The Big Finger was the first in a succession of mountain-fed rivers collectively known as the Fingers of Kresimir. It was deep and fast-flowing and impossible to cross without sturdy rafts that could be pushed across and land on the other side farther downstream. Or by way of the bridge.
The bridge was nowhere to be seen.
Tamas heard the cries of dismay as the news was passed on down the column. He felt a twinge of pain for his men. They were starving, tired, beaten by the heat, and they’d just arrived at their one hope of delivery and found it gone.
They didn’t know that Tamas had ordered the bridge destroyed.
Across the floodplain, near the river, Tamas could see smoldering bonfires. Flanks of meat roasted above them, the last of the horses taken from the Kez a week ago. Enough for a meal for ten thousand men.
Gavril rode across the floodplain, and Tamas noted he’d kept his own horse alive. He gave Tamas a salute, then said loudly, “Damned bridge washed away.”
“Bloody pit!” Tamas slapped a fist into the palm of one hand.
Gavril went on. “We slaughtered the rest of the horses and scouted for wood for rafts. I’ll need men to build them.”
“All right. We’ve got half a day until the Kez reach us. Olem!”
The bodyguard nearly jumped out of his saddle. He brought his horse up alongside Tamas. He’d been hanging back ever since the incident with Vlora.
“Sir?”
“Organize getting the men fed. Gather the officers so I can brief them.”
“Yes, sir.” Olem flicked his reins and headed down the column, slumped in his saddle like a boy whose dog had just died.
Gavril brought his horse up closer to Tamas. “What the pit did you say to that man? I’ve not seen someone look that guilty since the Lady Femore’s face when her husband caught me in bed with her and his sister.”
“I told him I didn’t want him continuing relations with Vlora.”
Tamas watched Olem as he shouted for men to help him distribute food. He’d have to keep it organized. Eleven thousand hungry men were liable to start a riot. “I ordered Vlora to stop as well. She… vehemently… disobeyed.” Tamas couldn’t tolerate that kind of insubordination, not in a time of war. He didn’t know what he was going to do about that. He’d been avoiding it for two days.
Gavril let out a loud guffaw and slapped his knee. Tamas thought about reaching across and punching him off his horse, but decided against it. Wouldn’t want to risk breaking his neck, even if it would have done him good.
“Did everything go smoothly?” Tamas asked in a low voice, jerking his head toward the river.
“It did,” Gavril said. “Knocked out the bridge yesterday, though the boys weren’t happy about it. I can’t promise they won’t say anything.”
“Last thing I need is rumors going around that I gave the order.”
“I’ll do my best to keep them quiet,” Gavril said, “but if this turns into a death trap, I’m going to curse your name with my dying breath.” The expression he wore told Tamas he was only partially joking.
“That seems fair. How close are the cuirassiers?”
“My outriders say a day.” Gavril scratched his beard. “I hope you’re certain about this. We could have gotten the army across the river and been safe for another two weeks, foraging and resting, and then faced them on the north side of the Fingers in better shape.”
“I am certain,” Tamas said. He looked to the west. The Big Finger meandered out of sight behind Hune Dora Forest about a mile downriver. Tomorrow he’d have a whole brigade of heavy cavalry riding upstream on that floodplain. He’d be boxed in and outnumbered. “I won’t face three brigades of cavalry under Beon je Ipille on the open plains of the Northern Expanse. It would be suicide, even for me. Are you coming to my meeting?”
Gavril looked toward the bonfires. “I’ll give Olem a hand organizing lunch.”
“Good. The men will need their strength. I’m putting them to work next. It’s going to be a long night.”
Tamas rode toward the gathering of his officers, only a stone’s throw from the river. Some of them were still on horseback. The rest were on foot, having given their mounts over to Gavril’s rangers two weeks ago.
He ran his eyes over the assembled men. Every one of his generals, colonels, and majors were present. He dismounted.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Gather round. Forgive me for not providing refreshment. I left my god-chef back in Budwiel.”
The comment received a few forced chuckles. Tamas felt his heart fall a little and made himself reevaluate his officers. They were a sorry lot. They were gaunt and unshaven, their uniforms dirty. Several wore the fresh scars of their skirmishes with Kez dragoons. Those still in possession of their horses had followed his example and given the better portion of their rations to the marching soldiers. They were tired, hungry, and he could see the fear in their eyes. Fear that hadn’t been so stark before finding out the bridge was gone.
“As you can see, the bridge we’d hoped to cross to escape our pursuers is washed away. This has forced me to make a change in our plans. The Kez dragoons will be here in full force by the end of the day. The cuirassiers will be here tomorrow.”
“That’s not enough time to get everyone across the river,” someone said.
Tamas searched for the source of the voice. It was a major, commandant of the quartermasters of the Ninth Brigade. He was missing his epaulets, and he bore a two-day-old gash across the bridge of his nose, the congealed blood almost black.
“No, it’s not,” Tamas admitted.
A clamor of voices went up. Tamas sighed. On a normal day these were his best officers. Not one of them would have interrupted him. Today was not a normal day.
He raised his hand. A few moments passed, but the hubbub died down.
“A panicked crossing of the river on hastily made rafts will leave our army fractured and in disarray. Beon’s dragoon commanders would not hesitate to attack en masse the moment they arrived. So we’re going to wait, and make a panicked crossing of the river tomorrow afternoon.”
His officers stared back at him, uncomprehending. No one said a word until Colonel Arbor flexed his jaw and popped his false teeth into one hand.
“You’re setting a trap,” Arbor said.
“Precisely.”
“How can we set a trap for half again our number of cavalry?” protested General Cethal of the Ninth Brigade. He was a stout man of medium height. He had a particular wariness for cavalry, since a flanking maneuver by Gurlish cavalry had cost him two regiments and his left eye ten years ago.
“By making ourselves a ripe target.” Tamas picked up a straight stick and cleared away some of the tall grass so he could draw in the sandy dirt of the floodplain.
“But we are a ripe target,” General Cethal said.
Tamas ignored him. “Here is our position.” He drew a line to represent the river, and then chevrons for the mountains. “The smaller division of heavy cavalry will come from the west. The larger number of dragoons, from the south. General Cethal, what is the first thing we teach prospective officers at the academy?”
“Terrain is key.”
“Indeed.”
“But sir,” General Cethal insisted, “you’ve put us on a flat floodplain with almost seventeen thousand cavalry bearing down on us. I can’t think of many worse situations.”
“We have our backs to the river,” Tamas said. “And we have significant manpower. The terrain will be very different tomorrow.”
“You mean to shape the terrain to your needs?” General Cethal shook his head. “It can’t be done. We’d need a week to prepare.”
Tamas stared hard at General Cethal. “Expecting defeat will surely bring it,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Cethal said.