“No!” Shandie said. “That’s bad. That’s very bad. I was afraid that might happen.”
6
The rain had stopped. As Ylo and Shandie were being challenged by the outposts, the wind was rising. By the time they reached the commander’s compound, it was rushing along the lines of tents in noisy ripples and tearing the clouds off the stars.
The legions were on battle alert; there had been no fires since sundown. Rank had its comforts, though, and those included a couple of dim lamps and a charcoal brazier. Centurion Hardgraa was busily producing hot drinks for cold officers, having nothing better to do and being one of those perpetually active people Ylo could never understand. It was impossible to imagine that human lumberyard ever putting his arm around a woman and just relaxing. He fussed over Shandie like an armored hen, especially when they were in the field, where military procedures recognized no place for personal bodyguards. Relief flooded the centurion’s gnarled face as he saw that his beloved prince had returned unharmed, but he said nothing. Instead he thrust out a branch with a tankard that steamed invitingly.
Shandie muttered thanks, passed the draft to Ylo, and waited for the next. That was typical Shandie.
The mug was wonderfully warm in freezing fingers, smelling of fragrant herbs. It tasted of spice and honey. Ylo burned his mouth and didn’t care. He thought he could hear ice crystals crackling inside him as the hot stuff went down, and all the little hairs on his arms stood up in celebration.
The tent was filling up. Armor clinked. The air grew thick with the smells of wet leather, wet horsehair, wet men. Wet wolf, locally.
Shandie passed back his empty mug, glancing around the dim faces cramped in on all sides. The tent roof flapped loudly, which meant the ropes were drying out already and the wind was still rising. God of Mercy!
The proconsul spoke up then, in the harsh voice of authority. “Everyone here? Very well. I offered terms. They were refused.” He paused, as if waiting for comment, or picking his next words with care. “So the plan remains the same, gentlemen . . . with two minor additions. First—no quarter. ”
One or two drew breath audibly. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Ylo thought there was a change in the silence after that. Butchery was never popular, if only because it meant that the other side would not be taking prisoners, either.
The tent billowed and creaked.
“Second. There may be a change of plan, either before or after battle is joined. I am aware that we are facing a defeated, encircled, outnumbered rabble of elves, gentlemen. But there could be unexpected developments, is that clear? Whatever orders I send, don’t write me a letter to ask if my signifer’s been partying.”
A few of the men chuckled, as he must have known they would.
“Something funny?” Silence.
“You will not question any signal whatsoever! I hope there is no confusion over that? Then try to get some sleep, all of you. May the Good be with us.”
Nicely done, Ylo thought—as always. Shandie had given as much warning as he dared. Of course he’d left the signifers exposed, no queries, no repeats. Ylo’d better not get his right hand mixed up with his left in this one.
The visitors departed, all but Legate Arkily of the XXVth. Ignoring him, Shandie began stripping off his armor and Ylo went to assist. It would all have to go on again right after, but a good toweling would help. Arkily was hanging around because he was second in command and therefore had the right to know everything Shandie knew.
But nothing in the world would start Shandie babbling lunacy about dragons, not even to Arkily.
During battle alert, Ylo slept on a cot in the commander’s tent. Ylo could always sleep, even in damp chain mail in a rising gale on battle alert—it was a gift. He also had the ability to waken instantly, as he did when Shandie lifted the flap to look out, at first light.
The signifer raised his head and sniffed. Impossible! Then he was on his feet beside the proconsul, staggering slightly, shivering with dawn chill. Sniffing again.
“He’s bluffing!” Shandie muttered furiously. “He wouldn’t!” It seemed as if the warlock would dare, though.
Rain had been falling for weeks, all over Nefer Moor. The streams were bank full, brown torrents. The trees, the grass, even the soil—they were all saturated, and yet the smell of woodsmoke was unmistakable. The elvish army lay to the west and the wind was out of the west. Ylo made an audible gulping noise. as the implications fell all over him.
Shandie growled in frustration. “It’s a bluff!”
Maybe it was. Maybe the fire was only an illusion. Maybe it was a real fire and had been started by mundane human hands, impossible as that seemed. But the only way to call that bluff would be to march a detachment of men into the blaze. If the Protocol still held, then no sorcery would harm them. The elves would, of course. Even mundane flames would.
If it wasn’t a bluff, there were dragons between the two forces and the scouting party would be melted.
Dragons sought metal. Gold for preference, but bronze would do. Four legions in this camp—twenty thousand men in helmets and chain mail, with swords and shields, officers in cuirasses . . . several hundred tons of metal. A dragon would go insane on a single taste of metal, and waste the countryside.
“If there are dragons out there,” Ylo mumbled through a sour, dry mouth, “can he keep them under control? Can even a warlock keep them under control?”
“That’s what we’ll have to discover, isn’t it?”
And Shandie was the sort of commander who might think to put himself at the head of the First Cohort and investigate in person. If he did that, Ylo would be lead man.
That might get his name in the history books. If there were any more history books.
Drumbeats throbbed through the camp and armored men poured from the tents into the half-light. Even seasoned campaigners woke easily on the morning of a battle, and it was no secret that the legions had brought the elves to bay at last. The weeks of marching in circles on Nefer Moor were over.
Reveille was the worst time of the day for Ylo, when all his varied responsibilities seemed to scream for his attention at the same moment. He had to attend to his own toilet, dress himself, help Shandie with his armor, see that the necessary signals were being issued, and wrestle a dozen lesser snakes before he could even give a thought to breakfast. The most important task of all was the trooping of the standards. All the lesser signifers of cohort and maniple brought their own standards to be blessed, as well, but it was Ylo who saluted the Gods each dawn, Ylo who swore that the legion would serve the Good—a commitment that he always felt should more fittingly be made by the legate who would give the orders. In this camp, he was senior of four legionary signifers and everything took four times as long. The bunting on the standards snapped impatiently in the gale. Halfway through the invocation, he began to cough. His eyes had been tingling for some time. In the distance, horses were screaming in terror. Wet wood generates much smoke.
He was facing northwest, toward Hub. He could see the snowy majesty of the Qobles out of the corner of his eye. They were even more spectacular than he had expected. He could detect very little but smoke to his left, but at times he was sure there were flickers of fire visible there now—no dragons in sight yet, thank the Gods! He could hear the roar of flames, hear trees exploding in the heat. That soggy glade where he had met the warlocks might be ablaze already. Cough! He was many days’ march into a forest and downwind from an inferno.
He had been worrying about the dragons themselves. He had forgotten the intense heat a dragon gave out.
Cough! “Signifer!”
Ylo blinked tears away and spun around in astonishment. To interrupt the invocation of the Gods was a major break in discipline, whatever else it was, and not something he would have expected of Shandie. “Sir?”
“Strike camp!” the prince commanded, and then he, also, was convulsed with coughing.
Ylo grabbed the standard from its socket and made the signal. Legates and tribunes and signifers were running already.
The warlock had won.
Shandie strode back to his tent with a face black as a cave. Perhaps, like Ylo, he was wondering how many days’ march lay between the legions and the edge of Nefer Moor. True, not all the Moor was heavily wooded, but most of it was. Forest fires traveled at night, as well as by day.