“I’ll do that, sir,” Ned promised. “I was going to promote him myself, matter of fact, but better he gets it from the general commanding the whole army.”
Ben-now Corporal Ben-looked from Ned to Bell in delight. “Thank you kindly, both of you!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t you worry about that. You’ll earn those stripes on your shirt, never fear,” Ned said. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”
He urged his unicorn forward with knees and reins and voice. Ben followed. Ned felt Lieutenant General Bell’s eyes boring into his back. Bell could ride well enough to stay in the saddle, but he’d never storm forward in a unicorn charge.
Of course, Ned didn’t plan on storming forward in a unicorn charge, either. More often than not, he used his riders as mounted crossbowmen, not as cavaliers slashing away with swords. Unicorns let them get where they needed to go far faster than they could have afoot. Getting there first with the most men was essential. And if you got there first with a few, most of the time you wouldn’t need any more.
Back in the west, Duke Edward’s commander of unicorn-riders, Jeb the Steward, had played at war as if it were a game. His men had fought as much for sport and glory as to do the southrons harm. They’d done quite a lot; not even Ned could deny it. But Jeb the Steward had died the summer before. He’d died a hard, nasty death, with a southron crossbow bolt in his belly. The war in the west had got grimmer since he fell.
Here in the east, the war had been grim from the start. With the southrons holding down Franklin and Cloviston but a lot of men in the two provinces still loyal to the north, brother sometimes faced brother sword in hand. No fight could be more savage than one of that sort. Some of Ned’s own unicorn-riders had kin on the other side.
Ben pointed ahead. “There’s our riders, sir.”
“I see ’em,” Ned answered. He raised his voice to a great bellow: “Blow advance!” The trumpeters obeyed. The men cheered the martial music. Ned went right on roaring, too. “We’ve got the gods-damned southrons ahead of us,” he told the unicorn-riders. “We’ve got ’em ahead of us, and we need to hold their vanguard where it’s at. Reckon we can do that, boys?”
“Hells, yes!” the troopers shouted. If Ned of the Forest wanted them to do something, they would do it, or die trying.
But even reaching the southrons proved harder than Ned had expected. He booted his unicorn up to a trot so he could lead the riders from the front, as he always did. One reason they followed him so well was that they knew he wouldn’t order them to go anywhere he wasn’t going himself.
He knew where Summer Mountain lay and how to get there. He knew the whole province of Franklin. I’d better, he thought. By now, I’ve fought over just about every gods-damned inch of it. He guided the troopers forward with confidence.
Despite that confidence, though, after about an hour Colonel Biffle rode up to him and asked, “Excuse me, Lord Ned, but should we be heading west?”
“West?” Ned stared at him. “What the hells are you talking about, Biff? I’m riding north, and that’s as plain as the horn on a unicorn’s face.” But even as he spoke, he looked around. As he did, he started to swear. He wasn’t usually a blasphemous man; only the prospect of battle brought foul language out in him-battle, and being tricked before battle. For, when he did look around, he saw that he had been riding west, and hadn’t known it. Face hot with fury, he demanded, “Where in the damnation is Major Marmaduke?”
“I’m here, sir.” His chief mage came up on donkeyback; few wizards could be trusted to ride unicorns without killing themselves. Marmaduke was a fussy little man who kept his blue sorcerer’s robe spotlessly clean no matter what. “What do you need?”
“I need a wizard who’s really here, not one who just thinks he is,” Ned snarled. “Why the demon didn’t you notice we’ve been riding west, not north?”
Major Marmaduke looked astonished. “But we’re not riding-” he began, and then broke off. After a moment, he looked even more astonished, to say nothing of horrified. “By the gods, we’ve been diddled,” he said.
“We sure have. I thought we were supposed to be the ones with the good wizards, and the southrons were stuck with the odds and sods.” Ned scornfully tossed his head. “Seems like it’s the other way round.”
“Lord Ned, I am-mortified,” Marmaduke stammered. “To think that I should be taken in-that I should let us all be taken in-by a spell of misdirection… I will say, though, that it was very cunningly laid. I did not think the accursed southrons had such subtlety in them.”
