the night—"
Vardan nodded. "They'll be harder to hit if they're under cover."
"True—but it slows them down. The king must be bringing troops down; if we slow them enough, cut down the size..."
They discussed the best disposition of troops, the best time to strike. Vardan and the Halverics skirted the yard, the barn, the other outbuildings, garden, and fields, at a distance, to avoid leaving obvious tracks in the snow. They settled into the thicker forest; they dared not make a fire, but shared out strips of smoked meat. Vardan set two sentries, and then, with the others, kicked aside snow-covered leaves to make a dry hollow and dozed under her cloak.
The Pargunese arrived before dark—slowly, cautiously, sending a patrol to check out the farmstead. Vardan, wakened by one of the rangers, crept forward to see what they looked like. Hungry, tired soldiers worried about an ambush, she thought, just like those she'd seen often enough on campaign in Aarenis. Not stupid, either—their approach was just what Halveric would have advised.
When the patrol reported back to the main body—their formation clogging the farm lane; Vardan could see only the front ranks—they set sentries where she would have set them, and quickly occupied the house and barn. A working party broke up the henyard and pigpen fences, began building a barricade from house to barn. Someone was set to work with a shovel, hacking at the hard ground—for jacks, Vardan assumed. So they planned to stay awhile? She wished she'd brought the shovel they'd found in the rangers' shelter; the Halverics had nothing to dig with but their boot-heels and it went against all training to leave their filth on the open ground. Smoke blew from the chimney, thickening as Vardan watched. She glanced at the ranger beside her; the ranger grinned.
Pargunese voices—loud, harsh, some sounding angry and some laughing—and squawks of the remaining hen came to them on the cold breeze. Thunks of an ax on wood, crack-crack of breaking branches, whinnies from the Pargunese horses; Vardan guessed that someone had found grain for them. But what would happen when they found the ale?
Not, she was sorry to see, the drunken revel they'd hoped for. She watched as one of the Pargunese commanders had soldiers tip two barrels of it into the snow. From another, each man got one mug. No one got drunk on one mug of ale. Well...full fed and with a chance to rest, they should sleep anyway.
Daylight seeped away as the Pargunese finished piling up their barricade—waist high, chest high. Vardan could no longer see past it, but she could imagine, from her own experience, the troops lining up for rations. They would have hot ham and sausage, and by now hot bread to go with them. Maybe sib, or whatever brew the Pargunese had instead. Her stomach growled. The farmstead quieted though an officer or sergeant made the rounds with a basket and sentries sounded off, stepping out to receive their dinner. Easy to tell where they all were. Darker still. The wind dropped, and a few flakes of snow fell, then more.
Vardan drifted into numb immobility, not thinking about the past days, not thinking at all, and yet not dozing—the ranger's first light touch on her shoulder brought her to full alertness. "Get your people." The falling snow now filled his earlier tracks.
Vardan left the five injured behind, making sure they were awake and knew which way to move if necessary; the others followed silently, bows in hand. For herself, she had chosen one of the crossbows they'd taken from the Pargunese; it hung from her belt and she had dagger in hand, ready to use on the sentry she expected to find under a particular tree.
Instead, she stumbled over the man—apparently he'd hunkered down in the falling snow and dozed off—and her first blind stab rang on the man's breastplate. The crossbow bruised her leg as she fell; the man was awake, taking in breath to yell. Vardan had a knee on one of his arms, feeling
Vardan nodded. "They'll be harder to hit if they're under cover."
"True—but it slows them down. The king must be bringing troops down; if we slow them enough, cut down the size..."
They discussed the best disposition of troops, the best time to strike. Vardan and the Halverics skirted the yard, the barn, the other outbuildings, garden, and fields, at a distance, to avoid leaving obvious tracks in the snow. They settled into the thicker forest; they dared not make a fire, but shared out strips of smoked meat. Vardan set two sentries, and then, with the others, kicked aside snow-covered leaves to make a dry hollow and dozed under her cloak.
The Pargunese arrived before dark—slowly, cautiously, sending a patrol to check out the farmstead. Vardan, wakened by one of the rangers, crept forward to see what they looked like. Hungry, tired soldiers worried about an ambush, she thought, just like those she'd seen often enough on campaign in Aarenis. Not stupid, either—their approach was just what Halveric would have advised.
When the patrol reported back to the main body—their formation clogging the farm lane; Vardan could see only the front ranks—they set sentries where she would have set them, and quickly occupied the house and barn. A working party broke up the henyard and pigpen fences, began building a barricade from house to barn. Someone was set to work with a shovel, hacking at the hard ground—for jacks, Vardan assumed. So they planned to stay awhile? She wished she'd brought the shovel they'd found in the rangers' shelter; the Halverics had nothing to dig with but their boot-heels and it went against all training to leave their filth on the open ground. Smoke blew from the chimney, thickening as Vardan watched. She glanced at the ranger beside her; the ranger grinned.
Pargunese voices—loud, harsh, some sounding angry and some laughing—and squawks of the remaining hen came to them on the cold breeze. Thunks of an ax on wood, crack-crack of breaking branches, whinnies from the Pargunese horses; Vardan guessed that someone had found grain for them. But what would happen when they found the ale?
Not, she was sorry to see, the drunken revel they'd hoped for. She watched as one of the Pargunese commanders had soldiers tip two barrels of it into the snow. From another, each man got one mug. No one got drunk on one mug of ale. Well...full fed and with a chance to rest, they should sleep anyway.
Daylight seeped away as the Pargunese finished piling up their barricade—waist high, chest high. Vardan could no longer see past it, but she could imagine, from her own experience, the troops lining up for rations. They would have hot ham and sausage, and by now hot bread to go with them. Maybe sib, or whatever brew the Pargunese had instead. Her stomach growled. The farmstead quieted though an officer or sergeant made the rounds with a basket and sentries sounded off, stepping out to receive their dinner. Easy to tell where they all were. Darker still. The wind dropped, and a few flakes of snow fell, then more.
Vardan drifted into numb immobility, not thinking about the past days, not thinking at all, and yet not dozing—the ranger's first light touch on her shoulder brought her to full alertness. "Get your people." The falling snow now filled his earlier tracks.
Vardan left the five injured behind, making sure they were awake and knew which way to move if necessary; the others followed silently, bows in hand. For herself, she had chosen one of the crossbows they'd taken from the Pargunese; it hung from her belt and she had dagger in hand, ready to use on the sentry she expected to find under a particular tree.
Instead, she stumbled over the man—apparently he'd hunkered down in the falling snow and dozed off—and her first blind stab rang on the man's breastplate. The crossbow bruised her leg as she fell; the man was awake, taking in breath to yell. Vardan had a knee on one of his arms, feeling
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