by David Drake
Ilna slid the simple catch and lifted the lid, tilting the box toward the light so that she could see the interior. Packed in raw wool-which was so white that first glance made her think it was bleached-was a human head no bigger than her clenched fist. The lips were sewn shut with knots easily as complex as those which had bound the box to Hutton's chest. Ilna ran her fingers over the knots. They'd been tied by a different hand; a human hand, she suspected. Hutton's? She couldn't be sure because she hadn't seen his work, but she didn't think so. She smiled to remember the sound of the ghoul chewing Hutton's corpse. That was a proper end for people who kept the sort of friends he did. Ilna began to pick out the knots. She had no better reason than that it amused her to test herself, but that wasn't a bad reason. Very few things involving fibersdid test her. The head felt leathery; well, it was leather, she supposed. It was packed with something, but she didn't think it was bone. Had the skull been removed and the skin shrunken over an artificial core? Ilna removed the last knot and lifted the fiber to the waning lantern light. She couldn't tell what the material was; it had no feel at all. She couldn't remember ever having had that experience before. The miniature head moved. Ilna's first instinct was to leap up and fling the thing off her lap. Instead she held still. Worms-no, tinyhands wriggled from the severed neck. The skin there hadn't been tied, just folded and shrunken into a tight mass. The hands were on the ends of arms which jerked their way out by fits and starts; Ilna had the impression of somebody trying to find the neck and arm openings in a tunic that was too small. And itwas too small. The arms were miniatures also, but they were far too large to fit into the shrunken head. When the arms were free, Ilna saw that the shoulders had appeared also. What had been a head was now a bust. The arms pumped up and down. The hands squeezed into fists and opened, then reached back into the stump of the neck. After much struggling they tugged out the whole remainder of the legs and torso of a man. He was wizened and incredibly ugly, besides being no taller than Ilna's knee if they were both standing. The little man hopped off her lap and looked up at her.
"My name's Usun," he said. "Who are you?" The candle guttered out. For a few heartbeats the wick remained as a blue glow; then that too vanished. The darkness was complete. *** Even before a trumpeter signaled the squadron on watch to mount up, the commotion at the gate roused Garric from the table where he sat with Chancellor Royhas and Lord Hauk. He jumped to his feet, grabbing the sword belt hanging from the back of his chair. That was Carus' reflex, but it wasn't a bad one. Their meeting on prices and sources of draft animals took place under a marquee set up beside the headquarters tent at the intersection of the camp's two principal streets, surrounded at a respectful distance by aides. Garric would've had a view to the gate if it hadn't been for the clerks, secretaries, and runners now goggling either at the prince who'd risen or at the gate to see what was happening. "Duzi!" Garric shouted. "Willyou get out of the way so that I can see?" The flunkies who were staring at him looked stricken and mostly dodged to the side, though a pudgy youth from the Chancellery simply flattened on the ground as if Garric's glare were a ballista about to release. Those who were looking in the opposite direction didn't make the connection between their behavior and their prince's frustration until he shoved through them to get onto the street. Part of Garric winced at his impoliteness. On the other hand, the ghost in his mind was ready to move them out of the way with the flat of his sword and curses much more colorful than Garric using the name of a friendly shepherd god.
The royal army had built a rampart around its every marching camp since Garric-better, since Carus-began leading it. Fortifications took a great deal of work and meant shorter marching days besides, but Carus firmly believed that no campsite was safe until you'd made it safe. Garric had read enough history to accept the truth of that assumption. His ancestor's vivid memories reinforced his acceptance.
