The redcoat nodded jerkily. Artos stood for a long moment. Father Ignatius cleared his throat.
“We could retreat faster than they can pursue, until reinforcements arrive,” he pointed out, his voice carefully neutral. “They may well outnumber us, and their aim is definitely to attack you, Your Majesty.”
Rollins nodded unwillingly, though obviously every fiber of his body longed to rush to the rescue; he knew that war meant hard choices. The warrior-monk continued:
“Undoubtedly they had intelligence of our route. As I understand it, their mundane means for that work as well as ever. And if they harm you, we are no better off than we were when this war began.”
Artos smiled, but the negative gesture he used was brusque; he knew that the argument had to be made, but he very much doubted Ignatius either thought he’d listen to it or really believed it himself.
“I’m not likely to do well in this war if I refuse to engage whenever the enemy has more numbers,” he pointed out. “Also we have the advantage of a fortress to serve as anvil to our hammer-while it holds out, the which it may not do for long unless helped.”
And to be sure Ritva is there, probably. It would be a world less merry with her off to the Summerlands. And I would dislike to see that branch of my blood father’s line cut off.
Mary had carefully said nothing about her twin. Everyone on both sides was someone’s brother, sister, husband, father; a King had to keep that firmly in mind, whatever his own feelings were, if he was to keep faith with his subjects.
“And besides,” he went on easily, “there’s the using of the lovely gifts my mother-in-law-to-be has sent.”
Messages and light cargo had been passing over the border with Drumheller since that realm decided to commit itself some months ago, even before the snows melted in the passes, for which he had Sandra Arminger to thank, and Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski. Besides letters, they’d found several boxed suits of plate complete waiting for them as they advanced, neatly tailored to their measurements and made of the most refractory alloy steels modern armories could work. It was the sort of gift only a monarch could make at such short notice, and a rich one at that.
Say what you like about Sandra, she’s not petty.
Ingolf spoke over his shoulder to his nephew; Mark went running to alert the Richlander cavalry regiment.
“Now this will be a careful matter of timing,” Artos said. “The problem being that it takes so long to get the horses off the hippomotive-drawn trains and deployed.”
He looked behind him at the long, long line of vehicles on the rails. In point of fact they’d be helpless as sheep in a pen if they were attacked thus, and the riders not much less so than the horses. Which meant he had to get them down and deployed at a considerable distance from the enemy, while the Norrheimer foot could spring out of their pedal-carts and be ready in instants.
Ingolf caught his eye, and he nodded curtly; their minds were running on the same track. It was the only one available in this situation, if you knew your work.
“Major Kohler, get them deployed,” his brother-in-law said. “Company columns of march. Extra quivers slung to the bow-cases. Tell the troop-leaders to prepare for a meeting engagement.”
“Inspector Rollins, the map,” Artos said.
Kohler took off at a run, bawling orders as he went; presumably the men would be waiting already, with Ensign Vogeler’s warning. Artos bent over the paper, though he didn’t need it himself. He’d always had a good eye for terrain, and now he could see, as if hovering over it on hawk wings. But physical images were still the best way to explain to others. He could trace them on the map with his finger, and to his mind’s eye they became real.
“Father Ignatius, you’ll take both field artillery batteries with the footmen, under Bjarni’s overall command. Edain, you’ll command the foot-archers, our war band and the Norrheimers both; Bjarni, you’ll be in charge until I arrive, but I’d advise listening carefully to both of them-and then making your decisions. Here’s what we’ll do-”
When he’d finished, the fleece-lined sacks with the leaders’ plate-armor were open at their feet, and attendants were stripping off their clothes. Then they helped them into the black padded undergarments, with mail insets at vulnerable points like the underarms and grommet-laces for fastening to the armor. The steel carapaces went on swiftly as they spoke.
Bjarni’s plain Norrheimer hauberk was a lot less trouble to don; he shrugged into it and grinned at Artos’ plan.
“This is like the story of the sheep, the cabbage and the wolf, and how the man had to get them across the river in a canoe,” he said cheerfully. “Still, the landwights and the High One willing, we can do it if Wyrd will have it so. You don’t want me to reinforce the burg?”
“No; you could make it too strong to storm, but then the enemy will just ride away and hover about, making a nuisance of themselves and delaying us, the creatures. The railroad is too vulnerable and we can’t do without it, we don’t have the time. It’s squashing them like a roach under a boot I’d be doing, not swatting them aside like a buzzing fly that comes back to drive you mad.”
Bjarni nodded wholehearted agreement; there were reasons his folk had named him Ironrede, hard-counsel.
“It’s not too complex, at least,” he said. “The timing will be tricky, but then it always is, eh?”
Not a word on how he and his will all die if I don’t manage the other part properly, Artos thought. I didn’t misjudge this man’s quality.
Mathilda handed him his sallet; Sandra-or more likely Tiphaine d’Ath or someone in her service-had had the new one also scored and inlaid in niello in imitation of Raven’s plumage. The black feather crests over each ear rustled as he settled it on his head, buckled the chin-cup and flicked the visor up and down; with the plate suit’s bevoir covering his neck and chin, that left no gap for a point to use. He bent, twisted and stood again. The suit’s joints worked with marvelous fluidity, as if they moved on jewel bearings like a fine watch; the articulated lames that made up the back and breast gave him nearly as much flexibility as mail, with far better protection. It was a bit lighter, too, though even hotter than chain links since there was no movement of air through it.
“Now go,” Artos said. “Your Gods go with you.”
Bjarni turned and trotted over to his railcar, gave a brief explanation to the chiefs of his tribal contingents, and then they were off again.
Artos spoke quietly to Mathilda, in the moment when they could be private: “If I fall, you must take up the Sword, mo chroi.”
She went a little white with shock, but when she spoke her voice was quiet and controlled: “Have you seen something?”
“No,” he said, and shook his head. “If anything, victory is likely, and myself surviving it. But it’s not certain. An arrow at the wrong time. . and if that happens, you must take the Sword. It would be. . hard, for you. It’s made for me and my descendants. But I’ve never known you to shirk a task because it was hard; not even when you were a prisoner, in the War of the Eye, and you and I washed dishes together!”
She stared at him for a moment, then ducked her head. “Your Majesty,” she said.
His mouth quirked. “You needn’t be quite so formal as that, acushla.” More seriously: “I wouldn’t demand this of the Princess Mathilda as my vassal. That would be stretching a lord’s authority too far. I ask it of my friend.”
A brief pressure of the hand: “Of course, Rudi.”