Tarness had been a general for a very long time, far longer than any of his men suspected. He was struck by how orderly the wagons were loaded, and how well supplied the horde was. Most armies lived by foraging-the Army of Free Men lived on the produce of the land, for instance, on whatever game its soldiers could catch and whatever supplies of grain they could requisition from local farms.
When you intended to lay siege to a city, though, you couldn’t just send out all your men each day to hunt and gather for themselves. The land around the besieged city would be picked clean in the first few days and you’d be forced to send your foragers out ever farther in search of food, stretching your lines until you could no longer effectively storm the city should the opportunity arise. The barbarians had a reputation as reckless fighters, but apparently this Morg the Wise had more foresight than some civilized generals Tarness had fought against.
While the scouts watched, the barbarians set up their camp a quarter mile away from the city walls. Far enough away to avoid any missile fire from the walls, but close enough so no one could escape the city without being caught. The camp went up with remarkable speed, as if the barbarians had done this a thousand times before. Small knots of men set about erecting a thousand tents, while others dug neat latrine pits well clear of the main camp. Others set up makeshift forges for the blacksmiths who would keep their weapons in good repair, or built stone ovens to bake bread to feed the camp. The work was done well before nightfall, when most of the horde turned in to sleep. Others stayed at watch around blazing campfires or stood picket duty at the edge of the camp.
It was all done with such efficiency and trim as Tarness had never seen before in any civilized army. It would have taken the king’s own troops weeks to achieve all that. By full dark the barbarians were settled in fully to their new home.
One woman, her face painted like a skull, broke open a series of barrels and let the men fill horns and leather cups with thick mead, which made them laugh so brightly Tarness could hear it on his ridge. Morg himself stood on a crude platform and gave a speech, and received a great cheer.
Morg’s son, whose face was painted like a berserker, broke off from the rest and went to stand outside the Hunter’s Gate of Ness. He simply stood there while darkness fell and lights came on inside the city. Stood and stared at the wall, as if he could bring it down by sheer effort of concentration. Perhaps he was waiting for someone up on the wall to call down to him, to make some effort at communication. He waited in vain, if that was the case.
He was still there when Tarness indicated that the scouts should withdraw. He’d seen enough. Rising stiffly from their perches, the men headed back down the side of the ridge to where they’d left their horses.
Tarness had a lot to think about. What he’d seen had been instructive enough-but what he hadn’t seen was far more troubling. Hood should have offered some resistance, surely. He should have at least shown the colors of Ness in defiance of the siege. “Something, anything, to show he was unwilling to give up,” Tarness muttered. Unless Hood had betrayed him and struck a deal with Morg, to open the gates and let the barbarians move inside. But no, that was impossible. Tarness had picked Hood for his zeal and his utter hatred of anyone who didn’t worship the Lady. And furthermore, Morg had set up camp exactly as if he expected a protracted siege.
What in the sacred name of the Lady was going on?
“We’ll ride back to headquarters at once,” one of the scouts said, in that deferential way the Free Men had. They’d learned not to ask Tarness directly for an order, but instead to state what they expected him to say as if they’d come up with it themselves. Then he would approve or disapprove as if offering counsel only, and not an actual command. Tarness nodded and the scouts mounted up.
Another of the men leapt up onto his horse and drew his sword. “In two days we can be back here with the Free Men, every one of them ready to die to relieve the Free City. We’ll show them what they get for picking a fight with Ness!”
The others looked to Tarness. They seemed ready to cheer the idea but needed his approval first.
Sadly, he couldn’t give it. He sighed and climbed up into his own saddle. “Yesterday,” he said, “I watched our men drilling at pike squares.”
The scouts looked at each other as if wondering what he was getting at.
“Most of them,” Tarness said, “have figured out how to march in a straight line. They can even turn when they’re ordered to. Though some of them still have to put down their weapons to look at their hands and remember which direction is left and which is right. Half of them are stricken with camp fever, and the other half with the sailor pox from all those camp followers I told you to drive off. Their armor is rusty, their weapons are falling apart. Not a single one of them has ever fought in an actual battle.”
One of the scouts shook his head. “They’ve got heart, though-they love their city and will be fierce in its defense.”
Tarness smiled at the man. In his experience that did count for something-but not as much as soldiers who knew how to shoulder arms or brace for a cavalry charge. “You know that my ancestor, Juring Tarness, was a great general. He had a saying that has been passed down through the generations. ‘If one wants to be renowned for one’s great victories, the best thing to do is not fight any battles where one might lose.’ ”
Tarness glanced back in the direction of Ness, though it was hidden now by the side of the ridge. He didn’t need to see it to remember what it looked like. “No, I advise we hold off for now. Keep drilling the men, make them as ready as we can. But it would be suicide right now to take on an army that well organized and blooded. Ness will have to hold out on its own awhile longer.”
“How much longer?” a scout asked, his eyes wide in the moonlight. He looked almost angry at what Tarness had suggested.
Tarness smiled. “Until some miracle occurs, and we actually have a chance. But don’t worry.” He flicked his reins and got his horse moving. “The Lady is on our side.”
Chapter Eighty-One
North of Helstrow, Croy took to the road.
It was risky, but it meant they covered far more ground every day. The barbarians seemed wholly uninterested in the land beyond the royal fortress. He had not seen any sign of patrols or even pickets for days. For that matter, he hadn’t seen any sign of life at all. The farmland that passed by on either side of the road was frozen solid, and if there were peasants still living in that cold region, they wisely stayed indoors. He was a bit worried by the fact that he hadn’t seen a smoking chimney for some time, but he assumed the locals were just being careful.
He should have followed their example.
Bethane had fallen asleep against his back, and he was paying more attention to making sure she didn’t fall off the horse than to the road. He was vaguely aware they were about to enter a copse of trees that narrowed the road on either side, but gave it little thought-until he heard someone cough.
He pulled up sharply on the reins. His horse bridled but dragged to a stop, just as Croy heard a taut rope being cut with a twang. A heavy log shot down from the treetops, swinging on the end of a line so it arced directly across the road at the height of Croy’s chest. Had he not stopped in time, it would have knocked him clear off the horse and left him sprawling and broken in the road.
Instead it collided with the rearing horse’s neck. Croy heard bones shatter and the horse scream, its hot breath lancing upward in the air. Beneath him he felt the animal falter and begin to collapse.
Ghostcutter jumped into his hand as he leapt to the ground, dancing backward to avoid the falling horse. Bethane, wakened by the horse’s pitiful cry, slid down and was nearly crushed by the dying animal. Croy had no time to get her clear as three monstrous shapes came rushing toward him out of the trees.