Doubting George didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “Be that as it may, we’re going after the traitors. If it turns out they’re closer, we’ll hit them, and then General Guildenstern will come up and finish them off.”
“And what route shall we take?” his aide-de-camp demanded. “I have been given to understand that knowing where we’re going is considered desirable in these affairs. This may be only a rumor, but I do believe it holds some truth.”
“Er-yes,” Lieutenant General George said. “The only real route we have starts in the gap between Sentry Peak and Proselytizers’ Rise. Once we get up into Peachtree Province, what we do will depend on where Thraxton really turns out to be, don’t you think?”
“Improvisation at the end of a campaign often leads to victory,” Colonel Andy said, sniffing. “Improvisation at the beginning of a campaign often leads to disaster. The gods grant that this one prove the exception.”
“Your Excellency, we are going after Thraxton the Braggart,” George said. “I don’t know where we’ll find him, but I expect we will. When we do, we’d better be ready to give him a kick right where it’ll do the most good. I rely on you to help us do that.”
“You expect me to make ham without a pig,” Andy said. “I shall do what I can, but I could do more if I knew more.”
“I intend to move along the western slope of Sentry Peak,” Doubting George said. “That way, if the traitors try to strike at us, they’ll have a harder time hitting us from the flank. Past that, we’ll just have to see.”
His aide-de-camp sniffed again. “Not good enough. Not nearly good enough.” But off he went, to do his best to make pork-free ham for George’s army.
Ned of the Forest urged his unicorn across a stream in the forest north of the River of Death. The animal’s every step took him farther from Fa Layette, and from Thraxton the Braggart. The farther he got from Thraxton, the happier he became.
A squirrel peered out from behind the trunk of an oak and chattered indignantly at him and at the rough-looking men in faded indigo riding behind him. Ned chuckled and spoke to Colonel Biffle, who followed him most closely: “If we weren’t in such a rush, somebody’d bag that little fellow for the supper pot.”
“Somebody may yet,” Biffle answered.
But Ned shook his head. “We don’t slow down for anything. We don’t slow down for anybody. One of my men tries to make us slow down and I find out about it, he’ll be one sorry so-and-so, and you can bank on that.”
“All right, Ned,” Colonel Biffle said hastily. “Everybody knows better than to get your angry up-everybody this side of Count Thraxton, anyway,” he added in lower tones.
“People had ought to know that,” Ned said. “I’m a peaceable man, but…” He normally spoke in a quiet voice, so quiet one had to listen closely to him to make out what he was saying. But when his temper rose, an astonishing transformation came over him. His eyes flashed. He shouted. He cursed.
“But…” Colonel Biffle echoed, and let out a nervous chuckle. “When your angry is up, your men are a lot more afraid of you than they ever could be afraid of the graybacked lice who fight for King Avram.”
“Good,” Ned said.
They went on for a while in silence. The road they followed hardly deserved the name. It was little more than a game track. But Ned’s scouts had already traveled it from one end to the other, as they had most of the paths in the woods, and they knew just where it hit the main road leading north from Rising Rock.
After splashing through another small stream, Ned held up his hand and reined in. “Column, halt!” Colonel Biffle called from behind him, and the column did halt. Biffle asked, “What is it, sir?”
“I want to be sure the pack animals are keeping up with us all right,” Ned answered. “Pass the word back, and then send it forward to me again. We can all use a little blow till it comes.”
“Yes, sir,” Biffle said, and back the word went. In short order, it returned: the laden asses-and even a few unicorns-were where they were supposed to be.
“Fine.” Ned of the Forest nodded. “When we bump into Guildenstern’s men, we’ll need ’em. Every one of ’em’ll be worth its weight in gold, matter of fact.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Biffle repeated, though he didn’t sound altogether convinced. He did say, “You think of everything, don’t you, sir?”
“I’d better,” Ned answered. “We’d be in a fine way if I counted on Thraxton to do it for me, now wouldn’t we?” His regimental commander giggled-there was no other word for it-deliciously scandalized. Ned didn’t see that he’d made a joke. Thraxton wouldn’t do him any favors. Nobody except the men he led-the men who’d seen for themselves what he was worth-would ever do him any favors. He didn’t care. He expected none. “Forward!” he called, and rode on.
Forward they went. As they moved on, Ned wondered what he would do if Guildenstern’s men suddenly and unexpectedly attacked from the south. It wouldn’t happen, not if he could help it. He had scouts out not just ahead of his riders but off to the flanks as well.
But the forest between Rising Rock and Fa Layette was often thick and tangled. He liked setting ambuscades, and knew he could fall into them, too. If he did, he wanted to have a plan ready. Some men-even some soldiers of high rank-went through life perpetually surprised. Ned of the Forest had no desire to be among their number.
A scout came galloping back along the game path toward him. “Lord Ned! Lord Ned!” he called, reining in.
“What is it?” Ned leaned forward, like a hound who knew he was about to be released from his lead line. “It must be something, by the gods, or you wouldn’t ride hells-for-leather to get me word of it.”
“Something, yes, Lord Ned.” The scout nodded. He was a lean, weatherbeaten man in his early thirties: not a fellow who’d owned an estate full of serfs before the war, surely, but not one who’d take kindly to anyone who told him he couldn’t dream of acquiring such an estate one day, either. His sharp northeastern accent wasn’t much different from Ned’s own. “Herk and me, we spotted southron riders heading up the road from Rising Rock. Unless we’re daft, there’s a whole big army behind ’em.”
“Is that a fact?” Ned said softly, and the scout nodded again. Ned scratched at the edge of his neat chin beard. “They’re not moving as fast as I would have, but they’re not sitting on their hands down there, neither.” His eyes narrowed. “They didn’t spy you?”
“Lord Ned!” The scout both looked and sounded affronted. “You think me and Herk are a couple o’ city men, can’t walk across ground with grass on it without we fall over our own feet?”
“No, no.” Ned of the Forest waved in apology. “Forget I said that: the Lion God swallow up the words. To business: tell me exactly where you and Herk were at and how fast the southrons were moving. Soon as I hear that, I can reckon up where we’d do best to pay ’em a call.”
“A social call, like,” the scout said, and grinned-showing a couple of missing front teeth-when Ned nodded. The rider spoke for a couple of minutes, at one point dismounting to sketch in the dirt to make his words clearer.
Ned scratched at the edge of his beard again. “Clinging close to the west side of Sentry Peak, are they? That’s not stupid. I only wish it was. But we’ll have a harder time hitting ’em from both flanks at once this way.”
If General Guildenstern had his whole army on the move, he would outnumber Ned’s men eight or ten to one. Just for a moment, Ned wondered how he had the nerve to think about attacking the southrons from two directions at once. Then he shrugged and laughed a little. I might have a better chance of licking ’em that way, he thought.