Shadow Blizzard (60 page)

Izmi’s arms bearer appeared in front of him.

“Milord?”

“Prepare my armor.”

The young lad nodded his hatless head, and Izmi set off for the king’s tent. Stalkon’s headquarters were surrounded by a formidable ring of Royal Guards and Beaver Caps. Several other warriors, holding flambergs—terrible two-handed swords with wavy blades—were guarding the royal standard.

The king was in the tent with his younger son, Stalkon of the Spring Jasmine, who was in command of the cavalry in the center, and the head of the Order of Magicians, Artsivus. There were also two magicians unfamiliar to Izmi—a man and a woman. Both of their staffs were marked with three rings. So they were powerful, even if they weren’t archmagicians.

The king noticed the lieutenant, nodded in greeting, and gestured for him to wait until the conversation was over.

“It is a real solution to the problem, Your Majesty,” Artsivus continued, huddling under his warm rug.

“And what if the wind blows in our direction? Blows it onto us? We’ll lose the army before the battle has even started!” the king’s son blurted out abruptly.

“I assure you,” the unfamiliar magician droned, “this spell will not affect people and—”

“Please remind me, Mister Balshin,” the king interrupted. “Are we talking about the same spell that wiped out the entire population of a village to the south of here only this summer? What was the place called, now?”

“Vishki, Your Majesty,” the woman replied reluctantly.

“Thank you, Madam Klena. You are most kind. It was Vishki. The very same village where you almost captured the people who were carrying out a special Commission for me?”

“That was a regrettable misunderstanding,” said the head of the Order, interceding for the two magicians. “The thief and the elves were not in any danger.”

“I can well believe that,” the king agreed, although there was not a trace of belief in his voice. “Of course they were in no danger, except from your experiments, which cost me an entire village. When I gave my permission for this insane experiment in spring, Your Magicship, I had no idea that there would be civilian casualties!”

“Believe me, Your Majesty, neither did we,” said Klena. “The ogre’s books that we used contained an error. It has now been corrected, and the tragedy at Vishki will not be repeated.”

“You must give permission, Your Majesty,” said the old magician, still trying to persuade the king.

“No, Artsivus. Don’t you understand what a great risk it is?”

“I understand,” said the magician, lowering his head like a bird. “But you know I understand these matters … I guarantee that the spell will work properly.”

The king drummed his fingers on the table without speaking.

“The scouts report that the Nameless One has fifteen thousand ogres. Fifteen thousand! They’ll simply brush aside our left flank without even stopping. After the Nameless One himself, that is the greatest danger that threatens Valiostr. It will take at least eight of our soldiers to kill one ogre. We simply don’t have the numbers. We
can
”—Artsivus laid special emphasis on the last word—“we can save the kingdom if we eliminate the ogres. That is the very reason why I have spent so long studying the ancient books of that race, that is why Madam Klena and Mister Balshin have been experimenting for so long with this spell and finally been successful, through the method of trial and error.”

“It was a fine error!” the prince observed. “Hundreds of people killed in a couple of seconds, and you call it an error!”

“You only have to give the order, and two minutes later there won’t be a single ogre left in Valiostr. That will greatly weaken the Nameless One’s army, Your Majesty,” the Master of the Order continued, ignoring Stalkon Junior. “I assure you, only ogres will be killed.”

“All right!” the king finally decided. “Do it, and may Sagra be with you!”

Artsivus nodded, and Balshin and Klena bowed hastily and left the tent.

“I am relying on your experience, Your Magicship. When should I expect results?”

“In two or three minutes.”

“So soon?” the king asked in surprise. “But didn’t you tell me that the balance between the sorcerer’s powers and the powers of the Order made such potent spells impossible?”

“This is the very simplest of all the spells that I know, Your Majesty. It was difficult to assemble, but now a first-level student could manage it. And as for the balance, for better or for worse, that is true. While there is still power in the Rainbow Horn, the Council of the Order can absorb the power of the Nameless One. His free shamans are a different matter. We won’t be able to spare any time for them.”

“So my soldiers are going to be roasted by shamans?”

“The Order has five free battle magicians. Those who will not be required for our circle. If Your Majesty will permit it, I shall send them to the army.”

