Riding up ahead of his troopers, he was one of the first to reach the crossroads from which his force had gone astray. He couldn’t imagine how it had happened. He knew which fork he should have taken. He thought he had taken it. But the southrons’ magic had led him astray, and had kept him from noticing anything was wrong. He muttered again. It had certainly kept Major Marmaduke from noticing. If Colonel Biffle hadn’t finally spotted the trouble… Ned didn’t care to think about what might have happened then.
And, riding up ahead of his troopers, he was one of the first to spy the southrons riding toward the crossroads. He threw back his head and laughed. “All right, you sons of bitches!” he shouted. “You reckoned you could lead us astray and get here first. Now I’m going to show you you aren’t as smart as you figured.” He looked around. As usual, a trumpeter rode within easy range of his voice. He waved to draw the man’s attention, then called, “Blow charge!”
As the martial notes rang out, his sword leaped free from the scabbard. The blade gleamed in the watery autumn sunshine. He spurred his unicorn forward. The well-trained beast lowered its head, aimed its ironclad horn at the enemy, and sprang toward the southrons. “King Geoffrey!” Ned shouted. Sometimes dragoon work wouldn’t do. Sometimes you had to get right in there and fight unicorn to unicorn.
Some of his men yelled Geoffrey’s name, too. More, though, shouted, “Lord Ned!” They fought for him personally at least as much as for the north. Their swords also flashed free. Some of them fit arrows to the strings of the light crossbows they carried. That would do for one volley, anyhow; reloading on unicornback wasn’t for the faint of heart.
“Let’s get ’em!” Ned roared. “This is our road, by the gods, and they’ve got no business trying to take it away from us.”
As soon as the southrons spied his men and him, they deployed from line to column. Their own gray-clad officers briefly harangued them. Then they too were charging. “King Avram!” they cried. “King Avram and freedom!”
“To the hells with King Avram, the serf-stealing bastard!” Ned yelled. His unicorn tore a bleeding line in the flank of the first enemy beast it met. He’d trained it always to gore to the right, to protect him on that side. A rider came up to him on the left. The other fellow would have had most men at a disadvantage. Not lefthanded Ned. He chopped the southron out of the saddle. How many men had he killed in the war? A couple of dozen, surely. Well, he’d killed before the war, too. A serfcatcher didn’t have an easy life.
He had more men with him than the southron commander, who’d led a mere reconnaissance in force. Ned’s men were fiercer, too, at least that day. They sent the southrons, those who lived, fleeing back in the direction from which they’d come as fast as they could gallop. Ned pushed them hard. He always did.
“They know we’re here now,” Colonel Biffle said as the pursuit at last wound down.
Ned nodded and spoke one word: “Good.”
Rollant had served in King Avram’s army for a couple of years now. He’d seen things go well, and he’d seen things go wrong. He knew the signs for both.
Unicorn-riders galloping back toward the crossbowmen and pikemen were not a good sign. He knew that only too well. Turning to Lieutenant Griff, he said, “Something’s gone to the hells up ahead.”
“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” Griff’s voice broke as he answered. He kicked at the muddy ground under his shoes. He was very young, and hated showing how young he was.
Plenty of crossbowmen in the company drew the same conclusion as its standard-bearer and commander. “Who ever saw a dead unicorn-rider?” they jeered as the men on the beautiful beasts pounded past.
Some of the riders pretended not to hear. Some cursed the footsoldiers who mocked them. And one fellow yelled, “Wait till you run up against Ned of the Forest’s troopers! We’ll see plenty of you bastards dead, and you’d better believe it.”
After that, Corporal Rollant gripped the staff of the company banner so tight, his knuckles whitened. He tramped on in silence, grim determination on his face. Lieutenant Griff needed a while to notice; he wasn’t the most perceptive man ever born. But at last he asked, “Is something wrong, Corporal?”
“Ned of the Forest,” Rollant said tightly. “Sir.”
“Yes, his riders really fight, no doubt about it,” Griff said. “I wish we had more men as good, I truly do, but-”
“Fort Cushion,” Rollant broke in. “Sir.”
“Oh,” Griff said. For a wonder, he had the sense not to say anything more. Fort Cushion, along the Great River down in Cloviston, had been garrisoned by blonds loyal to King Avram till Ned’s men overran it. Stories of what happened next varied. Ned’s men claimed the blonds had started fighting again after surrendering. They’d killed almost the whole garrison as a result.
“Yes, sir.” Rollant’s voice was bleak. “Whatever happens, I don’t intend to let those bastards get their hands on me while I’m breathing.”
“I… see,” Griff said. “Well, Corporal, taking everything together, I can’t say that I blame you.”
As the southron army tramped north, Rollant waited for the order to deploy from marching column into line of battle. Where Ned’s riders were, the bigger army of traitors couldn’t be far behind, not if rumor came anywhere close to telling the truth. Rollant wanted to fight. Part of that sprang from knowing that a blond had to do better than an ordinary Detinan to be reckoned half as good. And part of it sprang from his own desire to pay back Ned’s men for what they’d down done in the southeast.
But the horn call he waited for never came. Instead, after a little while, the trumpeters blared out retreat.
“What the hells are we retreating for?” Rollant burst out.
“I don’t know.” Lieutenant Griff sounded almost as perplexed as Rollant, if not quite so furious. “But we have to obey the order. We can’t go on and attack the traitors all by ourselves.”
Rollant, just then, was ready to do exactly that. Regretfully, he realized Griff was right. Even more regretfully, he turned back toward Summer Mountain.
“It is a good defensive position.” Was Griff trying to convince Rollant or himself? Rollant couldn’t tell. Maybe the company commander couldn’t tell, either. He went on, “If they have more men than we do…”
“How could our unicorn riders tell one way or the other, if they only ran into-ran from-Ned’s riders?” Rollant asked.
“That’s a good question, Corporal,” Griff said. “I haven’t got a good answer for you. I wish I did.”
“We’ve been fighting this war for a long time now,” Rollant grumbled. “Why don’t we have generals who know what the hells they’re doing yet?”
“I think John the Lister has a pretty good idea of what he’s doing,” Griff said. “If that is the traitors’ whole army north of us, we’ve got to slow it down as much as we can. We haven’t got the men to crush it all by ourselves.”
“By the Lion God’s claws, I’d like to try,” Rollant declared.
Lieutenant Griff started to answer, then stopped and gave him a curious look. It wasn’t quite the ordinary curious look he would have given had he been arguing strategy with another ordinary Detinan. It also held a certain amount-perhaps more than a certain amount-of surprise. Rollant had no trouble reading Griff’s thoughts. Here’s a blond who’s more interested in fighting the traitors than the commanding general is. Aren’t his kind supposed to be cowards and weaklings?