Marcus nodded. The Murnskai officers didn’t seem to be having much success rallying their men, who were spreading out into the fields or streaming up the road the way they’d come. Cyte snapped her spyglass closed and stowed it.
“Sir,” she said, pointing over his shoulder. Marcus turned and saw a horseman in the uniform of a light cavalry sergeant approaching. The man saluted without dismounting.
“Something to report?” Marcus said.
“Yessir. Got a column pushing south from Mezk. At least a division, possibly two.”
Marcus closed his eyes, visualizing the map that was at this point burned into his brain. Traveling due south from Mezk would take them around the end of the Reter, neatly outflanking his current position. Just as expected.
“That’s long enough, then,” Marcus said. He turned back to Cyte. “We’re pulling out. I want everyone over the river by sundown. Get the baggage train on the road for the Vlind first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Her salute was still crisp, though her drawn face and the bags under her eyes spoke volumes.
Marcus had to imagine he showed the same signs of weariness, as did almost everyone in what was left of the Army of the Republic. They’d been marching hard since the disaster at Alves, from first light until well after the early-?autumn twilight, sometimes stumbling into camp by torchlight. Even for troops accustomed to the harsh pace Janus had demanded of his men, it was difficult, and for the new recruits it was pure torture. They were losing men every day, soldiers abandoning their units or simply dropping by the side of the road, and Marcus didn’t know whether to call it desertion or illness born of exhaustion.
What they’d bought, with all this pain, was a little distance from their pursuers. Janus was whipping his pursuing columns hard, but bringing an enemy to battle when he was determined to evade was one of the trickiest coups in grand tactics. So far Marcus had been able to avoid it, moving steadily south and west to keep Janus’ pincers from closing around him. When he found a good position for defense, as he had today, he turned part of the army about and faced down Janus’ vanguard, giving the slower elements time to increase their lead. Sometimes their pursuers paused, waiting for support to come up; more often, as they had today, they threw themselves into the teeth of the defense and came away bloodied.
But it couldn’t last. The moment the Army of the Republic stopped moving, it would be surrounded and overwhelmed by Janus’ more numerous forces. Marcus could turn and swipe at his pursuers, but not make a real stand, not without committing to an all-?out battle he was sure to lose. So every day they went back, and every day a few more men were left by the side of the road or melted into the darkness.
“We’re hurting them,” he said to Cyte, as they rode through the twilight toward the Reter. “We have to be hurting them. But they keep coming.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like Janus.”
“He never struck me as particularly sentimental about losses,” Cyte said. “Given his advantage in numbers, maybe he’s just willing to accept the casualties to wear us down?”
“It’s not that I think he’d balk at the casualties,” Marcus said, frowning as he struggled to articulate his feelings. “It’s not that this way of fighting is too ugly for him. It’s worse than that. It’s inefficient.”
“A capital sin,” Cyte deadpanned.
“It is, for Janus. This is the man who spent the last hours before his execution writing out letters to be delivered in the event of his rescue. He never stops. It’s not like him to waste time and lives bashing us head-on when he could get us some other way.”
“Maybe there is no other way,” Cyte said. “Maybe you’ve thought of everything and this is all he’s got left.”
“Somehow,” Marcus said grimly, “I doubt it.”
*
It occurred to Marcus, as they rode into the camp, what it was that bothered him about Janus’ strategy. He doesn’t need to attack to wear us down. We’re doing that to ourselves.
The campfires were burning, and the air was thick with the scent of grilling meat. Most of it, Marcus knew, was horsemeat. The killing pace was consuming horses faster than it did men, and Marcus had given orders that none of those that fell were to be wasted. Supplies were desperately low as it was. The towns along the Pale had depots of powder, fodder, food, and other military necessities, but their commanders—?cowardly, fence-?sitting traitors—?had been reluctant to hand over their stocks to the fleeing Army of the Republic. Marcus had seriously considered taking them by force, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to storm a friendly outpost. They’re afraid of Janus. If he wins, he might come looking for the names of the officers who helped us.
Instead, his men had been forced to forage, as though they were in enemy territory. There was no shortage of food in this rich country, but the farmers and merchants of the villages were understandably reluctant to surrender their surpluses to the army’s bottomless need. They were even less happy about giving up their horses, but Marcus’ foraging parties gave them no choice in the matter. The artillery and baggage needed to move, and the cavalry needed remounts. He’d told the men to keep records of where they’d gone, so Queen Raesinia could make the losses good after the war, but he couldn’t blame the farmers for not trusting his promises.
The command tent was set up in its usual place, though the camp layout had become increasingly sloppy as the march went on. Marcus and Cyte rode in as a slow drizzle began to fall, handing the reins of their mounts to a waiting corporal and slipping inside before the real rain began. Fitz was already there, along with Give-Em-Hell for the cavalry. Since Marcus was now in overall command, he’d nominated Abby to represent the Second Division. She arrived a few minutes later, shaking rain off her coat. Cyte unrolled the big paper map on the camp table and sat in front of it, marking their new position and the last reported location of Janus’ forces in grease pencil.
“All right,” Marcus said. “Give me the bad news.”
“Had a skirmish with a local militia today,” Give-Em-Hell said. “A gang of farmers and their sons with shotguns and hunting rifles. We told them we were foraging in the name of the queen, and they said we were just a bunch of thieves.” He snorted. “Not a patriotic bone in the whole yellow bunch. They scattered quick enough when I called up the cuirassiers.”
“It’s still not a promising sign,” Marcus said. “If the whole country starts to rise against us, we’ll starve.”
“They won’t,” Give-Em-Hell assured him. “I’ll come down like a thunderbolt on any hint of trouble, and word will get around.”
Marcus hesitated. The harsher they were, the worse it would be in the long term. But we won’t get to the long term if we starve in the short term. The only saving grace was that their breakneck pace might keep them ahead of the wave of indignation.