Advance and Retreat wotp-3

by Harry Turtledove

  “No, not so much of a much,” Rollant muttered.

  “What’s not so much of a much?” Smitty asked him.

  “This place,” he answered.

  Smitty wasn’t a city man. He came from a farm outside New Eborac City, and hadn’t liked going into town even when he’d had the chance. He shrugged now. “Just one more place we’ve got to hold on to,” he said.

  “I should hope so!” Rollant said. “I’d like to see the gods-damned traitors try to take it away from us. They’d be sorry to the end of their days, by the Lion God’s fangs.”

  He swore by the Lion God, the Thunderer, and the other gods of the Detinan pantheon. He believed in them. He worshiped them. His own blond ancestors had had gods of their own before the Detinans crossed the Western Ocean and took this land away from them. He still knew the names of some of them. He even believed in them, after a fashion. Worship them? He shook his head. They’d let his ancestors down when those ancestors needed them most. If he was going to worship gods, he wanted to worship gods who delivered.

  “We ought to head back to camp,” Smitty said.

  “That’s true.” Rollant kept on walking.

  Smitty laughed. “I know why you don’t want to leave. You want to keep showing off in front of the traitors.”

  Rollant thought that over. Solemnly, he nodded. “You’re right. I do.”

  But, when Smitty turned back, he followed. Doubting George’s army held more people than Ramblerton, and sprawled over a wider area, too. If it weren’t for riverboats on the Cumbersome and all the glideway lines that came into the area, the army would have starved in short order. As things were, a swarm of blond laborers-runaway serfs-unloaded boats and glideway carpets and heaved crates and barrels into ass-drawn wagons that would take them exactly where they needed to go.

  The laborers were working harder than they would have if they’d stayed on their liege lords’ estates. Plainly, they didn’t care. They were doing this work because they wanted to, not because they had to. Rollant understood that down to the ground.

  He eyed the asses with a certain mournful sympathy. His ancestors had tried to use bronze axes and ass-drawn chariots against the thunderous unicorn cavalry of the Detinan conquerors. They’d tried, they’d fought bravely-and they’d gone down to the subjection a whole great segment of Detina had taken enough for granted to be willing to fight rather than see it abridged in any way.

  As they neared the encampment, Rollant pointed ahead. “Something’s going on.”

  “Sure is,” Smitty agreed. “Whole camp’s stirring like a beehive just before it swarms.”

  “Where the hells have you two been?” Sergeant Joram growled when Rollant and Smitty reached their company. “We’re marching inside of an hour.”

  “Marching?” Smitty said. “How come? Where are we going?”

  Rollant was content to let Smitty ask the questions. Joram could have made his life as a corporal difficult, if not impossible. He hadn’t done that. But he wasn’t any great lover of blonds, either. Rollant stayed out of his way as much as he could-which was also, on general principles, a good thing to do with sergeants.

  “We’re going up toward the Dothan border,” Joram answered now. “Doubting George has given John the Lister a whole wing’s worth of men, and we’re part of it. Seems like General Bell may be getting frisky up there, so they need us to make sure he doesn’t kick up too much trouble.”

  “What’s he going to do?” Smitty said scornfully. “Invade Franklin? After all the lickings he took over in Peachtree Province, he hasn’t got the men for that, I wouldn’t think.”

  “Nobody much cares what you think, Smitty,” Sergeant Joram pointed out.

  “By the gods, somebody ought to,” Smitty said hotly. “I’m a free Detinan, and my ideas are just as good as anybody else’s-better than some folks’ I could name. How’s Bell going to invade Franklin if he couldn’t stop General Hesmucet, Thunderer love him, from marching across Peachtree Province? He didn’t even try.”

  Had Rollant been so insubordinate, he was sure Sergeant Joram would have raked him over the coals on account of it. He was only a blond, after all. But he’d also seen that Detinans were passionate about freedom (about their own freedom, anyhow; that blonds weren’t free seemed to bother most of them very little). They insisted on doing and saying what they wanted when they wanted to, and didn’t care what might spring from that. It made them difficult soldiers.

