The Book Man, Chapter 73 (Revised)

73 BATTLE PLAN

As he began to crawl out of the tent, he heard Tirion’s voice.

“—why we’re sitting around. We should make our move now.”

“They need rest, Tirion.”

Christian scrambled back inside and peered out at the courtyard.

Morrow paced back and forth in front of the tent, so close the flaps stirred in the breeze he created. He rubbed his arms as he went; now that the adrenaline of the attack had faded, his hands were shaking as badly as ever. “They’re injured, they’re frightened. They’re exhausted. If we go into battle now, we’ll lose every person.”

Tirion leaned against the pedestal with his arms crossed and his long legs stretched out before him. The light from the gas lamps shone on his shoulders.

“If they were an elvish battalion—”

“They’re not,” Morrow snapped. The elf’s green eyes followed him around the courtyard, but his expression was inscrutable as ever. With an effort, the Rover stopped pacing. He seemed aware of Tirion’s eyes on him, but he refused to meet them. The elf put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Morrow said.

The elf withdrew his hand. The Rover’s fingers twitched as if he wanted to resume his pacing, but now that he had stopped he seemed unable to begin again. He sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

Tirion shook his head. “No, I was out of bounds. These are your people, your lead. I was disrespectful, and I apologize.”

The Rover met his gaze for the first time. His brow furrowed as scoured the elf’s face for—something—Christian didn’t know what—but then he shook his head and laughed ruefully.

“What?” Tirion said.

Morrow ran a hand over his face. “You’re just as I remembered you.”

The elf said nothing. The two men stood in silence for a moment; the Rover’s lips moved as if he were on the verge of saying something, and finally it burst out of him.

“I can’t do this, Tirion. I can’t—” A muscle worked in his jaw. “The first skirmish I’ve seen in nearly two decades, and I lose thirteen people right off—”

“To be fair, some of those people were animals.” The statement was met with silence. The elf shrugged. “Humor was never my strong point.”

Morrow ground the tips of his fingers into his temples as if a headache had overtaken him. “How can I lead them? I never wanted to be a king. I’m nothing but a drunkard and a fool, the son of a man who did one great thing with his life—one more great thing than I’ve ever done.”

He sounded so bitter that the elf slid off the pedestal and grasped his face in his hands. The Rover raised his eyes, which were bright and red-rimmed as if he’d been crying, though Christian was sure he hadn’t.

Tirion kissed his forehead fiercely and said, “You and I have fought together many times. And every time, we’ve come out on top.”

Morrow’s brow furrowed; he looked much older than his forty-six years.

“Seems I’ve been fighting on my own for a long time now,” he said. There was no accusation in his voice, no you did this to me, just the fact of it, but a spasm crossed Tirion’s face at the words.

“I know,” he said. For a moment, Christian thought he would say something further, but when he spoke again he simply repeated, “I know.”

He stopped and stood for a moment without speaking. His slim brown fingers pressed into Morrow’s temples, and the Rover looked up at him with black eyes blazing like before. Christian averted his eyes, but then the two men pulled apart, and the moment passed. Tirion leaned back against the pedestal with his arms folded and said briskly, “Now you have the chance to do something great. You can lead these people, and if we die at least it will be together, in a blaze of glory and the fire of battle and not wasting away alone in a shack.”

Well, Christian thought, he certainly hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He would rather none of them died, particularly himself. An unpleasant thought, though rather more noble a death than being crushed beneath a pile of books, which was how his grandmother had always joked he was likely to die.

(A horrible woman, Grandmother.)

Narodnaya drifted over to Morrow and Tirion, followed by the giant spider. The elf looked up as they approached and said, “What do you want?”

Morrow laid a hand on his arm at the incivility, but Narodnaya seemed unfazed. She must have been speaking to them, for they looked up at her in silence, but Christian couldn’t hear her voice in his head. After a moment Tirion said, “I don’t know where he is. You’ll have a nice time of it, looking out for him in battle.”

Another silence, and then: “Very touching, but he is no fighter. For all we know he’s already left. He seems more the type who enjoys the comfort of his books than the excitement of a fight.”

Christian glanced behind him at the stack of books beside Minerva. It seemed like a long time since books had brought him much comfort at all.

“I was thinking,” Morrow said, “I was thinking we may have a use for him that might keep him out of the fight.”

The accountant stuck his head farther out the tent flaps, listening.

“Oh?” said Tirion. “And what is that?”

“Look.” The Rover pulled a weathered map out of his coat and spread it on the pedestal. They gathered around it with the spider pressing in behind them to see like a young child left out of something. “Here, in the middle of the fairgrounds. This is where Goblin’s stronghold used to be. That’s where my father trapped him, and that’s where he’ll be—at least until the spell wears off completely. That, itself—there won’t be a fight there.”

Tirion snorted. “Not a fight? Every one of Goblin’s allies will be protecting it, if that is his stronghold.”

“Yes, but once we fight through them it’s a simple matter—we must get through and stab him with an iron blade. If we go with Christian as his guard, he can get through to Goblin and then—”

Tirion gave a humorless laugh. “A simple matter. Right. For you or me in the old days, perhaps. Not for such a man as he.”

Well, Christian thought, that was enough. No need for them to discuss what he was going to do without him there to weigh in.

“Here I am,” he called, crawling out of the tent at last and dusting himself off. He limped over to them. “I’ve just been taking care of Minerva.”

The spider skittered over at the sight of him and followed him back toward the group like a massive, eight-legged dog. Rath, still standing guard outside the tent, nickered uneasily at the sight of it.

Who is Minerva? Narodnaya asked, but before he could answer she continued in an amused tone, No, you need not tell me. I can hear it in the pounding of your heart.

For once, he ignored her. Plenty of time for her to meet Minerva later.

“I beg your pardon,” he said to Morrow and Tirion, “and I realize I know nothing about war or battles or—or strategies or anything like that, but all the same—if I’m going to be a part of this, I would like to know what you expect me to do.”

“You’re already a part of it,” Tirion said. “As Guardian—”

Here the Rover put his lips to Tirion’s ear and murmured something to him. The elf’s eyebrows went up in surprise and he said, “He isn’t? But he was sent to retrieve you—”

“Conrad’s Guardian,” Christian said. And then, in a rush of anger, “The one whose leg you took off.”

Morrow looked at the ground. Tirion gazed at the accountant with an inscrutable expression and said nothing.

“Anyway,” Christian said, “I take no offense at your remark about my not being a fighter, because it’s certainly true. But I don’t intend to leave, not while Minerva’s stuck here, and even if she wasn’t I wouldn’t abandon my friends. I am not a fighter by any means, and I hope I shan’t have to see battle, but if there is something I can do then tell me what it is.”

An important job, Narodnaya said, and one I would be more than willing to help you with, if need be.

“What exactly do you need me to do?” Christian asked.