offered you other options.”
“She did,” Max admitted. “But I turned them down.”
“Why on earth would you do that?” said Nigel, incredulous.
“What’s the matter with the Trench Rats, dear?” inquired Emily delicately.
“Well,” said Nigel, stalling for something politic, “they’re … I suppose one should say …”
Max put him out of his misery.
“They’re the dregs,” he stated flatly. “They’re the leftover refugees no other regiments wanted.”
“Why not?” wondered Emily. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Too old.” Max shrugged. “Too young. Too inexperienced. Too unruly. Take your pick.”
“Yes, but why are you leading them?” pressed Nigel. “It’s very noble of you, but surely another Agent can teach them to shoot an arrow or hold a pike. Forgive me, but it seems a poor use of Rowan’s finest warrior. I’m surprised Ms. Richter allowed it.”
Max posed a question of his own. “If I train and fight alongside the Trench Rats, what message does that send to the rest of the refugees?”
Nigel pondered this before clucking his tongue appreciatively. “Very clever,” he admitted. “Our greatest warrior serves alongside the least, thus improving morale, unity, and discipline throughout the battalions. No wonder I’m not Director.…”
“You can’t be Director if you leave,” said Max, glancing pointedly at the wagon.
“I’m not leaving,” sighed Nigel, taking his wife’s hand. “Just the girls. They’re going to live with Emily’s sister in Glenharrow. I’m merely seeing them off.”
Max had heard of the place, a thriving settlement that was a two-week journey west.
“But wouldn’t the cliffs be safer?” he suggested, referring to the high series of caves deep within the Sanctuary. “Glenharrow’s far and the roads are getting worse.”
“I’ve sheltered in those cliffs before,” said Emily stubbornly, her tone suggesting Max had broached a well-worn topic. “If the Enemy scales those walls, there’s no other place to go. I can’t—
It was no use arguing. Max would rather defend a strong place, but he could see Emily’s point. Glenharrow and the inland settlements were no threat to Prusias; perhaps they would escape his attention entirely. A bell sounded faintly from Rowan Harbor.
“We’d best be going,” said Nigel gently. “Other families are waiting for us outside the gate.”
Nodding, Max leaned into the wagon to hug Emily and pat Emma’s shoe. The child grinned at him, ruddy- cheeked in the cold as her father took up the horse’s reins.
“Be safe, dear,” said Emily, wiping away a tear.
“You too.”
Max watched the Bristows go, the old mare clopping slowly toward the looming walls of Rowan’s Southgate. As they vanished into the mist, he trotted off to meet his troops.
There was less fog upon the Euclidean Fields, but it was also colder as the wind channeled through breaks in the forest to sweep across the broad, open space. The enchanted grounds had once been used for a unique brand of soccer where matches took place on an undulating pitch whose shifting hills and gullies added new dimensions and challenges to the game. Since the declaration of war, however, Max had claimed and repurposed the fields to capitalize upon its unique properties.
Spectator stands had been cleared away to accommodate trenches along the perimeter while Monsieur Renard’s beloved turf had been trampled into a muddy morass. The fields no longer bore any resemblance to an elegant array of soccer pitches. With their trenches, barricades, and bonfires, the fields resembled a war zone, and that was just the way Max wanted them.
There had been three pitches and his troops now covered all of them, twelve hundred men, women, and children standing about in clusters and blowing on their hands. They were a sorry spectacle, a veritable sea of mottled leather and quilted vests holding longbows or spears or whatever else they’d made, salvaged, or stolen on their travels. An unspectacular group, but a willing one. For the most part, they’d done as asked, submitting to orders and doing so with more spirit and energy than Max might have hoped. Thus far, only a score had been dismissed for various acts of fighting, drunkenness, and insubordination.
A well-ordered mind was required to manage so many people efficiently, and Max knew that his talents did not lie that way. He’d considered asking Miss Boon for assistance, but her time was taken up with analyzing the pinlegs. The more experienced Agents had commands of their own, and, of course, Ms. Richter was busy beyond all comprehension. In the end, Max had turned to Tweedy—a Highlands hare with a sharp brain and sharper tongue who worked in Bacon Library. The gruff hare accepted at once, demanding the title of aide-de-camp, an officer’s commission, and the freedom to organize the battalion’s administration as he saw fit.
And organize he did. The battalion met three times each day—at dawn, midday, and dusk—for physical exercise, weapons training, and combat simulations. Tweedy ensured there were cooks on hand, an officers’ mess, and a medical tent where a moomenhoven named Chloe tended the innumerable bumps, bruises, and cuts that came from hard training. Throughout the days, Tweedy hurried about with his clipboard, taking note of progress and barking orders to Jack, the scrawny refugee who the hare had designated as a messenger.
Tweedy was not the only Rowan regular to join the Trench Rats. Sarah, Lucia, and Cynthia had signed up, too. Sarah took command of an entire company while Lucia and Cynthia served as the battalion’s Mystics. Rolf’s charge, Orion, had also joined, the massive shedu bringing along a pair of centaurs whose skills at archery made them an invaluable resource when it came to teaching those who were ill-suited for hand-to-hand combat.
The battalion’s greatest asset, however, was Bob.
He’d reported the very first morning the Trench Rats had assembled, standing at attention with a notched cudgel. As Tweedy took roll, the ogre recited his name and stared dutifully ahead with only the merest twinkle in his pale blue eyes.
Max was delighted to have him. Bob was not only formidable, but also his steady presence and calm, natural authority did a great deal to settle any arguments or bickering before they flared into outright brawls. Of greatest importance, however, was the simple fact that Bob was indeed an ogre. Very few refugees had ever witnessed an ogre’s battle charge and lived to tell the tale. The fact that their battalion boasted a live specimen who gamely demonstrated such horrors was exceedingly valuable. No simulation—not even Lucia’s illusions—could wholly capture the experience of having to hold one’s ground against the onrush of a ten-foot, five-hundred-pound monstrosity. Time and again, Bob would smash through formations of anxious soldiers until they learned to stand as one and level their pikes in unison.
In all, Max was pleased. The Trench Rats were not the Red Branch and would never be, but he took comfort knowing they were no longer lambs being led to slaughter. They were acquiring discipline and proper technique, and—most importantly—they learned that Rowan valued them. As Max arrived at his command hill, he looked upon faces that had been purged of hostility and skepticism.
There was one conspicuous exception. Tweedy came bounding up the slope, his whiskers twitching with indignation.
“Having a comfy snooze, ‘Commander’ McDaniels?”
“I thought we were on for five o’clock,” said Max, confused.
“Correct!” chuffed Tweedy, noting something on his clipboard.
“Then why are you upset? I’m five minutes early.”
“Are you to be congratulated, then?” exclaimed the hare in his rough burr. “A battalion commander sidling up at the appointed hour like some slack-jawed delinquent. For shame! What kind of example are you setting for your troops, sir? Shall they mimic their commander and dillydally about their duties with casual indifference? Even that Swedish monoglot arrived twenty minutes early!”
“You’re right,” Max sighed, recognizing the folly of argument or explanation. “It won’t happen again. How would you like to begin?”
“Humph,” said Tweedy, simmering down and consulting his notes. “I think we should get back to basics. The troops are overly pleased with their progress of late and have taken to boasting. Unbecoming, undeserved, and un —
“Er … begging pardon, but some of the troops are wondering when we’re going to begin. It’s awful cold just to
