Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [66]
“All right”—he drew breath—“this is what we’re going to do tomorrow. We’re facing a malice not only at its full strength, and mobile, but who now certainly knows what sharing knives are. Getting close enough to kill it will be a lot trickier.”
Saun stirred and subsided on his log, and Dag gave him an acknowledging nod. “I know you weren’t too happy about not sending word ahead, Saun, but a courier could barely have outpaced us, and I wasn’t keen to send a rider alone into woods maybe full of mud-men. We are several days ahead of any other possible reinforcements from the east, and also well ahead of any return messengers. No one knows we’re coming, no one knows we’re here—including the malice.”
Dag controlled an urge to pace, grasping his hook behind his back and rocking slightly instead. “I have—one time—seen a malice this advanced taken down, at Wolf Ridge in Luthlia.” The younger patrollers around the fire blinked and sat up; a few older ones nodded knowingly, gazes growing more intent. “The strategy had two pieces, though the way it played out was partly accidental. While the most of us held the malice’s mud-men and slaves—and attention—in open battle up on the ridge, by way of diversion, a small group of patrollers good at veiling their grounds slipped up on the lair. There were eight pairs in that group, and each pair carried a sharing knife. Orders were, if anyone went down, their partner didn’t stay by them, but was to take the knife and go on. If any pairs went down, the same with their linking pairs.” The reverse, Dag and everyone listening to him was aware, of the usual patrol procedure to leave no one behind. “When enough patrollers got close enough to the malice to risk a rush, they did.” It had been down to four survivors by then, Dag had been told later. “And that was the end of that malice.” But not of the cleanup, which had gone on for months thereafter.
“With a malice that strong, didn’t they risk getting their grounds ripped?” asked Dirla. And if it was in fear, none could tell, for her voice did not quaver, and she had her groundsense well locked down.
“Some did,” said Dag. Bluntly, without apology. “But I think we can try a similar strike. Whatever resistance is forming up right now south of Bonemarsh Camp, trying to protect Farmer’s Flats, gets to play the part of the company on the ridge, overwhelming the malice’s concentration. We here”—Dag unlocked his hand and gestured around the campfire—“will be for the sneak attack. You were all picked for your groundsense control.”
“Not Saun!” complained Dirla. Saun flushed and glowered at her.
“No, he’s our walking map. And someone’s going to have to stay with the horses.” Dag cast Saun an apologetic look; the boy grimaced but subsided.
“And the rest of the company?” asked Obio Grayheron, one of the remaining patrol leaders.
Dag gave him a short nod. “You’ll give us a half-day start. At which point it will either be over—or command will pass to you and you’ll be free to try again, try something else, or circle to join forces however you can with the Raintree Lakewalkers.”
Obio settled back, digesting this unhappily. “And you’re going with…well. Yes, of course.”
Going with the veiled patrol, Dag finished for him. Because Dag was well-known to be one of the cleverest at that trick in camp. Which begged the question, in his own mind if not theirs, whether he had chosen this strategy because it was the best they could do, or because it played to his personal quirks. Well, if the gamble paid off, the subtle self-doubt would be moot. And also if it doesn’t. You can’t lose, old patroller. In a sense.
Saun was shoving