wasn't for money or glory. Or even for love of the general. If by some
miracle Otah turned the Galts back from the city, they would die
scattered in the frozen plains of the North.
This battle would be the only time in the whole benighted war that the
Galts would go in knowing they were fighting for their lives.
"You want more?" the cook asked, and Sinja shook his head. Around him,
the members of his personal guard were moving at last. Sinja didn't help
them break down the camp. He'd left most of the company behind in
Tan-Sadar. They were, after all, on a deadly stupid march that, with
luck, would end with them sacking their own hones. It wasn't duty that
could be asked of a green recruit of his first campaign. Sinja had taken
time handpicking this dozen to accompany him. 't'here wasn't a man among
them he liked.
The last tent was folded, poles bound together with their leather
thongs, and put on the steam wagon. The fires were all stamped out, and
the stin made its tardy appearance. Sinja wrapped the leather cloak
closer around his shoulders and sighed. This was a younger man's game.
If he'd been as wise as the average rat, he'd be someplace warm and
close now, with a good mulled wine and a plate of venison in mint sauce.
The call sounded, and he began the walk north. Cold numbed his face and
made his cars ache. The air smelled of dust and smoke and horse dung-the
miasma of the moving army. Sinja kept his eyes to the horizon, but the
only clouds were the high white lace that did little but leach blue from
the sky; there was no storm coming today. And still the dusting of snow
that had fallen in the last weeks hadn't melted and wouldn't before
spring. The world was pale except where a stone or patch of ground stood
free of snow. "There it was black.
Ile put one foot in front of the other, his mind growing empty with the
rhythm. His muscles slowly warmed. The pain retreated from his ears.
With enough effort, the air became almost comfortable. The sun rose
quickly behind him, as if in a hurry to finish its day's passage and
return the world to darkness.
When he paused to relieve himself on a tree-his piss steaming in its
puddle-he took off the leather cloak. If he got too warm, he'd start to
sweat. Soaking through his inner robes was an invitation to death. He
wondered how many of Balasar's men knew that. With his sad luck, all of
them.
They wouldn't see a low town today. They had overrun one yesterday-the
locals surprised to find themselves surrounded by horsemen intent on
keeping any word from slipping out to the North. 'T'here would he
another town in a day or two. If Sinja was lucky, it might mean fresh
meat for dinner. The rations set aside by the townsmen to see them
through the winter might feed the army for as much as half a day.
They paused at midday, the cooks using the furnaces of the steam wagons
to warm the bread and boil water for tea. Sinja wasn't hungry but he ate
anyway. The tea was good at least. Overbrewed and bitter, but warm. He
sat on the broad back of a steam wagon, and was prepar ing himself for
the second push of the day and estimating how many miles they had
covered since morning when the general arrived.