WELCOME TO GRACELAND
The riders came to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Each wore varying styles of armor, from the traditional knightly platemail, to the overlapping serpentine scales Christopher had liberated from the ulvenman chieftains, to simple chainmail. They were armed equally eclectically, with swords ranging from rapiers to great twohanded cleavers to katanas. The only unifying element was the guns: rifles and revolvers bristled in profusion. Christopher alone did not carry one.
Several of the horses were destriers, huge fighting beasts who glared at each other and snorted in warning if any got more than a nose ahead. Their riders were of similar temperament, although they did not snort.
“It’s a trap,” Cannan said. The big man glowered over the forest to the south from the back of his equally big horse.
To Christopher, it didn’t look any more dangerous than Central Park. The trees were gently spaced, the grass neatly cut, the ground free of leaf-litter and weeds. All that was missing were some park benches and a few streetlights.
On the other hand, the part of his brain that had become acclimatized to this world was screaming. Nobody here had a riding mower. So who cut all this grass?
The Rangers had been less than helpful. Their explorations had mapped only the northern edge of the park. They avoided the area, fearing that even spying on it would in turn reveal too much information to whatever lived inside. As long as the border did not expand, the Rangers were content to leave well enough alone and trust their neighbours to do the same.
“Of course it’s a trap,” Christopher answered. That much was obvious. The problem was that he did not know whose trap. Had the Rangers lured him out here to kill him off on a hunting trip? The plan had precedent after all. Was the whole thing a setup by the Wizard of Carrhill and the Witch of the Moors, using magic to disguise the true nature of the forest? Those two certainly wouldn’t object to a stack of dead Rangers as collateral damage. Or was the hjerne-spica testing him by setting monsters against the realm? For all he knew, the thing had run out of patience and wanted to eat him now.
The only way to find out was to walk into it. Christopher wasn’t entirely stupid; he wasn’t walking in alone. Behind him was a column of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, a thousand men and several hundred horses, wagons, and guns. At his side were people of rank in addition to his normal retinue. Both the Lord Ranger Einar and Duke Istvar accompanied him today, with squadrons of their own cavalry. For magic he had his own priests and Friea the Skald, head of the Bardic College, riding on a well-formed and lively roan mare. Lalania was careful not to outshine her boss, which meant that the most attractive woman in the column was actually an aged spy with a mind as sharp and devious as a panther. Not that anyone could tell; the woman looked barely eighteen and simpered like a schoolgirl whenever a man so much as glanced at her. Christopher found the whole thing ridiculous, but apparently it worked. Istvar kept going on about breeding a foal off Friea’s mount, talking about the various qualities of stud horses he had at home.
He could divide his kingdom into the loyal and disloyal simply by glancing over his shoulder. The leaders of the loyal faction were here with him, risking their necks, and the disloyal were at home, waiting for him to die. For the most part that was fine. He didn’t need any more knights and rather wished Istvar hadn’t brought his. They were expensive to revive because they generally expected to have their rank restored. However, he would have appreciated the company of either the Witch or the Wizard. He barely understood divine magic, and arcane magic was an entirely different beast, as Master Sigrath had made clear just before being consumed by his own demon.
“I will lead the way,” Istvar announced. His knights perked themselves up because riding into mysterious forests to face unknown monsters was apparently something to look forward to.
“It would be wiser to send infantry first,” Karl said. “They will search the ground for snares that might injure horses.”
“Good point,” Christopher agreed, and waved a squad forward. Istvar’s face darkened, and Christopher realized he’d fallen into Karl’s trap. The young man’s reasons were sound—not only were the infantry cheaper to fix, but armed with rifles and grenades they were as powerful as the knights—but that was not why he had suggested it. Heroes were the first to advance into danger. Karl was taking that job away from the ranked men and giving it to farm boys. And reminding Istvar that a commoner outranked a Duke in this army.
That was itself another good reason. Christopher swatted his own mount, Royal, on the side of the head to bring it back into line. It was as upset over the infantry advancing first as Istvar was. Both the horse and the man would just have to get over it.
“If you would seek snares, you should send those who can set them.” Einar was grinning, or as close as that granite face could get to it. He was clearly enjoying watching Karl and Istvar spar, since his own Rangers were vastly superior for this task than either of their troops.
“I’m sure there will be plenty of dangers yet to come,” Christopher said, managing not to sigh. Lalania’s public speaking lessons were having an effect on him. “Everybody will get a turn.”
“Fairness in round,” Friea said, “and round again. And yet, my lord, perhaps you should not be entirely fair. The realm would be sorely grieved to lose you.”
“It would miss any of us, my Lady.” That seemed like the diplomatic thing to say.
She shrugged, managing to make her chainmail jiggle in interesting ways. “Not myself. Uma already chomps at the bit; she should take the reins before inaction dulls her spirit. If I fall in battle, I beg you only to return the trappings of my office to her.”
As usual, everything the woman said had multiple meanings. In this case, she was clearly telling him that she had also passed the magical cutoff date. She was too old to revive despite her current appearance. That such a fact should be revealed to him here and now, as a response to a simple pleasantry, was typical. Christopher would have called a conference and put all his secrets on the table, but that was not how the bards worked. A direct meeting would be too easy to magically spy on. So information had to be coded and dribbled out bit by bit to those who could only understand it in context.
