“Aye, sir,” Istvan repeated. The alleged highway wouldn’t have been much of a road even in the Gyongyosian valley where he’d just spent his leave. It was narrow, twisting, altogether unpaved, and at the moment muddy. It disappeared among the trees as if it had no intention of ever coming out the other side--if the forest had another side.
“Onward, then,” Tivadar said. “This is splendid timber, some of the finest in the world. If we can find ley lines to take it away, it’ll make Gyongyos rich.”
If there were any ley lines in this stars-forsaken country, the Unkerlanters would have cut down the forest and hauled it away themselves. So Istvan thought, at any rate. Since they hadn’t, ley lines were likely to be few and far between--or perhaps they really were just undiscovered out here on the edge of nowhere. But Tivadar had his orders, and had given Istvan his.
Istvan turned to his squad. “Forward!” he called. “Into the woods. We’re going to take them away from the accursed Unkerlanters.”
“Aye,” the troopers chorused. They were warriors, of a proud warrior race. They would obey. Even bespectacled Corporal Kun, lean and knowing and gratingly sophisticated, said, “Aye,” with the rest as they advanced on the forest.
Szonyi said, “I wonder if they’ve got egg-tossers in there, waiting for us to get right up to the edge of the trees before they let us have it.” He sighed. “Only way to find out is the hard way.”
“And isn’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Istvan said, more in resignation than anything else. “Well, they haven’t killed us yet, so we’re still ahead of the game.” As other sergeants and officers were doing, he raised his voice: “Come on, you miserable lugs, get moving. Somewhere in there, we’ve got Unkerlanters to flush out.”
He and his men tramped across the meadow that led to the forest. The grass was a brilliant green, far brighter than the nearly black needles on the trees ahead. Yellow ox-eye gentian and red clover brightened the meadow more. Butterflies flitted from flower to flower. Some sort of ground squirrel, not long out of its burrow after a long winter’s nap, stood up on its hind legs and chattered indignantly at the soldiers marching past.
And then, off to Istvan’s left, the ground erupted in a roar. A trooper shrieked, but not for long. Istvan stared up at the sky. No dragons wheeled there, only a rusty-red jay like the ones he might have seen at home. And no more eggs were flying through the air to land on the advancing Gyongyosians.
Someone else shouted out what flashed through his mind: “Have a care, all! The stinking sons of goats have buried eggs under the meadow. Tromp on one and you’ll never tromp on anything else.”
All at once, Istvan wanted to walk above the grass. His bowels knotted with every step he took. Kun spat and said, “I wonder how much fun we’ll have going down the highway that’s supposed to run through the forest.”
Istvan didn’t like thinking about that, either. “Have we got any mages who can sniff out buried eggs for us?” He asked the question in a loud, hopeful voice. Nobody responded to it. Istvan rounded on Kun. “What about you? You were a mage’s apprentice, after all.”
Kun bared his teeth in what was anything but a smile. “If I could, do you think I’d be stomping along like everybody else?”
“No law against hoping, is there?” Istvan said.
“No, and there’s no law against stupidity, either, though there cursed well ought to be,” Kun retorted. That was insubordinate, but Istvan let it slide. He knew why Kun was unhappy. He was unhappy for the same reason himself.
Another egg burst, this one half a mile over to the right. Istvan couldn’t hear whether the luckless Gyongyosian who’d trodden on it shrieked or not. He ground his teeth and kept going. Half a minute later, yet another burst shattered the morning calm. A magpie screeched annoyance at having its hunt for worms and crickets and maybe mice disturbed.
Higher and higher, the trees loomed ahead. But for the roadway that led into the forest, no one had ever taken an axe to it. Gyongyos had few woods like this, and none so vast. People were scattered thinly over this part of the world; it looked, Istvan judged, much as it had when the stars first shone down on it.
“Kun, walk point,” he called as his squad went into the forest a little to the north of the road. “Szonyi, on the right. Fenyes, on the left. I’ll take rear guard for a while. Keep your eyes open, everyone. Somewhere in there, the filthy goat-buggers are waiting for us.”
The world changed when he went in among the trees. The sun disappeared, except for occasional dapplings sneaking through the thick branches overhead. The air got cooler and damper; spicy, resinous scents filled it. Istvan’s boots scuffed on red-brown fallen needles. Here and there, especially at the bases of tree trunks, lacy green ferns sprang up.
