He grunted inwardly. Or would-be fighting men. Tonight he’d find out how good fifty of the more advanced were, how much they’d learned.
He didn’t try to set the pace himself. As a Hero, he’d come to be a skilled rider, but he still lacked a sure feel for how hard and long one could push a good horse. So he’d appointed Tarlok route leader. Just now the man rode in front of him, with a pair of scouts out of sight ahead.
He scanned around, seeing the countryside by the light of a newly risen moon a bit less than half full. Dogs barked from sleeping farms, but farm dogs barked at everything that moved—cats, possums, skunks . . . No one’s sleep would be seriously disturbed unless the tone became excited.
He expected to return a different way; a way with fewer hills to cross, easier for the pack string, which by then would be heavily loaded. And more importantly, a way that would lead their pursuit into Wollerda’s ambush, for the purpose of this raid went beyond plunder.
Macurdy had planned the mission as carefully as he could, given his limitations of time and information, and still felt uncomfortable about it. His Kullvordi officers, on the other hand, were enthused. As he’d explained his thinking to them, they’d reacted as if he was a genius to have thought all those things through.
His basic problem was that he questioned whether his force was ready for something like this. Though he’d gone out of his way not to show it, because one of the pluses was their generally high level of confidence: They had the idea that any hillsman was worth three soldiers and six bailiff’s men.
Despite his misgivings, here he was, his timing dictated by opportunity and need. To feed his growing company was a constant problem. Also, some sort of successful fighting action was necessary to keep up morale; to keep recruits coming in; and to prevent excessive desertions, because so far, many of his volunteers had shown limited tolerance for training in the absence of fighting. It was also desirable, though not yet urgent, to show Wollerda and his men that Macurdy’s Company was capable of effective action.
And finally to suggest to the flatlanders that the king was in real trouble this time.
The opportunity was the timing of tax collection in the flatlands, and what it might mean to the problem of feeding his rebels. They ate no more as fighting men than they would at home, but at home they ate their own food—food they’d either helped to raise, or bought and paid for. But here . . . Chits or not, most of the farmers they took food from considered themselves more or less plundered.
Then someone had mentioned that the flatlanders were about finished with their wheat harvest, and maybe they ought to raid them.
Macurdy’s lips had drawn into a thoughtful pucker. To plunder flatland farmers would kill the hope of rural support there, but he saw another way. He’d already heard how, in the flatlands, the bailiffs’ tax squads went out with hired wagons and drovers within a few days after harvest, collecting the tax grain and tax cattle. And presumably as soon as that was done, the farmers would begin carting to market whatever surplus they had, beyond household needs and seed, and no doubt a reserve.
No, he’d announced, we’re not going to plunder the farmers. We’ll plunder the bailiffs instead. Which meant they’d be robbing the king, which would please the farmers (he hoped), and gain the rebels their passive approval at least. While plundering the concentrations in a bailiff’s grain bins should be a lot handier than going from farm to farm. And perhaps safer, because they could strike, load up, and get back to the forest far more quickly.
Even his own staff, who were quite willing to plunder flatland farmers, saw the logic of it.
They’d been ready to do it cold. In fact, their concept of planning in general troubled Macurdy. Their attitude was no problem. We’ll just go do it. Then he’d point out problems, and they’d say oh yes, and listen while he asked questions, paid attention to their answers, and came up with handlings, or what he hoped were handlings.