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flames sprang from tents that weren't really burning. Shadowy figures that
might have been men ran in all directions, as if in terror.
"Bell's wizards are seeing this sharply?" George asked.
"Not just the wizards, sir," Alva told him. "Anybody peering across the, uh,
Smew will think the dragon has wrecked everything in sight."
"All right, then," the general commanding said. "Hold the illusion for as long
as you can, and I'll get
Hard-Riding Jimmy's troopers and some engineers moving. If they can cross the
river and hit Bell in the flank when he thinks I'm all messed up here . . ."
"Deception," Major Alva said happily. "Yes, sir. I get it."
"Good." Doubting George shouted for a messenger. When the young man appeared,
came to attention, and saluted, George gave him his orders. The youngster
saluted again. He trotted off.
Before long, the unicorn-riders and the engineers hurried up the Smew. Ghostly
smoke between them and the river should conceal them from prying eyes on the
other side, assuming it seemed as solid as it was supposed to from the north.
Doubting George had no cause to doubt that; another reason he approved of Alva
as a mage was that the man delivered.
A messenger came back and reported, "We're over the Smew, sir."
"Good," George said. "Can I send a column of footsoldiers after you? Have you
got a ford or a bridge safe and ready to use?"
"Yes, sir," the messenger answered. "But Brigadier Jimmy says to warn you that
if you're looking to surprise the traitors, you're going to be disappointed.
They already know we're moving against them."
"Gods damn it!" George exclaimed in disgust. "What went wrong?"
"We hadn't been on the north bank of the river more than a couple of minutes
before Ned of the Forest's unicorn-riders found us," the messenger replied.
"Well, to hells with Ned of the Forest, too," the commanding general said.
"All right we're discovered.
Can Jimmy's riders get in front of Bell's men and hold them until the rest of
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us come north and finish them off?"
"Sir, I don't think so," the young man on unicornback said. "Bell's men are
scooting north as fast as they can go, and Ned's unicorn-riders are slowing
our troopers down so we can't reach Bell's main force. I'm sorry, sir."
"So am I," Doubting George said wearily. "We did everything right here after
that gods-damned dragon, anyhow but it didn't quite work. Well, we'll go after
them anyhow. Maybe Bell will make a mistake. It wouldn't be the first one he's
made on this campaign, by the Lion God's tail tuft."
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He said that, but he didn't really believe it. It wasn't that he didn't
believe Bell could make more mistakes; he was sure Bell could. But prisoners
had told him Ned of the Forest commanded the northern rear guard. Doubting
George had seen that Ned made a very solid soldier. George wished had more
he officers of Ned's ability. He was just glad the war looked nearly won. Even
Ned didn't matter too much any more.
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Captain Gremio had never particularly wanted to command a regiment. For that
matter, Gremio had never particularly wanted to command a company;
had his previous captain not been killed at Proselytizers' Rise, he would have
been more than content to remain a lieutenant, with but a single epaulet on
his shoulder.
But he had the whole regiment in his hands now, like it or not, and had it in
the worst possible circumstances: a grinding retreat after a disastrous
battle. And his men could hardly have had a harder time. They were worn and
ragged and hungry, as was he. His shoes, what was left of them, leaked mud
onto his toes at every stride. Too many of them had no shoes at all.
"What the hells am I supposed to do, sir?" one of the soldiers asked. "My feet
are so gods-damned cold, how long will it be before my toes start turning
black?"
"Well, we're in camp now, Jamy," Gremio answered, "camp" being a few small,
smoky fires in a clearing in the woods. "Get as close to the flames as you
can. That'll keep you from frostbitten toes."
"Yes, sir, we're in camp now
," Jamy said. "But what am I supposed to do about tomorrow morning, when I
start tramping through half-frozen muck again?"
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"Find some rags. Wrap your feet in them." Gremio helplessly spread his hands
wide. "I don't know what else to tell you." Jamy muttered something under his
breath. It sounded like, If I let myself get captured, I don't have to worry
about it any more
. Gremio turned away, pretending not to hear. If Jamy did hang back, how could
Gremio stop him? More than a few men had already given themselves up to the
southrons.
Also muttering, Gremio went off to stand in line and get something to eat.
Half a hard biscuit and some smoked meat that was rancid because it hadn't
been smoked long enough weren't going to fill his belly.
He asked the cooks, "What else have you got?"
They looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "You're gods-damned lucky we've
got this here . . . sir," one of them said. "Plenty of folks in this here
army, they get a big fat nothing for supper tonight."
"Oh." Gremio sighed and nodded. "I suppose you're right. But how long can we
go on with this kind of food?"
In unison, the cooks shrugged. "Hells of a lot longer than we can go on with
nothing," replied the one who'd spoken before.
The worst of it was, Gremio couldn't even argue with him. He was
incontestably, incontrovertibly, right.
"Scrounge whatever you can," Gremio told him. "I'm not fussy about how you do
it just do it. I won't ask you any questions. We've got to keep moving, one
way or another."
One by one, the cooks nodded. "We'll take care of it, Captain. Don't you
worry," said the one who liked to talk. "Pretty good, a regimental commander
who tells us we can forage however we want." The rest of the cooks nodded
again.
One of them added, "Sergeant Thisbe already said the same thing."
"That's a sergeant. This here is a captain. Them's two different breeds, you
bet, like unicorns and asses,"
the mouthy cook said.
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Gremio wondered whether officers were supposed to be unicorns or asses. He
didn't ask. The cook was all too likely to tell him. What he did say was, "If
Sergeant Thisbe told you it's all right, it is. You can bet on that."
"Oh, yes, sir," the talkative cook agreed. "Thisbe, he's got his head screwed
on tight. Probably why he never made lieutenant." He didn't look a bit abashed
at smearing officers. With the Army of Franklin falling to ruins, what was
Gremio going to do to him? What could
Gremio do that the southrons hadn't done already?
"Sergeant Thisbe has been offered promotion to officer's rank more than once,
but has always declined,"
Gremio said stiffly.
The cooks looked at one another. None of them said a thing, not even the
mouthy one. Gremio turned away in dull embarrassment.
They hadn't embarrassed him; he'd done it to himself. If Thisbe was a good
soldier (and Thisbe was) and if Thisbe didn't want to become an officer (and
Thisbe didn't, as Gremio had admitted), what did that say about officers? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]