The Battle for Skandia (16 page)

“Is there some kind of problem?” Will asked, and she sighed deeply.

“I was kind of hoping that maybe you could show me how to shoot so that I could actually do something when the Temujai turn up here,” she replied, a little downcast.

Will laughed. “Well, maybe I could—if we had a year to spare.”

“I don't want to be an expert,” she said. “I thought maybe you could just show me one or two basic things so I could . . . you know . . .” She tailed off uncertainly.

Will shook his head apologetically, regretting the fact that he'd laughed at her.

“I'm afraid the real secret is a whole lot of practice,” he said. “Even if I showed you the basics, it's not something you can just learn in a week or two.”

She shrugged again.

“I suppose not.” She realized that her request had been unrealistic. She felt foolish now and seized the opportunity to change the subject. “Is that when Halt thinks they'll get here—a week or two?”

Will fired the last arrow in the set and laid his bow down.

“He said they could be here then. But he thinks they'll take a little longer. After all, they know the Skandians aren't going anywhere.” He gestured to her to accompany him as he collected his arrows and they started across the practice field together.

“Did you hear his theory?” she asked him. “About attacking here because they want the Skandians' ships?”

Will nodded. “It makes sense when you think about it. They can overrun Teutlandt and Gallica almost as they choose. But they'd be leaving a dangerous enemy behind them. And the Skandians could raid them anywhere along the coast, hitting them where and when they choose.”

“I can see that,” Evanlyn replied, tugging one of the arrows from the fifty-meter target. “But don't you think his theory about invading Araluen is a little far-fetched?”

“Not at all,” Will replied. “Hold them closer to the head as you pull them out,” he said, indicating the next arrow as she reached for it. “Otherwise you'll break the shaft, or warp it. There's no reason why the Temujai should stop at the Gallican coast. But if they tried to transport their army by ship without taking care of the Skandians first, they could be in big trouble.”

Evanlyn was silent for a few seconds. “I suppose so,” she said eventually.

“It's only a theory, after all,” Will replied. “Maybe they're just making sure their flanks are secure before they move into Teutlandt. But Halt says you should always plan for the worst-case scenario. Then you can't be disappointed.”

“I guess he's right about that,” she replied. “Where is he, anyway? I haven't seen him around for a few days.”

Will nodded his head toward the southeast. “He and Erak have gone to scout the Temujai advance,” he said. “I think he's looking for a way to slow them down.”

He collected the last of his arrows and stowed them in his quiver. Then he stretched and flexed his arms and fingers.

“Well, I guess I'll shoot another set,” he said. “Are you staying to watch?”

Evanlyn considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I might go see how Horace is doing,” she said. “I'll try to spread the encouragement around.” She smiled at him, waggled her fingers in farewell and strode off across the field, back toward the palisade. Will watched her slim, upright figure as she walked away.

“You do that,” he muttered to himself. Once more, he felt a flutter of jealousy as he thought of her watching Horace. Then he shook the feeling off, as a duck shakes water away. Head down, he began to mooch back to the firing line.

“Women,” he muttered to himself. “They're nothing but trouble.”

A shadow fell across the ground beside him and he glanced up, thinking for a moment that Evanlyn might have changed her mind. After all, the prospect of watching two muscle-bound hulks whacking each other with practice weapons was a little boring, he thought. But it wasn't Evanlyn, it was Tyrelle—blond, pretty, fifteen years old and the niece of Svengal, Erak's first mate. She smiled shyly at him. Her eyes were amazingly blue, he realized.

“Can I carry your arrows back for you, Ranger?” she asked, and he shrugged magnanimously, unclipping the quiver and handing it to her.

“Why not?” he said, and her smile widened.

After all, he thought, it would have been churlish to refuse.

THE PINE HAD FALLEN SEVERAL YEARS BACK, FINALLY DEFEATED by the weight of snow in its branches, the insidious rot at the heart of its massive trunk and one too many seasons of gale force winter winds. Even in death, however, its neighbors had tried to support it, keeping it from the ignominy of the ground, holding it in the grip of their tangled branches so that it lay at an angle of thirty degrees to the horizontal, seemingly supported between heaven and earth by its closely packed fellows.

Halt leaned now on the rough bark that still coated the dead trunk and peered down into the valley below, where the Temujai column moved slowly past.

“They're taking their time,” Erak said, beside him. The Ranger turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

“They're in no hurry,” he replied. “It's going to take them some time to get their wagons and supply train through the passes. Their horses don't like confined spaces. They're used to the open plains of the steppes.”

The cavalry army continued its slow advance. There seemed little order to their march, Halt thought, frowning. There were no outriders, no patrols screening the flanks of the mob of men, horses and wagons as they made their way toward Hallasholm, ninety kilometers to the north.

Halt, Erak and a small party of Skandians had come southeast, moving over the mountains along steep, narrow paths where the Temujai cavalry found it more difficult to move, to scout the invaders' progress. Now, as Halt watched them, a thought struck him.

“Mind you, we could make sure they move a little slower,” he said softly. Erak shrugged impatiently at the idea.

“Why bother?” he asked bluntly. “The sooner we come to grips with them, the sooner we settle this.”

“The longer they take, the more time we have to prepare,” Halt told him. “Besides, it bothers me to see them just ambling along, taking no precautions, riding in no order. It's too damned arrogant.”

“I thought you said they were smart?” the Skandian queried, and it was Halt's turn to shrug.

“Maybe it's because they expect you to simply come at them head-on when they finally reach Hallasholm,” he suggested. The Skandian war leader considered the thought, looking a little offended by it.

“Don't they give us any credit for strategy?”

Halt tried to hide a grin. “How
would
you plan to fight them?”

