Community Organizing for Mercenaries

By Dai Alanye

Despite past triumphs the times are still unsettled, and many of our heroes and heroines have either new problems or continuing old ones.

Cam is forced to view his fate, while Saipele must build a new life. Jack and Edith have additional difficulties to overcome. Sheila has managed to get herself in a serious jam. Brian, Colin, Barry, LeeAnn and the others... Same deal.

Life has become more elemental, true, but has it become more simple or simply more stark? And there's still no way back, you realize.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dai Alanye
• Release date: Jul 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476081090

Dai Alanye

No superheroes nor anything supernatural (thus far, at least.) Expect merely ordinary people - you and me, as it were - caught up in extraordinary circumstances. Plots are character-driven, and the characters themselves are complex and often contradictory. I aim to appeal to the reader who has an ample sense of humor and an appreciation for irony. You can expect adventure and romance, but graphic violence and sex are at a minimum - think PG or PG-13 at most - and suitable for mature youths as well as adults.

Book preview

Community Organizing for Mercenaries

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Author: Dai Alanye

Designer: A F Donley

Copyright 2012 by Dai Alanye

Smashwords Edition 2.01

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you wish to share this book with another person please download an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or it wasn't purchased for your use only, please return to your bookseller to obtain your own copy.

Community Organizing for Mercenaries is an original work of fiction. Except for historical events, persons or places all other characters, locations, things and incidents are creations of the writer's imagination. Any resemblances to actual happenings or individuals other than the historical, or to contemporary persons living or dead, or to any current method of time travel are strictly coincidental.

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NOTICE: Have you read the first and second books in this series, Time Management for Mercenaries and Conflict Resolution for Mercenaries? If not, consider obtaining them from your book retailer so as to read the stories in order.

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1066, 1067, 1068

Chapter 66 - Witanceaster

So the initial word had come. Koskinen was too wary to accept early news as final—first observations were always suspect, and it was no eyewitness account. Still, it fitted in with his expectations. Though his knowledge of the Saxon era was largely dependent upon what he'd recently learned, this outcome—the defeat of the Englisc—made sense.

From the historical background sketched by Dimarico the night before they boarded the hovercraft the professor had deduced that the original battle of Hastings had gone decidedly one-way. The Conqueror destroyed the leadership of England and its army in one day's hard fighting while retaining sufficient strength to gain the speedy surrender of the nation and put down all rebellions. Dimarico, of course, felt differently—that the battle had been more even-handed. Koskinen laid that to wishful thinking.

That Cameron and Swann with a couple hundred archers could reverse the outcome of a clash of thousands struck him as wildly optimistic. Yet he was never one to count his chickens unhatched. Until final proof arrived he would guard his tongue while considering how Norman rule would affect his plans.

Came a soft call and tap. Brother Eafyn?

Yea—come in, Brother.

The bishop of Witanceaster was a cautious man, standoffish toward Evan Koskinen and Machiavellian in his approach to politics both religious and secular—not that those two areas were greatly differentiated in this time. His chaplain Heremund, however, was quite the opposite, a close and willing friend to the American.

And—he felt quite certain—a spy. But Koskinen was more than willing to match wits. He welcomed the contact, confident his own subtlety would prove ascendant.

Heremund advanced, face shining. How take you this tiding, Brother? It likely means the downfall of your enemy, does it not?

"I seek not that downfall above all else, Brother. It is he who has chosen to become my enemy, not I his. The question, though, is what this means for Seaxland and Englaland and for the Ciric—the Church. What think you of such? Should this Wilhelm prove to have overthrown the King, what will become of Engeltheod—English nation—religious? Will all places now go to Normans?"

Heremund, a cagey fellow full worthy of his duties as supposed confidant to Koskinen, was not readily distracted.

"Such shall be as it might. I think it unlikely so many Francan need abodes as to threaten the livelihood of every Englisc ciricthegn—religious servant. Yet what of this Caemryn and his weapons of evil power? Think you he took any to battle at Telham?"

·

Indeed, a question of great import. When working the confiscation of Dimarico's weapons Koskinen had decided not to press so hard as to risk failure, feeling fortunate to take the pistols and avoid an open clash. In any case he'd seen the secret rifle only briefly uncovered by Lachey at Wherwell, and had been unsure if Dimarico would have it at hand during the money changing.

There was one great unknown. Would the Americans have used it in battle, possibly to pick off William at a distance? The early loss of their leader would surely result in Norman capitulation or retreat. Koskinen was filled with concern that such a powerful weapon might be available to his enemies, and no adequate defense against it. The easily collected-pistols were no asset. The bishop chose to lock them away—suitably protected by many a charm and prayer, he was certain—without so much as showing them to anyone.

What of the rifle? Where was it and who now controlled it? Why had they learned nothing of its use?

