As General Guildenstern had during the advance on Rising Rock, he admired the concentrated might of the army he led. Crossbowmen, pikemen, unicorns cavalry, dart- and stone- and firepot-throwers, mages… He sighed, wishing mages were less necessary. But if the northerners had them-and they did-he needs must have them, too, and so he did.
On paced his unicorn. On marched the army. Rising Rock vanished in the distance behind him, obscured by bends in the road, by forest, and by the red dust boots and hooves and wheels raised. He sighed again. He would sooner have stayed back there sporting with that yellow-haired wench. She’d fit him very well, in every sense of the word. Well, no help for it-and there would be other women ahead.
He was musing thus when a courier shouting, “General Guildenstern! General Guildenstern!” rode toward him, fighting his way south against the northbound stream of soldiers in gray.
“Here!” Guildenstern called, and he waved for good measure. Both call and wave were probably needless: a swarm of banners and gold dragons marked his place in the line of march. But he didn’t care to seem to be doing nothing.
The courier brought his unicorn up alongside Guildenstern’s and saluted. “Sir, I’m Captain Menander, one of Lieutenant General George’s guardsmen. You need to know, sir, that we had a sharp little run-in with Ned of the Forest’s troopers late yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you?” Guildenstern said, and Menander the guardsman nodded. “Whereabouts was this?” Guildenstern asked. “How far had Doubting George got before they jumped you?”
He didn’t notice he’d used George’s disparaging nickname till too late. Captain Menander was in no position to take offense. The courier answered, “Sir, our vanguard had got within perhaps six miles of the River of Death.”
“Had it?” Guildenstern said-George was wasting no time in moving north. “And what precisely happened?”
Menander looked disgusted. “If you want to know the truth, sir, Ned suckered us. I hate to say it, but it’s true.”
Guildenstern wasn’t altogether sorry to learn of Doubting George’s discomfiture-not even close. But showing that too openly wouldn’t do. He said, “Ned of the Forest has managed to sucker more commanders more often than we’d like to admit. How did he do it to George?”
“He felled some trees to block the road and shot at our vanguard,” Captain Menander answered. “Then, when we brought up more men to deal with his skulkers, he showed some of what he had hiding in the woods. We sent up still more men-and his whole force showed itself, gave us a black eye, and then ran away.”
“His whole force, you say? Are you sure of that?” Guildenstern asked.
Menander the guardsman nodded. “Sure as can be, sir. I was up there at the edge of the fighting. As a matter of fact, it seemed like Ned had twice as many men as we thought he could. They handled us pretty roughly.” He took off his hat and looked at it. So did General Guildenstern. Up near the crown, it had two small, neat holes through it. Captain Menander said, “A couple of inches lower, sir, and somebody else would be giving you this report.”
“I see.” Guildenstern nodded. He plucked at his beard as he thought. “I wonder if Thraxton left Ned of the Forest behind to harass our advance while he retreats with the rest of his army.”
Captain Menander didn’t answer. Guildenstern would have been affronted had he done so. Judging strategy wasn’t a captain’s place. King Avram gave me that job, Guildenstern thought.
“Wherever Thraxton the Braggart is, we have to find him and beat him,” Guildenstern said. Menander nodded at that. He could hardly do anything else. The commanding general went on, “I still do believe he’s running away as fast as he can go.” He raised his voice: “Brigadier Alexander! Brigadier Thom!”
“Sir?” the two division commanders chorused.
“I intend to pursue Thraxton on a broad front, as broad as possible,” General Guildenstern said. “Brigadier Thom, you shall take your men north up roads farther west. Brigadier Alexander, you shall continue on our present route, and hold the center between George and Thom. I’ll come with you, and stay in touch with each wing through messengers and scryers.”
“Yes, sir,” Thom and Alexander said together. Guildenstern nodded. They were subordinate to him. They couldn’t possibly say anything else.
As Captain Ormerod strode along the northern bank of the River of Death, he shook his head in frustration. “This would be miserable country for fighting a battle,” he said.
“Sir, this is miserable country whether we fight a battle here or not.” As usual, Lieutenant Gremio was more exact than he needed to be. That didn’t mean he was altogether wrong, though. The woods, mostly pine with oak and elm and chestnut scattered through them, were thick and hard to navigate. Bushes and brambles grew in riotous profusion under the trees, making things worse yet.
“What’s that?” Ormerod raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t care to have an estate hereabouts?”
After the words were out of his mouth, he wondered if Gremio would take offense. Living in Karlsburg, the lawyer didn’t have-and didn’t seem to want-a proper landed estate. But Gremio just said, “The only thing this country would be good for is burying my enemies. May it bury a lot of them.”
Ormerod peered south, as if expecting to see King Avram’s gray-clad villains bursting out of the trees in division strength or more. All he saw were more woods, identical to those on this side of the river. He said, “I hear Ned of the Forest buried a good many southrons a couple of days ago.”
“The Lion God grant it be so,” Gremio said. “Ned’s no gentleman, but he fights like a round sawblade-there’s no good place to get a grip on him.”
“They say he almost fought Count Thraxton before we pulled out of Rising Rock,” Ormerod remarked.
“He wouldn’t be the first,” Gremio said. “He won’t be the last.” His opinion of Thraxton was not high. Since Ormerod’s wasn’t, either, he nodded.
Before he could say anything, a gong chimed. “The call to worship,” Ormerod said. He raised his voice to a shout: “Come on, men! Time to pay our respects to the Lion God.”
“Time to keep Leonidas the Priest happy,” Lieutenant Gremio said with a sneer. “I wish we were in Dan of Rabbit Hill’s division, so the gods wouldn’t hit us over the head every sixth day.”
“You’re nothing but a citified scoffer,” Ormerod said, to which his first lieutenant nodded emphatic agreement. Ormerod went on, “The gods will recognize you, whether you recognize them or not.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Gremio replied. “And ifsobe I’m wrong, and end up toasting in the seven hells-why, I’ll save you a spot by the fire, Captain.”
“Avert the omen!” Ormerod exclaimed. His fingers twisted in a sign the Detinans had borrowed from their serfs so long before, only a few scholars knew they hadn’t brought it over the Western Ocean with them. Ormerod’s own piety might not have been profound, but it was deep and heartfelt. He’d been a young man when a wave of proselytizing swept through northern Detina twenty years before, and he’d sealed his soul to the gods then.
Colonel Florizel had consecrated himself during that wave of proselytizing, too. “Up!” the regimental commander called. “Up, you Detinans! Let the gods know you care for them, and they’ll be happy to care for you!”
Soldiers in indigo tunics and pantaloons made their way toward the altar Leonidas the Priest had set up in a clearing not far from the River of Death. Baron Ormerod and Earl Florizel accompanied their troopers. So did Lieutenant Gremio; he might be a scoffer, but he didn’t advertise it to the men.
Again and again, the gong rang out. Florizel’s regiment wasn’t the only one assembling in the clearing; several more joined it. Off in the distance, more gongs belled. Leonidas couldn’t be everywhere at once, but he made sure the men he led had every chance to worship.