“Of course.”

Artsivus grunted and got up out of his chair, leaning on his staff. He called his apprentice, Roderick, and left the tent.

“I hope you know what you are doing, Father.”

“I do, Artsivus has never let me down. How are your men?”

“The cavalry are spoiling for a fight.”

“Order them to dismount. Send the horses to the transports.”

“But…”

“Listen to what I’m saying. Everyone is to dismount. Cavalry in the center won’t do us any good at all. When the gnomes’ cannons start roaring, the horses will go hysterical and at the very least break formation. In the worst case they will wreck the entire line of defense. Better to have five thousand dismounted cavalrymen to reinforce our infantry lines and halt anyone who tries to break through to the Wind Jugglers than to trample our own comrades-in-arms. Dismount. I know what I’m talking about.”

“But what if the heavy cavalry of the Crayfish Dukedom advance against us?”

“Then you will order the bowmen to fire at the horses. Not very chivalrous, but effective.”

“Very well, Father, I will do that.”

“Izmi, my boy, move all your men away from my tent. I’ll manage well enough with the Beavers.”

“The duty of the Royal Guard is to protect its king.”

“In times of peace. In times of war that is what the Beaver Caps do. Remove all your men. We’ll be needing every one of them soon.…”

“How I regret that my father is not here,” Izmi exclaimed bitterly. “He would have been able to convince Your Majesty.”

“I also regret that Alistan is so far away.”

“My king!” exclaimed an adjutant, rushing into the tent. “Baron Togg’s mounted archers have clashed with the Nameless One’s advance units and, following a brief engagement, withdrawn from the Rega Forest into the cover of Nuad!”

“It’s started. Send the army commanders to me!”

*   *   *

“Fasten it tighter! Tighter, do you hear me! Damn you, are you stroking a girl or securing a cheval de frise? It’s a cheval de frise, isn’t it? Then why in the name of darkness have you got it gazing up at the sky? To frighten away the sparrows? Angle it, you thickhead! That’s right. And now fix it so that no bastard on a horse can come anywhere near us! Don’t even think of relying on the brook, that won’t save you from the cavalry, but a good horse trap and a handy pike will get our backsides out of this cesspit. Why did Sagra have to send me such witless monkeys to command?”

Jig listened as one of the unit officers in his battalion gave some men from the militia a roasting. At least it was some amusement before the battle. The guardsman held his halberd against his body with his left hand, took a clove of garlic out of his pocket, cleaned it, popped it in his mouth, and started chewing with relish.

“Are you eating that garbage again?” asked Jig’s partner, Bedbug, making a sour face.

“You don’t like it?”

“Who could like it, when you stink like the Garlic Stalls on Market Square? That stench of yours will drive me crazy—and the Nameless One, too.”

“That would be good.”

“You spend half the day eating garlic!”

“If you don’t like it, you can leave. Milord Lanten needs every guardsman he can get in Avendoom right now. If we can’t hold out, the baron will be responsible for all the defenses. It’s not too late to go back.”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” Bedbug snapped irritably. “I didn’t spend four days trudging all the way here just to push off back home at the last moment.”

“Then stop bellyaching.”

“I’m not bellyaching. I’m just beginning to get angry. We’ve been hanging around here like idiots for an hour and a half now, and no one’s arrived. My feet are frozen.”

“Do you know if they’re going to feed us?” one of the soldiers in the first line asked.

“You’d better ask our battalion officer that,” someone farther back, probably a crossbowman, advised him.

“I’ll feed you this, if you don’t shut your mouths!” barked a unit officer who was walking along the first line, showing them his fist. “You’re like little kids! Too impatient to wait!”

“You try standing here with a halberd or a battleax, like us, and we’ll see how you like it! We’re telling you, the frost is burning our feet!”

“Better your feet than your backsides. They’ll burn for a bit and then stop! And if you’re so smart, why don’t you clear off home to mummy, and stop stirring up my men! The militia have gone green already and their stomachs are churning! And then you start frightening them!”

“Who’s gone green?” said another voice from the rear ranks. “We haven’t gone green, we’ve gone blue! From cold!”

Loud guffaws ran along the ranks of the central battalion of the left army.