·

Should we not have heard, friend Heremund, if more of those weapons had been used? Would not the messenger have told of such a wonder?

You have said, Brother Eafyn, the Thunor's-hammers make an ear-cracking sound not unlike thunder. Is it possible other pagan weapons—mayhap like a Woden's-spear—might slay silently?

Koskinen was startled. A quelling thought—one not come to mind. Who knows what this man might have with him?

Was it possible a rifle could have a silencer? What a useful device for assassinations, especially if it also carried a telescopic sight. Was Dimarico planning more than simply to defeat the Normans? Had Cameron dreams of setting himself up as king—of wading through blood to an ancient throne? An amazing example of hubris, if true, and a serious oversight on his own part.

Koskinen came back to the present. Forgive me, Brother. What said you?

What could your foe do with such a weapon? Can it be used many times as you have said with the Hammers? At what distance might it strike? Would prayers ward one against it?

You have given me much to think on. And so he had. I know not all secrets of Lord Caemryn. In the matter of weapons I am unschooled, death-dealing never having been my aim but working always to use God's blessings for my king and people.

I see, I see. And you can add no other thing? Thus it must be, then, until further tidings come. Surely another day will make us wiser. Until then, dear Eafyn, I bid you have a fair night. His errand done, Heremund bowed himself from the room.

·

And none too soon for Koskinen's turbulent thoughts. Had he greatly underestimated Dimarico? How simple it would be for the man to wait until Harold was killed then pick off William from a distance, leaving no king in England at all. His recruited troop could then protect him, a few hundred fresh men at the end of a brutal battle.

For that matter, Dimarico could shoot Harold at a time of his own choosing, thereby fulfilling the legend of the arrow, and subsequently go after William. Was it likely the ostensibly idealistic American would do this? Koskinen knew what he himself would have done in Dimarico's place. It was eerily similar to faculty warfare—if you failed to take advantage of an opportunity dropped into your lap, rest assured your enemy, when his turn came, would have fewer qualms.

What if, Koskinen asked himself, he now must deal with his former patron from a position of political weakness? It was a new and unsettling thought.

Fair night. Hah! So much for Heremund's sentiment. Likely he wouldn't rest at all. He considered calling his sleepy servant from the pallet in the hall but refrained. Wait for tomorrow and further news of the state of the Saxon cause… Nothing could be accomplished tonight. He felt again the need, more pressing than ever, to assemble an intelligence corps.

Never a congenial man, Koskinen hadn't learned much in the markets and by-ways of the town—and his servant, assigned by the bishop, offered nothing. Indeed, he was sure the man reported everything to that long-legged spider who twitched every thread in Witanceaster, monitoring every religious and every prominent burger.

Noting Dimarico's problem with the priest in Pallissuna-town and the conflict with the religious authorities at Wherwell, Koskinen had immediately decided to ally himself with the Church. Despite having been a thorough unbeliever since puberty, through attending Lutheran services in boyhood he'd absorbed considerable knowledge of the Bible and early Church history. His proficiency in Latin and Greek, superior to most of the educated Saxons he'd so far met, assured him of the respect due to a scholar in what passed for a Saxon intellectual world.

He was circumscribed at present by the bishop's caution and suspicions. His abilities and well-crafted self-legend gained him merely a space to live, a seat at table and a single servant. But he owned one other as-yet secret advantage—besides the few pennies doled out by Dimarico he'd brought a small coin collection started in California.

Fascination with metallic splendor had long since faded but the fruits were with him: a handful of small silver coins—striding half dollars, Washington quarters and Mercury dimes plus seventeen Morgan and Peace dollars, and a dozen ten- and twenty-dollar gold pieces. Soon these beautiful designs, fit for a queen's necklace in this age, would go to a coiner or goldsmith to be melted down and exchanged for laughably crude images of King… of King somebody of England.

So be it! They were a small fortune in this world, too useful to hoard.

He'd spent Dimarico's issue of silver peninges. First as gifts for the bishop and Heremund to repay them for taking him under protection. A few went to curry favor with those—merchants and other travelers—who might in the future provide information. The smallest amount he'd spent on himself for suitable Saxon clothing and food.

In his previous life he'd been vegetarian, becoming convinced in late youth of the health benefits, including a more alert mind. Here the availability of acceptable fruit and vegetables was limited and seasonal so he compromised to the extent of adding milk and eggs plus some beef to his diet, strictly avoiding sheep and swine flesh. Taking Tobie's strictures to heart he thoroughly cooked his foods even at the risk of being thought a crank. For drink he preferred plain ale or wine diluted with boiled water.

·

He found he was pacing and forced himself to sit. This cell—best word for it—allowed but four short steps.

