“What will we do, sir?” the gray-robed mage howled. “What can we do?”
“Well, it seems to me that getting out of this mess would be a pretty good idea,” John replied. “Don’t you agree?”
“Y-yes, sir. But… how?”
“I don’t know yet,” John the Lister said. “I expect I’ll figure something out, though. Once I know where the enemy is, that’ll tell me a lot about what I can do.”
“Sir, he’s-he’s behind us. Between us and Poor Richard. Between us and Ramblerton.” White showed all around the irises of the wizard’s eyes, as if he were a spooked unicorn.
“That’s not so good,” John said, which would do for an understatement till a bigger one came along. He tried for a bigger one in his very next sentence: “If there’s one thing you don’t want, it’s the traitors sitting on your supply line, especially when the harvest is done and the foraging’s bad.”
“How can we hope to escape?” Despite John’s calm, the wizard was the next thing to frantic. “If we stay here, we’ll starve. If we try to retreat past the enemy, he’ll hit us in the flank. He’ll probably block the road, too, so we’ll have no hope of getting by.”
“This isn’t the best position to try to defend,” John said. “Too open, too exposed. Bell’s men could make a clean sweep of us, and they wouldn’t have to work very hard to do it, either. If we’re on the move, though-”
“If we’re on the move, they’ll strike us in the flanks,” the mage repeated.
“Maybe they will,” John the Lister agreed politely. “But maybe they won’t, too. Funny things can happen when you’re on the move-look at how they just diddled us, for instance. They fooled us, so maybe we can fool them, too. How’s your masking spell these days, Lieutenant?”
“Not good enough, sir, or they wouldn’t have been able to do this to us.” The wizard still seemed ready to cry.
John the Lister slapped him on the back, hard enough to send him staggering halfway across the pavilion. “Well, you and your friends should work on it, because I think we’re going to need it soon. You’re dismissed.”
Muttering under his breath, the mage left. Once he was gone, John the Lister spent a minute or two cursing his luck and the incompetence of the wizards with whom he’d been saddled. A lot of southron generals had sent those curses up toward Mount Panamgam, the gods’ home beyond the sky. The gods, unfortunately, showed no sign of heeding them.
If nothing else, cursing made John feel better. General Guildenstern would have got drunk, which would have made him feel better but wouldn’t have done his army any good. Doubting George would have loosed a volley of sardonic remarks that made him feel better and left his targets in despair. John tried to relieve his own feelings without carving chunks from anyone else. He didn’t always succeed, but he did try.
Once he’d got the bile out of his system, he ordered a runner to find his adjutant and bring him back to the pavilion. Major Strabo came in a few minutes later. “What’s the trouble, sir?” he asked. The commanding general explained. His walleyed subordinate seemed to stare every which way at once. “Well, that’s a cute kettle of cod,” Strabo said when John finished. “And what in the name of the cods’ sort of coddity let the traitors hook us like that?”
“They outmagicked us,” John replied. “They’ve done it before. They’ll probably do it again. Now we have to figure out how to keep this from ending up a net loss.”
For one brief, horrified moment, both of Strabo’s eyes pointed straight at him. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” the major said. “Sir.”
“Probably,” John the Lister agreed. “But I have more important things to worry about right now. So does this whole army.”
“Your statement holds some veracity, yes.” Major Strabo’s eyes went their separate ways again. “What do you propose to do, sir?”
That was about as straightforward a question as was likely to come from John’s adjutant. The commanding general answered, “I propose to get this army out in one piece if I can. If Bell forces a fight, then we give him a fight, that’s all.”
“Will you let him come to you, or do you aim to go to him?”
Two straightforward questions in a row-John the Lister wondered if Strabo was feeling well. He replied, “We’re going back toward Poor Richard. If we can get there, it’s a good defensive position. And if we stay here, Bell can starve us out without fighting. To the hells with me if I aim to let him do that. Draft orders for our withdrawal down the road to Poor Richard, warning it may be a fighting retreat.”
“Yes, sir,” Strabo said, and then, after some hesitation, “Uh, sir, you do know it may be a great deal worse than that?”
“Oh, yes, I know it.” John nodded heavily. “I know it, and you know it. But if the men don’t know it, they’re likely to fight better if they have to. Or do you think I’m wrong, Major?”
“No, sir,” Major Strabo answered. “I am of the opinion that your accuracy is unchallengeable. Not only that, but I think you’re right.”
“I’m so glad,” John murmured. “Well, prepare those orders for my signature. I’ll want to get moving this afternoon, so don’t waste any time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Strabo, who was as diligent as he was difficult. “Will you want all your unicorn-riders in the van?”
Reluctantly, John the Lister shook his head. “No, we’d better leave half of them in the rear to keep Ned of the Forest off us. Hard-Riding Jimmy looks like he’s still wet behind the ears, but he knows what he’s doing for us, and those quick-shooting crossbows his riders have make a small force go a long way. Half the men at the van will do. And we need the rest back at the rear. We couldn’t move very gods-damned fast if Ned’s men kept chewing at the hind end of our column. Write ’em that way. With Ned back there, Bell won’t have many unicorn-riders at the front of his army, either.”
“That makes sense,” Major Strabo said. “It may not be right, mind you, but it does make sense.”
“I’m glad I have you to relieve my mind,” John told him. Strabo smiled and inclined his head, as if he thought that a genuine compliment. Maybe he did; he was more than a little hard to fathom. John went on, “Draft those orders, now. The sooner you do, the sooner we see if we can’t set this mess to rights.”
“Yes, sir. You may rely on me. As soon as I pluck a quill from a goose’s wing…” Strabo made as if to grab a goose from the sky. John made as if to strangle his adjutant. They both laughed, each a little nervously.
However difficult Strabo might have been, the marching orders he prepared were a small masterpiece of concision. Along with a detachment of unicorn-riders, he also posted most of the southron wizards in the van. John nodded approval of that. He wasn’t sure how much good the wizards would do, but he wanted them in position to do as much as they could.
The army hadn’t even left Summer Mountain before John realized how much trouble it was in. Sure enough, Bell’s army was posted close to the road down which his own force had to withdraw. All the northerners had to do was reach out their hands, and his army was theirs. That was how it looked at first glance, anyhow. He hoped it wouldn’t seem so bad as he got closer to the foe.
It didn’t. Instead, it seemed worse. The northern army was drawn up in battle array perhaps half a mile west of the road leading south to Poor Richard. John felt like deploying into battle line facing them and sidling down the road crab-fashion. He couldn’t-he knew he couldn’t-but he felt like it.
Skirmishers rushed forward and started shooting bolts at his men. His repeating crossbows hosed them with death. Here and there, men on both sides fell. But it was only skirmishing, no worse, and didn’t force him to halt his march and try to drive back the traitors.