Glen Cook - An Ill Fate Marshalling

Ragnarson spurred his mount, hastened to the head of the column. He rounded the flank of the hill and looked out on the plain where the ruins lay. „What the hell?"

There was nothing there. At least, nothing to compare with what had been there last time he'd come this way. The trading town had been a city then, wild and colorful and ramshackle. Now there was nothing but a neat geometric layout. A barracks city with only a few non-standard build­ ings off to one side. The barracks and the low curtain wall surrounding them seemed to have been assembled from stone salvaged from the ruins.

„That makes sense," he muttered. „Use the materials at hand. And why would the traders stay after trade was cut off?"

Ragnarson pointed at a trumpeter, beckoned, charged toward the town. He was certain he would find it wholly abandoned. All this energy expended for nothing. But it would be good for the men. It would get them used to moving when it was time to move.

The light horse were almost upon the barracks, their wings sweeping forward to surround the buildings, when a lone horseman appeared among the ramshackle civilian structures to the right. He whipped his animal into a gallop. A squadron of horsemen turned after him. Ragnarson did the same. In the distance Septien swung back as he spotted the horsemen too.

The man turned this way, that, and saw all escape fade away. He pulled up and waited. In moments he was sur­ rounded.

Bragi reined in, looked the man over. „Throyen. Anyone speak the language?" Most Kaveliners spoke several tongues, if only because there were four languages current in Kavelin itself. Many more spoke the tongue of one or another of the kingdom's trading partners. Of those Throyes had been the most important.

„Here, Sire," one soldier said, and another raised his hand.

„Ask him questions. The kind of things we're interested in."

The soldiers asked when the legion had withdrawn, where the civilians had gone, what this one man had been doing there alone. They asked about the surrounding territory, and about what lay between Gog-Ahlan and Throyes. Bragi occasionally suggested additional questions. The prisoner was moderately cooperative.

He had been left to watch the pass. Insofar as he knew, there were no armed forces between Gog-Ahlan and Throyes. „Things have gone bad wrong," he said. „El Murid has a new general. Better than the Scourge of God, the old people say: I know we lost a couple of big battles. They've been sending everyone to the fighting."

Ragnarson exchanged glances with Hardle and Gjerdrum. „Better than the Scourge of God, eh?" Bragi muttered.

Hardle said, „He must be if he's making a showing against everything Lord Hsung's thrown in."

And Gjerdrum, „You think Habibullah exaggerated Yasmid's weakness?"

„No. He believed the story he was telling. Those people are funny. They'll fight like devils for a leader they believe in. You're not old enough to remember the things Nassef and el Kader did. Have the Baron tell you sometime. They damned near conquered the world."

The army made camp thirty miles southeast of Gog-Ahlan. Ragnarson kept his captains up late. It was obvious from his picking of nits that he wasn't comfortable with what he was doing. He went walking the camp perimeter after sending the others to bed.

It was a cool night, boding the approach of autumn. The stars were crisp and cold in the black felt sky. The encamp­ ment was orderly, and the cooking fires were low and shielded from the casual, distant eye.

These are good men, he thought. The best I've ever led. Perfectly honed, well-disciplined, and positively motivated. Were it not for the sorcery, they would stand up well to Shinsan.

What is the matter with me? Why am I doubting myself?

Why am I doing this? Logic weighs against it, as Gjerdrum and Hardle remind me with every look. Even if I do swoop in, and pull off the biggest coup of my life, what's really been gained? What drives me? Why do I have to do this? Because so much has gone badly at home? Am I trying to balance my failure as King with success at the one thing I can do well?

He stopped at the point of camp farthest south, stared toward where Throyes lay. His intuition had nothing to say. Instead, ghosts from his past hemmed him in. He remem­ bered the friends and loved ones lost, the triumphs and defeats, the good times and bad. „I'm here because I don't know any better," he whispered. „I've been hurrying to­ ward a fight, or running away from one, since I was fifteen years old. This peace since the end of the wars is the longest I've ever gone through. Maybe helping Mist woke some­ thing inside me."

A shooting star arced across the sky. „A man's life. One bright moment in the darkness. Am I looking for a flashy exit?"

When you got down to it, this raid had suicidal aspects. Hsung might be a renegade defying his Princess, but he was Tervola. If he were destroyed, or severely embarrassed, his brethren would be that much more incensed, that much more determined to settle scores... . Ragnarson jumped.

„Sire?"

„You startled me, soldier."

„I didn't mean to, Sire. I was being quiet on account of you might be thinking about something important."

Bragi chuckled. „Who can say?"

The soldier saluted and started to move on.

„Hold on a second."

„Sire?"

„What do you think about this?"

„This, Sire?"

„This march on Throyes. What do you think? What do the men think? Honestly, now. I was a soldier myself once."

„Well, Sire, I don't think anybody is happy about it. Nobody understands. But for the most part they figure you know what you're doing, and it must be important or we wouldn't be out here."

Curious, Bragi thought. They still trust me. „Not that much grumbling and second-guessing?" Every soldier was a general, figuring he knew better than the people up top.

„No, Sire. Like I said, a lot of wondering why, but the only bitching is about the food."

„Some things never change. Thanks, son. On about your rounds now." He fixed his gaze on distant Throyes once more.

Four days, he thought. A hard, fast march. Into the city. Capture Hsung's headquarters. Wipe out his puppets. Give the pro-western and faithful Throyens a chance to organize, then scuttle back home.

I hope we take Hsung alive... . Ought to put him in a zoo and charge admission.

Four days. Will my nerves hold out?

Day dawned brisk and clear. Bragi bounced out of his tent and did a few jumping jacks. „What's that?" he yelled to his cook. „Smells damned good." He felt fantastic. He'd had a restful night, with no troubling dreams. The morning was one of those when everything seemed right, when he felt ready to whip the world.

He walked around behind his tent, which stood atop a hummock, stared off in the direction of Throyes. Can't be more than sixty miles now, he thought. Push hard today, rest well tonight, and hit them tomorrow.

It was going to go right. He knew it. All that soul-searching and worry had been for nothing. Throyes would fall easily. If it went well enough he might push on south, help Yasmid wrap Hsung's army in a pocket where it could be destroyed.

Wouldn't that frost the Tervola? More of their legions casually crushed by the western bane? Ha! And Mist? He'd love to see her face when she got the news. Serve her right for not keeping Hsung on a shorter leash.

He was sure Hsung didn't have Mist's sanction. She must be having trouble getting the Tervola into line. Nobility could be restless, as well he knew.

„Good morning, Baron," he said cheerfully, as Hardle came up the slope to join him. „Isn't it a glorious day?"

Hardle smiled. „It is indeed, Sire. There's a magic in the air, isn't there?"