The rifle! What a problem that could become. He knew nothing of guns—never owned, touched or even deliberately looked at one except for Dimarico's pistols. The details of those, he imagined, would be forever etched in his mind.

A long-range firearm…

Inevitably, from overhearing the occasional news program he'd picked up a few facts. The devilish machines held a dozen or more shots and could kill at the range of a quarter mile. Their powerful bullets could penetrate the best armor, might pierce two or three unarmored men at one shot. To see even the pistols in action had shocked him. They'd cut through inches of capacitor, spewing electrolyte and fragments of tantalum like confetti from the exit holes.

One man with a rifle could easily be worth a hundred or more spear-wielding bumpkins—could send a horde of them fleeing at a distance, could assassinate their leaders at hundreds of yards. Dimarico or Swann with a rifle… He rose and paced again.

* * *

The horses, despite trading off, were showing signs of flagging, so rapid was the pace Brixby set. Guiding by the sun their route took them away from main roads, always west and northwest further into the land. They met few travelers, dashing by them without speaking. A fyrd once band challenged them but Brixby proved ready with a tale of an errand for their lord, and they were sent on their way.

Close to noon they stopped, the animals badly in need of rest and food.

Sheila said, I'm making a fire this time.

No fire!

A tiny fire under a great big tree. Don't be so nervous, Dude—they'll never come this far. Their worries are out east.

Brixby fumed but gave in. Where are the two fools? They should have caught up when we were stopped by those bully-boys.

Don't know and don't care.

If they're not here I'll leave without them and you won't talk me out of it.

She shrugged. No skin off my nose, But forget riding off—these critters need rest.

The devil they do.

Can't break them down or we'll be hiking. You'd like that, I bet!

Hurry up with the broth.

No problem, Master, but it's going to cost you.

Brixby glared without speaking.

She held out her hand. Cross my palm with silver, Brix—eleven pound worth.

Don't worry—I'll hold it safe for you.

"We'll both hold onto it. Her voice hardened. I'll have it now, Brix, or you'll go on alone."

"As if I'd bloody care! What have you done to earn it?"

I haven't slaughtered my buddy, that's for sure. But if you remember, Grimy and I were the only ones who did anything useful at the hall.

Why, because someone bleated inside? You didn't hit anybody—just startled him.

Maybe so, but it's more than you did—and he behaved for quite awhile afterward. So, you heard me—cash on the barrelhead or you're on your own. I swear I won't stir.

* * *

Lachey wiped her eyes and said again, I refuse to believe a force so well trained and led wouldn't at least save itself.

Osgyth held herself rigid but her eyes showed strain. She also repeated herself. Lord Seipeleh is too stark a warrior to fall.

Dasczo could not stop the tears. How could so many…?

Lachey jerked to her feet, began to pace. It's too early. We don't have the final story.

Three messengers!

"Not messengers. Two passers-by who took a detour and one wounded deserter from a fyrd flocc. Likely all deserters."

Half the Englisc down—tricked into charging, just as the Major feared.

And was prepared for. He said they'd at least try to save Harold. We have to believe it—not give way.

Tobie came to stand by them once more. Kinnard… He nodded toward the man. getting restless with all this fuss.

Dasczo jumped up to comfort Dale, sublimating her fears to concern for the wounded man.

Tobie watched her then turned to Lachey. What happens to us now? We can't… I mean, who's gonna run things?

She had no ready answer except, It's too early to give up. I'm not giving up.

Osgyth rose. We must send riders to seek them.

Lachey brightened. Of course! Let us send to the Leofs. They have hearthmen and one son is with the war-band. Who can take word to them? Freothumod should still be without.

She turned to the door, calling for Saemod and his son.

* * *

I've seen sacks of potatoes ride better than him, Dasczo scoffed.

No matter—he'll stay here while some of their men go.

I just hope he can get so far without falling off.

Lachey put her arms round the smaller woman. Don't fret so, LeeAnn. Don't get bitter—let's keep our spirits up. Let's plan for two things. If they make it we'll have wounded to look after, and if they don't… If they don't return we need to figure how we can pull things together—get on with organizing the community.

For what? Our reasons for coming here are shot. No! Don't cheer me up. Let me handle it my own way.

Lachey released her and slumped for a moment—began again to pace. They must think, plan, put aside mourning. There was no leadership in Aelffordstede and someone must step up.

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Chapter 67 - The Rider

Freothumod clung to his jouncing horse—bum hurting, thighs sore, mood black. His every bone already pained him from faring with the thieves. He cursed his youthful self for not throwing himself on a pony at every chance, unlike most of his young friends. The beasts frighted him when he was small—still frighted him. Yet what choice this day?

Returning home with his father's help, he'd been bitterly assailed by his wife, so often wroth now that the child moved within her.

Who, she demanded, would care for them when he was enslaved or hung? Her family