  With such patience as he could muster, Joram said, “I don’t know how Bell’s supposed to invade Franklin with what he’s got, either. That’s our job-to go down toward the border and find out. And if he’s dumb enough to try it, we’re supposed to give him a good boot in the ballocks to slow him down. What do you think of that?”

  Smitty mimed giving somebody a good kick. Maybe it was Bell and the traitors he led. By the way his foot was aimed, maybe it was Sergeant Joram, too.

  “Come on,” Rollant said. “Let’s get ready to move.”

  They didn’t have a whole lot of getting ready to do. They were veterans; throwing what was essential into their rucksacks took only minutes. Everything that wasn’t essential had long since been lost or left behind. Rollant had tea, crossbow bolts and strings, hard bread and smoked meat, a skillet made from half a tin canteen nailed to a stick, and a couple of pairs of socks his wife, Norina, had knitted and sent from New Eborac City. He carried more bolts on his belt, and a water bottle in place of the canteen that had long since split. Smitty’s gear was similarly minimal. They both slung their crossbows on their backs and were ready to march.

  Rollant had one more piece of equipment to carry. He went to take the company banner from its shrine. Offering a murmured prayer-if he’d had wine or spirits in the bottle, he’d have poured a libation-he plucked up the staff and proudly brought it to the front of the company. Standard-bearers were always targets; he’d taken the job by seizing the banner and keeping it from falling when his predecessor was hit. He made a special target, being not just a standard-bearer but also a blond. He didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, the honor outweighed the risk-and the way he’d taken up the banner and gone on afterwards had won him promotion to corporal, no easy thing for a blond to win.

  “Good day, Corporal,” said Lieutenant Griff, the company commander. Griff was young and skinny and weedy, with a voice that sometimes cracked. But he was brave enough, and he treated Rollant fairly. The company could have had a worse man in charge.

  “Good day, sir.” Rollant saluted. “Ready when you are.”

  Griff returned the salute. He was punctilious about military courtesy. “We’ll be moving soon, I’m sure. Not everyone is as swift as we are.”

  “Too bad for the others,” Rollant declared.

  “I like your spirit, Corporal,” Griff said. “You make… you make a good soldier.” He sounded faintly surprised at saying such a thing.

  Ordinary Detinans often sounded faintly-or more than faintly-surprised when they said anything good about a blond. More often than not, they left such things unsaid. That Lieutenant Griff had spoken up pleased Rollant very much. He saluted again. “Thank you, sir!”

  “You’re welcome,” Griff replied. Horns blared just then. All through the ranks, men stirred. They recognized the call to move out. Griff smiled at Rollant. “Raise that banner high, Corporal. We’ve got some marching to do.”

  “Yes, sir!” Rollant said, and he did.

  * * *

  Ned of the Forest turned to one of his regimental commanders as he led the long column of unicorn-riders south. “Feels good to be on the move, doesn’t it, Biff?”

  “Yes, sir,” Colonel Biffle answered. Gray streaked his beard. Ned’s beard remained dark, though his hair had some gray in it. “I just hope we can hit the southrons a gods-damned good lick, that’s all.”

  “So do I,” Ned said. He was a big man, and a quiet one till he got in a temper or found himself in battle. Then nothing and no one around him was safe. He wor
e his saber on the right side, where a lefthanded man could draw it in a hurry. He also carried a short crossbow and a sheaf of bolts.

  He’d had the crossbow for years. The hilt of the saber was wrapped in leather, not with the gold or silver wire some officers a good deal less wealthy than Ned affected. Unlike a lot of northern nobles, he didn’t fight because he loved war and glory. He fought because he’d chosen Geoffrey over Avram, because he wanted to do everything he could to aid his choice, and because he’d turned out to be monstrous good at war. But, to him, the tools of the trade were only tools, nothing more.

  “We can lick the southrons, can’t we, sir?” Colonel Biffle asked. “We’ve whipped ’em plenty of times, after all.”

