“Do you want me to send the men forward again, sir?” Colonel Biffle asked. “They’ll go-I know they will-but they’ve already taken some hard licks.”
“I know they have,” Ned said. “Curse it, unicorn-riders aren’t made for big stand-up fights. We can be dragoons. We’re cursed good dragoons, by the gods. But only half the point to dragoons is the fight. The other half is getting somewheres fast so you can fight where the other bastards don’t want you to.”
“Can’t do that on Merkle’s Hill,” Colonel Biffle said positively.
He was right. Ned of the Forest wished he were wrong. But then Ned pointed with his saber again, this time toward the southeast. “We’ll just have to see if we can’t slide around behind ’em, then. If we can get a decent-sized band of soldiers on the road between them and Rising Rock, they’ll have to fall back, on account of if they don’t, they’ll never get another chance.”
“Can we do it?” Biffle asked.
“Don’t know,” Ned answered. “But I’ll tell you what I do know-I do know I’d sooner try something my own self than wait for Thraxton the gods-damned Braggart to huff and puff and blow their house down.” He raised his voice to a bellow: “Captain Watson!”
“Yes, Lord Ned?” Watson had a way of appearing wherever he was needed.
“If we try and slide some men around to the south side of this here Merkle’s Hill, can you bring some engines along?” Ned asked.
Captain Watson said, “I’ll give it my best shot, sir. Don’t quite know what kind of ground we’ll run into, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Ned of the Forest slapped him on the back. “That’s good enough for me.” He had to bite his tongue to keep from adding, sonny boy. He was young as generals went himself, but Watson could easily have been his son. When the youngster was first assigned to him, he’d thought Watson might be somebody’s nasty joke. But the boyish captain had proved able to handle catapults-to get them where they needed to be and to fight them once they got there-better than most men Ned’s age and older.
“Let me gather up some dart-throwers and a couple of engines that will fling stones or firepots,” he said now. “I’ll be with you in half an hour.” He went off at a dead run. He almost always did. Ned, a man of prodigious energy in his own right, envied Watson his.
He turned to Biffle. “We’ll take your regiment, Colonel. Get them on their unicorns and ready to ride inside an hour.” Colonel Biffle saluted and hurried away, not quite at Watson’s headlong speed but plenty fast enough.
And Ned shouted for a runner. When he got one, he said, “Go back to the unicorn-holders. Tell all of them-no, tell all of them who aren’t in Biffle’s regiment-to tie the gods-damned beasts to whatever trees or bushes they choose, to grab their crossbows, and to get their arses forward into the fight.”
“Yes, sir,” the runner said, and he hurried off. Ned grinned after him. That was what a general was good for: to set a whole lot of men running every which way. Putting the unicorn-holders into the fight wouldn’t replace as many men as he was pulling out with Biffle’s regiment, but it would be better than nothing. And, if things went as Ned hoped, he would soon set an army’s worth of southrons running every which way.
He yelled for a scryer. At his command, the mage relayed what he aimed to do to Count Thraxton’s headquarters. Unlike Watson and Biffle and the runner, the scryer could stay where he was. Once he’d sent Ned’s message, he asked, “Shall I wait for a reply from the count, sir?”
“By the gods, no!” Ned exclaimed. “Matter of fact, put your crystal ball away and don’t look at it for a while. He can’t say I didn’t tell him what I have in mind, but I don’t want him to go telling me he won’t let me do it. He can’t very well do that if you aren’t listening for him, now can he?”
“No, sir,” the scryer answered with a grin. He wasn’t one of the northeastern yeomen who made up the bulk of Ned’s force-men much like Ned himself, with more grit than blue blood and more stubbornness than learning from a codex. He’d had to have some book learning, or he wouldn’t have known what to do with that crystal ball of his. But by now he was just as ornery as any of the unicorn-riders with whom he served.
A little more than an hour after Ned gave his orders, he led Colonel Biffle’s regiment and half a dozen engines south and east in a long loop around Merkle’s Hill. The battle there had lost none of its ferocity. If his men, or Leonidas the Priest’s, could dislodge Doubting George’s soldiers, Count Thraxton would have the smashing victory he hoped for. Well, if that happens, we’ll make it a bigger one, on account of we’ll ruin the southrons’ retreat, Ned thought.
If Thraxton got the victory, he would surely take all the credit for it. People didn’t style him the Braggart for nothing. And he had King Geoffrey’s ear. If he didn’t have Geoffrey’s ear, he wouldn’t still be in charge of an army after all the fights he’s bungled. Ned was sure that thought had crossed other men’s minds, too. But, since Thraxton did have the king’s ear, he couldn’t do much about it, and neither could anyone else.
The path the regiment followed wound through thick woods-perfect for keeping the southrons from spying them. “If we get in their rear, we’ll give them a hells of a surprise,” Ned said, anticipation in his voice.
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle nodded. “Of course, that’s what the hierophant told the actress, too.” He laughed. Ned of the Forest chuckled. Young Captain Watson howled with mirth, and almost fell off his unicorn. That made Ned chuckle again. When he was Watson’s age, he would have laughed himself silly at such bits of dirt, too.
The forest opened out onto a broad clearing. There on the far side of the clearing was the road leading north toward the River of Death-and there, marching along the road, was a long column of King Avram’s gray-clad soldiers heading toward the fight. They shouted when they caught sight of Ned and the first of his troopers.
Ned shouted, too: he shouted curses. Such a splendid idea, ruined by brute fact. Or was it ruined? If he could make the southrons run away, he’d have the road and he’d have their whole army by the throat.
“Forward!” he shouted, and spurred his own unicorn toward the southron soldiers. Roaring as if the Lion God spoke through them, the riders of Colonel Biffle’s regiment followed him.
Avram’s soldiers were marching in blocks of pikemen and crossbowmen. They wouldn’t have anywhere near the time they needed to put up a proper line in front of the archers. If Ned’s men could get in among them, they would work a fearful slaughter.
If. The southrons were veterans. Ned could see as much by the way they turned from column into line, by the way their first rank dropped to their bellies and their second to one knee so the third, standing, rank could shoot over both of them. And he could see as much by the volley of bolts that tore into his men.
Unicorns fell. Men crumpled in the saddle and crashed to the ground. And the first three ranks of enemy footsoldiers moved back to the rear of the line while the next three stepped forward. They poured in a volley as devastating as the first-if anything, more devastating, because the unicorn-riders were closer and easier to hit.
Easier to hit, yes, but they couldn’t hit back. Ned cursed again. This time, though, he cursed himself, for folly. He’d been annoyed at having his ploy thwarted, and he’d gambled on putting a scare on King Avram’s men. It wasn’t the worst of gambles. Charging unicorns, their iron-shod horns and their riders’ sabers gleaming in the sun, were among the most terrifying things in the world. But King Avram sometimes led brave men, too.
How many men will I have left if they take another volley? Enough to drive the southrons off the road? Enough to hold it if I do? Neither seemed a good bet to Ned. And so he shouted, “Back! Back, gods damn it! We aren’t going to do what we came for, and there’s no point to doing anything less.” He wheeled his own unicorn back toward the forest without a qualm. Unlike some of King Geoffrey’s officers, he didn’t fight for the sake of fighting. If he couldn’t win, he saw no point to it.