up into the air. The Unkerlanter soldiers with whom he ate had dug several holes close by in case that plume attracted a marauding Algarvian dragon.
He swigged again from the tin canteen of spirits. “Ah, by the powers above, that takes me back a few years,” he said to the men in rock-gray sitting around the fire. “Does me good to get back in the field, it truly does. I swilled this rotgut all through the Twinkings War. The breath it gives you, you think you’re a dragon yourself.”
None of the youngsters said anything, though a couple did risk smiles. They saw the big stars on his collar tabs and couldn’t imagine him as anything but a marshal. They had no idea what getting older meant, or how it could change a man--they hadn’t done that yet. He’d been young and remembered what it was like.
He emptied the canteen, then belched and thumped himself on the chest with a clenched fist. That made a couple of more soldiers grin. He could feel the spirits snarling inside his head. Getting back into the field felt so good! Getting away from Cottbus, getting away from the palace, getting away from Bang Swemmel, felt even better.
“Are we going to lick these Algarvian whoresons right out of their boots?” he asked.
Now the soldiers spoke: “Aye!” It was as much a growl, a fierce hungry growl, as a word.
“Are we going to run ‘em out of Unkerlant, out of the Duchy of Grelz here, with their tails between their legs?”
“Aye!” the soldiers repeated, as fiercely as before. They’d been pouring down spirits, too. Asking Unkerlanters not to drink was like asking roosters not to crow at daybreak. Officers did have some chance of not letting them drink too much.
“Are we going to show this so-called Bang Raniero that Bang Mezentio stuck on the throne that wasn’t his to give away to begin with that we’d sooner hang him--or better yet, boil him alive--than go down on our bellies before him?” Rathar did his best to keep his tone light, but worried even so. Some Grelzers were perfectly content obeying a foreign oppressor, no doubt because, in the person of King Swemmel, they had been compelled to obey a domestic oppressor.
But the soldiers--several of them Grelzers--shouted, “Aye!” once more. They were dirty and ill-shaven, but they’d been moving forward ever since the weather got bad, and there was nothing like advancing to put a soldier’s pecker up.
Rathar looked for the officer in charge of the unit--looked for him and didn’t find him. Then he looked for a fellow wearing a sergeant’s three brass triangles on each collar tab. Sergeants had had to command companies during the Six Years’ War, and sergeants had been worth their weight in gold in the desperate fight between Swemmel and Kyot. Some who’d started as sergeants had risen high, Rathar highest ofall.
Finding his man, the marshal said, “Tell me your name, Sergeant.”
“Lord Marshal, I’m called Wimar,” the fellow answered. By his accent, he was out of some village in the Duchy of Grelz.
“Well, Wimar, step aside with me,” Rathar said, rising to his feet. “I want to know what you think about things, and I hope you’ll give me straight answers.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Wimar said as he also got up. He followed Rathar away from the fire. The eyes of the men he commanded followed them both. Rathar hid a smile. No one would give the sergeant any back talk for a while, not after the marshal of Unkerlant asked for his opinions.
Pointing east toward the front not too far away, Rathar asked, “What sort of shape are the Algarvians in right now?”
“Cold, frostbitten, miserable,” Wimar answered at once. “They never once expected to have to do this kind of fighting. You’ll know about that better than I do, sir. But they don’t break to pieces, powers below eat them. You make the least little mistake against ‘em and they’ll cut off your dick and hand it to you with a ribbon tied around it. Uh, sir.” By his expression, he didn’t think he should have been that frank. By his breath, he’d had enough, he’d had enough spirits to talk before he did a whole lot of thinking.
“I’m not angry,” Rathar said. “They’ve come too cursed close to cutting off the kingdom’s dick, Sergeant, and they may do it yet unless we figure out how to stop them once and for all. Any notions you have, I’ll gladly listen to.”
Wimar needed a moment to believe what he was hearing. At last, he said, “I don’t know how we’ll fare when spring comes.”
“All the more reason to push hard now, while we still hold the advantage, don’t you think?” Rathar asked.
“Oh, aye,” Wimar answered. “We push them back now, then see how far they push us back later.”
King Swemmel had demanded that the
