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Muttering under his breath, the mage left. Once he was gone, John the Lister
spent a minute or two cursing his luck and the incompetence of the wizards
with whom he'd been saddled. A lot of southron generals had sent those curses
up toward Mount Panamgam, the gods' home beyond the sky. The gods,
unfortunately, showed no sign of heeding them.
If nothing else, cursing made John feel better. General Guildenstern would
have got drunk, which would have made him feel better but wouldn't have done
his army any good. Doubting George would have loosed a volley of sardonic
remarks that made him feel better and left his targets in despair. John tried
to relieve his own feelings without carving chunks from anyone else. He didn't
always succeed, but he did try.
Once he'd got the bile out of his system, he ordered a runner to find his
adjutant and bring him back to the pavilion. Major Strabo came in a few
minutes later. "What's the trouble, sir?" he asked. The commanding general
explained. His walleyed subordinate seemed to stare every which way at once.
"Well, that's a cute kettle of cod," Strabo said when John finished. "And what
in the name of the cods' sort of coddity let the traitors hook us like that?"
"They outmagicked us," John replied. "They've done it before. They'll
probably do it again. Now we have to figure out how to keep this from ending
up a net loss."
For one brief, horrified moment, both of Strabo's eyes pointed straight at
him. "You should be ashamed of yourself," the major said. "Sir."
"Probably," John the Lister agreed. "But I have more important things to
worry about right now. So does this whole army."
"Your statement holds some veracity, yes." Major Strabo's eyes went their
separate ways again. "What do you propose to do, sir?"
That was about as straightforward a question as was likely to come from
John's adjutant. The commanding general answered, "I propose to get this army
out in one piece if I can. If Bell forces a fight, then we give him a fight,
that's all."
"Will you let him come to you, or do you aim to go to him?"
Two straightforward questions in a row John the Lister wondered if Strabo was
feeling well. He replied, "We're going back toward Poor Richard. If we can get
there, it's a good defensive position. And if we stay here, Bell can starve us
out without fighting. To the hells with me if I aim to let him do that. Draft
orders for our withdrawal down the road to Poor Richard, warning it may be a
fighting retreat."
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"Yes, sir," Strabo said, and then, after some hesitation, "Uh, sir, youdo
know it may be a great deal worse than that?"
"Oh, yes, I know it." John nodded heavily. "I know it, and you know it. But
if the men don't know it, they're likely to fight better if they have to. Or
do you think I'm wrong, Major?"
"No, sir," Major Strabo answered. "I am of the opinion that your accuracy is
unchallengeable. Not only that, but I think you're right."
"I'm so glad," John murmured. "Well, prepare those orders for my signature.
I'll want to get moving this afternoon, so don't waste any time."
"I wouldn't dream of it," said Strabo, who was as diligent as he was
difficult. "Will you want all your unicorn-riders in the van?"
Reluctantly, John the Lister shook his head. "No, we'd better leave half of
them in the rear to keep Ned of the Forest off us. Hard-Riding Jimmy looks
like he's still wet behind the ears, but he knows what he's doing for us, and
those quick-shooting crossbows his riders have make a small force go a long
way. Half the men at the van will do. And weneed the rest back at the rear. We
couldn't move very gods-damned fast if Ned's men kept chewing at the hind end
of our column. Write 'em that way. With Ned back there, Bell won't have many
unicorn-riders at the front of his army, either."
"That makes sense," Major Strabo said. "It may not be right, mind you, but it
does make sense."
"I'm glad I have you to relieve my mind," John told him. Strabo smiled and
inclined his head, as if he thought that a genuine compliment. Maybe he did;
he was more than a little hard to fathom. John went on, "Draft those orders,
now. The sooner you do, the sooner we see if we can't set this mess to
rights."
"Yes, sir. You may rely on me. As soon as I pluck a quill from a goose's
wing . . ." Strabo made as if to grab a goose from the sky. John made as if to
strangle his adjutant. They both laughed, each a little nervously.
However difficult Strabo might have been, the marching orders he prepared
were a small masterpiece of concision. Along with a detachment of
unicorn-riders, he also posted most of the southron wizards in the van. John
nodded approval of that. He wasn't sure how much good the wizards would do,
but he wanted them in position to do as much as they could.
The army hadn't even left Summer Mountain before John realizedhow much
trouble it was in. Sure enough, Bell's armywas posted close to the road down
which his own force had to withdraw. All the northerners had to do was reach
out their hands, and his army was theirs. That was how it looked at first
glance, anyhow. He hoped it wouldn't seem so bad as he got closer to the foe.
It didn't. Instead, it seemed worse. The northern army was drawn up in battle
array perhaps half a mile west of the road leading south to Poor Richard. John
felt like deploying into battle line facing them and sidling down the road
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