Waldron kept a cavalry squadron and an infantry regiment ready to move on five minutes' notice. That meant the horses were saddled though their cinches weren't tight, and the troops wore their body armor-though again they'd have to do up the straps and laces. At the trumpet, detachments stood to at the four gates. The whole camp was a clanging bustle as the rest of the army grabbed weapons and equipment in case the next signal was a general alarm. There were various ways Garric could respond to the signal, but there was only one way that wouldn't lead to the ghost of King Carus bellowing in fury inside his mind. He took off running for the gate a hundred double-paces away, buckling the twin tongues of his sword belt as he went. Six Blood Eagles ran in front of him, and Attaper at his side bellowed, "Gravis, horses at the gate for the platoon soonest! Move!" Garric arrived at the same moment as Lord Waldron, who'd been inspecting the horse lines when the summons came. He'd ridden, which wasn't surprising: he'd come from almost the far end of the camp. He was bareback and using a rope halter, though, which for a man in his sixties was an impressive demonstration. "Rats, milord!" shouted a trooper who'd just dismounted from his lathered gelding. He ignored Garric to speak to Waldron-like him, an Ornifal cavalryman. "Foraging parties, not an attack, but Lieutenant Monner thinks there's three hundred maybe. Five miles southeast. Monner's watching them, but he won't try to engage. Ah, unless you want him to?" "Why in the Sister's name did he send back a whole squad?" Waldron barked. "Are the rest of them here to hold your hand, Bresca?" "Milord?" the squad leader said. "The rats're scattered across the countryside from here to the Underworld. The l'tenant, he thought we might run into something on the way back and, you know, he wanted to make sure the message got through." Lieutenant Monner's subordinates assumed he'd be willing to fight several hundred rats with twenty or so cavalrymen… and he had foresight enough not to entrust a critical message to a single courier. Garric didn't need the grim-faced approval of King Carus to know that Lieutenant Monner should be commanding something more than a troop of horse. "Right!" said Waldron. Turning to Garric: "Your highness, I'll take the ready squadron, they're my old command, and the regiment of javelin men from Northern Cordin. You follow with five thousand infantry and all but one squadron of the horse as soon as they get organized, right?" The ready squadron was divided with a troop at the west, south and east gates; the north gate was guarded by cavalry from a Sandrakkan squadron. They could be pressed into immediate service if necessary.
Waldron had apparently decided it was, because they their blue and silver pennant was trotting down the cross-street to join the Ornifal red and gold. In Garric's mind, Carus was estimating how long it would be before the support element arrived. It'd be an hour before they marched. Besides, heavy infantry regiments wouldn't move as quickly as cavalry and skirmishers-Cordin shepherds turned soldier, carrying only light javelins and hatchets. "We'll both accompany the alerted troops," he said. He surveyed the cavalrymen walking their horses through the gate to form in the trampled ground just outside. Carus picked a rangy chestnut. "I'll take that horse," Garric said.
"Trooper, get your remount and follow." "Your highness!" said Waldron, looking up from the waxed tablet on which he was scribbling an order.
"I'm going, butI have a deputy." "And I don't, milord," Garric said,
"which is whyI'm going. I need to see the rats in action as soon as possible so that I know what we're dealing with." "Your highness, that's pointlessly dangerous!" Attaper said. "Nobody doubts your courage, nobody. Unless you distrust your officers to bring you an accurate information, you'll gain nothing from this." "I'm going, Attaper," Garric said, grasping the horn and crupper of the horse he'd appropriated. He mounted. By now he could probably have made a smooth business of it without his ancestor's reflexes. A squad of Blood Eagles rode up, each trooper holding the reins of two or more additional horses. Carus, watching through Garric's eyes, said,
"Attaper knew he couldn't argue you out of it, so he made sure he'd have a platoon ready to go too." After a moment he added with a mixture of amusement and regret, "I never had anybody who'd fight me as hard as Attaper does you, lad. I'd have taken t
heir heads off if they tried. Which was all right as far as it went, but it meant people with good sense made sure to keep shy of me." A trooper had saddled Waldron's mount while he was scribbling out orders to his subordinates. Tossing the last tablet to a runner, the army commander swung into the saddle. Checking the four troops waiting in neat columns-and the skirmishers who weren't in the least neat but were certainly ready-Waldron snapped to his trumpeter, "Sound the advance!"
