Rathar stomped on over to the firstman's house, scraping mud from his boots off against the doorsill. General Vatran looked up from a mug of tea- fortified tea, for Rathar's nose caught the tang of spirits. "Well?" Vatran asked. "I trust his Majesty was pleased to learn where we are?"
"Aye, so he was," Rathar agreed. "Much easier to explain advances than retreats, by the powers above."
"I believe it." Vatran lifted his mug in salute. "May we have many more advances to explain, then."
"That would be very fine." Rathar raised his voice a little: "Ysolt, can I get a mug of tea, too? And a good slug of whatever Vatran poured into it?"
"Coming up, lord Marshal." The headquarters cook had been plucking a chicken. Now she went over to the brass kettle hanging above the fire and poured tea for Rathar. As she brought it to him, she went on, "You'll have to pry the brandy out of the general. That's his, not ours." She went back to the bird, rolling her formidable haunches as she walked.
Rathar held out the mug to Vatran. "How about it, General?"
Vatran undid the flask he wore on his belt. "Here you go, lord Marshal. If this doesn't make your eyes open wide, you're dead."
Rathar undid the stopper, sniffed, and then coughed. "That's strong, all right." He poured some into the tea and handed the flask back to General Vatran. With caution exaggerated enough to make Vatran laugh, he raised the mug to his lips. "Ahh!" he said. "Well, you're right. That's the straight goods."
"You bet it is. It'll put hair on your chest." Vatran pulled open the neck of his tunic and peered down at himself. "Works for me, anyway." Rathar knew Vatran had a thick thatch of white hair there. Most Unkerlanter men were pretty hairy. Of course, most Unkerlanter men drank a good deal, too. Maybe the one had something to do with the other.
Vatran said, "All right, now that we're inside Grelz, what does the king want us to do next?"
"Purify the land," he said," Rathar answered, and took another sip of tea. He coughed again. "Pouring these spirits over it ought to do the trick there." While Vatran laughed once more, the marshal went on, "Past that, he didn't give any detailed orders."
"Good," Vatran murmured- but only after glancing around to make sure Ysolt was out of earshot. Rathar nodded. He hated nothing worse than Swemmel's trying to direct the campaign from Cottbus. The king often couldn't resist sticking his oar in, but he usually made things worse, not better. In more normal tones, Vatran asked, "What have you got in mind, then?"
"I want to strike for Herborn," Rathar said.
That made Vatran's bushy white eyebrows fly up toward his hairline. Rathar had been sure it would, which was one of the reasons he hadn't mentioned it till now. "During the fall mud-time, lord Marshal?" Vatran said. "Do you really think we've got a chance of bringing it off?"
"I do, by the powers above," Rathar answered, "and one of the reasons I do is that the Algarvians won't think we'd dare try. We're better in the mud, the same as we're better in the snow. We have to be. We deal with them every year. If we can crack the crust and get a couple of columns moving fast, we can cut off a lot of redheads."
"That's the game they like to play against us," Vatran said.
"It's a good game," Rathar said. "And I'll tell you something else, too: it's a lot more fun when you're on the giving end than when you've got to take it."
"That's the truth!" Vatran boomed. "Getting our own back feels pretty cursed good; bugger me if it doesn't. But speaking of buggers, what about the Grelzers? They're flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone. They know what to do in mud and snow, even if Mezentio's men don't."
Rathar cursed. "You're right," he said reluctantly. "But I still think we can do it. From everything we've seen, the Grelzers are just footsoldiers. They're light on horses and unicorns, they haven't got any behemoths the scouts have seen, and they haven't got much in the way of egg-tossers. The redheads have been using 'em to hold down the countryside, not to do any real fighting. Send General Gurmun through 'em with a column of behemoths and they'll shatter like glass."
"Here's hoping." Vatran rubbed his chin, considering. "It could be, I suppose. You're really going to try it?"
"Aye, I'm really going to try it. Even if it doesn't go the way we hope it will, the Algarvians can't knock us back very far." Rathar cocked his head to one side in some astonishment, listening to what he'd just said.
Vatran's face bore a bemused look, too. "You know, I think you may be right," he said. "That's what the cursed redheads were saying about us a couple of years ago."
"I know," Rathar said. "They turned out to be wrong. We have to keep hammering them. That's the best hope we've got of turning out to be right." He nodded to himself. "Sure enough: I'm going for Herborn."
"Command me, then, lord Marshal," Vatran said. "If you've got the stomach for pushing forward even through mud, I'll help you ram the knife home."
"Good," Rathar told him. "I'll need all the help I can-" He broke off and turned toward the front door, through which a panting young lieutenant of crystallomancers had just come. "Hello! What's this about?"
"Lord Marshal." The young officer saluted. "We're getting reports from the front that the Algarvians have started pulling some of their units out of the line and taking them back to the east."
"What?" Rathar exclaimed. "Why in blazes are they doing that? Have they forgotten they're still fighting us?"
"I don't know why, sir," the crystallomancer said. "I just know what's reported to me."
"Well, whatever the reason-" Rathar smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand. "Whatever the reason, we'll make 'em pay for it."
Seventeen
“Come on, my beauty." Cornelu urged his leviathan forward as if he were urging a lover into his bedchamber. "Come on, my sweet." He stroked, he caressed, he cajoled, trying to get every bit of speed he could out of the beast.
And the leviathan gave him everything he asked, which was more than he could say about Janira back in Setubal. On it swam, toward Sibiu, toward- if the powers above proved kind- a return from exile after close to three and a half bitter years.
"This time," he murmured, "this time I won't swim up onto Tirgoviste because I had my mount killed out from under me. This time, this time" -he caressed the words, too- "if the powers above be kind, I'm coming home to a free kingdom. A freed kingdom, anyhow."
He ordered the leviathan up into a tailstand so he could see farther. There straight ahead lay Sigisoara, the easternmost of Sibiu's five main islands. He wished he'd been ordered to Tirgoviste, but his wishes counted for nothing in the eyes of the Lagoan Admiralty. And there, coming along every ley line that bore on the islands of Sibiu from east, southeast, and south, glided perhaps the largest fleet the world had ever seen: Sibian and Kuusaman warships of every size shepherding transports full of soldiers. Cornelu's was but one of a pod of leviathans helping to protect both the transports and the warships.
And there overhead, also warding the grand fleet from Algarvian attack, flew the greatest swarm of dragons Cornelu had ever seen. He didn't know how it measured in the historical scheme of things. He did know he'd never seen so many dragons accompanying a naval expedition. He couldn't imagine how the Lagoans and Kuusamans had got so many of the huge, fractious beasts aboard ship.
All at once, as if drawn by a lodestone, his head swung to the left, toward the south. He stroked the leviathan, commanding it to stay up on its tail longer so he could get a better look. At first, his hand went to the rubber pouch he wore on his belt- he intended to get out his crystal and scream a warning to the fleet. Of all things the ships didn't need, a great, drifting iceberg in their midst was among the worst.