The Book Man, Chapter 76 (Revised)

76 MARCHING

It seemed a long, long way to the fairgrounds as they wound around the maze and marched through the gardens. There should have been more noise, Christian thought. He should have heard owls and crickets and toads, even the sounds of the slithery things he had never been able to see moving through the trees above him. The hissing and whooshing and yellow night eyes had always frightened him, but their absence now frightened him more.

All he could hear was the tramp-tramp-tramp of the circus-folks’ feet as they marched through the gardens (they had never been able to resist putting on a spectacle), the soft clanking of pots and pans, iron chains and tent-poles, the occasional whinny of a pony and Rath’s reassuring nicker in answer. The gas lamps and fairy lights were dark, but they lit up a few at a time as the army passed by. The only other light came from the glow of Aurelia, Carina, and their sisters; most of the fairies were too weak to materialize completely and manifested themselves as nothing more than shining balls of color.

At the head of the group were Morrow and Tirion. The Rover was mounted on Rath; the wood-elf strode ahead with his braids swinging side to side behind him. To their left, Mr. Catcher and his sisters rode circus ponies. To their right, Conrad and Liza sat together on Imelda’s draft horse. Liza’s nostrils flared with suppressed rage at her husband’s stubbornness, but she sat in quiet dignity in front of him. The only other sign of her anger was how tightly her hands clenched the horse’s mane.

Christian came behind them, mounted somewhat uncomfortably on the giant spider, between its head and abdomen. He had nothing to hold onto except the sparse black hairs covering his mount’s body, and the eight legs went up and down around him like pistons. He would have preferred to ride Rath himself, but aside from the fact Rath was Morrow’s father’s horse (or a statue of it, anyway), the Rover king thought Goblin was less likely to notice an infiltration coming from a giant spider, as most of them were his allies.

Narodnaya drifted beside the spider. Christian could feel her tuning into the thoughts of the army and its leaders, a flicker of amusement or surprise now and then at the feigned jocularity of the people marching into battle. He could hear them himself, once in a while. Someone whispered to his neighbor what a fine parade this would be if only there were anyone around to see it; another murmured that they had defeated Goblin before and it would be easy to do so again. Like shooting an animal in a cage.

Except, Christian thought to himself, the animal had just about sprung the cage.

Unlike his companions, he could fake no humor but sat atop the spider white and tight-lipped, comforted only by the presence of the marsh-witch on his left and Minerva on his right. She rode a pony borrowed from Rowan’s circus, with a cast-iron frying pan clutched in her hand. Her face was so serene that it was difficult to believe she felt any fear at all; every now and then she looked at him with a small smile, yet he was sure she must be at least a little frightened.

He was terribly frightened, himself. He returned her smiles as best he could, but he was preoccupied with thoughts of war. Half the books he had read about battles painted them as glorious, all fine uniforms and singing bugles and marching under the sun. The other half portrayed them as a grim, dirty business that ended in bloodshed and tears. He was inclined to believe the latter.

But after all, Narodnaya said to him, if all goes according to plan, you shall see little battle.

Yes, Christian thought. If.

As they neared the fairgrounds, he heard a soft thudding ahead. They drew rein and stopped, listening. It was a repetitious sound, not set to any particular rhythm but certainly repeated: thud, pause—thud, thud, thud, pause—thud, thud, pause.

“It’s like apples falling to the ground,” Christian said.

Morrow chewed on a thumbnail.

“I was expecting something,” he said. “It was too much to hope we would reach the fairgrounds without seeing anything, but I haven’t any idea what that is.”

“Wait here,” Tirion said. He crept forward and disappeared into the shadows. The others waited, expecting to hear the thudding stop as the wood-elf was spotted. Maybe there would be the snarl of a hellhound and then a long, drawn-out scream. But then he was back, whispering, “Crows. Three of them. It is as Christian said: they’re dropping fruit from some of the trees.”

“Can we get past them without being seen?” Morrow asked.

“I think so, but we must take care. If they’re meant to be guards, they’re poor ones. It’s likely there’s a more alert guard hiding somewhere else nearby, and the crows are just causing mischief.”

Morrow nodded, patting Rath’s gleaming neck as he pulled the map out of his pocket and consulted it. Then he said, “Alright. Everyone keep quiet and bear right. We’ll try to come out near the old Rover camp instead.”

As they turned their course westward and continued on, Christian grew ever more uneasy.

“Something’s wrong,” he said to Minerva. “We ought to have been attacked by now.”

A frown wrinkled her forehead, but it was Morrow who answered, from the front of the group.

“Of course we ought.” His voice was calm, but his brow, too, was furrowed. “Goblin knows we made it through the portal. I thought he would mount an attack to keep us from reaching the fairgrounds, but it may be he’s decided to wait for us instead. Try to draw us out.”

Even to Christian, not in the least an expert in battle strategies, that was a discomfiting thought, but he said nothing more and neither did Minerva.