  “Of course we can,” Ned said stoutly. “Of course we have. And of course we will.” He didn’t like the doubt in Biffle’s voice. He didn’t like the doubt in his own heart, either. The raids he’d led had kept the southrons off-balance in Cloviston and Franklin and in Great River Province, too. He’d sacked fortresses-once, his men had turned on and slaughtered a couple of hundred blonds at Fort Cushion when they didn’t yield fast enough-and wrecked glideways. He’d ridden into southron-held Luxor, on the banks of the Great River, and come within inches of capturing the enemy commander there. He’d heard that General Hesmucet, as grim a soldier as the south had produced, had said there would be no peace in the east till he was dead.

  By the gods, I’m not dead yet, he thought.

  But he felt no great assurance when he looked back over his shoulder at the force General Bell had scraped together. Even with his own unicorn-riders added in, this was a sad and sorry remnant of the army that had smashed the southrons at the River of Death-had smashed them and then failed to gather up their men who were trapped at Rising Rock in northwestern Franklin. Ned muttered under his breath, calling curses down on the sour, empty head of Count Thraxton the Braggart. Comparing what he could have accomplished with what he’d actually done…

  Ned muttered under his breath again. He didn’t want to think about that. The more he did think about it, the angrier he got. I should have killed him. He’d had his chance, but he hadn’t done it.

  Biffle said something. “Tell me again, Biff,” Ned said. “I was woolgathering, and I missed it.”

  Colonel Biffle grinned. “I hope you were dreaming up something especially nasty for the stinking southrons.”

  “Well… not exactly,” Ned said. Biffle had been along when he had his run-in with Count Thraxton. Even so, he didn’t tell the regimental commander he’d been contemplating the untimely demise of somebody on his own side. “Let me know what’s on your mind. I’m listening now, and that’s a fact.”

  “I said, I don’t like the look of those clouds there.” Biffle pointed to the southwest.

  His attention drawn to them, Ned of the Forest decided he didn’t like the look of those clouds, either. They were thick and black, and spreading over the sky with startling speed. No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than the first harbinger of the wind that carried them reached him. It felt wet and cold, a warning winter was on the way.

  “We ought to step up the pace,” he said. “Best to get along as far as we can before the rain starts coming down-because it will.”

  “Yes, sir,” Colonel Biffle said, but his voice was troubled. A moment later, he explained why: “We’ll get a long ways in front of the pikemen and crossbowmen if we do, won’t we, sir?”

  Except in the heat of battle, Ned was a man who seldom cursed. He felt like cursing now. Relentless motion was what he depended on to win his battles. However much he depended on it, though, he couldn’t use it now. A sour laugh helped him make the best of things. “When you’re right, Biff, you’re right. We’ve got to stay with ’em, sure as sure.”

  He hated that. He felt tethered. He wanted to range freely with his unicorn-riders, to hit the southrons where they least expected it. At the head of the riders, he could do that when they were on their own. When they were also the eyes and ears for the rest of the army, he couldn’t, or not so easily.

  The wind got stronger and colder and wetter. Before long, the rain he’d foreseen started falling. It was a hard, chilly rain, a rain that would have been snow or sleet in another few weeks. Even as rain, it was more than bad enough. For a little while, it laid the dust the unicorns-and the asses drawing the supply wagons, and the wagons’ wheels-kicked up from the roadway. But then, when it kept falling, it started turning the road to mud.

  Ned of the Forest still didn’t curse. He felt like it more than ever, though. His unicorn began to struggle, having to lift each hoof out of the thickening ooze with a separate, special effort. What his unicorn was doing, he knew every other unicorn was doing as well. They wouldn’t be able to go fast now, no matter how much they wanted to.

  As Ned yanked his hat down lower to help shield his eyes from the rain, Colonel Biffle said, “Other trouble with this is, it plays merry hells with the crossbowmen’s bowstrings. If we do bump into the southrons now, it’ll be swords and pikes, mostly.”

  “Yes,” Ned said discontentedly. That wasn’t the sort of fight General Bell’s men were likely to win. In almost every battle, the southrons could put more men into the field than could King Geoffrey. If both sides could only chop and thrust, who had the edge? The one with the most soldiers, surely.

