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Authors: Christopher Rowley
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line at the polder wall had thinned to a handful. Thru watched anxiously for any sign that his maneuver had been detected. This was the vulnerable time; an enemy attack now would scupper his small force. But the men were too busy roasting the bodies of mots and brilbies for their supper to be vigilant.
Now the last line of mots fell back, leaving their shields and a few scarecrows set up as a final illusion. They ran down the narrow polder lanes and waded out into the cold water. Thru was one of the last. There was still no sign the enemy had detected anything.
He floated along, with an occasional kick to keep his head above water. Around him a dozen other mots swirled like the dead leaves of fall. His sword weighed him down somewhat, but his wicker armor buoyed him up. He kept an anxious hand on his sword handle, not wanting to lose it in the river.
Then came the bend in the river, and the willows. Thru reached up to the trailing branches, already stripped of their leaves by so many grasping hands. Carefully he halted his drift downstream and began moving in to the shore. At last he felt his foot ground on the muddy bottom. A few more strides and he splashed out onto the dark riverbank.
Like the others around him, he barely paused to empty his boots of water and then it was up the bank, through the bushes, and on along narrow trails through dense thickets.
At last they emerged onto more open space and found the road ahead, visible as a line of grey-and-white flint under the moonlight. A long line of mots and brilbies, wet, bedraggled, but alive and in motion marched toward Shimpli-Dindi.
Thru hurried up the road, trying to ignore his bleeding shin. Encountering Chillespi and the other junior officers of the staff, he learned that the maneuver had succeeded almost completely. They had lost some mots who'd been swept on around the bend of the river. But the army had survived, they were on the road and marching at a great pace for Shimpli-Dindi. However, there was no sign of Colonel Floss.
Of course, there was plenty of confusion, some units were mixed up with others, but that didn't matter. They were all marching northward and they had lived to fight again another day.
Ter-Saab had the Sixth Regiment organized and marching well, toward the front of the column. When Thru came up to him, the tall kob saluted and congratulated him on the success of the maneuver.
"Looks like it worked perfectly, Brigadier General. We've given him the slip."
"Mustn't count the chooks before they hatch, Colonel, but this is a good pace. If we can keep this up, we'll get to the Meld's camp before they can catch us."
"Everyone's well fed, we're strong enough now. Have to see how we respond in a few more days now that we've lost our food."
"Hopefully, the Meld can feed us."
The Sow's Head was visible now, a hump sitting in front of the larger mass of the Sow herself. The Meld's fires, glowed red on the smaller dark hill, inviting them to their warmth.
Chillespi came running up with a scout beside him.
"News from the enemy front, sir!"
"They are coming. They left everything, fires... everything."
"But we have a lead?"
"Two miles, sir."
Not much, thought Thru, but it might be enough. He corrected himself, it had to be enough!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Through the long hours of that night the race continued, pitting the battered but defiant mots of the southern command against the veteran soldiers of Shasht.
In the space between the two armies, a fluctuating band between a mile and two miles deep, scouting parties sniped and ambushed each other in endless small tussles.
For the mots and brilbies of the southern regiments, the march was literally a race against death. Anyone who fell out, or collapsed, would die when the men came upon him. This kept many marching despite the agonies of exhaustion or wounds. A few, too badly wounded to keep up the pace, elected to hide in the woods. Others asked for the mercy of a sword thrust through the
Now the last line of mots fell back, leaving their shields and a few scarecrows set up as a final illusion. They ran down the narrow polder lanes and waded out into the cold water. Thru was one of the last. There was still no sign the enemy had detected anything.
He floated along, with an occasional kick to keep his head above water. Around him a dozen other mots swirled like the dead leaves of fall. His sword weighed him down somewhat, but his wicker armor buoyed him up. He kept an anxious hand on his sword handle, not wanting to lose it in the river.
Then came the bend in the river, and the willows. Thru reached up to the trailing branches, already stripped of their leaves by so many grasping hands. Carefully he halted his drift downstream and began moving in to the shore. At last he felt his foot ground on the muddy bottom. A few more strides and he splashed out onto the dark riverbank.
Like the others around him, he barely paused to empty his boots of water and then it was up the bank, through the bushes, and on along narrow trails through dense thickets.
At last they emerged onto more open space and found the road ahead, visible as a line of grey-and-white flint under the moonlight. A long line of mots and brilbies, wet, bedraggled, but alive and in motion marched toward Shimpli-Dindi.
Thru hurried up the road, trying to ignore his bleeding shin. Encountering Chillespi and the other junior officers of the staff, he learned that the maneuver had succeeded almost completely. They had lost some mots who'd been swept on around the bend of the river. But the army had survived, they were on the road and marching at a great pace for Shimpli-Dindi. However, there was no sign of Colonel Floss.
Of course, there was plenty of confusion, some units were mixed up with others, but that didn't matter. They were all marching northward and they had lived to fight again another day.
Ter-Saab had the Sixth Regiment organized and marching well, toward the front of the column. When Thru came up to him, the tall kob saluted and congratulated him on the success of the maneuver.
"Looks like it worked perfectly, Brigadier General. We've given him the slip."
"Mustn't count the chooks before they hatch, Colonel, but this is a good pace. If we can keep this up, we'll get to the Meld's camp before they can catch us."
"Everyone's well fed, we're strong enough now. Have to see how we respond in a few more days now that we've lost our food."
"Hopefully, the Meld can feed us."
The Sow's Head was visible now, a hump sitting in front of the larger mass of the Sow herself. The Meld's fires, glowed red on the smaller dark hill, inviting them to their warmth.
Chillespi came running up with a scout beside him.
"News from the enemy front, sir!"
"They are coming. They left everything, fires... everything."
"But we have a lead?"
"Two miles, sir."
Not much, thought Thru, but it might be enough. He corrected himself, it had to be enough!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Through the long hours of that night the race continued, pitting the battered but defiant mots of the southern command against the veteran soldiers of Shasht.
In the space between the two armies, a fluctuating band between a mile and two miles deep, scouting parties sniped and ambushed each other in endless small tussles.
For the mots and brilbies of the southern regiments, the march was literally a race against death. Anyone who fell out, or collapsed, would die when the men came upon him. This kept many marching despite the agonies of exhaustion or wounds. A few, too badly wounded to keep up the pace, elected to hide in the woods. Others asked for the mercy of a sword thrust through the
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