Free Blood in Snow by Robert Evert

about him.
    Everybody waited for his answer.
    “We can’t fight them,” he agreed.
    There was a murmur of curses as many angry voices began talking at once.
    “We can’t fight them,” Edmund repeated louder, “but we will not give up our home.”
    Agreement rustled through the crowd.
    “We will not rejoin Lionel’s kingdom,” Edmund called out to more nodding. Swords were shaken in the air. “We will not live under the yoke of nobility. Not again!”
    Cries of approval rose up from at least half of the men.
    “But what are we going to do?” a young farmer asked. “I don’t want to be hung. I, I just came here to have my own farm!”
    “And to have my own business!”
    “And to make some money!”
    “All the more reason to fight,” Hendrick shouted back. “Aren’t those things worth fighting for?”
    “The question is, though,” said Cavin the carpenter, “how can we fight and win? I don’t mean to sound like a naysayer. I love this place as much as anybody, maybe even more. I want to build great things here; I want to have a home.” He exhaled heavily. “But what can we do against an army of knights?”
    Yes … what?
    Edmund stared at the fluttering snow as angry debates throbbed around him.
    Snow …
    It’s barely two inches, if that.
    It won’t be enough to—
    “Hendrick, Bain,” Edmund said abruptly. “How fast could Lionel’s forces move in a day?”
    “What?” Bain called through the growing turmoil.
    “Shut up!” Hendrick bellowed.
    Everybody quieted.
    “Lionel’s forces,” Edmund said again. “How fast could they move in a day?”
    “With the wagon train they’re probably bringing,” Hendrick said in contemplation, “ten miles is a good day’s march.”
    “Once they get within a couple days’ ride of here,” Bain added, “they’ll secure their supplies, create a base camp, and then advance on the town with their mounted forces.”
    Edmund resumed pacing. “Ten miles.”
    They’ll follow the river right to the west side of town.
    The river …
    Something occurred to him.
    “They’ll follow along the river’s path,” Edmund said. “They couldn’t ride more than two abreast most of the way.”
    Frantically he surveyed the crowd.
    “Who brought wagons? Who brought wagons up from the south?”
    A few hands shot up.
    “Vin!” Edmund pointed at the brewer. “How was it bringing your wagon along the river from Eryn Mas? How fast could you go?”
    “Not fast at all,” Vin called back. “Barely a crawl. They won’t make ten miles once they enter the hills by that ford. The path is all but gone, and when it’s visible, it’s mainly upturned rock. My wagon had a hell of a time bouncing along. I thought I’d break a wheel or an axle.”
    “I had to push my wagon,” one newcomer said. “The oxen couldn’t pull it over the rocks.”
    “Me too. And I only had a cart!”
    That’ll slow them down then.
    Still, they’ll be here in ten days. Two weeks at most …
    We can’t do much in ten days.
    No, but we can slow them down even further. Maybe …
    “Have an idea?” Abby asked hopefully. She sat nearby on a bench, sipping hot spiced cider. Much to Edmund’s annoyance, Merek stood behind her, massaging her shoulders with his muscular hands.
    Edmund again surveyed the crowd.
    They were a motley group. Some were former soldiers, experienced in battle. Others were farmers wanting their own land. Most, however, were unskilled laborers simply hoping not to starve.
    Edmund considered his options. He could field maybe a hundred warriors at most, and few of them had armor.
    A hundred versus a thousand.
    At the very least, we can buy time and make Lionel’s forces pay for coming here. Hit-and-run skirmishes, in and out of the forests. That might reduce their numbers.
    Buy time …
    Edmund inhaled deeply, smelling the anxious sweat of the townsfolk crowded together in the common room.
    “Okay,” he told them, “this is what we’re going to do …”

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