That was one thing he could thank the goblins for. Deep in the heart of their fortress, surrounded by the magic of their evil god, he’d been able to have a straightforward conversation with an elf. Not that he was going to thank them; that conversation had been painful. For that matter, the only other honest conversation he’d ever had here—with Friea when they were surrounded by an anti-magic field—had also been incredibly painful.
There was a lesson here that he was stoutly trying not to learn.
“Impossible,” Istvar declared. “You have much ahead of you and more to offer.” Istvar did not know the Skald’s true age—although he had to know she was older than she appeared—but Christopher suspected the motivation was more personal. They were all getting older. Magic could not stop that. At some point, Istvar would have to accept that even his ranks could not keep him in the saddle when facing younger men. That point would be a lot further away here than it would have been on Earth, but it would still come.
As it would eventually come for Christopher. And he had a lot do before then.
“Step it up,” he called out to the infantry squad. They stopped poking every square foot of ground with their bayonets and advanced quickly but still warily into the park.
Nothing happened. Karl waited until the squad was a hundred yards into the woods and almost out of sight before he signaled them to stop. With a frown, he turned to Christopher. “When worms sun-bathe, the robin must be wary.”
Meaning that whatever monster was smart enough not to take this easy lure was smart enough to be dangerous. No simple maw of teeth and hunger but an intelligent and cunning mind. A hawk, soaring about the ground, waiting for the unwary bird to follow after the worms it disdained. Christopher, of course, was the robin in this scenario.
“You spend too much time around those bards,” he replied, and spurred his horse forward.
The column marched three miles before Karl ordered a halt. The land was still manicured and neat. It was also devoid of any creature larger than a squirrel. The only distinguishing feature was the large open plain in front of them, the first clearing they had seen that was large enough to decamp an army.
Christopher sat on his horse and stared at the plain while his soldiers tromped through it, beating the ground with poles. Rangers roamed to and fro, occasionally stopping to examine a bush or flower with intense scrutiny. Nothing happened. Nonetheless, he could not shake the feeling that he was staring at a guillotine. When he glanced at Cannan, the man just shrugged.
Friea rode out, accompanied by Istvar. She circled the area on horseback, peering through the ring of her thumb and forefinger. When she returned to Christopher, there was admiration hidden in her face. “I swear to you, my lord, this field is free of magic.”
“I equally swear it free of snares, pits, poison, and ambush,” Einar said, although he had not moved from Christopher’s side.
Christopher nodded his head. “So whatever their trap is, it’s really amazing.”
“Phenomenally so,” Einar agreed. “This is why the area is proscribed by our law.”
“It can’t be that dangerous,” Gregor said. “The Gold Apostle came down here and acquired those giant ants he gave to Joadan. He had to sleep somewhere.”
“Yet he came only once,” Friea noted. “And we do not know what price he paid. Whatever rogue magic made monsters out of insects will not be without cost.”
“Do you want to move on?” Christopher asked Karl.
The young officer struggled with an answer. Christopher knew it was cruel to put so much responsibility on him, but it was in fact his job. Christopher ran the kingdom, the church of Marcius, and the county of Kingsrock. Karl ran the army. That was why he now wore the rank of general. The first commoner general in the kingdom’s history and, in Christopher’s opinion, the best. Certainly better than Christopher.
“If we flinch from shadows we will exhaust ourselves to no purpose. This is the most defensible position we have seen for a camp. Absent any compelling reason, we should make use of it.” Karl looked over at Lord Einar, clearly trying to pass the baton.
“The only contrary reason I can give is common sense. Although a toddler would be smart enough not to fall into this trap, expertise and magic agree with your decision.” The man was enjoying this far too much. “Rangers would never camp here. But Rangers would never bring an army here.”
Christopher decided to argue. “Perhaps the inhabitants did not expect an army. Perhaps they use this field for games and are mystified that we are standing here arguing about it. Perhaps they just wanted a place to plant strawberries.”
Everyone but Friea and Einar seemed relieved at his words. The Skald smiled in appreciation for his sophistry even while she clearly did not fall for it. The Ranger just grinned harder.
“Why haven’t we seen crops?” Gregor asked. “Even the goblins had wheat fields.”
“My apologies,” Einar answered. “I thought you knew. Everything here is a field. The mown lawn we have been walking through is cultivated rye grass. Not plowed, as we would do, and not organized into discrete and uniform parcels for convenience, but still of sufficient density to support half the kingdom. We tried to emulate it once, but the method is exceedingly labor intensive.”
“So you’re saying there are a hundred thousand peasants hiding in those trees?” Gregor asked, looking out at the forest.
“More, I would assume. Yet that is not cause for concern. One presumes that their peasants are no more dangerous than ours. The role of peasants is to produce, not fight.”
“I have learned to fear peasants,” Gregor said darkly. Einar had not been there when the goblins had tried to drown Christopher’s army in corpses.
“Set a fire line,” Christopher told Karl. “All around the perimeter. We’ll want a ring of fire in case they try to swarm us. A lot of fire.”
“I shall look to my defense,” Karl said, staring at him with hard eyes. “You must look to yours. Should you need to flee, you must do so. The realm can survive the loss of an army. It cannot survive the loss of its liege.” Only half the power of the kingdom had marched here. There were another thousand men back in Kingsrock, under the command of the battle-seasoned Curate Torme and supported by the spell-power of Cardinal Faren. Yet the price of Christopher’s rank made him irreplaceable.
“He’s not wrong,” Gregor agreed softly. “Keep your flight spell handy. There will be no dragon rides this time.”