Jig laughed, too. Maybe these militiamen would turn out all right after all. A lot of them wouldn’t be needed in this battle anyway—provided the enemy didn’t break the formation, of course. It was a strong battalion, as long as it remained a single united whole.

Jig’s and Bedbug’s luck had placed them in the third rank from the front of the central battalion. The first two ranks consisted of pikemen—the lads had been covered in metal all the way up to the tops of their heads and given pikes the size of wagon shafts: You could have skewered a mammoth on them. At the moment the pikes were pointing up at the sky, like tree trunks, but they would be put to use just as soon as the battle began. And the reason for the pikemen’s heavy armor was simple—the lads needed two hands to hold the pikes, and shields were out of the question. So, since the main blow was taken by front two ranks, they had to wear all that metal.

The men in the third rank were armed with halberds. They had one very simple job to do—strike at the heads of anyone who somehow managed to get close to the front rank. Immediately behind Jig’s rank there were three ranks of men with crossbows. Their role was even simpler—to fire and then withdraw as quickly as possible to the empty center of the battalion, making way for the fourth and fifth ranks, consisting of pikemen armed with seven-yard pikes.

These lads were known as “anglers.” At present all the men behind the crossbows were maintaining their distance, so that the crossbowmen would have space to withdraw in after their volley.

Immediately behind the “anglers” there were several ranks consisting of a jumbled assortment of men whose main job was to press up against the front ranks if a formation of infantry of the line clashed with the battalion. And, of course, if the ranks were broken, then they would fill the breach for a while, if only with their own bodies. This was a task that could be managed even by soldiers who weren’t trained to work in battalion formation and men from the militia.

Right at the center were the commander, the standard-bearer, a number of Beaver Caps, the trumpeters, and the drummers, who gave the signal to maneuver. So the battalion was actually quite a formidable force, and it was well protected against attacks on its flanks.

“Bedbug, what are you gaping at?”

“Look over there, at our neighbors,” the guardsman chuckled. “Those lads have had a real stroke of luck. As safe and cozy as in Sagra’s pocket. Didn’t I tell you we should have gone across to them?”

There was another battalion standing to the left of Jig’s, the one that was closest of all to the Luza Forest.

“Why do you think they look so cozy?” asked Jig in surprise, breathing garlic all over Bedbug.

“Because they’ve got so many Beaver Caps and Jolly Gallows-Birds. And three hundred elves with bows, too!”

“Well, as far as the Gallows-Birds are concerned, they’re not right in the head. And the Beavers have been put in the third line, so that battalion hasn’t got any halberdiers. And those lads with the fangs … Sagra alone can understand the elves. Into the darkness with them, I say. They’re all smiles, and then suddenly they stick a knife under your ribs.”

“I’d rather have their knife under my ribs then be dispatched in the darkness by the Nameless One’s magic. And what’s more, they have bows, and I’ve heard dark elves are even better with them than the Wind Jugglers.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, lad,” the nearest pikeman put in. “We’re only three hundred paces from the yellow-eyes, so if need be they can reach our enemies with their arrows.”

“I’ll stop worrying when this is all over,” said Bedbug, refusing to be cheered up.

“Make way! Make way, will you!”

All eyes turned toward the battalion commander. He had another man with him. Obviously not a soldier.

“This way, good sir. Stand just behind them.”

A young man in a cuirass and a light helmet, armed with a short sword, stood right behind Jig.

“Hey, commander!” one of the anglers shouted. “What’s all this about? Can’t you see you’re breaking up the formation? What do we want a swordsman here for? Is he going to jump over our heads?”

“Why don’t you shut up, you ignorant oaf! He isn’t a swordsman! He’s a gentleman magician! I can stand him at the other side of the battalion if you like.”

“No, if he’s a magician … no … I’m sorry, good sir.”

“Take good care of His Magicship, lads. He’ll save your little souls for you if the Nameless One’s shamans get uppity.”

“We will!” the ranks roared all together.

A look of relief appeared on the faces of many soldiers. Nobody had said anything, but they had all been wondering what would happen if the battalion was attacked with magic. Soldiers could fight soldiers, but what could you do with shamans? Sagra had heard their prayer and sent them magicians.