The trumpet call and the horns of the line troops-the Sandrakkan unit used a cow horn which sounded harsh and thin in comparison the brass instruments curling around the bodies of the Ornifal cornicenes-set the patrol into motion. Garric's borrowed horse stepped off even before he tapped its ribs with his right heel. "A trained soldier obeys commands in his sleep," Carus said. "Likewise a trooper's trained mount." He sounded wistful. Perhaps the ghost was remembering the time when he too needed sleep. Lord Waldron rode with the leading troop; so did the squad which had brought the alarm. It'd been remounted, and at least one of the replacement horses was clearly unhappy with his present rider. Garric smiled faintly. He was sorry for the trooper, but he was very glad that he hadn't borrowed a skittish mount himself. Prince Garric could've ordered somebody else to trade with him-but he wouldn't have. They trotted into woodland, a mixture of sweet gum and pine that must've sprung up from land that'd been clear within the past generation. The edge of the woods had been a mass of cedars sown too thickly to be of any size. The returning scouts had ridden the trees down as they approached the camp, providing easy entry for the Waldron's troop and the rest of the column. The forest proper was open enough that the cavalry had little difficulty beyond having to break ranks. The skirmishers hadn't seen any point in ranks to begin with. Here among the tree boles they were the equal of cavalry man for man, and the cheerful way they trotted among the troopers showed that they were well aware of the fact.
Waldron shouted something to a man riding with him, a member of the squad that'd brought the warning. That fellow reined back slightly so that the Blood Eagles just ahead of Garric overtook him. "Let him through, Attaper!" Garric shouted. "I want to learn about the terrain ahead!" The Blood Eagles parted, but Attaper himself dropped back with the line trooper. The man was Bresca, the squad leader who'd delivered the message. He leaned toward Garric as they rode along together and said, "It's the next valley and it's mostly cow pasture, sir. There's apple orchards on the north slopes, though, so they won't bloom till it's full spring and they can't catch frost. We'll come out through the apples. The l'tenant, he said he'd keep this side of the crest and not push unless, you know, he had to." There were challenges and less formal shouts from close ahead. The instinct of King Carus slapped Garric's hand to the hilt of his sword. He drew the long gray blade, either forged by wizardry or by a smith as skilled as Ilna was in her different craft. There didn't seem to be anything magical about the sword, but you couldn't dull its edge even by slashing rock. "That's the l'tenant, sir!" said Bresca. He hadn't learned that 'your highness' was the correct form of address when speaking to a prince.
It wasn't something that line soldiers often had to worry about, of course. "We're up with the rest of the troop!" "Hold up!" a cavalryman shouted. "Pass it back, hold up!" The call wobbled through the woods, each man turning in the saddle to send it on to those behind him.
"Waldron isn't using the horns because the rats are just over the hill," Carus noted with grim approval. "They'll have spotted the scout troop unless rats are stone blind, but horn calls will tell them to expect more company." He paused, then added, "I could've used more officers like Waldron." Garric joined Waldron and an officer he didn't think he'd met- "You have," snapped Carus. History claimed Carus had known the name of every man in his army. From what Garric had experienced in the years that his mind had been haunted by his ancient ancestor, history hadn't exaggerated very much. "Monner, of course." -along with the four troop leaders of the reaction force, and a grizzled fellow with a silk sash over his goat-wool tunic-the commander of the skirmishers. Though on foot and as old as Waldron, he'd kept up with the trotting horsemen. "Your highness," Waldron said with a bare nod to royal authority. "Monner's been keeping watch. The enemy's scattered through the valley, rounding up the livestock. The horse will charge the length of the valley in line so that the rats don't have a chance to form ranks, with Ainbor here's-" He gestured with his left hand to the skirmishers' commander. There was no love lost between cavalry and light infantry, but Waldron had always used the latter intelligently. "-men following to mop up those we don't kill in the first pass." The ghost in Garric's mind gave a curt nod of approval. "Carry on, milord," Garric said. He managed a smile to show that his approval was more than formal. The troop leaders trotted toward their guidons, snarling orders as they tried to align their men despite the broken forest. Waldron spoke quietly to the trumpeter; he nodded, holding his instrument ready. Garric's blood trembled with anticipation of the coming battle. He started to draw his long sword.
