Joe Abercrombie - Before They Are Hanged

Kroy finally broke off glowering at West to reply with a sullen, “Yes, Lord Marshal?”

“Your division is to deploy astride the road and push steadily eastwards towards the fortress, encouraging Bethod to launch his attack. Slowly and steadily, with no heroics. General Poulder’s division, meanwhile, will have worked its way through the trees on top of the northern ridge, here,” and his stick tapped at the green blocks of the wooded high ground, “just forward of General Kroy’s position.”

“Just forward of General Kroy’s position,” grinned Poulder, as though he was being shown special favour. Kroy scowled with disgust.

“ Just forward, yes,” continued Burr. “When Bethod’s forces are entirely occupied in the valley, it shall be your task to attack them from above, and take them in the flank. It is important that you wait until the Northmen have been fully engaged, General Poulder, so that we can surround them, overwhelm them, and hope to bag the majority at one throw. If they are allowed to retire to the fords the fortress will cover their retreat, and we will be unable to pursue. Reducing Dunbrec might take us months.”

“Of course, my Lord Marshal,” exclaimed Poulder, “my division will wait until the last moment, you may depend upon it!”

Kroy snorted. “That should present no difficulty. Arriving late is a specialty of yours, I understand. There would be no need for a battle if you had intercepted the Northmen last week, rather than allowing them to get around you!”

Poulder bristled. “Easy for you to say, while you were sitting on the right wing doing nothing! It’s fortunate they didn’t pass by in the night! You might have taken their retreat for an assault and fled with your entire division!”

“Gentlemen, please!” roared Burr, smashing the table with his stick. “There will be fighting enough for every man in the army, that I promise you, and if each man does his part there will be ample glory too! We must work together if this plan is to bear fruit!” He burped and grimaced and licked his lips sourly, while the two Generals and their staffs glowered at one another. West would almost have laughed, had men’s lives not hung in the balance, his own among them.

“General Kroy,” said Burr, in the tone of a parent addressing a wayward child. “I wish to make sure that you understand your orders.”

“To deploy my division in line astride the road,” hissed Kroy, “and to advance slowly and in good order, eastwards down the valley towards Dunbrec, drawing Bethod and his savages into an engagement.”

“Indeed. General Poulder?”

“To move my division out of sight through the trees, just ahead of General Kroy’s regiments, so that at the last moment I can charge down on the Northern scum and take them in the flank.”

Burr managed a smile. “Correct.”

“An excellent plan, Lord Marshal, if I may!” Poulder tugged happily at his moustaches. “You can depend upon it that my horse will cut them to pieces. To! Pieces!”

“I am afraid you will not have any cavalry, General,” said West in an emotionless monotone. “The woods are dense and horse will be useless to you there. They might even alert the Northmen to your presence. A risk we cannot take.”

“But… my cavalry,” muttered Poulder, stricken with woe. “My best regiments!”

“They will be kept here, sir,” droned West, “near Marshal Burr’s headquarters, and under his direct control, as a reserve. They will be deployed if they are needed.” Now it was Poulder’s fury he met with a stonewall stare, while the faces of Kroy and his staff broke out in broad, neat, utterly joyless smiles.

“I hardly think—” hissed Poulder.

Burr cut him off. “That is my decision. There is one last point that you should all bear in mind. There are some reports that Bethod has called on reinforcements. Some manner of wild men, savages from across the mountains to the north. Keep your eyes open and your flanks well screened. You will receive word from me tomorrow when it is time to move, most likely before first light. That is all.”

“Can we really rely on them to do what they are told?” muttered West as he watched the two surly groups file from the tent.

“What choice do we have?” The Marshal threw himself into a chair with a grimace and rested his hands on his belly, frowning up at the great map. “I wouldn’t worry. Kroy has no option but to move down the valley and fight.”

“What about Poulder? I wouldn’t put it past him to find some excuse to stay sitting in the woods.”

The Lord Marshal grinned as he shook his head. “And leave Kroy to do all the fighting? What if he were to beat the Northmen on his own, and take all the glory for himself? No. Poulder could never risk that. This plan gives them no choice but to work together.” He paused, looking up at West. “You might want to treat the pair of them with a touch more respect.”

“Do you think they deserve it, sir?”

“Of course not. But if, for instance, we should lose tomorrow, one of them will most likely step into my boots. Then where will you be?”

West grinned. “I’ll be finished, sir. But my being polite now won’t change that. They hate me for what I am, not what I say. I might as well say what I please while I can.”

“I suppose you might at that. They’re a damn nuisance, but their folly can be predicted. It’s Bethod that worries me. Will he do what we want him to?” Burr burped, and swallowed, and burped again. “Damn this damn indigestion!”

Threetrees and the Dogman were sprawled on a bench outside the tent flap, an odd pair in amongst the well-starched press of officers and guards.

“Smells like battle to me,” said Threetrees as West strode up to them.

“Indeed.” West pointed after Kroy’s black-uniformed staff. “Half the army are going down the valley tomorrow morning, hoping to draw Bethod into a fight.” He pointed to Poulder’s crimson entourage. “The other half are going up into the trees, and hope to surprise them before they can get away.”

Threetrees nodded slowly to himself. “Sounds like a good plan.”

“Nice and simple,” said the Dogman. West winced. He could hardly bear to look at the man.

“We’d have no plan at all if you hadn’t brought us that information,” he managed to say through gritted teeth. “Are you sure we can trust it?”

“Sure as we can be,” said Threetrees.

Dogman grinned. “Shivers is alright, and from what I’ve scouted up, I reckon it’s true. No promises, course.”

“Of course not. You deserve a rest.”

“We wouldn’t say no.”

“I’ve arranged a position for you up at the far left of the line, at the end of General Poulder’s division, up in the trees, on the high ground. You should be well out of the action there. The safest place in the whole army tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder. Dig in and make yourself a fire, and if things go right, we’ll talk again over Bethod’s dead body.” And he held out his hand.

Threetrees grinned as he took it. “Now that’s our kind of language, Furious. You take care, now.” He and the Dogman started to trudge away up the slope towards the tree line.

“Colonel West?”

He knew who it was before he turned. There weren’t many women in the camp that would have had much to say to him. Cathil, standing in the slush, a borrowed coat wrapped round her. She looked somewhat furtive, somewhat shamefaced, but the sight of her still somehow brought up a sudden surge of anger and embarrassment.

It was unfair, he knew. He had no rights over her. It was unfair, but that only made it worse. All he could think of was the side of the Dogman’s face and her grunting, uh… uh… uh. So horribly surprising. So horribly disappointing. “You’d better go with them,” said West with an icy formality, scarcely able to bring himself to say anything at all. “Safest place.” He turned away but she brought him up short.