Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [90]
And they were only the latest ideas. There were plenty of conventional weapons, if by that you meant giant bows, catapults, and mangonels that hurled balls of Ephebian fire, which clung while it burned.
From up here, in his drafty tower, he could see the fires of the dug-in army all across the plain.
They couldn’t retreat, and the alliance, if that’s what you could call the petulant hubbub, didn’t dare head up the valley into the heart of the country with that army at their back, yet didn’t have enough men to hold the Keep and corral the enemy.
And in a few weeks it would start to snow. The passes would fill up. Nothing would be able to get though. And every day, thousands of men and horses would need feeding. Of course, the men could, eventually, eat the horses, thus settling two feeding problems at a stroke. After that, there would have to be the good ol’ leg rota, which, Vimes understood from one of the friendlier Zlobenians, was a common feature of winter warfare up here. Since he was Captain “Hopalong” Splatzer, Vimes believed him.
And then it would rain, and then the rain and the snowmelt together would turn the damn river into a flood. But, before that, the alliance would have bickered itself apart and gone home. All the Borogravians had to do, in fact, was hold their ground to score a draw.
He swore under his breath. Prince Heinrich had inherited the throne in a country where the chief export was a kind of hand-painted wooden clog, but in ten years, he vowed, his capital city of Rigour would be “the Ankh-Morpork of the mountains!”
For some reason, he thought Ankh-Morpork would be pleased about this.
He was anxious, he said, to learn the Ankh-Morpork way of doing things, the kind of innocent ambition that could well lead to an aspiring ruler…well, finding out the Ankh-Morpork way of doing things. Heinrich had a reputation locally for cunning, but Ankh-Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped past devious, had left artful far behind, and had now, by a roundabout route, arrived at straightforward.
Vimes leafed through the papers on his desk, and looked up, where he heard a shrill, harsh cry outside.
A buzzard came in a long, shallow swoop through the open window and alighted on a makeshift perch at the far end of the room.
Vimes strolled over as the little figure on the bird’s back raised his flying goggles.
“How’s it going, Buggy?” he said.
“They’re getting suspicious, Mister Vimes. And Sergeant Angua says it’s getting a bit risky now they’re so close.”
“Tell her to come on in, then.”
“Right, sir. And they still need coffee.”
“Oh, damn! Haven’t they found any?”
“No, sir, and it’s getting tricky with the vampire.”
“Well, if they’re suspicious now then they’ll be certain if we drop a flask of coffee on them!”
“Sergeant Angua says we’ll probably get away with it, sir. She didn’t say why.” The gnome looked expectantly at Vimes. So did his buzzard. “They’ve come a long way, sir. For a bunch of girls. Well…mostly girls.”
Vimes reached out absentmindedly to pet the bird.
“Don’t, sir! She’ll have your thumb off!” Buggy yelled.
There was a knock on the door, and Reg came in with a tray of raw meat.
“Saw Buggy overhead, so I thought I’d nip down to the kitchens, sir.”
“Well done, Reg. Don’t they ask why you want raw meat?”
“Yes, sir. I tell them you eat it, sir.”
Vimes paused before answering. Reg meant well, after all.
“Well, it probably can’t do my reputation any harm,” he said. “By the way, what was going down in the crypt?”
“Oh, they’re not what I’d call proper zombies, sir,” said Reg, selecting a piece of meat and dangling it in front of Morag. “More like dead men walking.”
“Er…yes?” said Vimes.
“I mean there’s no real thinking