“Well, they gods-damned well do,” Ned growled. “And now we’re going to have to backtrack and hope by the Thunderer’s prong that they haven’t gone and stolen a march on us. If they have, you’ll pay for it, and you’d best believe that.”
Marmaduke licked his lips. “Y-y-yes, sir.”
With icy sarcasm, Ned went on, “You reckon you can see if they try any more magic on us while we’re heading back? You up to that much, anyways?”
“I–I hope so, sir,” the mage replied miserably.
“So do I. And you’d better be.” Scowling, Ned shouted to his men, “They’ve tricked us. When we catch ’em, we’ll make ’em pay. Meanwhile, though, we’ve got to ride like hells to get back to where we were at so we can catch ’em. Come on! We’ll do it right this time!”
They rode hard. Anybody who wanted to fight under Ned of the Forest had to ride hard. As his unicorn trotted back toward the place where they’d gone wrong-Ned hoped it was back toward the place where they’d gone wrong-he kept muttering morosely about Major Marmaduke. The wizard still seemed bewildered at what had happened. Ned wasn’t bewildered. He was furious. As far as he was concerned, the southrons had no business outdoing northern men when it came to sorcery.
Riding up ahead of his troopers, he was one of the first to reach the crossroads from which his force had gone astray. He couldn’t imagine how it had happened. He knew which fork he should have taken. He thought he had taken it. But the southrons’ magic had led him astray, and had kept him from noticing anything was wrong. He muttered again. It had certainly kept Major Marmaduke from noticing. If Colonel Biffle hadn’t finally spotted the trouble… Ned didn’t care to think about what might have happened then.
And, riding up ahead of his troopers, he was one of the first to spy the southrons riding toward the crossroads. He threw back his head and laughed. “All right, you sons of bitches!” he shouted. “You reckoned you could lead us astray and get here first. Now I’m going to show you you aren’t as smart as you figured.” He looked around. As usual, a trumpeter rode within easy range of his voice. He waved to draw the man’s attention, then called, “Blow charge!”
As the martial notes rang out, his sword leaped free from the scabbard. The blade gleamed in the watery autumn sunshine. He spurred his unicorn forward. The well-trained beast lowered its head, aimed its ironclad horn at the enemy, and sprang toward the southrons. “King Geoffrey!” Ned shouted. Sometimes dragoon work wouldn’t do. Sometimes you had to get right in there and fight unicorn to unicorn.
Some of his men yelled Geoffrey’s name, too. More, though, shouted, “Lord Ned!” They fought for him personally at least as much as for the north. Their swords also flashed free. Some of them fit arrows to the strings of the light crossbows they carried. That would do for one volley, anyhow; reloading on unicornback wasn’t for the faint of heart.
“Let’s get ’em!” Ned roared. “This is our road, by the gods, and they’ve got no business trying to take it away from us.”
As soon as the southrons spied his men and him, they deployed from line to column. Their own gray-clad officers briefly harangued them. Then they too were charging. “King Avram!” they cried. “King Avram and freedom!”
“To the hells with King Avram, the serf-stealing bastard!” Ned yelled. His unicorn tore a bleeding line in the flank of the first enemy beast it met. He’d trained it always to gore to the right, to protect him on that side. A rider ca
me up to him on the left. The other fellow would have had most men at a disadvantage. Not lefthanded Ned. He chopped the southron out of the saddle. How many men had he killed in the war? A couple of dozen, surely. Well, he’d killed before the war, too. A serfcatcher didn’t have an easy life.
He had more men with him than the southron commander, who’d led a mere reconnaissance in force. Ned’s men were fiercer, too, at least that day. They sent the southrons, those who lived, fleeing back in the direction from which they’d come as fast as they could gallop. Ned pushed them hard. He always did.
“They know we’re here now,” Colonel Biffle said as the pursuit at last wound down.
Ned nodded and spoke one word: “Good.”
* * *
Rollant had served in King Avram’s army for a couple of years now. He’d seen things go well, and he’d seen things go wrong. He knew the signs for both.