  Down came the rain. Come on, Thunderer, Ned thought in annoyance. You’re supposed to be on our side, aren’t you? We need good weather to get where we need to be before the southrons know what we’re up to.

  The Thunderer, of course, did what he wanted to do, not what Ned of the Forest wanted him to do. Lightning flashed. A few heartbeats later, thunder rumbled in the distance. Another lightning bolt crashed down. This time, the thunder came quicker and sounded louder and closer.

  “They say you don’t ever want to hear thunder the same time as you see lightning,” Biffle remarked.

  Ned nodded; he’d heard that, too. But… “Who are they?” he asked. “The ones who lived?”

  “I suppose so,” Colonel Biffle said. “I never really thought about that till now.” His chuckle was a little uneasy.

  “You’ve always got to think about these things,” Ned said gravely. “The more you believe just because they say it’s so, the worse things will go wrong if they turn out to be a pack of fools-and, a lot of the time, they do. The only things you ought to take on faith are the gods.”

  Biffle nodded. But then, with another chuckle, he asked, “Why even take them on faith?”

  Ned scratched his head. He’d believed himself a freethinker, but doubting the power of the gods? That had never occurred to him. At last, laughing uncomfortably himself, he answered, “Don’t take ’em on faith if you don’t want to. The way they show themselves in the world, you don’t need to.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Biffle agreed. Lightning flashed again. Through the boom that followed, the regimental commander added, “Pretty hard not to believe in the Thunderer when you hear that, isn’t it?”

  “I should say so,” Ned replied.

  It started raining harder. The drops drummed and hissed off the ground, off growing puddles, off the unicorns and men. Ned had to lower his head to keep the rain from soaking his face. He did some more muttering. His riders and the footsoldiers who made up the rest of General Bell’s army could keep going forward in such weather, but the supply wagons wouldn’t have an easy time. Neither would the catapults and the repeating crossbows that made charges across open country so expensive.

  “Captain Watson!” Ned called, pitching his voice to carry through the rain. When he had to, he could make his voice carry through almost anything. “Come up here, Captain, if you please. I need to speak with you.”

  “Coming, sir!” Watson called back. A moment later, his unicorn rode beside Ned of the Forest’s. Colonel Biffle drew off a little way, so as not to eavesdrop; he was polite as a cat. Saluting, Watson asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Ned e
yed him with more than a little affection, which only showed how things could change. When Viscount Watson first joined his unicorn-riders, Ned had thought himself the victim of somebody’s bad joke. The alleged commander of engines had been a beardless nobleman of twenty, surely too young and too well-bred to know what he was doing or to be much use in the field. A couple of years of hard fighting had proved otherwise. Watson still couldn’t raise much more than fuzz on his cheeks and chin, but Ned no longer cared. He could handle catapults and repeating crossbows and the men who served them. Past that, nothing else mattered.

  Now Ned could ask, “Will your toys be able to keep up with us?” and know he would be able to rely on the answer he got.

  Captain Watson nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll make ’em keep up, by the gods. If I have to, I’ll unharness the asses hauling them and put unicorns in the traces instead. If that doesn’t do it, soldiers hauling on ropes will keep the carriages moving.”

  “Good man,” Ned said. “That was what I wanted you to tell me.”

  Grinning, Watson said, “You don’t ever want to hear no from anybody.”

  “Not from anybody in my command,” Ned agreed. “Not from anybody I’m relying on.”

  Watson nodded again. He already knew that. Nobody who served under Ned of the Forest could help knowing it. Ned would have been an impossible commander if he hadn’t driven himself harder than he drove any of his men. They knew how hard he worked at war, and did their best to match him.

  Something up ahead, half seen through the curtain of rain… Ned leaned forward, peering hard. It had been a white something, which meant… “Was that a southron scout on unicornback there, sneaking off into the woods before we could get a good look at him?”

  “I didn’t see him, sir,” Captain Watson answered. Colonel Biffle shrugged to show he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, either.