Orso shaded his eyes, peering north towards a single hill on the far side of the fields, a building jutting from its summit.
“What’s that tower there?”
“An old fortified manor house,” said Pike. “Belongs to a Lord Steebling. Minor nobility.”
“Bad luck for him,” murmured Orso. He thought he caught the twinkle of steel. “We have men there? Watching for the enemy, I suppose.”
“Those are the enemy, Your Majesty.”
“What?”
“Their first scouts.” Forest rubbed at his grizzled jaw. “Even with the roads in the state they are, their main body should be with us before sunset.”
“Bloody hell…” breathed Orso. That brought it all home, somehow. There they were, rebels fixed on his destruction, with only a few miles of flat Midderland earth between them. “When can we expect reinforcements?”
“A detachment just arrived from the Siege School in Ratshoff,” said Tunny. “They brought twenty-four cannon with them.”
“Don’t those things have a nasty habit of blowing up?” The flash as Curnsbick’s engine exploded was unpleasantly fresh in Orso’s mind.
“I’m assured these new ones are more reliable…” Though Forest looked less than convinced. There had not been much to rely on of late.
“Three loyal members of the Open Council are a few miles away to the west.” Pike pointed off beyond the orchards. “Lords Stenner, Crant and Ingenbeck, with perhaps a thousand men between them.”
“And we expect two regiments of King’s Own from the east.” Forest stood in his stirrups and frowned towards the gentle hill, the wind making waves in the long grass on its flanks. “Might get here during the night, maybe the morning. Lord Marshal Rucksted is bringing four more in from the south, mostly cavalry. Forced march from Keln and they’ve a lot of ground to cover. If we’re lucky and the weather holds, they might get here late tomorrow, but… well…”
“You wouldn’t want to bet a kingdom on it?” ventured Orso, turning at the sound of hooves behind. “Ah, Inquisitor Teufel! So glad you could join us.” She did not look very glad to be joining them, but then Orso had never seen her look glad about anything. He even found it rather reassuring. Negotiation, planning or collapse of a nation, she faced them all with the same flinty resolve. “Did you speak to the Young Lion?”
“I did,” she said. “And to his wife, Lady Savine.”
“She’s with him?” He had to cough back a ridiculous desire to ask whether she had looked well.
“Heavily pregnant but still sharp as a dagger.”
“What are we calling her?” asked Pike, with a twisting of his burned features that might have been a smile. “The Young Lioness?”
Orso gave an unhappy grunt. An apt name, as it turned out. From what he understood of the species, the males had the big reputations but the females did all the killing.
“I told them a tale,” said Vick. “That you’re disorganised and short on men. That Brint has prevented any chance of reinforcements. The Lioness had her doubts, but her husband swallowed it whole, I think.”
“Excellent work!” said Orso. If they could have been reinforced with another dozen Vick dan Teufels they might have avoided fighting altogether. “But… you look less than delighted.”
“Our rebels have struck a deal with the Breakers. They’re planning uprisings across Midderland.”
An ugly pause. Orso took it with remarkable fortitude, he thought. Or perhaps he had no room to hold any more bad news. Like pouring wine into a glass already full, it simply flooded over the sides. “Have we heard of any uprisings? Any more, I should say…”
“None,” said Pike, “but…”
It was left to Tunny to say what everyone was undoubtedly thinking. “The first warning would be when our reinforcements don’t arrive.”
Orso could not help himself. He burst out in a carefree chuckle. “Well, we can only fight one war at a time, my friends. The Breakers can be tomorrow’s problem. Right now, several thousand rebellious noblemen, disgruntled Anglanders and slavering Northmen demand all my attention.”
“Twenty thousand, according to Brock’s own estimate,” said Vick.
Another ugly pause. From the concerned looks on the faces about him, Orso gathered that was more than they had hoped. “How many are we?” he asked, unable to keep a wheedling note from his voice.
“As it stands,” said Forest, grimly, “no more than twelve thousand. But we’ve got the ground.”
A great deal of faith to put in earth. Orso gave a long sigh as he considered the grassy hill, the gently rising, gently waving fields of wheat before it. “Lord Marshal Forest, I would like you to command the right wing.”
Forest raised his bushy brows. “I’m a general, Your Majesty.”
“If the High King of the Union says a man’s a lord marshal, who’s to deny it? Brint’s early retirement has left a seat empty on the Closed Council, and I can’t think of a better man to sit there. Consider yourself promoted.” The way things were going, it might be his last official act.
Forest stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Closed Council…”
“Congratulations,” said Tunny, punching Forest on the arm. “You should get a baton, or something.”
“Only just got me a general’s jacket.”
“Well, you’re on your own there,” said Orso. “I can pluck new lord marshals from the air, but jackets cost money.” He frowned over at the rocky hill on their left, a few more steep bluffs beyond it. The ground in front of those was more difficult, planted with overgrown orchards and cut in half by that swampy tributary of the river. “Our left might be held by a smaller force, I think.”
“Especially if we place our cannon there,” came Gorst’s piping voice. He coloured faintly as everyone turned towards him. “I… saw them used at Osrung.”
“You’d want a ruthless commander,” said Tunny, considering the hills. “Someone who scares our men more than the enemy.”
As luck would have it, the perfect man appeared to be within arm’s reach. “Arch Lector Pike?” asked Orso. “I believe you have experience on the battlefield?”
“In my younger days, in Gurkhul and the North,” said Pike. “I also oversaw the first experiments with cannon in the Far Country.”
“Then I can think of no one more qualified to take charge of my left wing. Could you ensure morale there stays high?” Or at least that the demoralised troops were too scared to run.
Pike inclined his head. “Morale is a speciality of mine, Your Majesty. With your permission, I will begin fortifying the position.”
“The sooner the better,” said Orso. Forest gave a sharp salute and spurred away towards the gentle hill. Pike turned his horse towards the steeper bluffs. Vick caught Orso’s eye, gave him a firmly committed nod which he rather appreciated, then followed His Eminence.
A breeze came up, and took the Steadfast Standard, and made the white horse against the gilded sun flap and ripple. The very flag under which Casamir had conquered Angland. Witness to so many military glories down the centuries. Orso wondered if there was any chance of it presiding over another.