Unicorn-riders galloping back toward the crossbowmen and pikemen were not a good sign. He knew that only too well. Turning to Lieutenant Griff, he said, “Something’s gone to the hells up ahead.”
“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” Griff’s voice broke as he answered. He kicked at the muddy ground under his shoes. He was very young, and hated showing how young he was.
Plenty of crossbowmen in the company drew the same conclusion as its standard-bearer and commander. “Who ever saw a dead unicorn-rider?” they jeered as the men on the beautiful beasts pounded past.
Some of the riders pretended not to hear. Some cursed the footsoldiers who mocked them. And one fellow yelled, “Wait till you run up against Ned of the Forest’s troopers! We’ll see plenty of you bastards dead, and you’d better believe it.”
After that, Corporal Rollant gripped the staff of the company banner so tight, his knuckles whitened. He tramped on in silence, grim determination on his face. Lieutenant Griff needed a while to notice; he wasn’t the most perceptive man ever born. But at last he asked, “Is something wrong, Corporal?”
“Ned of the Forest,” Rollant said tightly. “Sir.”
“Yes, his riders really fight, no doubt about it,” Griff said. “I wish we had more men as good, I truly do, but-”
“Fort Cushion,” Rollant broke in. “Sir.”
“Oh,” Griff said. For a wonder, he had the sense not to say anything more. Fort Cushion, along the Great River down in Cloviston, had been garrisoned by blonds loyal to King Avram till Ned’s men overran it. Stories of what happened next varied. Ned’s men claimed the blonds had started fighting again after surrendering. They’d killed almost the whole garrison as a result.
“Yes, sir.” Rollant’s voice was bleak. “Whatever happens, I don’t intend to let those bastards get their hands on me while I’m breathing.”
“I… see,” Griff said. “Well, Corporal, taking everything together, I can’t say that I blame you.”
As the southron army tramped north, Rollant waited for the order to deploy from marching column into line of battle. Where Ned’s riders were, the bigger army of traitors couldn’t be far behind, not if rumor came anywhere close to telling the truth. Rollant wanted to fight. Part of that sprang from knowing that a blond had to do better than an ordinary Detinan to be reckoned half as good. And part of it sprang from his own desire to pay back Ned’s men for what they’d down done in the southeast.
But the horn call he waited for never came. Instead, after a little while, the trumpeters blared out retreat.
“What the hells are we retreating for?” Rollant burst out.
“I don’t know.” Lieutenant Griff sounded almost as perplexed as Rollant, if not quite so furious. “But we have to obey the order. We can’t go on and attack the traitors all by ourselves.”
Rollant, just then, was ready to do exactly that. Regretfully, he realized Griff was right. Even more regretfully, he turned back toward Summer Mountain.
“It is a good defensive position.” Was Griff trying to convince Rollant or himself? Rollant couldn’t tell. Maybe the company commander couldn’t tell, either. He went on, “If they have more men than we do…”
“How could our unicorn riders tell one way or the other, if they only ran into-ran from-Ned’s riders?” Rollant asked.
“That’s a good question, Corporal,” Griff said. “I haven’t got a good answer for you. I wish I did.”
“We’ve been fighting this war for a long time now,” Rollant grumbled. “Why don’t we have generals who know what the hells they’re doing yet?”
“I think John the Lister has a pretty good idea of what he’s doing,” Griff said. “If that is the traitors’ whole army north of us, we’ve got to slow it down as much as we can. We haven’t got the men to crush it all by ourselves.”
“By the Lion God’s claws, I’d like to try,” Rollant declared.
Lieutenant Griff started to answer, then stopped and gave him a curious look. It wasn’t quite the ordinary curious look he would have given had he been arguing strategy with another ordinary Detinan. It also held a certain amount-perhaps more than a certain amount-of surprise. Rollant had no trouble reading Griff’s thoughts. Here’s a blond who’s more interested in fighting the traitors than the commanding general is. Aren’t his kind supposed to be cowards and weaklings?
Wearily, Rollant hefted the company standard. Even more wearily, he said, “Sir, you didn’t let me keep this because I was afraid to fight the northerners. You didn’t promote me to corporal because I was afraid, either. The more of those bastards we kill, the sooner this gods-damned war’ll be over.”
