Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

Despite that confidence, though, after about an hour Colonel Biffle rode up to him and asked, “Excuse me, Lord Ned, but should we be heading west?”

“West?” Ned stared at him. “What the hells are you talking about, Biff? I’m riding north, and that’s as plain as the horn on a unicorn’s face.” But even as he spoke, he looked around. As he did, he started to swear. He wasn’t usually a blasphemous man; only the prospect of battle brought foul language out in him-battle, and being tricked before battle. For, when he did look around, he saw that he had been riding west, and hadn’t known it. Face hot with fury, he demanded, “Where in the damnation is Major Marmaduke?”

“I’m here, sir.” His chief mage came up on donkeyback; few wizards could be trusted to ride unicorns without killing themselves. Marmaduke was a fussy little man who kept his blue sorcerer’s robe spotlessly clean no matter what. “What do you need?”

“I need a wizard who’s really here, not one who just thinks he is,” Ned snarled. “Why the demon didn’t you notice we’ve been riding west, not north?”

Major Marmaduke looked astonished. “But we’re not riding-” he began, and then broke off. After a moment, he looked even more astonished, to say nothing of horrified. “By the gods, we’ve been diddled,” he said.

“We sure have. I thought we were supposed to be the ones with the good wizards, and the southrons were stuck with the odds and sods.” Ned scornfully tossed his head. “Seems like it’s the other way round.”

“Lord Ned, I am-mortified,” Marmaduke stammered. “To think that I should be taken in-that I should let us all be taken in-by a spell of misdirection… I will say, though, that it was very cunningly laid. I did not think the accursed southrons had such subtlety in them.”

“Well, they gods-damned well do,” Ned growled. “And now we’re going to have to backtrack and hope by the Thunderer’s prong that they haven’t gone and stolen a march on us. If they have, you’ll pay for it, and you’d best believe that.”

Marmaduke licked his lips. “Y-y-yes, sir.”

With icy sarcasm, Ned went on, “You reckon you can see if they try any more magic on us while we’re heading back? You up to that much, anyways?”

“I–I hope so, sir,” the mage replied miserably.

“So do I. And you’d better be.” Scowling, Ned shouted to his men, “They’ve tricked us. When we catch ’em, we’ll make ’em pay. Meanwhile, though, we’ve got to ride like hells to get back to where we were at so we can catch ’em. Come on! We’ll do it right this time!”

They rode hard. Anybody who wanted to fight under Ned of the Forest had to ride hard. As his unicorn trotted back toward the place where they’d gone wrong-Ned hoped it was back toward the place where they’d gone wrong-he kept muttering morosely about Major Marmaduke. The wizard still seemed bewildered at what had happened. Ned wasn’t bewildered. He was furious. As far as he was concerned, the southrons had no business outdoing northern men when it came to sorcery.

Riding up ahead of his troopers, he was one of the first to reach the crossroads from which his force had gone astray. He couldn’t imagine how it had happened. He knew which fork he should have taken. He thought he had taken it. But the southrons’ magic had led him astray, and had kept him from noticing anything was wrong. He muttered again. It had certainly kept Major Marmaduke from noticing. If Colonel Biffle hadn’t finally spotted the trouble… Ned didn’t care to think about what might have happened then.

And, riding up ahead of his troopers, he was one of the first to spy the southrons riding toward the crossroads. He threw back his head and laughed. “All right, you sons of bitches!” he shouted. “You reckoned you could lead us astray and get here first. Now I’m going to show you you aren’t as smart as you figured.” He looked around. As usual, a trumpeter rode within easy range of his voice. He waved to draw the man’s attention, then called, “Blow charge!”

As the martial notes rang out, his sword leaped free from the scabbard. The blade gleamed in the watery autumn sunshine. He spurred his unicorn forward. The well-trained beast lowered its head, aimed its ironclad horn at the enemy, and sprang toward the southrons. “King Geoffrey!” Ned shouted. Sometimes dragoon work wouldn’t do. Sometimes you had to get right in there and fight unicorn to unicorn.

Some of his men yelled Geoffrey’s name, too. More, though, shouted, “Lord Ned!” They fought for him personally at least as much as for the north. Their swords also flashed free. Some of them fit arrows to the strings of the light crossbows they carried. That would do for one volley, anyhow; reloading on unicornback wasn’t for the faint of heart.

“Let’s get ’em!” Ned roared. “This is our road, by the gods, and they’ve got no business trying to take it away from us.”

As soon as the southrons spied his men and him, they deployed from line to column. Their own gray-clad officers briefly harangued them. Then they too were charging. “King Avram!” they cried. “King Avram and freedom!”

“To the hells with King Avram, the serf-stealing bastard!” Ned yelled. His unicorn tore a bleeding line in the flank of the first enemy beast it met. He’d trained it always to gore to the right, to protect him on that side. A rider came up to him on the left. The other fellow would have had most men at a disadvantage. Not lefthanded Ned. He chopped the southron out of the saddle. How many men had he killed in the war? A couple of dozen, surely. Well, he’d killed before the war, too. A serfcatcher didn’t have an easy life.

He had more men with him than the southron commander, who’d led a mere reconnaissance in force. Ned’s men were fiercer, too, at least that day. They sent the southrons, those who lived, fleeing back in the direction from which they’d come as fast as they could gallop. Ned pushed them hard. He always did.

“They know we’re here now,” Colonel Biffle said as the pursuit at last wound down.

Ned nodded and spoke one word: “Good.”

Rollant had served in King Avram’s army for a couple of years now. He’d seen things go well, and he’d seen things go wrong. He knew the signs for both.

Unicorn-riders galloping back toward the crossbowmen and pikemen were not a good sign. He knew that only too well. Turning to Lieutenant Griff, he said, “Something’s gone to the hells up ahead.”

“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” Griff’s voice broke as he answered. He kicked at the muddy ground under his shoes. He was very young, and hated showing how young he was.

Plenty of crossbowmen in the company drew the same conclusion as its standard-bearer and commander. “Who ever saw a dead unicorn-rider?” they jeered as the men on the beautiful beasts pounded past.

Some of the riders pretended not to hear. Some cursed the footsoldiers who mocked them. And one fellow yelled, “Wait till you run up against Ned of the Forest’s troopers! We’ll see plenty of you bastards dead, and you’d better believe it.”

After that, Corporal Rollant gripped the staff of the company banner so tight, his knuckles whitened. He tramped on in silence, grim determination on his face. Lieutenant Griff needed a while to notice; he wasn’t the most perceptive man ever born. But at last he asked, “Is something wrong, Corporal?”

“Ned of the Forest,” Rollant said tightly. “Sir.”

“Yes, his riders really fight, no doubt about it,” Griff said. “I wish we had more men as good, I truly do, but-”

“Fort Cushion,” Rollant broke in. “Sir.”