'That's right, by the powers above,' Ceorl said. Not for the first time, having Ceorl agree with him made Sidroc wonder if he was wrong.
On snowshoes, the behemoths' strides were surprisingly quiet. The white surcoats the beasts wore- the equivalent of the soldiers' snow smocks- helped muffle the clank and clatter of their chainmail. But they drew the men of Plegmund's Brigade and their Algarvian officers just the same.
And the Algarvians who crewed the behemoths retained the cheerful arrogance of earlier days. They waved to the Forthwegians as if to younger brothers. 'You boys come along with us,' one of them called, 'and we'll do a proper job of smashing up the Unkerlanters.'
'That's right,' said a redhead on a different behemoth. 'They haven't got a chance of standing up against us once we get rolling. You know that.'
Sidroc knew nothing of the sort. What he knew was that, had the war been going just the way the Algarvians wanted, Plegmund's Brigade would never have come to the front line at all. It would have stayed in Grelz hunting irregulars, as it had started out doing. Well, now it was back in Grelz after a year and more of some of the most desperate fighting in the war, and it was facing the full weight of King Swemmel's army.
But, and especially after Ceorl's gloom, that Algarvian good cheer hit Sidroc like a strong slug of spirits. Mezentio's men had gone forward against the Unkerlanters. Why shouldn't they go forward against them again?
Algarvian footsoldiers came up with the behemoths. Some of them- new men, by their trim uniforms and unhaggard faces- gave the troopers of Plegmund's Brigade suspicious stares. 'Are these fellows really on our side?' one of them asked, as if the bearded men in long tunics couldn't possibly be expected to understand his language.
'Aye, we are,' Sidroc said. 'And we'll stay that way as long as you don't ask idiot questions like that.' The redhead glared at him. Sidroc was no older, but he'd seen things the Algarvian hadn't yet imagined. He looked through the newcomer as if he didn't exist. A couple of Mezentio's veterans talked to their countryman and calmed him down.
Somewhere not far away, the Algarvians had gathered together a good many egg-tossers, too. They all started flinging death at the Unkerlanters at once. 'They'd never lay on so much just for us,' Ceorl grumbled. 'Put their own people into the fight, though, and they care a lot more.'
That was probably true. Sidroc shook his head. No, that was certainly true. 'Nothing we can do about it but make the most of it now,' he said.
Whistles shrilled. The Algarvian behemoths lumbered forward, straight through the hole the egg-tossers had torn in the Unkerlanter line. Footsoldiers- Algarvians and the men of Plegmund's Brigade together- accompanied the behemoths.
Maybe the men who rode those behemoths knew what they were talking about. King Swemmel's soldiers seemed astonished to find Algarvians attacking. Whenever the Unkerlanters were astonished, they had trouble. Some of them fought, stubborn as always. But a good many fled, and a good many surrendered.
'Forward!' Algarvian officers shouted, again and again. 'Keep up with the behemoths!'
Sidroc did his best. Despite the snow on the ground, sweat streamed down his face. His legs ached. But he was advancing again. He blazed at an Unkerlanter before the fellow could blaze at an Algarvian behemoth. The Unkerlanter went down. Sidroc whooped with glee.
A couple of days later, Swemmel's soldiers tried to rally at the outskirts of what was either a large village or a small town. They had egg-tossers in the place. Eggs flew through the air, kicking up fans of snow- and a few Algarvian soldiers- when they burst. The counterattack slowed and threatened to stall. Sidroc cursed. 'Just when things looked like they were starting to go our way-'
'Aye,' Werferth agreed mournfully. 'Maybe that whoreson of a Ceorl was right. This is how it works for the redheads these days. They don't- we don't- have enough to smash the Unkerlanters flat when we're supposed to.'
