"The men won't be in contact with the enemy by then."
"You heard my order. Use no more gramarye until battle is joined or the enemy looses his demons."
Still panting from his run, the hexer scowled up at him. "You are hiding things from me!"
"I am comandante. I'll hide anything I want from anyone." Including, reasonably enough, himself. "I don't explain orders on battlefields, Maestro. I trust you to obey and do your best." He saluted the line of hexers, wheeled Smeòrach, and urged him forward into the Unplace.
After the morning light, the Unplace seemed like a fog at midnight. Smeòrach's trotting hooves rang in a steady refrain.
"How do you know where you are going without a guide?" asked Sorghie's voice.
"I don't know. Don't know how I know, I mean. I seem to be my own familiar."
"And what secrets are you keeping from the man in the white robe?"
"The same ones I am keeping from you."
His helmet saved him from suffering a bitten ear at that point. Instead, the owl leaned under the brim and nipped his nose, which was no improvement.
"Stop that!"
"Will you tell me now, or must I hurt you more?"
"Well. It's a long story," he said. He did not know what the truth of it was. The cardinal had no reason except personal spite to want him dead. The hob probably would not have tolerated a real death hex. Enchantments on people faded quickly, and it was more than two months since his second trip to Tivoli — although Marradi might have renewed the gramarye when he was in Florence in March.
Before he had to answer, Smeòrach left the Unplace, trotting out of the mists onto green pasture. This time Toby calmed him and kept him under control, although he could no more have explained how he did it than he understood his own navigation. It seemed his wishes were commands now.
They were on the north bank of the Arno, a league or so downstream from Nevil's invading army — less than a league, for he could make out individual tents in the Fiend's camp. But vision could be deceptive here, for when he looked around, he was only a bowshot away from another army, already advancing at a slow march to the beat of a drum, and obviously the enemy had not seen it, nor the camp behind it. He turned Smeòrach and cantered to meet the vanguard. His appearance had coincided with the moment when the first sliver of the sun's disk peeked over the ridge, and a great cheer went up to greet him.
Wonderful, wonderful sight! This was to be Longdirk's day even if it killed him, as it might do very shortly. Here was an army larger than the one he had led at Trent, yet still merely a quarter of the forces he was now sending into battle. Even if he lost, he would be remembered for having achieved one of the greatest surprises in military history, while if he won… Time enough to think about that when he did.
He was surprised that Ercole had put his cavalry squadrons on the right and the infantry marching in six battles on the left. He would have placed the men-at-arms on the other wing, so the river would protect their flank, but doubtless the old warrior had his reasons. Out in front rumbled the carroccio, a flat-bottomed, rectangular cart, garishly painted and drawn by two armored oxen. Traditionally the hexers rode in this absurd battle wagon, but it was also a mobile headquarters and a symbol of sovereignty. The finest troops in the army would guard the carroccio and perish to the last man around it if need be. Above it floated the serpent banner of Milan.
There were other banners in the background — Savoy and Genoa, Pisa and Lucca, others, too. All the ancient rivalries had been set aside, and for that Toby could claim no credit. Well, perhaps a little bit. They had rallied to the standard he had raised.
Ercole Abonio was riding forward to meet him, accompanied by a knight whose surcoat bore the blazon of the Black Lances and who must therefore be di Gramasci. Two of the finest military leaders in Europe roared a welcome as soon as they were within earshot. In the far distance, cannons rumbled a reply. He glanced around, but it was too soon to discern smoke. He hoped it signified only Florence's defenders warning off an attack, not the battery on San Miniato opening fire on the city.
"I was getting worried!" Ercole shouted.
"I couldn't find a clean shirt!"
He halted, and they reined in on either side of him, eyeing the owl on his shoulder with surprise and noting the curious absence of a saddle, but the terror-thrill of upcoming battle was making them beam like children under their raised visors. On closer inspection their faces also showed the wear and tear of the long forced march, although less on the condottiere's, for he was the younger. Abonio had visibly aged since the conclave at Cafaggiolo, a month ago. No matter, Nevil's army had come farther and would be even wearier.
"You're late," the old collaterale said. "Trouble?"
"No trouble." The comandante just forgot what he was doing, that was all. "That's a truly dainty army you gentlemen have brought. Why don't you go and do something useful with it now?"
"We await only your word, Sir Tobiaso." Di Gramasci was not normally pompous. Did even these seasoned veterans suffer from battle nerves?
"Then here it is: Destroy the enemy! Have your hexers drop their shielding when the carroccio reaches that tree. Tell them to do nothing more until the fighting starts. That's important."
The two men exchanged puzzled glances, but did not argue.
Di Gramasci raised his baton in salute. "As you command, signore!"
But Ercole hesitated. "Forgive me if I ask one last time, lad. Must it still be no quarter?"
He was a good man, Abonio, an honorable soldier who had been loyal to his cousin the duke all his adult life. This savage new warfare was foreign to him, hard to take. Even Toby's heart twisted at the thought of the orders he had given, the suffering he must now cause. The two of them had argued this through most of the night at one of their secret midnight meetings in Milan, but Toby's view had prevailed in the end and must prevail now.
"You know what quarter the Fiend gives. Your orders are to show no mercy whatsoever. Announce that any man doing so is to be shot. Let the burden be on my soul."
He turned Smeòrach away and rode off into the Unplace.
The mists had hardly swallowed them before Chabi asked, "Why must there be no quarter?"
"Because it must." Did she think he could not feel pity? She did not see the visions he saw, of thousands and tens of thousands of Nevil's troops surviving as lordless fugitives, starving outlaws, rabid dog packs overrunning Italy. There was no way to imprison so many, no money nor organization to escort them back to their own lands.
"Why is it important that the hexers do nothing before the fighting starts?"
"Because it is." What had he forgotten, or overlooked? If the cardinal's hex killed him soon, as it well might, could the alliance forge ahead to victory without him?
After a moment the shaman — or her familiar, or perhaps it was both of them — tried again. "Why did you suffer when we took you into the spirit world? Where did the pain come from?"
"An old memory." Perhaps he should have designated a deputy to take over if he fell, but it would probably have been a fruitless exercise. The coming carnage would be so confused and catastrophic that each of the six armies in the coalition would have to fend for itself. With the Magnificent dead, Sartaq would try to take more power into his own hands. He might even succeed, for he was a very shrewd and devious young…
Talons digging into his jerkin, the owl flapped her wings and screeched, much too close to his ear, even with the steel helmet between them. "Why do you not trust me? Did I not help you find your lost self? Where would you be now, who would you be without my help? What would have happened to your war?"