Attaper touched his elbow. "No, your highness," he said. "You're not wearing armor, and you'll seenothing beyond the point of your sword if you rush down into a melee. If you're an honorable man, you'll watch from the brow of the hill." "The bloody man's right!" snarled Carus.
"But by the Lady! if it was me-" Which fortunately it wasn't, as Carus knew as well as his descendent did. "Yes, of course, Attaper," Garric said mildly. "We'll find a suitable vantage point. Though I reserve the right to defend myself if the rats attack me." Attaper looked startled, then nodded agreement and removed his hand from Garric's arm. He wasn't a man who could laugh about his duties as a bodyguard.
The trumpeter sounded Advance, followed instantly by the horns of the cornicenes; they'd been waiting for the signal. The reinforced squadron, about a hundred and fifty troopers, trotted up the last of the rise and over it. "Not a man of them but thinks they could do the job themselves without any infantry," Carus said. "I'd think the same.
But speaking as a commander, I'm just as glad of those javelins. If the rats keep their heads and hamstring the horses… and who knows how good troops rats turn out to be?" You and I are going to know in a few minutes, thought Garric as he clucked his horse over the crest.
Which is why we're here. The trumpeter signaled Charge. Again, the horns echoed him-four deep, mellow calls and the blat on the cow horn.
The Ornifal cavalrymen had their long swords drawn; on the right of the line, the Sandrakkan troop couched short lances that were light enough to have thrown if they'd been facing a shield wall. The troopers started downhill, disarrayed at first by the apple trees but not slowed. The javelin men whooped and began loping along after them.
Garric and his guards trotted through the orchard. Beyond spread a broad valley several miles long, with a right dogleg extending it unguessibly farther. Instead of individual homesteads, there'd been a hamlet straggling along both banks of the stream in the middle. A neck-roped coffle of the human residents, fifty or sixty of them, was almost out of sight to the southeast. A score of ratmen guarded the prisoners. Hundreds more of the creatures were scattered by tens and handfuls throughout the valley, rounding up brindled cattle. The horn signals had drawn the narrow muzzles of all the ratmen toward the northwest slope down which the cavalry charged. Lord Waldron was in the center of the line; Ornifal's golden lion on a red field flapped above the standard bearer to his left. The rats were the size of short humans and wore bronze caps and breastplates. They stopped what they'd been doing and drew short swords, then began to trot forward to meet the attack. The nearest clot of ratmen was only two furlongs south of the apple trees through which the cavalry rode. They were directly in front of Lieutenant Monner's troop, but the Sandrakkan unit on the far right of the line was edging over to snatch the kill. Lord Waldron stood in his stirrups screaming abuse at the lancers, and King Carus' hot rage snatched the sword from Garric's scabbard before intellect could restrain him. Nobody seemed to notice. Garric grinned faintly.
Drawing you
r sword while you watched a battle swirl wasn't the sort of thing that aroused comment. Monner was on the right of his troop and slightly ahead of his men. He held his sword vertical, ready to slash down at the rats, but he was trusting his mount to find its own course as he bellowed at the lancers crowding him. The horse suddenly planted its feet in the cropped turf. Monner went over its head-nobodycould've kept his seat. The horse had stopped as abruptly as if it'd charged into a stone wall, then nearly somersaulted over its rider. Other mounts were going wild also, pitching and bucking. A pair of Sandrakkan geldings collided as they turned toward one another while both trying to flee back uphill; one had already thrown off its rider.