Because a mob it was, even with Gilbert's impromptu chain of command. There wasn't time to drill them, but he did manage to get across the idea of marching in order, teaching his officers a few marching songs to help. Frisson grew very thoughtful, was seized with inspiration, and dashed off a few poems that he then proceeded to sing to Gilbert. Gilbert loved them, gave them to the officers, and we marched along singing. They could hear us a mile away, but we weren't exactly any big secret, anyway.
After the second day of orderly marching, Gilbert was beginning to look worried. I took him aside and asked why.
"They have not attacked again," he told me. "Surely the Army of Evil does not intend to let us pass unchallenged!"
"Haven't you heard what your men are singing?" I asked. He frowned. "Aye, but what has that . . ." There he broke off, turning to stare out at his army as they marched past, singing:
"Why, they dispel attack!" Gilbert cried.
I nodded. "It would take an awful lot of black magic to squelch that much enthusiastic spell casting. On top of which, they're giving themselves constant energy input, and keeping themselves in order."
"Amazing, Wizard!"
"Yes, isn't he?" I nodded at Frisson. "But don't try to convince him of it; he thinks he's just writing what comes to him." Still, I worried. Two thousand enthusiastic peasants were good protection on the march and could be very useful for general brawling, but they weren't going to stand a chance against disciplined, professional troops.
Which was exactly what we saw, when we came up to the top of the ridge that overlooked the capital. There it lay, a half-mile-wide town with a river flowing through it and a huge castle on the hill in its center. It had a high, thick wall all around it, and between the wall and us, a solid band of troops a hundred yards thick.
We stared, appalled, and I whispered, "How are we going to get through this?
Chapter Thirty
"Surely we have strong enough numbers to force a passage." But Frisson didn't sound too sure.
"We have not," Gilbert assured him. "They outnumber us by five soldiers of theirs for every one of ours, at the least - and theirs are trained and seasoned veterans, whiles ours are boys who have come straight from the plow.
"But our men believe in our cause!"
"And these soldiers believe in the profit they shall gain by victory," Gilbert returned.
"Surely the love of money is not so strong as the will to be free!"
"Perhaps not - but when 'tis coupled with skill and strength, it will suffice." Gilbert turned a grim face to me. " 'Tis for you to say, Master Saul. What may we do?"
"Why," I said slowly, "we'll just have to find some soldiers who are even better than they are."
Gilbert smiled bleakly. "Well thought, if we could find such so quickly. Yet even if we could, we would need very many, for greater skill and strength mean little, in the end, 'gainst such numbers."
"Not entirely true." I was thinking of Crecy and Agincourt.
"Besides, we don't have to wipe out the whole army - just force our way through to the gates and knock them open."
"And how shall we do that?"
"It was one of the first verses Frisson wrote, and I've been saving it for just such an occasion."
The poet looked up, startled. "Which ... Oh! My angry verse against the walls built by wealth and might, to pen the poor!"
"Yes, and the refrain about tearing down the walls - I think you even made some references to Joshua and Jericho."
"I can only trust in you for such," Gilbert said slowly, "but if you say it, Master Saul, I am sure it shall be done."
My heart sank. I hated the idea of having people depend on me - it resulted in responsibility, and responsibility involved commitment. But there wasn't much choice, now.
A shout went up from my "army." Looking up, I saw a double file of soldiers coming over the ridge a quarter of the way around the valley, at least a mile distant, with knights at their head and rear. Their armor and weapons clashed and clattered, and their chanting came to us faintly over the distance too faintly to make out the words, but I went cold at the sight of them. "Just what we need-enemy reinforcements!"
"And more coming in all the time, I doubt not." Frisson said, very nervously. "What e'er we are to do, Master Saul, 'twere best if 'twere done quickly."
"Yet where are we to find these skilled soldiers you spoke of,"' Gilbert asked - and, with a sardonic smile, "Have you a receipt for such an one?"
"Receipt'?" I frowned - then I remembered that it was an old word for "recipe." I could feel inspiration strike - or in this case, memory, of an evening watching Gilbert and Sullivan's Patience. My grin grew.
"Yes, now that you mention it, I do." And I began to pantomime taking ingredients off shelves and mixing them in a bowl, as I recited:
I proceeded to do so, running quickly through the first verse, and putting in a quick chorus:
"Aye, guy'nor!" a beery voice said two feet above my head. My buddies drew back with a moan, looking up. Even Gruesome muttered with nervousness.
There he was, chestnut stallion and all-six feet plus of resplendent dress uniform and ferocious mustache.
"Just in time!" I grinned. "Assault the enemy - they're down below you! Cut me a way through to the gates of the city!"
"As you sye, Capting!" the dragoon bellowed, wheeling his horse toward the nearest footman. "God save the Queen!" And he rode full-tilt down the slope and into Suettay's infantry, laying about him with his saber. Gilbert shouted and galloped to back him up.
I would have, too, but I knew the enemy was too many for only three men and a troll, even if one of those men was a dragoon. I signaled Gruesome to wait, and before Gilbert even hit the first rank, I chanted: