To complete the plan, the "bird man" was to accompany the army, at the last minute to release a messenger bird to the defenders of Carotene, the message telling them to be ready to march out of their city when Stil-de-grain struck. In this way, the Malachites would be crushed between the Realgar and Stil-de-grain armies.
As a diplomatic bonus, coming to the relief of the Realgar capital should forge stronger relations with Realgar, the two countries moving as one to thwart the machinations of the evil Mage of Azare.
At least that was the plan.
But plans ... change, this one having to be altered drastically as a result of the arrival of yet another messenger bird.
To make a long message short, the latest bird told a tale of devastation to the "top" side of Stil-de-grain's band. According to Gagar, the message came from an agent sent to watch the pass through the mountains separating Malachite from Stil-de-grain, the defile through the mountains that Golden had called The Gap, the passage denied to John and his little band when they were on the run from Malachite.
When the flat lingo of the bird had been digested, its message had been that men, women, children, and even animals from Azare were crossing the Malachite band to the up-light side of Bice, the enemy flooding through The Gap into the far side of Stil-de-grain.
Other parts of the rambling message were unclear. There was confused babble about white people and white animals. And about an Azare "army" -- if such an assortment of people and beasts could be called an army -- causing mass destruction.
For some time, John had been hearing rumors about "dangerous" animals coming out of Azare, about the savage way they attacked people -- even in up-light!
Whatever the exact nature of the message (which had all the characteristics of being "programed" into the bird under stressful conditions, said Gagar) it was clear that Stil-de-grain was under assault by a new "army" from a new enemy, and from an unexpected direction.
While John still wished to relieve the Realgar's city, he could no longer do so. From observing the army Head's horrified reaction to this latest threat, from watching lowly Platinia's anguished look on hearing that the "white folks" were coming, it was clear to John his first duty was to defend Stil-de-grain.
Looking at the map again, Etexin pondering it as well, John had done the politic thing: concluded that the Stil-de-grain army must be sent to stop this Azare invasion, the first consideration: how best to get to The Gap. Approachable from two directions (one if by land, two if by sea??) the "easiest" way was by sea, the "hook" in the sea passage idea, that they'd have to row past Bice, alerting Malachite that the Stil-de-grain army was no longer stalemated in Xanthin harbor.
The second method of getting to The Gap was by land, the merchant marine ferrying the Stil-de-grain army to Canarin. From there, the troops would cross the Tartrazine river, march along a course that would first skirt Hero castle, then trace the shoreline of the lake of Quince. Entering the Umber forest at the top of the lake, the army would continue past a landmark called temple Fulgur. It was at some point after that, the gravity traps of Malachite guarding the army's right flank, that they would meet the unknown enemy.
A long passage. But one not apt to alert Malachite that the army of Stil-de-grain was on the loose.
So it was decided -- the army would be marched overland -- a determination that forced John to make another choice. While Etexin assured John that Stil-de-grain's professional troops could march that distance, that the supply wagons could traverse all terrain they were apt to encounter, the Army Head's best advice was that John's "citizen soldiers" -- could not. Sound judgment, from what John had seen of John's draftees in "action," John agreeing -- to Etexin's barely disguised delight -- that the assault would be made with the professional army, only.
Just who or what they would be "assaulting" was anybody's guess. Men, women, and children? White, murderous animals?
Whatever the situation, John was about to find out. No longer could the Mage of Stil-de-grain stay out of combat. While the young king must remain in the capital as a focal point for Band patriotism (with Coluth left behind as the child's protector) John himself must go with the army. Though John couldn't work the magic that everyone expected of him, for him not to accompany the troops would be the worst "magic" of all. The black magic of no magic. If for no other purpose than to strengthen Stil-de-grain morale, John had to be there in person to "counter" the evil Mage's conjurations.
The decision made, exhausting days of planning at an end, John found himself sitting alone at the war-room table late one afternoon. (Platinia was with him, of course.) Nearing down-light, John realized there was nothing left for him to do, the army departing later in the week.
Considering again the army's route, he thought once more about how it would take him near Hero Castle.
In spite of the fear John had felt when first "landing" in that Medieval pile, John had come to consider the short time he'd spent in the Hero's citadel as "the good old days." He could see in his mind's eye the wet walls and floor of the turret room, the white, frightened face of Platinia, the broken body of Melcor. Closing his eyes, John could feel himself gliding through the castle's dark halls; smell the damp, tapestried walls. He remembered so many things: the terror he'd known when he'd discovered that darkness "shut down" language translation; how the torches were lit by magic ......
It was then that John remembered something else! Something he'd seen in the castle, the meaning of which he'd failed to grasp until this very instant! Something (this world a place of magic) he must have, if only to raise the spirits of his troops.
And when the army passed close to Hero castle, John meant to have it!
Considering how to affect the transfer, John realized it would be unwise for him to leave the army for a side-trip to the castle, the enemy possibly close at hand. No. He must remain with the troops at all cost.
Could he send Etexin? ... No. Like Mages, Army Heads must attend their forces in dangerous territory.
