that maze of houses as soon as the enemy appeared, which would not raise his popularity much.
A leader must not be seen to brood. He turned to his new constable, Dalibor Notivova, riding alongside him in the van. Anton had already learned that the man was Cardice-born and had served abroad as a mercenary for a few years before coming home to find a wife and raise a family. Probably that story would turn out to be fairly typical of the whole garrison, but asking questions was the only way to learn. So Father had always said: nobles could learn even from commoners if they cared to make the effort.
“How far up the Silver Road have you traveled?” he asked.
“Only as far as the lake, my lord.”
The trail rounded a spur into the gorge, dank and noisy, with the Ruzena rushing and foaming far below them. The roadway rose steadily, but before long it passed a roaring waterfall, appropriately named Thunder Falls. Beyond that the track and the river were more or less level. Then they came to the first bridge, spanning a small tributary.
Anton dismounted to inspect it. It was built of undressed tree trunks and disappointingly sturdy, able to carry a team of oxen quite safely. Whether it would also hold up under the weight of the great bombard called the Dragon remained to be seen. He sprang into the saddle again, and chose another companion to question.
The gorge was growing wider, the river calmer, the rain heavier. He changed companions again after inspecting another bridge over a tributary. Eventually they came to a point where they must ford the Ruzena itself, at a place where islands of coarse shingle divided it into many smaller streams.
“River’s not very deep, my lord,” remarked Big Herkus, his current companion. Big Herkus was about Marek’s size; Little Herkus must be a giant.
The water barely came up to the horses’ hocks, but the shingle was a welcome sight, because moving an extra-heavy load over that would tax even Duke Wartislaw’s resources. Wheels might jam, axles break, oxen balk at the footing.
Better still, the next bridge was a long timber span, carrying the road back across the Ruzena. It was in poor condition and a gang of sappers should be able to dismantle most of it in a couple of hours. They would need archers and lancers to guard them while they worked, of course, and Anton resolved to organize that expedition for tomorrow. He was starting to feel more comfortable, hoping that the Dragon would never arrive. It might just be a Vranov invention, like the rumor of pestilence.
Less encouraging was his discovery that his army was largely made up of rookies. Only two of his five companions had battle experience; the other three were local-born and locally trained. They might suffice if all they had to do was stand on the battlements and shoot arrows, but would they stand firm when the balls and bolts started coming the other way?
The valley steadily widened; the river wandered off, out of sight of the road. The rain stopped; a slight breeze arose. The lower reaches of the mountains were gentle and painted with grass or lichen; certainly some grass, because a herd of white specks-goats or sheep-was grazing the slope to the north. The floor of the valley was marshy, with ponds showing between stretches of moss and reeds, but there were enough stands of spindly aspens to restrict the view to no more than a hundred yards in any direction. In summer the air would be a fog of mosquitoes. At best, the road was muddy: the worst parts had been patched with corduroy topped with a layer of clay, but some of the tree trunks were rotting. The horses became skittish, testing their footing with every step. Oxen might not care as much, but a duke who planned to bring a monster bombard along here had not listened to valid advice. Or else he had Speakers to help him.
A faster splatter of hooves at his back and Notivova rode up alongside. “My lord!” He looked worried.
“Constable?”
“We should have met the returning squad before now, my lord. They’re supposed to wait at the post until their relief arrives, but they never do. They all want to get home early.”
Anton raised a hand to signal a halt. “You told anyone that I would be making a personal inspection today?” The post garrison might even now be standing in rows, ready to salute their new commander and impress him with their incredible devotion to duty.
“Not a soul, my lord.” If the same image had occurred to the trooper, he did a fine job of keeping a straight face.
“How far to Long Valley?”
“We’re in it. Half a mile or so to the border post. If Your Lordship can see those tall firs? They grow on a small mound in the marsh, the only really dry land hereabout. The post is there. Then there’s another mile or so of this muck on the way to the lake head and the Wends’ landing stage, where the ferry barges come. The lake’s ten or twelve miles long.”
Anton glanced around the scenery. “God made this place to stage ambushes.”
“He certainly did, my lord!” Notivova showed relief that his commander had enough sense to see that.
For the new count to take fright and run away before he had reached his objective would just be good sense. It would also be rank cowardice by chivalric standards. Yet to charge ahead and be mown down would throw away the lives of his five companions, and worthy leaders did not do such things. Anton had no choice. If there was one thing a brainless Magnus colt like him could not tolerate it was a challenge like this. Omnia audere! Other men might call him an idiot, but success would make him a hero in the eyes of the garrison, and he would need true loyalty when the attack began.
“Then let’s see if we can turn the tables. I’ll be bait. Wait behind these trees. Stand still and make no noise. If I come back with the wolves on my heels, try to shoot them and not me, all right?”
“My lord!”
“You have your orders.” Anton wanted no argument that might weaken his resolve. His heartbeat was disgracefully fast already.
He reached for the crossbow slung on his back and tore off the cover. It was designed for use on horseback, being small and spanned with a goat’s foot lever. Now it was already spanned, and he loaded a bolt in the groove. The chances of hitting a target were remote, but just holding a weapon was a comfort. A lance would be even better.
He reminded himself that Caesar, Hector, Alexander-all great leaders-had been men of suicidal courage. If the city shaver sent by the king could prove that he had real balls, then the garrison would follow him to a man. There would be no more sad muttering about Count Stepan and Sir Petr.
Prodded into motion, Avalanche leaped forward, glad of the chance to show his paces. The big fellow was a hunter, able to choose his path, and he swerved around the corduroy patches, preferring to take his chances in the muck.
The trail wound like a snake between ponds and swamp and the little aspen groves. The dark firs were farther off than Anton had guessed, and the ambushers, if they existed, might already have closed the road behind him. His excitement now was as intense as sex. His groin burned with it. Omnia audere! This was what a Magnus did. He had felt some of this battle lust going down the hill at the hunt, but here he had no Wulf to save him. This was his legend, live or die. Ancestors, behold! Even Vladislav might approve of him now.
Where was the enemy? What a fool he would look if he arrived at Long Valley to find the guards drawn up in rows, saluting their count.
Thirty yards off to the right, a man emerged from cover, running toward him as fast as he could struggle through the mud.
Some brainless Wend sounded a hunting horn, three long blasts to mean that the dogs were on a good trail. The woodland hatched about a hundred horsemen, like dragon teeth, a dozen riding out from behind a copse before him, more from trees behind him, on both sides. Some distant, some close. How could he possibly have missed seeing so many?
He swung Avalanche like a sword and headed for the running man. It was the Englishman, Llywelyn, bloodied and clutching a wounded arm to his chest with his free hand. Two enemy men-at-arms were converging on him and seemed likely to cut him down before Anton could arrive.
Assail a wounded man, would they? Anton spurred Avalanche cruelly. He dropped the reins, guiding his mount with his knees and using both hands for the bow. He must hold his aim until he could be sure of hitting the foe and not Llywelyn, but on horseback that might be forever. At the last possible moment, when the nearer Wend had his saber raised to strike, Llywelyn threw himself flat. The bow cracked, and must have sent the bolt right through the hussar, for he toppled back, dropping his saber and unbalancing his horse. Anton had no time to reload.