“My,” Griff said after a long, long silence. “You have got fire in your belly, haven’t you?”
“Who better to have fire in his belly than somebody who grew up bound to a liege lord’s lands and ran away?” Rollant replied. “I really know what we’re trying to knock down. Sir.”
That produced another silence, even longer than the first. Rollant wondered if he’d said too much, if Griff would take him for no more than an uppity blond from now on. At last, the company commander said, “If all blonds had your spirit, Corporal, we Detinans would have had a much harder time casting down the blond kingdoms in the north after we crossed the Western Ocean.”
He means well. He’s trying to pay me a compliment, Rollant reminded himself. He chose his words with care: “When we fight the traitors, sir, we’ve got crossbows and iron-headed pikes and unicorns and siege engines and all the rest, and so do they. What we fight with is even on both sides. If the blonds back in those days had had all that stuff instead of bronze maces and asses hauling chariots, and if they’d known more wizardry, the Detinans would have had a lot tougher time.”
“So you think it was the quality of the equipment and magic, not the quality of the men?” Griff said.
“Of course, sir. Don’t you?”
Again, Rollant wondered if he’d said too much. Griff startled him by laughing. “That isn’t the lesson Detinans learn in school, you know,” he remarked.
“Yes, I know it isn’t. But don’t you think it’s true anyhow?”
Lieutenant Griff didn’t answer right away. Rollant gave him credit for that; a lot of Detinans would have. At last, his voice troubled, Griff said, “There may be some truth in what you say, Corporal. But wouldn’t you agree that the first Detinan conquerors were also heroes for overcoming so many with so few?”
Now it was Rollant’s turn to think before he spoke. He’d never tried to put himself in the place of those first Detinans to cross the Western Ocean. His sympathies lay with the blonds. Only reluctantly did he take the conquerors’ side in his mind. No more than a couple of hundred of them had come on that first expedition to what was now Palmetto Province. They’d pushed inland till they found the blond kingdom closest to the Western Ocean-and they’d shattered it. They might have been villains. They hadn’t been weaklings.
His voice as troubled as Griff’s, Rollant answered, “There may be some truth in what you say, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you,” Griff sa
id, which surprised him. The company commander explained, “I’ve heard blonds-educated men, men who’d lived all their lives in the south and were never serfs-say the first heroes were nothing but bandits and robbers, and should have been crucified for what they did. That goes too far, I think.”
“Maybe,” Rollant said. “But then, I’ve heard Detinans-educated men who’d lived all their lives in the south and were never liege lords-say blonds were nothing but cowards and dogs, and should have got even worse than what the first conquerors gave them. That also goes too far, I think.”
“That’s different,” Griff said.
“How?” Rollant asked. “Uh, how, sir?”
“Why…” Griff stopped. Undoubtedly, he’d been about to answer, Why, because that has to do with blonds, or some such thing. Unlike a lot of ordinary Detinans, he saw that wouldn’t do here. He gave Rollant a lopsided grin. “Have anyone ever told you you can be difficult, Corporal?”
“Me, sir?” Rollant shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I want to do is get to the bottom of things.”
“And if that doesn’t prove my point, I don’t know what would.” The lieutenant waved to the low swell of ground ahead. “There’s Summer Mountain.” Not even to Rollant’s eye, trained by the low country of Palmetto Province, did it look anything like a mountain. Griff went on, “As I said before, it’s a good defensive position.”
“Yes, sir,” Rollant agreed dolefully. “I thought the idea was to get out there and fight the enemy, though. I wonder why we’re not.”
“Difficult,” Griff repeated, but he had a smile in his voice.
When they did return to Summer Mountain, Colonel Nahath promptly set the whole regiment to digging trenches and heaping the earth up in front of them for breastworks. Rollant didn’t mind digging. On the contrary-the long campaign up in Peachtree Province the previous spring and summer had taught him, along with the rest of General Hesmucet’s army, the value of trenches.
“Isn’t this fun?” Smitty said, flinging up dirt.
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