Before They Are Hanged (59 page)

“Dogman.”

Threetrees was bending over, listening to her breath. He straightened up, and slowly shook his head. “She’s dead.”

“What?”

White specks drifted down round them. It was starting to snow again.

“Where the hell is Poulder?” snarled Marshal Burr, staring down the valley, his fists clenching and unclenching with frustration. “I said wait until we’re engaged, not damn well overrun!”

West could think of no reply. Where, indeed, was Poulder? The snow was thickening now, coming down softly in swirls and eddies, letting fall a grey curtain across the battlefield, lending to everything an air of unreality. The sounds came up as though from impossibly far away, muffled and echoing. Messengers rode back and forth behind the lines, black dots moving swiftly over the white ground with urgent calls for reinforcement. The wounded were building up, dragged groaning in stretchers, gasping in carts, or trudging, silent and bloody down the road below the headquarters.

Even through the snow it was clear that Kroy’s men were hard pressed. The carefully drawn lines now bulged alarmingly in the centre, units dissolved into a single straining mass, merged with one another in the chaos and confusion of combat. West had lost track of the number of staff officers General Kroy had sent to the command post demanding support or permission to withdraw, all of them sent back with the same message. To hold, and to wait. From Poulder, meanwhile, came nothing but an ominous and unexpected silence.

“Where the hell is he?” Burr stomped back to his tent leaving dark footprints in the fresh crust of white. “You!” he shouted at an adjutant, beckoning him impatiently. West followed at a respectful distance and pushed through the tent flap after him, Jalenhorm just behind.

Marshal Burr leaned over his table and snatched a pen from an ink-bottle, spattering black drops on the wood. “Get up into those woods and find General Poulder! Establish what the hell he is doing and return to me at once!”

“Yes, sir!” squawked the officer, standing to vibrating attention.

Burr’s pen scrawled orders across the paper. “Inform him that he is commanded to begin his attack
immediately
!” He signed his name with an angry slash of the wrist and jerked the paper out to the adjutant.

“Of course, sir!” The young officer strode purposefully from the tent.

Burr turned back to his maps, wincing as he glared down, one hand tugging on his beard, the other pressed to his belly. “Where the hell is Poulder?”

“Perhaps, sir, he has himself come under attack—”

Burr burped, and grimaced, burped again and thumped the table making the ink bottle rattle. “Curse this fucking indigestion!” His thick finger stabbed at the map. “If Poulder doesn’t arrive soon we’ll have to commit the reserve, West, you hear me? Commit the cavalry.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“This cannot be allowed to fail.” The Marshal frowned, swallowed. It seemed to West he had gone suddenly very pale. “This cannot… cannot…” He swayed slightly, blinking.

“Sir, are you—”

“Bwaaaah!” And Marshal Burr jerked forwards and sprayed black vomit over the table top. It splattered against the maps and turned the paper angry red. West stood frozen, his jaw gradually dropping open. Burr gurgled, fists clenched on the table in front of him, his body shaking, then he hunched over and poured out puke again. “Guuurgh!” And he lurched away, red drool dangling from his lip, eyes starting from his white face, gave a strangled groan and toppled back, dragging one bloody chart with him.

West finally understood what was happening just in time to dive forwards and catch the Lord Marshal’s limp body before he fell. He staggered across the tent, struggling to hold him up.

“Shit!” gasped Jalenhorm.

“Help me, damn it!” snarled West. The big man started over and took Burr’s other arm, and together they half lifted, half dragged him to his bed. West undid the Marshal’s top button, loosened his collar. “Some sickness of the stomach,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “He’s been complaining for weeks…”

“I’ll get the surgeon!” squealed Jalenhorm.

He started up but West caught hold of his arm. “No.”

The big man stared back. “What?”

“If it becomes known that he’s ill, there’ll be panic. Poulder and Kroy will do as they please. The army might fall apart. No one can know until after the battle.”

“But—”

West got up and put his hand on Jalenhorm’s shoulder, looking him straight in the eye. He knew already what had to be done. He would not be a spectator at another disaster. “Listen to me. We must follow through with the plan. We must.”

“Who must?” Jalenhorm stared wildly round the tent. “Me and you, alone?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“But this is a man’s life!”

“This is thousands of men’s lives,” hissed West. “It cannot be allowed to fail, you heard him say it.”

Jalenhorm had turned almost as pale as Burr. “I hardly think he meant that—”

“Don’t forget you owe me.” West leaned still closer. “Without me you’d be one in a pile of corpses rotting nicely north of the Cumnur.” He didn’t like doing it, but it had to be done, and there was no time for niceties. “Do we understand each other, Captain?”

Jalenhorm swallowed. “Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Good. You watch Marshal Burr, I’ll take care of things outside.” West got up and made for the tent flap.

“What if he—”

“Improvise!” he snapped, over his shoulder. There were bigger things to worry about now than any one man. He ducked out into the cold air. At least a score of officers and guards were scattered around the command post before the tent, pointing down into the white valley, peering through eye-glasses and muttering to one another. “Sergeant Pike!” West beckoned to the convict and he strode over through the falling snow. “I need you to stand guard here, do you understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I need you to stand guard here, and admit no one but me or Captain Jalenhorm. No one.” He dropped his voice lower. “Under any circumstances.”

Pike nodded, his eyes glittering in the pink mass of his face. “I understand.” And he moved to the tent flap and stood beside it, almost carelessly, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt.

A moment later a horse plunged down the slope and into the headquarters, smoke snorting from its nostrils. Its rider slid down from his saddle, stumbled a couple of steps before West managed to get in his way.

“An urgent message for Marshal Burr from General Poulder!” blathered the man in a rush. He tried to take a stride towards the tent but West did not move.

