch before dawn…”
It was two hours before dawn when the charge of quarters knocked on Gunny Rutherford’s door and entered to wake him. He found the gunny, in full armor, kneeling in front of a candle-lit statue of a bull.
“Four hundred hours, Gunnery Sergeant,” the CQ said.
The gunny stood up and looked at him with distant eyes, then nodded.
“It’s a good day to die,” he said, striding out of the room.
The CQ noticed an odd smell and, half against his will, walked over and looked at the bull. Its back appeared wet and when his fingers came away from it they were covered in blood.
“The New Destiny fleet is in sight coming down the Stream, sir.” The messenger was braced to attention in front of the Blood Lord commander.
“Well, that appears to be that, Gunny,” Captain Pherson said. Kenton Pherson was a pale-skinned twenty-six-year-old with light hazel eyes and blond, almost white, hair so fine that it was hard to discern on his uncovered head. He stood up and donned his helmet, buckling it down. “They say that god is on the side of the big battalions. Let’s hope they’re wrong.”
“Well, sir, they also say that age and treachery beats youth and strength every time,” Gunny Rutherford said. “Let’s hope they’re right.”
“And what does that mean, Gunny?” the captain asked as they walked out into the first light of dawn.
“Well, sir, there are a few little fillips to the current situation you’re not really aware of,” Gunny replied as a man stepped into the torchlight outside the headquarters. He was of medium height with broad shoulders and huge forearms and triceps, wearing light-green leather armor, a metal cap and a short sword.