Fire - Kristin Cashore [43]
CHAPTER TEN
SHE HAD BEEN afraid the army would move too fast for her or that every one of the five thousand soldiers would have to slow down for her sake. And the army did ride fast above ground, when the land underfoot was smooth enough to allow it, but most of the time the pace was more moderate. It was partly the restrictions of tunnels and terrain and partly the objectives of an armed force, which by nature seeks out the very troubles that other travelling parties hope to avoid.
The First Branch was a wonder of organisation: a moving base divided into sections, divided again into small units that broke off periodically, sped to a gallop, disappeared into caves or up mountain paths, and reappeared some time later. Scout units rode fast ahead of them and patrol units to every side, and they sent subunits racing back sometimes to make reports, or in the case of trouble found, request support. Sometimes, the soldiers who returned were bloody and bruised, and Fire came to recognise the green tunics of the healer units that rushed to their aid.
Then there were the hunting units which moved in rotation, circling back now and then with their game. There were the supply units, which handled the pack horses and figured the inventories. The command units delivered messages from Brigan to the rest of the force. The archery units kept eyes open for animal and monster predators foolish enough to prey on the main column of riders. Fire’s own guard was a unit, too. It created a barrier between her and the thousands as she rode, and assisted her with everything she needed, which at first consisted mainly of answers to her questions about why half the army seemed always to be coming or going.
‘Is there a unit to keep track of all the other units?’ she asked the leader of her guards, the hazel-eyed woman, whose name was Musa.
Musa laughed. Most of Fire’s questions seemed to make Musa laugh. ‘The commander doesn’t use one, Lady. He keeps track in his head. Watch the traffic around the standard-bearer - every unit that comes or goes reports first to the commander.’
Fire had been watching the standard-bearer - and his horse - with considerable sympathy, actually, because he seemed to ride twice as far as most of the rest of the army. The standard-bearer’s sole charge was to stay near the commander so that the commander could always be found; and the commander was forever doubling back, breaking off, bursting forward, depending, Fire assumed, on matters of great military import, whatever in the Dells that meant. The standard-bearer always turning circles with him, chosen for that duty, Fire supposed, because he was a fine horseman.
Then the prince and the standard-bearer came closer, and once again Fire corrected herself. A fine horsewoman.
‘Musa, how many women are in the First Branch?’
‘Some five hundred, Lady. Perhaps twenty-five hundred in all four branches and the auxiliaries together.’
‘Where are the auxiliaries when the rest of the army is patrolling? ’
‘In the forts and signal stations spread throughout the kingdom, Lady. Some of the soldiers manning those posts are women.’
Twenty-five hundred women who had volunteered to live on a horse’s back, and fight, and eat, dress, sleep in a mob of males. Why would a woman choose such a life? Were their natures wild and violent, as some of the men had already proven theirs to be?
When she and her entourage had first passed out of Trilling’s woods onto the rocky flats where the army was stationed, there had been a single fight over Fire, short and brutal. Two men out of their minds at the sight of her and disagreeing on some point (her honour, their respective chances), enough for shoves, fists to the face, broken noses, blood. Brigan was down from his horse with three of Fire’s guard before Fire had fully comprehended what was happening. And one crisp word from Brigan’s mouth had ended it: ‘Enough.’
Fire had kept her