“Couldn’t hardly get by without something hot in the morning,” Thisbe agreed.
Colonel Florizel limped up. “We’ll be getting on the road soon,” the regimental commander said. “So far, it doesn’t look like the gods-damned southrons are stirring away from Summer Mountain. If we can get around behind ’em, we’ll bugger ’em right and proper.” He laughed loudly.
“Er, yes, sir,” Gremio said. Florizel stumped off, looking miffed that the barrister hadn’t laughed with him.
Gremio probably would have, if Thisbe hadn’t been standing there beside him. The sergeant sent him a reproachful look. “I thought it was pretty funny, sir. I hope we do bugger the southrons.”
Had the sergeant not been there, Gremio would have laughed. He knew that. He also knew he had to say something, and did: “I didn’t think it was all that much of a joke. Besides, he shouldn’t have said it-”
“When I was around?” Thisbe asked. When Gremio nodded, the sergeant looked even more reproachful than before. “What’s that got to do with anything? I’m just one of the boys, and everybody knows it.”
“Right,” Gremio said tightly. “Shall we get the men ready to move, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.” If anything bothered Thisbe, no sign of it appeared in the sergeant’s face or bearing.
And the men did move. They might have moved faster if more of them had had shoes, but northern men were too stubborn to give in on account of something that trivial. As usual, no one begrudged Colonel Florizel his place on a unicorn. His wound wouldn’t have let him keep up on foot.
Ned of the Forest’s men were on unicorns, too, and seemed to be doing their job. Again, Gremio spotted not a single gray-clad southron rider. His guess was that the enemy really didn’t know where the Army of Franklin was. He knew a certain amount of hope on account of that. The last time the southrons had been so fooled was before the battle by the River of Death, more than a year ago now. If they could be tricked again… Well, who could say what might happen?
We’d better not mess things up, the way we did then, Gremio thought. The Army of Franklin could have surrounded Guildenstern at Rising Rock and forced him to surrender. They could have, but they hadn’t. And, in due course, they’d paid for the omission. General Bell was trying to make amends for that now. Maybe he would. Even a hardened cynic of a barrister like Gremio couldn’t help hoping.
“Form column of fours!” he yelled. The men obeyed. Before joining King Geoffrey’s army, Gremio hadn’t dreamt how important marching drill was. Soldiers moved in column, fought in line. If they couldn’t shift from one to the other in a hurry, they were in trouble. Getting caught in column was every commander’s blackest nightmare.
Up at the head of the brigade, horns ordered the advance. A moment later, Colonel Florizel’s trumpeters echoed the command for the regiment. The company had a trumpeter, too. The only trouble was, he wasn’t much of a trumpeter. His notes assailed Gremio’s ears.
“Let’s go!” Sergeant Thisbe shouted. Away the Army of Franklin went, heading south. General Bell dreamt of reaching the Highlow River. If he could do it, he would give King Avram an enormous black eye. He might remind the provinces of Franklin and Cloviston of their allegiance to King Geoffrey-and, more to the point, bring their men and supplies into the war on Geoffrey’s side, not Avram’s. That would make the fight in the east a whole different struggle.
Captain Gremio’s dreams were smaller. He would have been satisfied-no, by the gods, he would have been delighted-if the northerners could get around behind Summer Mountain and cut off the retreat of the southrons there. One bite at a time, he told himself. If we can do one thing right, more will follow from that.
Birds filled the sky overhead. They were flying north for the winter, flying north to escape the coming cold and snow and ice. Pointing to them, Thisbe said, “They’re smarter than we are-they’re going the right way for this time of year.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Gremio said, and beamed at the sergeant. Thisbe didn’t beam back.
Every so often, a soldier would take a shot at the stream of birds. Every once in a while, a crossbow bolt would strike home and a bird tumble out of the sky. The lucky soldier would run over and grab it and put it on his belt to cook when the army stopped that night-if some other man didn’t get it first. After Gremio broke up a couple of quarrels that were on the edge of turning into brawls, he ordered the men of his company to stop shooting at the birds.
“That’s not fair, Captain,” a soldier said. “We’re hungry, gods damn it. Anything we can get is all to the good.”
“It’s not all to the good if you start stealing from one another and brawling,” Gremio replied. “We’ll do better hungry than we will if we can’t trust each other.”
“The captain’s right,” Thisbe declared. “Most of these birds aren’t any more than a couple of mouthfuls anyway. They’re not worth the trouble they’re stirring up.”
No one could say Gremio or Thisbe ate better than the common soldiers in the company. They didn’t. The soldiers might have grumbled, but they followed orders. The only trouble was, not all commanders gave those orders, so quarrels over birds elsewhere slowed the company-and a crossbow quarrel shot at a bird came down, point first, at Gremio’s feet. Had it come down on his head… One more thing he preferred not to contemplate. He stooped, yanked it out of the ground, and held it high. “Here’s another reason not to shoot things up in the air,” he said.
A voice rose from the ranks: “That’s right, by the gods. If we’re gong to shoot our officers, we should aim straight at ’em.” The marching men bayed laughter. Gremio managed a smile he hoped wasn’t too sickly.
Along came a mage in a blue robe riding on the back of an ass. He was muttering to himself, his fingers writhing in quick passes as he incanted. “An ass on an ass!” another uniformed wit called. The wizard affected not to notice-or maybe, preoccupied with the spell he was casting, he really didn’t. Whatever sort of magic it was, Gremio hoped it worked.
It must have, for the company, the regiment-the whole army-halted earlier than he’d expected. Colonel Florizel rode up with a great big grin on his face. “We’ve got ’em!” he said. “We’ve got ’em good, by the gods! This is the only way they can retreat, and they have to come right by us when they do. We’ll land on their flank, and then-!” He slashed a finger across his throat. The soldiers raised a cheer, Gremio’s voice loud among theirs.
“General John! General John, sir!” The mage shouting John the Lister’s name sounded on, or maybe just over, the ragged edge of hysteria.
“What is it?” John asked. When people started shouting in that tone of voice, it wasn’t going to be anything good.
And it wasn’t. The mage burst into John’s pavilion. Horror was etched on his face. “They’ve used a masking spell on us, sir!” he cried.
No need to ask who they were. “And what is this masking spell supposed to do?” John inquired. “Whatever it’s supposed to do, has it done it?”
“Yes, sir!” The mage sounded like a tragedian playing in an amphitheater in front of images of the gods at a high festival. “I’m afraid they’ve got round behind the army, sir. We didn’t notice till too late!”
What John the Lister felt like doing was kicking the mage in the teeth. Botched wizardry had cost King Avram’s armies dear again and again. Now it looked as if it was going to cost John. Instead of doing what he felt like, he asked, “Didn’t notice what?”
“Didn’t notice General Bell’s army on the move, sir,” the mage answered miserably. “The wizards masked it from us till just now.”
“So did Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders.” John the Lister’s voice was unhappy and enlightened at the same time. He’d wondered why Ned’s men had been so active, pushing back his own pickets and generally doing their best to impersonate Bell’s whole army. He hadn’t worried much about it, not till now. Ned was always busy and active; he wouldn’t have made such a pest of himself if he weren’t.