"We're running out of food," Olem said from horseback beside Tamas.
It wasn't the first time Olem had mentioned rations, and it wouldn't be the last.
"I know," Tamas said. His men had their basic kit with a week's worth of road rations. No camp followers, no supply train. They'd marched double-time for four days now, and he had no doubt that some of his men had already finished their reserve against orders. "Give the order for half rations," Tamas said.
"We already did, sir." Olem chewed nervously on the butt of a cigarette.
"Halve it again."
Tamas looked west. It was infuriating. Millions of acres of farmland within sight, seemingly within a stone's throw. The reality was they couldn't be any farther away. The closest crops might be eight miles distant, without roads to reach them. No way to traverse the foothills and get down on the plain, forage with over ten thousand soldiers, and get back up to the road without losing a full two days' worth of marching.
It was their lead on the Kez armies that Tamas could not risk, even for food.
"Put together more foraging parties," Tamas said. "Twenty men each. Tell them not to range more than a single mile off the Northern Highway."
"We'll have to drop our pace," Olem said. He spit out his cigarette butt and reached in his pocket for another, only to examine it for a moment and slip it back in his jacket. He muttered something under his breath.
"What's that?" Tamas asked.
"I said I'm going to run out of cigarettes sooner or later."
Cigarettes were the least of Tamas's worries. "The men are exhausted." He turned in his saddle to look back along the column. "I can't push them double-time another day. The only way they've been able to go so fast for so long is thanks to the residuals of Mihali's food."
Olem saluted and headed down the column.
Tamas wished that the god had accompanied them on the ill-fated flanking maneuver. He ran his eyes over the faces of the men of the Seventh and Ninth. For the most part, his men met his gaze. These were hard men. His very best. They'd done twenty-five miles a day for four days. Kez infantry averaged twelve.
He caught sight of a rider coming up along the column. The figure looked huge, even on a cavalry charger.
Gavril.
Tamas tipped his hat to his brother-in-law as he came up alongside.
Gavril wiped the sweat from his face with one long sleeve and took a few gulps from his canteen. He'd discarded his grungy Mountainwatcher's furs on the heat of the high plains and wore only his faded Watchmaster's vest and a pair of dark-blue pants from an old cavalry uniform.
He grunted a hello. No salute from Gavril. Tamas would have been surprised to get one.
"What news?" Tamas asked.
"We've spotted the Kez," Gavril said. No "sir" either.
Tamas felt his heart leap into his throat. He knew the Kez were on his trail. It would be stupid not to realize that. But for four days they'd not seen any sign of the Kez armies.
"And?" Tamas lifted his own canteen to his lips.
"At least two brigades of Kez cavalry," Gavril said.
Tamas spit water all down the front of him. "Did you say brigades?"
"Brigades."
Tamas let out a shaky breath. "How far?"
"I'd guess fifty-five miles."
"Did you get close enough for an accurate count?"
"No."
"How hard are they pushing?"
"Can't be sure. Kez cavalry will make forty miles a day on the open plain if they push hard. An army of that size, and in the foothills – twenty-five, maybe thirty miles a day."
Which meant that if Tamas allowed his men rest and forage, the Kez would catch them in seven days. If Tamas was lucky.
"In six days," Gavril said, "you'll hit the edge of the Hune Dora Forest. The terrain will be too steep for cavalry to surround us. They'll be able to dog our heels, but nothing more. Not till we reach the Fingers of Kresimir."
Tamas closed his eyes, trying to remember the geography of northern Kez. This was Gavril's old haunt, back when he was Jakola of Pensbrook, the most famous womanizer in all of Kez.
"The Fingers of Kresimir," Tamas said. He knew the location, but it sounded familiar for more than just its mark on a map …
"Camenir," Gavril said quietly.
Tamas felt a sliver of ice creep down his spine despite the heat. A flash of memory, and once again he was standing beside a shallow grave, dug with bare hands in the cold of night beside the torrent of a raging river. The end of a daring – but ultimately failed – plan, and the most harrowing escape of Tamas's long career.
