Colonel Biffle shrugged. “I expect he’ll get to it in his own time.”
“I expect you’re right.” Ned of the Forest growled something under his breath. “That’s how Thraxton goes about things-in his own sweet time, I mean. He’d better get around to doing ’em when they need doing. We’ll all be better off.”
“I don’t know how you can make a man move when he’s not inclined to,” Biffle said.
“I do, by the gods. You build such a hot fire underneath his backside, he can’t do anything but move.” Ned kicked at the dirt in frustration. “I did it with Leonidas. But he’s the high and mighty Count Thraxton, don’t you know.” He did his best to affect an aristocratic accent, but couldn’t get rid of his back-country rasp. “So we’ll just have to do our best, on account of Thraxton’s backside’s so far away, it’s gods-damned near fireproof. But he’d better do something, or he’ll answer to me.” He held his saber in his left hand. The blade twitched hungrily. He pointed ahead with it. “What’s the name of the high ground the southrons are holding?”
“That’s Merkle’s Hill, Lord Ned,” Colonel Biffle answered.
“We’ve got to get through it or around it some kind of way,” Ned said. “You reckon we can put enough of a scare on their general to make him turn around and skedaddle?” His grin was impudent. “You put a scare on the general, you’ve got your fight won, and it don’t hardly matter what his soldiers do.”
But Biffle said, “Those are Doubting George’s troopers.”
Ned of the Forest cursed, the heat of battle still in him. “We can lick him. We can fool him, the way we did when he was coming up from Rising Rock toward the River of Death. But I don’t reckon we can frighten him out of his pantaloons.”
“Do you want me to send the men forward again, sir?” Colonel Biffle asked. “They’ll go-I know they will-but they’ve already taken some hard licks.”
“I know they have,” Ned said. “Curse it, unicorn-riders aren’t made for big stand-up fights. We can be dragoons. We’re cursed good dragoons, by the gods. But only half the point to dragoons is the fight. The other half is getting somewheres fast so you can fight where the other bastards don’t want you to.”
“Can’t do that on Merkle’s Hill,” Colonel Biffle said positively.
He was right. Ned of the Forest wished he were wrong. But then Ned pointed with his saber again, this time toward the southeast. “We’ll just have to see if we can’t slide around behind ’em, then. If we can get a decent-sized band of soldiers on the road between them and Rising Rock, they’ll have to fall back, on account of if they don’t, they’ll never get another chance.”
“Can we do it?” Biffle asked.
“Don’t know,” Ned answered. “But I’ll tell you what I do know-I do know I’d sooner try something my own self than wait for Thraxton the gods-damned Braggart to huff and puff and blow their house down.” He raised his voice to a bellow: “Captain Watson!”
“Yes, Lord Ned?” Watson had a way of appearing wherever he was needed.
“If we try and slide some men around to the south side of this here Merkle’s Hill, can you bring some engines along?” Ned asked.
Captain Watson said, “I’ll give it my best shot, sir. Don’t quite know what kind of ground we’ll run into, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Ned of the Forest slapped him on the back. “That’s good enough for me.” He had to bite his tongue to keep from adding, sonny boy. He was young as generals went himself, but Watson could easily have been his son. When the youngster was first assigned to him, he’d thought Watson might be somebody’s nasty joke. But the boyish captain had proved able to handle catapults-to get them where they needed to be and to fight them once they got there-better than most men Ned’s age and older.
“Let me gather up some dart-throwers and a couple of engines that will fling stones or firepots,” he said now. “I’ll be with you in half an hour.” He went off at a dead run. He almost always did. Ned, a man of prodigious energy in his own right, envied Watson his.
He turned to Biffle. “We’ll take your regiment, Colonel. Get them on their unicorns and ready to ride inside an hour.” Colonel Biffle saluted and hurried away, not quite at Watson’s headlong speed but plenty fast enough.
And Ned shouted for a runner. When he got one, he said, “Go back to the unicorn-holders. Tell all of them-no, tell all of them who aren’t in Biffle’s regiment-to tie the gods-damned beasts to whatever trees or bushes they choose, to grab their crossbows, and to get their arses forward into the fight.”
“Yes, sir,” the runner said, and he hurried off. Ned grinned after him. That was what a general was good for: to set a whole lot of men running every which way. Putting the unicorn-holders into the fight wouldn’t replace as many men as he was pulling out with Biffle’s regiment, but it would be better than nothing. And, if things went as Ned hoped, he would soon set an army’s worth of southrons running every which way.
He yelled for a scryer. At his command, the mage relayed what he aimed to do to Count Thraxton’s headquarters. Unlike Watson and Biffle and the runner, the scryer could stay where he was. Once he’d sent Ned’s message, he asked, “Shall I wait for a reply from the count, sir?”
“By the gods, no!” Ned exclaimed. “Matter of fact, put your crystal ball away and don’t look at it for a while. He can’t say I didn’t tell him what I have in mind, but I don’t want him to go telling me he won’t let me do it. He can’t very well do that if you aren’t listening for him, now can he?”
“No, sir,” the scryer answered with a grin. He wasn’t one of the northeastern yeomen who made up the bulk of Ned’s force-men much like Ned himself, with more grit than blue blood and more stubbornness than learning from a codex. He’d had to have some book learning, or he wouldn’t have known what to do with that crystal ball of his. But by now he was just as ornery as any of the unicorn-riders with whom he served.
A little more than an hour after Ned gave his orders, he led Colonel Biffle’s regiment and half a dozen engines south and east in a long loop around Merkle’s Hill. The battle there had lost none of its ferocity. If his men, or Leonidas the Priest’s, could dislodge Doubting George’s soldiers, Count Thraxton would have the smashing victory he hoped for. Well, if that happens, we’ll make it a bigger one, on account of we’ll ruin the southrons’ retreat, Ned thought.
If Thraxton got the victory, he would surely take all the credit for it. People didn’t style him the Braggart for nothing. And he had King Geoffrey’s ear. If he didn’t have Geoffrey’s ear, he wouldn’t still be in charge of an army after all the fights he’s bungled. Ned was sure that thought had crossed other men’s minds, too. But, since Thraxton did have the king’s ear, he couldn’t do much about it, and neither could anyone else.
The path the regiment followed wound through thick woods-perfect for keeping the southrons from spying them. “If we get in their rear, we’ll give them a hells of a surprise,” Ned said, anticipation in his voice.
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle nodded. “Of course, that’s what the hierophant told the actress, too.” He laughed. Ned of the Forest chuckled. Young Captain Watson howled with mirth, and almost fell off his unicorn. That made Ned chuckle again. When he was Watson’s age, he would have laughed himself silly at such bits of dirt, too.
The forest opened out onto a broad clearing. There on the far side of the clearing was the road leading north toward the River of Death-and there, marching along the road, was a long column of King Avram’s gray-clad soldiers heading toward the fight. They shouted when they caught sight of Ned and the first of his troopers.
Ned shouted, too: he shouted curses. Such a splendid idea, ruined by brute fact. Or was it ruined? If he could make the southrons run away, he’d have the road and he’d have their whole army by the throat.