“Marshal Burr is busy. You can deliver your message to me.”

“I was explicitly told to—”

“To me, Captain!”

The man blinked. “General Poulder’s division is engaged, sir, in the woods.”

“Engaged?”

“Hotly engaged. There have been several savage attacks on the left wing and we’re hard pressed to hold our own. General Poulder requests permission to withdraw and regroup, sir, we’re all out of position!”

West swallowed. The plan was already coming unravelled, and in imminent danger of falling apart completely. “Withdraw? No! Impossible. If he pulls back, Kroy’s division will be left exposed. Tell General Poulder to hold his ground, and to go through with the attack if he possibly can. Tell him he must not withdraw under any circumstances! Every man must do his part!”

“But, sir, I should—”

“Go!” shouted West. “At once!”

The man saluted and clambered back onto his horse. Even as he was spurring up the slope another visitor was pulling up his mount not far from the tent. West cursed under his breath. It was Colonel Felnigg, Kroy’s chief of staff. He would not be so easily put off.

“Colonel West,” he snapped as he swung down from the saddle. “Our division is fiercely engaged all across the line, and now cavalry has appeared on our right wing! A charge by cavalry against a regiment of levies!” He was already making for the tent, pulling off his gloves. “Without support they won’t hold long, and if they break, our flank will be up in the air! It could be the end! Where the hell is Poulder?”

West attempted unsuccessfully to slow Felnigg down. “General Poulder has come under attack himself. However, I will order the reserves released immediately and—”

“Not good enough,” growled Felnigg, brushing past him and striding towards the tent flap. “I must speak to Marshal Burr at—”

Pike stepped out in front of him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “The Marshal… is busy,” he whispered. His eyes bulged from his burned face in a manner so horribly threatening that even West felt slightly unnerved. There was a tense silence for a moment as the staff officer and the faceless convict stared at one another.

Then Felnigg took a hesitant step back. He blinked, licked his lips nervously. “Busy. I see. Well.” He took another step away. “The reserves will be committed, you say?”

“Immediately.”

“Well then, well then… I will tell General Kroy to expect reinforcements.” Felnigg shoved one toe into his stirrup. “This is highly irregular, though.” He frowned down at the tent, at Pike, at West. “Highly irregular.” And he gave his horse the spurs and charged back down into the valley. West watched him go, thinking that Felnigg had no idea just how irregular. He turned to an adjutant.

“Marshal Burr has ordered the reserve into action on the right wing. They must charge Bethod’s cavalry and drive them off. If that flank weakens, it will mean disaster. Do you understand?”

“I should have written orders from the Marshal—”

“There is no time for written orders!” roared West. “Get down there and do your duty, man!”

The adjutant hurried obediently away down the slope towards the two regiments of reserves, waiting patiently in the snow. West watched him go, his fingers working nervously. The men began to mount up, began to trot into position for a charge. West was chewing at his lip as he turned around. The officers and guards of Burr’s staff were all looking at him with expressions ranging from mildly curious to downright suspicious.

He nodded to a couple of them as he walked back, trying to give the impression that everything was routine. He wondered how long it would be before someone refused to simply take his word, before someone forced their way into the tent, before someone discovered that Lord Marshal Burr was halfway to the land of the dead, and had been for some time. He wondered if it would happen before the lines broke in the valley, and the command post was overrun by Northmen. If it was after, he supposed it would hardly matter.

Pike was looking over at him with an expression that might have been something like a grin. West would have liked to grin back, but he didn’t have it in him.

The Dogman sat, and breathed. His back was to the fallen tree, his bow was hanging loose in his fist. A sword was stuck into the wet earth beside him. He’d taken it from a dead Carl, and put it to use, and he reckoned he’d have more use for it before the day was out. There was blood on him—on his hands, on his clothes, all over. Cathil’s, Flatheads’, his own. Wiping it off hardly seemed worth the effort—there’d be plenty more soon enough.

Three times the Shanka had come up the hill now, and three times they’d fought them off, each fight harder than the one before. Dogman wondered if they’d fight them off when they came again. He never doubted that they were coming. Not for a minute. When and how many were the questions that bothered him.

Through the trees he could hear the Union wounded screeching and squealing. Lots of wounded. One of the Carls had lost his hand the last time they came. Lost was the wrong word, maybe, since it got cut off with an axe. He’d been screaming loud just after, but now he was quiet, breathing soft and wheezy. They’d strapped the stump up with a rag and a belt, and now he was staring at it, with that look the wounded get sometimes. White and big-eyed, looking at his hacked-off wrist as if he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. As if it was a constant surprise to him.

Dogman eased himself up slow, peering over the top of the fallen tree trunk. He could see the Flatheads, down in the woods. Sat there in the shadows. Waiting. He didn’t like seeing ’em lurking down there. Shanka come at you until they’re finished, or they run.

“What are they waiting for?” he hissed. “When did bloody Flatheads learn to wait?”

“When did they learn to fight for Bethod?” growled Tul, wiping his sword clean. “There’s a lot that’s changing, and none of it for the better.”

“When did anything change for the better?” snarled Dow from further down the line.

Dogman frowned. There was a new smell in his nose, like damp. There was something pale, down in the trees, getting paler while he watched. “What is that? That mist?”

“Mist? Up here?” Dow chuckled harsh as a crow calling. “This time of day? Hah! Hold on, though…” They could all see it now—a trace of white, clinging to the wet slope. Dogman swallowed. His mouth was dry. He was feeling uneasy, all of a sudden, and not just from the Shanka waiting down there. Something else. The mist was creeping up through the trees, curling round the trunks, rising while they watched. The Flatheads were starting to move, dim shapes shifting in the grey murk.