A horned lark hopped out of his way, then leaped into the air to catch a fly. The golden-bellied lark was svelte, even plump. It probably had a great brood of svelte, even plump, nestlings somewhere amid the ruins. With so much dead but unburied flesh in Durrwangen, there were a great many flies to catch.
Inside the headquarters building, a sentry did salute the marshal and his general. Rathar nodded to the youngster. Then he spoke to Vatran: "Let's go look at the map." He wondered how many times he'd said that. Whenever he was worried, undoubtedly. He'd been worried a lot.
Vatran walked over to the map table with him. Algarvian-held bulges overlapped Durrwangen to either side. "They're good, curse them," Vatran said. "Who would've thought they had that counterattack in 'em?"
"We didn't, that's certain." Rathar ruefully shook his head. "And we've paid for it. And we're liable to pay more." He pointed to the map. "Are these the best sites we could have picked for the centers?"
"Archmage Addanz thinks so." Vatran scowled. "Are you ready to argue with him? He'd likely turn you into a frog." He chuckled, but the laughter sounded strained. "War would be easier without magecraft."
"Maybe it would." Rathar shrugged. "But I'll argue with Addanz if I have to. I've asked him to come up to Durrwangen; he should be here soon. I'll argue with anyone and do anything I have to to win this war."
"I don't like arguing with mages," Vatran said. "Too many things they can do to you if you rub 'em the wrong way."
"A soldier can generally slay a mage faster than a mage can get rid of a soldier," Rathar said serenely. "And magecraft, even the simple stuff, isn't easy. If it were, we'd have mages running the world. And we don't."
"And a good thing, too, says I," Vatran exclaimed.
"Excuse me, lord Marshal." The sentry came back to the map table. "Sorry to bother you, but the archmage is here."
"Good," Rathar said. Vatran looked as if he thought it was anything but. The marshal continued, "Send him right on back here. We've got things to talk about, he and I." The sentry saluted and hurried up to the entrance. He didn't just send the archmage back: he brought him. Rathar nodded approval. He rarely found fault with a man who exceeded his orders.
Addanz was a well-groomed man of middle years, perhaps a little younger than Rathar. Few old men served King Swemmel; Vatran was an exception. A lot of leaders of the generation ahead of Rathar's had chosen the wrong side in the Twinkings War. Most of the others had managed to displease the king in the intervening years- or he'd killed them anyway, to make others thoughtful or simply on a whim. Swemmel did as he chose. That was what being King of Unkerlant meant, as long as a king lived. Swemmel had lived a surprisingly long time.
"I greet you, lord Marshal." Addanz's voice was rich and smooth, like strong tea with milk. Rathar was a long way from sure he was the best mage in Unkerlant. What he was, without a doubt, was the prominent mage with the fewest enemies.
"Hello, Archmage." Set beside Addanz, Rathar felt himself to be all harsh stone and rough edges. The archmage was a courtier; Rathar wasn't, or was as little as he could get away with. But regardless of what he wasn't, he cursed well was a soldier, and he'd summoned Addanz on soldiers' business. His index finger stabbed down at the map. "This center here, the western one- are you sure it's where you want it? If they break through past this line of low hills, they may overrun it."
"The closer, the stronger- so we have shown," Addanz answered. "With soldiers and magecraft to defend it, it should serve well enough. Besides, given how soon Mezentio's minions may strike at us, have we got the time to move it and set it up again farther from the front?"
Rathar gnawed his lower lip. "Mm- you're likely right. If I thought we had more time, I'd still have you move it a bit. You're liable to take a pounding from dragons, too, you know."
"That would be so even if we did move it," Addanz answered. Rathar gnawed his lip some more. The archmage went on, "And we have masked it as best we can, both with magecraft and with such tricks as soldiers use." He didn't sound patronizing; he seemed to make a point of not sounding patronizing. That only made Rathar feel twice as patronized.
He shook his head. Addanz had won this round. "All right. I'll never complain about anyone who wants to get close to the enemy. I just don't want the enemy getting too close to you too fast."
"I rely on your valiant men and officers to keep such a calamity from happening," Addanz said. I'll blame them to Swemmel if it does. He didn't say that, but he might have.
"Your mages know exactly what they have to do?" Rathar persisted.
"Aye." Addanz nodded. A year and a half before, the notion had so rocked him, he couldn't even think of it for himself. How Swemmel had laughed! Nothing rocked Swemmel, not if it meant holding on to his throne. And now Addanz took it for granted, too. The war against Algarve had coarsened him, as it had everybody else. That was what war did.
Distant thunder rumbled, off to the south. But there should have been no thunder, not on a fine, warm early summer day. Eggs. Thousands of eggs, bursting at once. Rathar looked to Vatran. Vatran was already looking to him. "It's begun," the marshal said. Vatran nodded. Rathar went on, "Now we'll know. One way or the other, we'll know."
"What?" Addanz needed a moment to recognize the sound. When the archmage did, he blanched a little. "How shall I go back to the center now?"
"Carefully," Rathar answered, and threw back his head and laughed. Addanz looked most offended. Rathar hardly cared. At last, after longer than he'd expected, the waiting was over.
Even Sergeant Werferth, who had been a soldier for a long time, first in Forthweg's army and then in Plegmund's Brigade, was impressed. "Look at 'em, boys, he said. "Just look at 'em. You ever see so fornicating many behemoths in one place in all your born days?"
Sirdoc wrinkled his nose. "Smell 'em, boys," he said, doing his best to imitate his sergeant. "Just smell 'em. You ever smell so fornicating many behemoths in one place in all your born days?"
Everybody in the squad laughed- even Ceorl, who was about as eager to fight Sidroc as the Unkerlanters; even Werferth, who seldom took kindly to being lampooned. They all had to laugh. Sidroc's joke held altogether too much truth. Algarve had indeed assembled a great host of behemoths to hurl against the western flank of the Unkerlanter salient around Durrwangen. And those behemoths did indeed stink. They'd been moving up toward the front for days now, and the air was thick with the rotten-grass reek of their droppings.
It was also thick with flies, which buzzed around the behemoths and their droppings, and which weren't too proud to visit the waiting men and their latrines as well. Like the other soldiers in Plegmund's Brigade, like the Algarvians with them, Sidroc slapped all the time.
Like everybody else, he also did his best to be careful where he put his feet. He knew all about stepping in horse turds. Who didn't, by smelly experience? But a horse turd dirtied the bottom of a shoe, and maybe a bit of the upper. Behemoths were a lot bigger than horses. Their droppings were in proportion. Those who didn't notice them in the weeds and rank grassland and unattended fields had enormous reason to regret it.