There was a pause, then Erak replied reluctantly, “I suppose I'd simply wait till they reached our position, then . . . attack them head-on.” He looked carefully at the shorter man, but Halt was being very obvious about not saying anything further. Finally, Erak added, in an injured tone: “But there's no need for them to simply
assume
that.”

“Exactly,” Halt replied. “So perhaps we should give them something to think about. Something to put them a little off balance—and maybe put a little doubt in their minds.”

“Is that good strategy?” Erak asked. The Ranger grinned at him.

“It's good therapy for us,” he replied. “And besides, an enemy with a worm of doubt working away at his mind is less likely to make bold and unexpected moves. The more we can dissuade them from doing the unexpected, the better it will be for us.”

Erak thought about the point. It seemed logical. “So what do you want to do?” he asked.

Halt looked around at the twenty warriors who had accompanied them.

“This Olgak,” he said, indicating the young leader of the troop. “Is he capable of following orders, or is he a typical Skandian berserker?”

Erak pursed his lips. “All Skandians are berserkers, given the right conditions,” he replied. “But Olgak will follow orders if I give them.”

Halt nodded his understanding. “Let's talk to him then,” he said.

Erak beckoned the broad-shouldered younger man to join them. Olgak, seeing the signal, moved forward, his ax swinging easily in his right hand, his large circular shield on his left arm. He looked expectantly at Erak, but the jarl gestured toward Halt.

“Listen to what the Ranger has to say,” he ordered, and the young man's eyes turned to Halt. The Ranger studied him for a few moments. His clear blue eyes were guileless and straightforward. But he saw a light of intelligence there. Halt nodded to himself, then gestured to the Temujai army below them.

“See that rabble down there?” he asked, and when the younger man nodded, he continued, “They're riding with no formation, with no covering scouts, and with their supply wagons and support personnel mixed up with their warriors. They don't usually travel that way. Do you know why they're doing it now?”

Olgak hesitated, then shook his head, frowning slightly. Not only didn't he know, but he didn't know why it should be important for anyone to know such a thing.

“They're doing it because they feel safe,” Halt continued. “Because they believe you Skandians are simply going to wait for them and meet them head-on.”

Olgak nodded now. They had reached a point that he understood. “We are . . . aren't we?”

Halt exchanged a glance with Erak. The jarl shrugged. Skandians took a simple view of things.

“Well, yes, you are,” Halt admitted. “Eventually. But for now, it might be nice to make them a little less comfortable, mightn't it?” He paused, then added, with a slight edge in his voice, “Or do you enjoy seeing them swan through your country as if they're on holiday?”

Olgak pursed his lips, looking down at the invaders. Now that the Ranger had mentioned it, they did appear to be having an altogether too easy time of things, he thought.

“No,” he replied. “I can't say I enjoy seeing that. So what are we going to do about it?”

“Erak and I are going back to Hallasholm,” Halt told him, feeling the Skandian leader stiffen beside him as he said it. Obviously the jarl had been looking forward to a little skirmish and he wasn't thrilled to hear he was going to miss it. “But you and your men are going to raid their lines tonight and burn those wagons.”

He pointed with the end of his longbow to half a dozen supply wagons, trundling carelessly along at the edge of the army. Olgak grinned and nodded his approval of the idea.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. Halt reached out and laid a firm grip on his muscular forearm, compelling the younger man to meet his steady gaze.

“But listen to me, Olgak,” he said intensely. “You are going to hit and run. Don't get tangled up in an extended fight, understand?”

The young Skandian was less pleased with that command. Halt shook his arm fiercely for emphasis.

“Understand?” he repeated. “We do not want you and these twenty men to go down in a blaze of glory when you burn those wagons. And do you know why?”

Olgak shook his head—a small, reluctant movement. Halt continued.

“Because tomorrow night, I want you to move along the column and burn more wagons—and kill a few more Temujai while you're at it.”

The idea was beginning to appeal to the younger man now.

“And if you're all killed on the first attempt, no matter how glorious it may seem at the time, by tomorrow the Temujai will simply continue on as they are, won't they?” the Ranger asked him. Olgak nodded his understanding.

“Then each night, I want you to hit a different part of the column. Burn their supplies. Set their horses loose. Kill their sentries. Get in and out fast and don't let them trap you into a standing battle. Stay alive and keep harassing them. Got the picture?”

Olgak nodded again, now more convinced of the good sense behind the plan. “They'll never know where we're going to hit them next,” he said enthusiastically.

“Exactly,” Halt said. “Which means they'll have to set guards along the entire column. They'll have to post extra sentries at night. And all of that will slow them down.”

“It's like coastal raiding, isn't it?” the young Skandian said, thinking how the wolfships would appear from over the horizon without warning on an enemy coast and attack unprepared settlements. “Do you only want us to do it at night?” he added.

Halt thought for a minute.

“For the first couple of days, yes. Then pick a spot where you can withdraw quickly into the trees and uphill—somewhere their horses won't follow easily—and hit them in daylight. Maybe toward the end of the day—or the beginning.”

“Keep them guessing?” Olgak said, and Halt patted his arm approvingly.

“You've got the idea,” he said, smiling at the younger man. “And remember the golden rule: hit them where they aren't.”

Olgak pondered that. “Hit them where they aren't?” he asked finally, sounding uncertain.

“Attack in those places where their troops are spread thinnest. Make them come to you. Then fade away before they really make contact. Remember that part. It's the most important of all. Survive.”

He could see the younger man understood. Olgak repeated the word to himself. “Survive,” he said. “I understand.”

Halt turned and looked at Erak, raising an eyebrow. “Is there any reason why you should make it an order to Olgak that he's not to get tied down in a fight, Jarl?” he asked. Erak turned the question to the younger man.

“Well, Olgak, is there?” he said, and the troop leader shook his head.