Gavril tugged at the front of his sweat-soaked vest. "We'll be going right by. I'm going to stop and pay my respects."
"I don't think I could find him," Tamas said, though he knew it was a lie. The location of the grave was burned into his memory.
"I can," Gavril said.
"It's quite a ways off the road. If I remember right."
"You'll stop too."
Tamas looked back at his column of soldiers again. They marched on, the dust rising above them carried into the sky by a light breeze.
"I have men on the march, Jakola," he said. "I'm not stopping for anything."
Gavril sniffed. "It's ‘Gavril' now, and yes, you will be stopping." He went on, not giving Tamas the chance to object. "You can lose the Kez entirely at the Fingers. We just have to reach the first bridge before them."
The Fingers of Kresimir were a series of deep, powerful snow-fed rivers off the Adran Mountains. They were impossible to ford, even on horseback. The Great Northern Road traversed them by a series of bridges built almost a hundred years ago.
"If we can reach the bridge before them," Tamas said, thankful to leave the topic of that lonely grave behind. "Even if we do, the cavalry can go west and around and be waiting for us when we come down onto the plains."
"You'll think of something."
Tamas ground his teeth together. He had eleven thousand infantry and two hundred cavalry, and just a four-day lead on a group of Kez cavalry that could very well equal his numbers. Dragoons and cuirassiers had more than just an edge on infantry in open battle.
"We need food," Tamas said.
Gavril looked toward the west and the tantalizing wheat fields of the Amber Expanse. "If we slow down too much to forage, the cavalry will reach us before Hune Dora Forest. Once we reach the forest, there are few farms. Foragers might bag deer and rabbits, but not enough to go around."
"And the city itself?"
Tamas remembered there was a settlement just south of Hune Dora Forest. Whether the forest took its name from the settlement, or the other way around, Tamas did not know.
"It's generous calling it a ‘city.' It has walls, sure, but there can't be more than a few hundred people. We might be able to buy or steal enough food for a day or two." Gavril paused. "I hope you're not planning on stripping the countryside of everything. The people here have it hard enough. Ipille treats his serfs worse than Manhouch ever did."
"An army needs food, Jak … Gavril."
Tamas stared toward the mountains, barely noticing the white peaks. He had to balance this army perfectly. They needed food and safety. If they reached Hune Dora Forest without food, his men would begin to starve and desert. If they took too long to forage, the cavalry would reach them before the forest and have their way with the entire column.
Olem returned from his task, cantering up beside Tamas and Gavril.
"Olem," Tamas said. "Signal the column to stop." He paused to examine the countryside. To the left of the road an overgrown field sloped down toward a ravine a half mile off. "This here, it'll do."
"For what, sir?"
Tamas steeled himself. "It's time I talk to the men. Assemble them in ranks."
It took nearly an hour for the last of the columns to catch up. It was valuable time lost, but thus far Tamas had left the officers to tend to their men and keep them informed. If he was going to keep command of this lot – retain their discipline and loyalty over the next few weeks – he needed to speak to them himself.
He stood on the edge of the road and looked down the slope. The field had been trampled, the green replaced by Adran blue, standing at ease in ranks like so many blades of grass.
Tamas knew that many of these men would die without reaching their homes.
"'Tention!" Olem bellowed.
There was an audible shifting of legs and straightening of backs as eleven thousand soldiers snapped to attention.
The world was silent. A breeze picked up, blowing down from the mountains and pushing gently on Tamas's back. To their credit, not a single soldier reached to steady his hat.
"Soldiers of the Seventh and Ninth," he began, shouting to be heard by all. "You know what's happened. You know that Budwiel has fallen and that the Kez push in to Adro, checked only by the Adran army.
"I grieve for Budwiel. I know that you grieve with me. Many of you question why we didn't stay and fight." Tamas paused. "We were outnumbered and outclassed. The fall of Budwiel's walls made our initial strategy obsolete and we could not have won that battle. As you all know, I do not fight battles that I will not win."
There was a murmur of agreement. The anger at abandoning Budwiel had dulled in the six days since. The men understood. There was no need to dwell on it further.