retreated into the shadows of full night.
“Excellent! Excellent!” Redrought bellowed. “Well read, Grimswald. You must be thirsty. Have yourself some ale, and while you’re about it bring me a tankard, too, and some small beer for the Princess.”
Thirrin stretched, loosening the muscles that had become cramped during the long reading. “Well, Dad, have you made your list for the Fat Old Elf?”
“I have. And if he doesn’t bring me a new pair of slippers and a sword belt, he won’t get his mead and pies next year!”
She grinned at the King, suddenly feeling an overwhelming love for the man who, apart from Yuletide, spent most of his waking hours running the country and yet could still find time to make the traditional old jokes with his daughter.
“And what about you?” he asked. “Have you burned your letter on the hearth?”
“Yes. I’m hoping for a new sword and war saddle.”
“Don’t you think they might be a little heavy for his reindeer?”
“They’ll see the inside of a venison pasty if they are! We can’t have the Fat Old Elf making do with substandard reindeer.”
“I like venison pasties,” Redrought said wistfully, rubbing his impressively curving stomach. “Grimswald! Food!!”
The Chamberlain-of-the-Royal-Paraphernalia had obviously been expecting the King to be hungry and had arranged for dinner to be ready by the time the story from The Book of the Ancestors finished. Soon the table was covered with dishes and platters of game pie, mounds of vegetables, and steaming fruit tarts. It was a simple matter to add a plate for Thirrin and to order some extra dishes just in case the royal appetites managed to clear the table and still want more.
Grimswald seized the opportunity and withdrew with the servants, leaving Thirrin and Redrought to their meal. At Yuletide there was never enough time in the day to get everything done that was needed to make the celebrations run smoothly.
“You’re entertaining the barons of The Middle Lands this year, aren’t you?” asked Thirrin.
Redrought swallowed the heroic mouthful of game pie he was chewing. “Yes. Lord Aethelstan, Lady Aethelflaeda, and old Lord Cerdic. Aethelflaeda is the only one who’s ever out-drunk Cerdic, and this year he’s after revenge. I’ve ordered in extra ale to cover it.”
“Won’t Baron Aethelstan compete?”
“Not that old fussling! He’ll sip a glass of wine and nibble a bit of turkey, if we’re lucky. I’d sooner have invited Lady Theowin of the Grassmarch — she’s always good for a laugh at Yuletide — but she’s worried about the mountain passes into Polypontus.”
“Oh yes?” Thirrin was immediately alert to the possibility of trouble from the huge empire to the south.
“Yes. Some of her spies have reported troop movements. Nothing serious, they’re probably just carrying out maneuvers in preparation for their next war. That general of theirs, Scipio Bellorum, can never sit still, and it’s been three months since his last campaign. He’ll be getting restless.”
“Are you sure the next war he’s planning isn’t with us?”
Redrought chewed thoughtfully. “Yes. I’ve considered the possibility, I’ll admit. But I think he’ll strike southward first; the last spy reports said there was nothing amiss. Mind you, that was more than two weeks ago, and when Bellorum decides on action, no one’s faster. Still, the next reports are due any day now, and I’m confident they’ll have nothing new to tell us. He’ll come this way one day, though, I’m sure of that — and then we’ll see how shield-wall and longbow do against cannons and matchlock.”
“The housecarls will smash them!” said Thirrin fiercely.
“Yes,” Redrought agreed thoughtfully. “They’ll smash them again and again, but the armies of the Empire have a secret weapon, far worse than any cannon.”
“What’s that?” she asked, eager for any information about a new method of warfare.
“Size,” answered Redrought simply. “Sheer size. You can break them time after time and they just keep coming. A single Polypontian host is at least three times bigger than our largest regional force, and they have four hosts ready to march even in the few periods of peace they’ve allowed themselves. If they’re on a war footing, there are usually six full-strength armies, each of one hundred thousand troops, and another four in reserve. In an emergency they can call on another three armies of veterans on top of that!”
Thirrin sat quietly digesting this information. She knew from her lessons with Maggiore Totus that the Polypontians had never been defeated in war. And they’d rarely lost even a battle.
“So, what can we do?” she asked at last.
“Hope the next country