Andy suddenly appeared beside the warrior maid, his blade bared and a crooked grin on his face. He lifted his sword. “For Joan!” he shouted. “For France!”
Matt shook his head, amazed at Andy’s capacity for gaming.
“For France!” Joan yelled.
“Stop,” the warrior behind Matt urged. “We must help.”
Matt drew in his reins, feeling the horse gasping for air. He turned, looking back at the horde of Burgundian warriors riding hard for them.
“You ready for this?”
Matt glanced at Leif, who’d ridden up beside him. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Leif said. “After last night, I’d understand.”
Matt shook his head, speaking over the rising thunder of the approaching horses’ hooves. “You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“I zipped into Maj’s room in holoform, knowing I couldn’t be hurt, and it was frustrating standing there without being able to do anything. But if I’d been there for real, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“Yeah, you do,” Leif said. “You’d have done what you could. That’s what you’re made of, Matt. Everything in you is bred for the heat of the moment. You’re at your best when the pressure is on, when things are clearest for you.” He grinned laconically. “Most of us are. But don’t second-guess yourself about what you’d have done or not done.”
“I keep thinking about it.”
“That’s natural. Bet you think a lot about flight-sims you’ve had trouble mastering, too. You’ll get past it.”
Matt looked at Andy, who was engaged in animated conversation with Joan of Arc as the skirmish line was set up. The warrior maid organized her warriors, taking advantage of the high ground. Men who still had spears lined up in the forefront.
Matt watched the retreating warriors running desperately before their attackers. “We’re not going to win this battle, are we?”
“Nope.” Leif grinned. “At least, not if the game is historically accurate. Joan gets taken here by the Burgundian soldiers after she gets locked out of Compiegne by Guillaume de Flavy, the guy commanding the town. The Burgundians sell her to the English, who keep her imprisoned for the next fourteen months, then burn her at the stake for being a heretic. But how often do you get the chance to fight alongside Joan of Arc?”
Matt took in a deep breath, then pushed it out.
“Andy’s hooked on playing the hero,” Leif said as they watched their friend riding up and down the skirmish line encouraging the troops. “Maybe it’s because his dad never made it out of South Africa, and maybe it’s because he got to spend that time in veeyar with that sim of his dad fighting in that war. And maybe guys like him are just born that way.”
“So what is it for you?”
Leif laughed. “Me? I’m just here for a good time.” The line of Burgundian warriors was less than a hundred yards away. The first of the warriors on foot reached the skirmish line, hurrying through it and heading for the town behind them.
The man behind Matt slid off the horse and unlimbered his crossbow, fitting a short, ugly quarrel into the groove.
“Attention!” Joan of Arc’s voice rang out clearly across the battlefield. She lifted her sword, then dropped it to point forward. “Charge!” She rode her horse forward, leading the mounted spearmen.
Andy rode at her side, a spear held level.
Shedding his reluctance, Matt spurred his horse forward and readied himself to meet the attack. He hacked aside the spear that thrust at his chest, then managed a backhanded blow that caught his adversary in the head. Matt didn’t think he’d injured the man, but he was successful in unseating him.
Dust clouded around him, obscuring the view. Matt pulled his horse around, gently enough that he didn’t tear the animal’s mouth. The horse trembled as its muscles bunched and it sought footing as clods tore free under its iron-shod hooves.
Matt breathed in deeply, smelling the stench of sweating horses and men, wet leather, and the dry dust that covered the battlefield. He lifted his sword and charged again.
9
By the time Maj reached the Eisenhower booth, the crowd was already a dozen deep.
Without fanfare, a young man in a crisp white suit, white turtleneck instead of a shirt and tie, stepped up onto the nearest table and faced the crowd. Immediately the holos around the Eisenhower booth altered, carrying the image of the young man.
He was clean-shaven and athletic looking, no more than twenty or twenty-one. His black hair was worn long enough to hold the hint of curls. A little-boy smile turned his lips, and he looked at the crowd as if amazed. “I didn’t expect this.” His amplified voice filled the nearby convention area. He looked up at the hidden speakers. “Or that.”
The crowd laughed.
The young man gazed out at them, his sea-green eyes filled with obvious wonderment. “In fact, I didn’t expect any of this.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Peter Griffen, and I want to introduce you to my game.”
Maj studied Peter, trying to imagine him on the back of a dragon. It wasn’t hard at all.
Time passed in a whirling maelstrom of cleaving blades, hoarse shouts of pain, and thudding horses’ hooves. Matt didn’t know how much time actually passed, but it couldn’t have been more than a handful of minutes. He felt winded, bone-tired, but the uploaded reflexes kept him in the game.
The Burgundian line broke, shattered into pockets.
Joan of Arc rode to the top of a nearby hill. “Sound the retreat,” she ordered in a loud voice. The man at her side unlimbered a horn and blew the notes.
Immediately the defenders broke from the conflict, riding their flagging mounts toward the town.
Matt took a moment to watch, seeing the two groups disengage as the Burgundian commander tried to get control over his men. Then he put spurs to his horse and rode after the retreating warriors. Dust coated his lips and the inside of his mouth, making it hard to swallow. His teeth ground grit and his lungs burned.
The defenders wound through the trees and scrub brush, staying with the dirt road that led to Compiegne. The incline grew steeper as they neared the town.
Glancing over his shoulder, Matt saw that the Burgundians had recovered more quickly than he’d thought they would. Dozens of dead and wounded from both sides lay under dust clouds in their wake. The drawbridge was set into the high town wall. Even as he watched, another wave of arrows sped from the wall, looking like long, skinny birds with folded wings.
An instant later the arrows descended in a deadly rain. They rattled through the trees and plunged into the ground. Some of them hit the defenders in full retreat, pitching them from their horses.
Matt raised his shield over his head and heard two distinct impacts. He felt the horse stretch out its stride as they neared the town. Then, only precious seconds from the gate, the drawbridge started up. A sinking feeling filled Matt as he watched the heavy, ironbound edifice ratchet up in small jerks.
Howls of disbelief tore from the throats of the defenders, who suddenly realized they were being abandoned to their fate. Metal rang on metal as the armor pieces beat against each other.
Joan rode in the lead, flanked by Andy.
Then Leif stood up in his stirrups, bending his legs so he could steady himself. He lifted a crossbow to his shoulder, paused, then fired.
The quarrel sped from the weapon and jammed into the chain winching the drawbridge up. Men rushed from the fortification and started trying to free the lodged arrow. Before they could do it, the defenders were upon them. They pulled the drawbridge back down, forcing the archers on the ramparts to defend their retreat.