John didn't want to send Golden.
And because he'd decided to take Zwicia along -- you couldn't have too much magic in this world -- John was afraid to send Platinia for fear that, without Platinia at his side, he would fall under the spell of Zwicia's Crystal.
Send Zwicia? The woman couldn't stagger across a room unaided!
For the moment, it amused John to realize he was faced with a situation much like the old riddle of how to row a fox, a goose, and a bag of grain across a stream, only two of the three items of cargo to be taken in the boat at a time. ...........
And that was the key to his current problem. Not exactly a fox-goose-grain solution, but close enough to allow him to secure the one thing that might give him the "magical edge" so all important in this world!
* * * * *
Chapter 21
Fog at dawn. Up-light and another day of march in a great cloud of dust. (No wind to blow it away, as usual.) Fog. Rain at night. Fog. The dust of day. Fog. Rain. Fog. Dust. ........... For weeks, the army had been on the march, soldiers in their iron caps tramping along both sides of the narrow road, swords and throwing axes squeaking rhythmically in leather harness, wooden shields thudding against the hollows of soldiers' backs where they were slung.
Progress had been slow, first when the army and its wagons had been backed up forever at the Tartrazine, the river's two over-taxed ferries wretchedly inadequate for military use. After getting by that watery bottleneck, there were the mountains, then tangled underbrush, the scrub so thick that soldiers had to draw their swords to slash their way through.
The road itself -- more trail than military highway -- was reserved for the army's drays, all vehicles pulled by teams of nickering ponies. Large wagons with latticed sides carried equipment: tents, uniforms, armor. Smaller carts contained provisions: the army's food -- grain for the ponies. Interspersed were the "artillery pieces:" mangonels mounted on flat, wheeled platforms. Rolling along behind the "guns" were the ammunition wagons, thick nets
over them to hold down the pyramided stones that the mangonels used for "cannon balls."
A constant was the sound of tramping boots, the rumble of iron shod wheels, the groan of ungreased axles in distress. The only smell was the dust within which the army toiled -- the powder of it clogging nose and mouth and throat, the grit of it like sand between the teeth.
Bored with riding in his "Wizard" cart, John had insisted on walking like the rest; even found himself marching to the dull thud of the tabor now that the army had been dressed by rank and file. In increasingly dangerous territory (Etexin worried about assassins) John had agreed to camouflage himself in a standard military tunic and march at the protected center of the army.
Two days had passed since the troops had struggled out of the foothills at the base of the Hero mountains; three days since John had dispatched his "emissaries" to Hero castle.
Encountering the usual pack merchants in the uplands, the army found itself increasingly entangled in foot traffic on the plain -- all of it "against" them. Not the usual salesmen, pleasure travelers, or hunters, but throngs of flatland peasants and small village dwellers. Whole families of them -- tired, dirty, parents carrying exhausted children.
Questioned, these sad people turned out to be what they seemed, refugees fleeing the front.
The horde had recently grown so great that it choked the road, the army having to push its way through a human tide.
In the press were the pony carts of the prosperous, piled high with belongings. Boxes, leather containers, furniture, barrels of what was probably merchandise which, when the owner relocated, would again be made available for sale.
The less wealthy pushed hand-carts containing jumbled clothing, lumpy bags, kitchen utensils, and farmer's tools.
The poor, both men and women, packed bundles on their backs, their grubby children straggling after parents or older siblings. Children too spent to walk had to be carried in the arms of distraught and footsore parents. People shouted feebly for elbow room, grumbled at their gods, groaned under burdens. Hungry milk cows, unused to being driven any distance, bawled incessantly to be left alone to graze. Sheep bleated their sad way along. Pigs grunted, squealed, and bolted off on tangents. Dogs trotted happily at their owner's heels.
Behind the eyes of these simple, lowland folk was a single passion -- flight! They had the timeless, haunted look of every refugee: of Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians fleeing the Russian front; of Vietnamese escaping napalmed villages and defoliated forests; of Jews, in eternal exodus from persecution by their Christian neighbors.
So dejected were these current emigres, in fact, that few cheered the army's advance against their common foe, those who did having their brave words betrayed by overtones of fear.
Monotonously, the throng streamed past, a few drivers attempting to weave their way through the lumbering military wagons on the track, most families keeping well off the trail to skirt the solid ranks of marching men.
There was an occasional shout of caution about "white" enemies: of someone seeing an endless line of foreigners laying waste the land.
As odd as were the shouted comments about a "white" foe, stranger still was what the people of the exodus did not say. There was no talk of death at the hands of the aggressor. No mention of confiscation. Or of rape. Or torture. No grieving widows. The enemy, while terrorizing the countryside, was allowing the band's inhabitants to escape. Nor was their talk about assassination squads or Quantrill-style marauders. No terrorists massacring innocents in the name of peace. No revolutionaries murdering children for a just cause.
Needing to find out more about what the army faced, John, under heavy guard, approached a number of the stragglers directly, their separate stories summarized by a bent, old man who said: "Them white people move even slower than me. Crazed is what they is."
