Thorn swayed.
“None of my warlocks has had any effect on the old witch’s defence,” he said. “I must deal with her myself.”
His hesitation showed. The mighty sorcerer lord hesitated…
Hartmut shrugged despite the weight of his armour and the overwhelming clouds of black flies.
“It is impregnable, unless we bring up trebuchets or build them new. Or unless you can simply unleash the hounds of hell to smash the earthworks.”
Thorn nodded. “This is not the battle my master wanted,” he said. “What other choices have we?”
Hartmut looked around at the captains. “We can fall back on Ticondaga and make it a base. We can fill the frontiers with blood all summer, keep these peasants from their fields, and strike where we wish until every cabin is burned and this captain has no reserve of manpower to fell his trees. We can keep his forces in the field until the cost breaks his King. We can butcher the little people with our monsters until they know their King cannot protect them.”
“Their King is dead.”
Hartmut nodded. “They do not seem to miss him.”
Thorn swayed. “This strategy of yours-it is not what my master wants.”
Hartmut, who had served several princes, nodded. “It never is. But I always offer it.”
“Give me another choice,” Thorn said.
“You can always fling your army recklessly at this rock of earth and wood,” Hartmut said. His contempt was obvious. “Unless your unseelie powers give you some absolute dominance, your army will die here.”
Thorn nodded. “I understand. Give me another choice.”
Hartmut frowned. “We could move north, around the position. On a wide front, so that we could overwhelm any opposition, surround and crush it in the mountains. Bypass any other strong points.” He shrugged. “Try to cut the road off further along. Then our problem becomes their problem: supply.”
“We can feast on the dead, and they cannot.” Thorn’s voice was hollow.
“They can bake and eat bread,” Hartmut said. “Of the two, I’d rather eat bread.”
“What of the east?” Thorn asked.
“He has another force in the east, but it’s on the other side of the river and too small to affect us.” Hartmut shrugged yet again. “I think he wants us to go east. Instead, with our latest ascession of your little monsters, I’d put three or four legions of them here and around the Hole, and fling them into the entrenchments all day. They can die slowly, and we’ll win along the road and push the battle back to here.”
“You are reckless in expending them,” Thorn said.
“That’s what they are for, surely?” Hartmut shrugged. “They are fodder. But in mass waves, they will tie down any force left here-while we turn his flank.”
“His flank,” Thorn said. “The Dark Sun.”
Unnecessarily, Hartmut said, “He beat you before.”
Thorn rustled, stone on stone. “I am aware.”
Hartmut shook his head. “I need a private word, my Lord Sorcerer.”
The Outwallers and the others drew back.
“Retreat, and fight another day,” Hartmut said. “That is my advice.”
“No,” said Thorn.
“Then north, around them. As soon as we can.” Hartmut took a breath. “Into the woods. Leave most of the boglins-they will only slow us. And in a mass-we have what, fifteen, twenty thousand of them? Let them go forward against the ridge.”
Thorn seemed relieved. “And will there be a great battle?” he asked.
Hartmut paused. “We have odds of four or even five to one or better,” he said. “If we are very lucky and we move fast, there will be no great battle. They’ll simply fold away and be massacred as we turn their positions-or stand and starve. If the boglins break through-then we win a massive victory and the whole enemy force is massacred.”
Thorn seemed for a moment to whisper to someone else.
“Massacre will do. It is essential that as many of them be together as can be arranged.” Thorn swayed again. “And if we are not lucky?”
“It will be a terrible battle in the wilderness.” Hartmut pursed his lips. “A fight unlike any I have ever seen. No possible way to predict the result.”
“Perfect,” Thorn said.
Hartmut nodded. “As you command,” he said.
Chapter Nineteen
The Battle of Gilson’s Hole
The skies opened just after breakfast. Old archers put their bowstrings in waxed linen bags and then put the bags under their hats. Young ones copied them.
The sound of axes never stopped.
A little after nine, the order came to mount.
Cully mounted slowly, all the aches in all his joints fuelled by tension and pure fear.
They rode east through beech trees, forest giants widely spaced with almost no underbrush-here and there, a wicked patch of hobblebush, and occasional openings, sometimes of grass but more often a thicket of raspberry and bramble. Cully rode at the captain’s elbow, and they moved at an astounding speed through the woods, on a road just wide enough for two fully armoured men on big horses to pass-quickly. The road went on and on; one mile, and then another.
In the second mile, they came to the woodcutters-terrified men from the valleys to the south and east. And their guardians.
Golden Bears.
The column flinched, almost to a man and woman. And beyond the bears were irks-hundreds of them, tall and lanky and evil-looking, with mouths full of teeth and hands full of weapons.
Cully made himself ride on. The great Golden Bear to his left-whose yellow eyes were level with his own-on horseback-grinned. It said something that almost sounded like Alban.
Cully grinned back.
Behind him, Flarch grunted. “Fuck me,” he said. “Did you hear the bear?”
Cully shook his head, still shaken.
“It said, ‘Get some.’”
Cully’s nerves got the better of him and he laughed, a little too high and loud. Men looked at him.
Off further to the left, a white stag broke cover. On its back was the most beautifully equipped knight Cully had ever seen.
“The Faery Knight!” men called. Some of the company men cheered-and many of the farmers.
The Faery Knight-who looked more poised and magnificent than the captain had ever managed-trotted his enormous stag to where Ser Gabriel waited on his riding horse. They clasped hands.
“Well met,” said Ser Tapio. “Now what do we do?”
“Push east as fast as we can until we can see the Unicorn,” the captain said. The Unicorn was a towering spire of white rock that rose alongside Buck Pond Mountain. “Then, if all goes well…”
Ser Tapio smiled a knowing smile, and they rode on together, their households staying as separate bodies for the first mile of broken ground, and then gradually intermingling. The faery knights were irks-most of them were slighter than men, and their armour far more old-fashioned. Most had bronze byrnies instead of steel habergeons and many wore leather defences where the men had steel plate, more cunningly formed. But the irks had their own breed of horses and a few stags and massive caribou that seemed to take the woods in easier strides, and they were festooned in charms and runes that few of the men and women could emulate.
They passed along the south shore of Big Rock Lake. From time to time the captain checked a wax tablet, and Cully saw, at a brief halt, that writing appeared in the wax, and he shook his head.
“They have started to attack the fort line,” the captain admitted to the Faery Knight.
“Ahh,” Ser Tapio replied. “Better than I feared. I worried we were hunters beating for a stag long since run away.”
The captain shrugged. “Every mile we do this, our forces will be better at cooperating.”
Indeed, along the front of the long, long column, bears and irks shared the skirmish line with Gelfred’s men. To the north and west of the road, once the lake was passed, the column was paralleled by the movement of a long line of boglins who crossed the Wild the way ants cross a difficult area of pebbles, all touching. It was chilling and inhuman to watch, and most of the company stopped watching. But it did make them feel protected.