But he was wrong. The Algarvians had always been good at making their egg-tossers keep up with advancing soldiers. Now more eggs burst in and around the Unkerlanter-held town than came out of it. One by one, the Unkerlanter egg-tossers fell silent, suppressed by the eggs flung at them. Lately, Algarvian dragons had seemed almost as scarce in the air as Algarvian behemoths were on the ground. But a wing of them stooped on the town like kestrels. With eggs and flame, they left it a smoking ruin. Only then did officers blow their whistles and shout, 'Forward!'
Behemoths advanced with the footsoldiers, tossing still more eggs on the enemy. Even before the Algarvians and the men of Plegmund's Brigade got into the village, white flags started flying. Unkerlanter soldiers stumbled toward them, hands high.
'I'll be a son of a whore,' Sidroc said in something approaching awe. 'Haven't seen anything like this in I don't know when.'
'Forward!' an Algarvian officer not far away shouted. 'Keep moving! Don't waste a heartbeat! Push 'em hard! We'll take Herborn back yet!'
Three or four days before; Sidroc would have thought him a madman. Then, like everyone else, he'd been wondering how far the Algarvians would have to retreat before finally finding a line they could hold. Now… Now, for the time being at least, they had the bit between their teeth again. He trudged on past burning peasant huts and Unkerlanter corpses. He didn't know how far he and his comrades could go, but he was interested again in finding out.
An enormous wolf with fangs dripping blood had a long, sly face that looked a lot like King Swemmel's. So no Forthwegian could miss the point, the artist who'd painted the wolf on the broadsheet had thoughtfully labeled it UNKERLANT. A stalwart Algarvian shepherd with a stout spear stood between that fearsome wolf and a flock of sheep altogether too precious and sweet to be believable. They too had a label: DERLAVAIAN CIVILIZATION.
Ealstan studied the broadsheet with a connoisseur's appraising eye. In four and a half years of war, he'd seen a lot of them. At last, with the grudged respect one gave a clever foe, he nodded. This was one of Algarve's better efforts. Few Forthwegians loved their cousins to the west. The broadsheet might prompt his countrymen to think of the redheads as their protectors.
But so what? Ealstan thought, and his face twisted into a grin almost as fearsome as the Swemmel-wolf's. So what, by the powers above? If the Unkerlanters keep pounding Mezentio's men, what Forthweg thinks about them won't matter. The Algarvians are losing. That was sweet as honey to him. Ever since the Algarvians overwhelmed the Forthwegian army- and so many others afterwards- he'd wondered if they could lose, and feared they couldn't.
Still wearing that grin, he turned away from the broadsheet and walked down the street. A news-sheet vendor on a corner shouted, 'Read about the Algarvian counterattack in the Kingdom of Grelz! Herborn threatened! Swemmel flees to Cottbus with his tail between his legs! Heroes of Plegmund's Brigade!'
Ealstan strode past him as if he didn't exist. He wondered how many times he'd done that, in Gromheort and now in Eoforwic. Too many- he knew that. He pretended news-sheet vendors didn't exist whenever the Algarvians moved forward. And whenever he thought of Plegmund's Brigade, he hoped his cousin was dead: horribly dead and a long time dying, with any luck at all.
PYBBA'S POTTERTY! screeched a sign ever so much larger and gaudier than any broadsheet the Algarvians had ever put up. This wasn't the enormous warehouse down by the Twegen River, but the home of Pybba's kilns and his offices. The only pots and plates the magnate sold here were the ones that came out of the kilns too badly botched to go to the warehouse or to any shop, no matter how shoddy. OUR MISTAKES- CHEAP! another sign proclaimed. Pybba did a brisk business with them. Pybba, as far as Ealstan could tell, did a brisk business with everything.
He was prowling through the offices when Ealstan came in. 'You're late,' he growled, though Ealstan was no such thing. 'What took you so long?'
'I was looking at a new broadsheet,' Ealstan answered.
'Wasting time,' Pybba said. 'Sit your arse down in front of the books. That's what you're supposed to be doing, not leering at Algarvian tripe. I bet it had naked women on it. The redheads are shameless buggers.'