The only additional information John learned was about the foe's lack of militarism. They did not march as an organized body. They did not shout battle cries and charge. They had no bows or other missile weapons. Nor did they use tactics of any kind.
Piecing together scraps of information from a dozen or more victims, John came to visualize the enemy approach as more migration than invasion.
What there was universal agreement about was that the enemy was "white" and that they moved slowly but steadily in an interminable line, pausing to dismantle everything along their path. Curious. More than that, surrealistic!
Nothing else to be learned, John returned to his station at the army's center and to other worries, one of which was a growing concern about Platinia. It had been days since he'd dispatched Platinia and Zwicia to Hero castle, the pair of them riding off in the Weird's cart, a squad of men armed with pole-axes serving them as escorts. (Besides guarding the women, John wanted the patrol of soldiers to be there as "convincers" should old Chryses refuse to give up that little "item.")
Easily keeping pace with the dust-covered men packed about him, John had time to consider how Platinia's absence had affected him. Without Platinia constantly beside him, for instance, the urge to look in Zwicia's Crystal was stronger; more at night than when working on the problems of the day. He'd expected that. (Sending Zwicia and her Crystal with Platinia had been John's way of protecting himself from the temptation to Crystal gaze.)
Another consequence of Platinia's absence was that John's power to influence others seemed to deteriorate. Which had its good side. An example was that the army Head Etexin no longer fawned on John, now that the girl was gone; was not as supportive of John's every whim. The Head was also quicker to make decisions without being cajoled, in particular, about military affairs. Freed from John's (Platinia-strengthened?) domination, Etexin had proved himself a competent commander rather than the simpering fool for which John had first taken him. As the army had drawn nearer to the enemy, without being told, Etexin had divided his troops into three parts -- the vanguard comprised of archers, the main body made up of swordsmen, and a rearguard phalanx of spear and shield troops -- a sensible order of march for any army approaching the foe. Ever nearer to the enemy, the Head had increased security and taken extra measures to guard the army's supply wagons.
As of this morning, Etexin had doubled the number of scouts flanking the perimeter of the march, a beefed-up corps of woodsmen sent to flit from tree to tree in advance of the van, there to be an "early warning system" of imminent contact with the enemy.
Etexin was also proving to be more humane than John would have guessed, the army Head setting up relief teams to care for the needs of the fleeing citizens: slaveys assigned to distribute food to the hungry and water to the thirsty. Sound procedures all, not a single one of which John had to initiate.
So passed that day of march, Golden, as he had from the beginning, contributing to the war effort by entertaining the troops at night.
The next day was much the same.
So was the next.
It was on the afternoon of the second day of the third week of the campaign that John heard the high-pitched squeal of rapidly revolving wheels to the rear of John's position. Looking back and to the "road-ward side" of the ranks of marching men, John saw that a wagon was causing the stir, its well-lathered ponies reined down the center of the road, their driver swerving sharply to pass the slower supply wagons.
Zwicia's cart!
And there was Platinia, looking like a forlorn child on the front seat beside the driver, the cart's trotting shelties making the women's escort struggle to keep up.
Seeing the wagon coming, John fell out of line to wait at the edge of the wheel-scarred track.
The rig approaching, John had the officer of the squad guarding him flag down the driver, the driver bringing the rattling cart to a halt beside the trail.
Along with the ponies, the women's guards were glad to stop, taking the opportunity to lean on the wagon or on the stout handles of their bills, breathing hard, muddy sweat trails streaking their muscular bodies.
Amazed to find that the man beside
the road was the Mage, the Head of the guards ordered his men to attention, the Head saluting smartly before commanding his soldiers to part so John could approach the wagon.
"You are dismissed with my thanks," John said to the Squad-Head, the young officer grinning to be praised by such an important personage.
"Fall out," the squad leader ordered, his troops revived enough to trot off toward the nearest food wagon.
"Did you get it?" John asked, looking up through the ever present road haze at Platinia's small face sticking out of her child's sized tunic. (Something about the girl made even the dusty air smell like dark perfume!)
For an answer, she pointed back under the cloth top of the wagon.
Looking past Platinia through the front slit in the covering, John saw Zwicia riding on the back board, beside the slatternly weird a cage, inside the cage, what John had hoped to see: the red parrot he'd noticed shortly after "dropping in" on Hero castle. Though he hadn't ascribed any significance to the bird's color at the time, he now knew the bird had to have been bred in the "red band" of Cinnabar -- would fly back to the man who'd hatched it. In all likelihood, Cryo, Cinnabar's Mage. It made sense that, when getting together to fight the forces of evil in the Great Mage War, the Mages of the allied Bands would maintain a means of contacting one another.
John's plan was to show the red messenger bird to his army, telling them he was sending a message to Cryo of Cinnabar -- anything connected with Cinnabar a "stunner" in this world. John would assure the army that, after the bird delivered its message, they could expect to be strengthened not only by John's magic, but also by the magic of Cinnabar. If that didn't build morale, he didn't know what would!
Under The Stairs Page 29
