fifty warriors, including women. They fight alongside their men.”
The handsome young warlord laughed at that, tossing back his long blond hair. “I look forward to meeting them!” he said.
“Be careful what you wish for, Lord Tremond. Forest women are ferocious in combat and collect the heads of any foes they vanquish,” Harpathanas replied gravely.
“And sometimes they take other parts,” said one of the Kagonesti. Rough laughter encircled the table. None of the elves joined in.
At Harpathanas’s behest, a Kagonesti left his entourage and stepped forward to describe forester weapons and tactics. The Kagonesti’s muscular build and tanned face, painted with red and blue loops and lines, seemed at odds with his attire-a plain yet good-quality dark green robe.
“They are good archers,” said the Kagonesti, “but use only short bows, which may not penetrate iron plate armor. Their favorite tricks are deadfalls and pit traps, which they also use against wild beasts. Take care when pursuing tribesmen who flee too easily. They are likely leading you into a trap.”
“Do they use metal?” asked Wanthred.
“Such metal as they trade for or take from their victims. Elsewise, they use flint weapons.”
Odovar leaned an elbow on the map table. “What about the forest elves? Will we have to fight them?”
Harpathanas and his Kagonesti retainers exchanged glances.
The painted elf replied, “Some of my woodland brethren have mated into human tribes, and some humans have likewise joined Kagonesti bands. These mixed groups will fight you. The pure Kagonesti bands will not, unless trapped and forced to give battle, but there are few west of the mountains anyway.”
The war council continued well into the afternoon. Tol strove to absorb everything, but late in the day he began to think over the crown prince’s plans. Amaltar accepted as fact the notion that Ergothian cavalry could fight in the forest, and none of his warlords objected, but Tol wondered. As a very minor member of the imperial army, he had no right to question his masters. That night in the tent he shared with Relfas and four other shilder, he expressed his doubts.
“It seems wrong,” he said. “How can mounted men fight in thick woods? The foresters go about on foot, I’m told. They fight from behind bushes and from treetops. How will our hordes come to grips with them?”
Relfas, tipsy from cheap Kharolian wine, shrugged broadly. “Don’t worry so mush-uh-much. Ol’ Egrin will see us through,” he said blithely. “The warriors of Ergoth will defeat the rugged-rag-uh-ragged root-eaters! You’ll see!”
The other boys cheered his bravado, and Relfas added, “I’m going to clip the ears off the first tribesman I kill and wear them home as trophies.”
“I want one of those woods-women,” said Janar, also befogged with drink. “Simpler than courtin’ the girls back home!”
They all laughed, but Tol didn’t feel merry. When his comrades staggered out to find more wine, he remained in the tent. By the light of a tallow candle, he prepared his armor, honed his saber and spearheads, and continued to brood over the morrow.
Chapter 8
Wanthred’s Firebrand horde departed at first light the next morning, after taking leave of Marshal Odovar. Shortly thereafter, the remaining two hordes from Juramona left the imperial encampment. They arranged themselves in a formation suitable for moving through enemy country. Out front in a wide arc were lightly armed skirmishers, provided with horns of different sizes, each of which sounded a distinctive note. A hundred paces back was the main body of the Eagles and the Panthers, in a compact mass moving ahead at a steady walk. Next came the Rooks, three hundred shilder ranging in age from fifteen to eighteen. Although without rank, the shield-bearers acknowledged several chiefs of their own: Relfas, by his noble blood a leader; Janar, blond, genial and popular, and widely rumored to be Lord Odovar’s natural son; and Tol, who owed his station to his strength and fighting skills.
Trailing them was the baggage train, forty-four carts and wagons drawn by oxen. These bore everything needed to keep the hordes in the field, from a rolling blacksmith’s shop to kegs of Lord Odovar’s favorite beer. Marching alongside the baggage wagons were two columns of foot soldiers, four hundred thirty men commanded by Durazen the One-Eyed. Last of all was the rear guard, two hundred veteran warriors from Juramona chosen for their steadiness and courage. It was their job to reinforce a successful attack, or form a last defense in case of disaster. Command of the rear guard was given to Egrin’s old comrade Manzo.
Hordes ate on the move, falling back in groups of ten to the provision wagons. Cooks handed them skewers of meat, roasted over pots of coals. Two skewers per man was the daily ration, plus a stone-hard biscuit, all washed down with a jack of
On their first campaign, the shilder were excited, keyed up for a fight. They laughed too much and talked too loudly. The summer heat, wide clear blue sky, and verdant open meadowland made for a general feeling of being on a grand adventure.
Lord Odovar ignored the boys’ high spirits until the army had forded the Wilder River. Now within a few leagues of their goal, the marshal sent a rider back to silence the noisy shilder.
“Why so stern? No one knows we’re coming!” Relfas complained, as the warning messenger galloped back to the front.
“Think again. We’re probably being watched even now,” Tol replied, eyeing the dark smudge on the horizon that was the edge of the Great Green.
“How do you know?” Janar asked.
“It’s what I would do. Even if the foresters don’t expect an invasion, they must have sentinels to watch for travelers and merchant caravans to plunder.”
His reasoning sobered the boys. Their chatter steadily declined as they rode inexorably closer.
Midmorning of the next day, the Juramona hordes ascended a rise and beheld their destination at last.
Zivilyn’s Carpet was an enormous open meadow, a full league across, bordered by the forest on three sides. Summer’s heat had turned the hip-high grass brown, but the meadow was thick with flowers. Enormous drifts of white daisies, blue cornflowers, and yellow running roses covered the field, tossing their heads in the mild breeze. Even more startling were the islands of tall sunflowers sprouting from the turf. They grew in thick clusters as high as a horse’s back, and their flat brown faces were as wide as trenchers. A steady mix of bees, butterflies, and other insects crisscrossed the meadow, feasting on the abundant pollen. Beyond the lake of flowers, the distant forest was a dark green wall, as solid and featureless as a cliff face.
Before noon, Odovar halted his men. The baggage carts formed a square near the eastern end of the vast meadow. Footmen fell to erecting a palisade around the square, and Odovar called in his scouts and skirmishers. Sweating hard, the marshal nonetheless sounded more like his old self when he addressed his lieutenants.
“We will enter the woods at once,” he told them. “It’s important we strike the tribes without delay, before they can unite. I will lead the Panther horde personally. Egrin, you’ll remain here till the sun is at your back; then you will enter and follow on the track we make.”
Again Tol was surprised. Divide the hordes? Wouldn’t it be better to keep them together? He studied Egrin’s face, but couldn’t tell if the warden was frowning from the sun in his eyes or from his disapproval of the plan.
“What about the rear guard and the shilder?” asked Manzo.
“Form your men with Egrin,” said Lord Odovar. “The boys will remain here, with the baggage train.”
Many of the shilder openly groaned when they heard that, and Odovar barked, “Those are my orders! Do any of you infants care to dispute with me?”
More temperately, Egrin said, “You boys will be our reserve. If we get into a serious fight, you’ll be called to join in.”
“There won’t be much fighting,” the marshal snorted. “I expect the savages will run for the mountains as soon as they hear us coming.”
