‘War’s a way of getting things,’ he said. ‘If it gets you nothing, what’s the point? How long have we been marching around out here?’
‘You’ve had a trip back home, bastard,’ someone called.
‘Aye, and it was talk o’ peace landed you there,’ said Ironhead.
‘All right, how long have
‘Coward’s fucking talk!’ snarled Tenways, turning away,’ I won’t hear it!’
‘Cowards run away from things. Scared of words, are you, Tenways? What a hero.’ Calder even got a ragged scatter of laughter for that. Made Tenways stop and turn back, bristling. ‘We won a victory here today! Legends, every man!’ And Calder slapped at his sword hilt. ‘But it was just a little one.’ He jerked his head towards the south, where everyone knew the campfires of the enemy were lighting up the whole valley. ‘There’s plenty more Union. There’ll be harder fighting on the morrow, and heavier losses. Far heavier. And if we win it’s to end up in the same spot, just with more dead men for company. No?’ Some were still shaking their heads, but more were listening, thinking it over. ‘As for those who said the clans of the North can’t fight as one, or the Union are too many to beat, well, I don’t reckon those questions are quite settled yet.’ Calder curled his tongue, and sent a bit of his own spittle spinning into Dow’s fire. ‘And any man can spit.’
‘Peace,’ snorted Tenways, who’d stuck around to listen after all. ‘We all know what a lover o’ peace your father was! Didn’t he take us to war with the Union in the first place?’
Didn’t slow Calder down a step. ‘He did, and it was the end of him. Might be I learned from his mistake. Have you, is my question?’ Looking every man in the eye. ‘’Cause if you ask me, it’d be a damn fool who risked his life for what he could get just by the asking.’ There was silence for a while. A grudging, guilty silence. The wind flapped clothes some more, whipped sparks from the fire-pit in showers. Dow leaned forward, propping himself up on his sword.
‘Well, you’ve done quite the job o’ pissing on my cookfire, ain’t you, Prince Calder?’ Harsh chuckles all round, and the thoughtful moment was gone. ‘How about you, Scale? You want peace?’
The brothers eyed each other for a moment, while Craw tried to ease back gently from between the two. ‘No,’ said Scale. ‘I’m for fighting.’
Dow clicked his tongue. ‘There we go. Seems you didn’t even convince your own brother.’ More chuckling, and Calder laughed with the rest, if somewhat sickly. ‘Still, you’ve got quite the way with words, all right, Calder. Maybe the time’ll come we need to talk peace with the Union. Then I’ll be sure to give you the call.’ He showed his teeth. ‘Won’t be tonight, though.’
Calder swept out a fancy bow. ‘As you command, Protector of the North. You’re the Chief.’
‘That’s right,’ growled Dow, and most nodded along with him. ‘That’s right.’ But Craw noticed a few had more thoughtful looks on their faces as they started to drift away into the night. Pondering their untilled fields, maybe, or their untilled wives. Could be Calder weren’t so mad as he seemed. Northmen love battle, sure, but they love beer too. And like beer, there’s only so much battle most can stomach.
‘We suffered a reverse today. But tomorrow will be different.’ Marshal Kroy’s manner did not allow for the possibility of disagreement. It was stated as fact. ‘Tomorrow we will take the fight to our enemy, and we will be victorious.’ The room rustled, starched collars shifting as men nodded in unison.
‘Victory,’ someone murmured.
‘By tomorrow morning all three divisions will be in position.’
Kroy turned to the map, pointing out the south bank of the shallows. The spot where Gorst had fought that very morning. ‘General Jalenhorm’s division needs time to regroup, so they will stay out of action in the centre, demonstrating towards the shallows but not crossing them. We will attack instead on both flanks.’ He strode purposefully to the right side of the map, pushing his hand up the Ollensand Road towards Osrung. ‘Lord Governor Meed, you are our right fist. Your division will attack Osrung at first light, carry the palisade, occupy the southern half of the town, then aim to take the bridge. The northern half is the more built up, and the Northmen have had time to strengthen their positions there.’
Meed’s gaunt face was blotchy with intensity, eyes bright at the prospect of grappling with his hated enemy at last. ‘We will flush them out and put every one of them to the sword.’
‘Good. Be cautious, though, the woods to the east have not been thoroughly scouted. General Mitterick, you are the left hook. Your objective is to force your way across the Old Bridge and establish a presence on the far side.’
‘Oh, my men will take the bridge, don’t concern yourself about that, Lord Marshal. We’ll take the bridge and drive them all the way to bloody Carleon…’
‘Taking the bridge will be adequate, for today.’
‘A battalion of the First Cavalry are being attached to your command.’ Felnigg glared down his beak of a nose as if he thought attaching anything to Mitterick deeply ill-advised. ‘They found a route through the marshes and a position in the woods beyond the enemy’s right flank.’
Mitterick did not deign even to look at Kroy’s chief of staff. ‘I’ve asked for volunteers to lead the assault on the bridge, and my men have already built a number of sturdy rafts.’
Felnigg’s glare intensified. ‘I understand the current is strong.’
‘It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’ snapped Mitterick. ‘They could hold us up all morning on that bridge!’
‘Very well, but remember we are seeking victory, not glory.’ Kroy looked sternly around the room. ‘I will be sending written orders to each one of you. Are there any questions?’
‘I have one, sir.’ Colonel Brint held up a finger. ‘Is it possible for Colonel Gorst to refrain from his heroics long enough for the rest of us to contribute?’ There was a scattering of chuckles, utterly disproportionate to the humour displayed, the soldiers seizing on a rare chance to laugh. Gorst had been entirely occupied staring across the room at Finree and pretending not to. Now he found to his extreme discomfort that everyone was grinning at him. Someone started to clap. Soon there was a modest round of applause. He would have vastly preferred it if they had jeered at him.
‘I will observe,’ he grunted.
‘As will I,’ said Bayaz, ‘and perhaps conduct my little experiment on the south bank.’
The marshal bowed. ‘We stand entirely at your disposal, Lord Bayaz.’
The First of the Magi slapped his thighs as he rose, his servant leaning forward to whisper something in his ear and, as though that was a call for the advance, the room began quickly to empty, officers hurrying back to their units to make preparations for the morning’s attacks.
‘I hear you saved the army today.’
He spun about with all the dignity of a startled baboon and found himself staring into Finree’s face at paralysingly close quarters. News of her marriage should have allowed him to finally bury his feelings for her as he had buried all the others worth having. But it seemed they were stronger than ever. A vice in his guts clamped down whenever he saw her, screwed tighter the longer they spoke. If you could call it speaking.
‘Er,’ he muttered.
She came closer and he felt a dizzy rush of blood, a lightness in his head not unlike serious illness. ‘I have a feeling we are all lucky you are alive.’
