Sentry Peak

by Harry Turtledove

  “Bet your arse we are,” Guildenstern said. But then he glanced nervously toward the right. “I wonder how Doubting George is doing over there.” When he thought of the right, he somehow couldn’t stay confident no matter how hard he tried. He swigged more spirits, to bolster his courage.

  Brigadier Alexander said, “Sir, if he needed help over there, don’t you think he’d ask for it?”

  “You never can tell with George,” Guildenstern insisted. No matter how hard he tried to keep his mind on other things, his eyes kept drifting back toward Merkle’s Hill. Something was going to go wrong there. Something was. He couldn’t tell how he’d grown so sure, but he had. The knowledge, the certainty, built in him, seeping up from below. It didn’t feel like conscious knowledge: more like the faith he had in the Lion God and the rest of the Detinan pantheon.

  “I know you and Lieutenant General George don’t get along perfectly, sir,” Alexander said, “but he’s a solid soldier. If he needs help, I’m sure he won’t risk the battle by going without. After all, he was saying just last night that he was worried. If the worries come true, he’ll let us know.”

  That made good logical sense. Somehow, though, good logical sense seemed to matter less to General Guildenstern than it might have. Trouble was brewing on the right. He felt it in his bones.

  Before Guildenstern could explain as much to Alexander, Colonel Phineas came rushing up to him at a turn of speed astonishing for one so roly-poly. “General!” he cried. “Woe to us, General! Count Thraxton’s magic has defeated our best efforts to withstand it, and now runs loose in our army!”

  “Ha!” Guildenstern cried. “I knew it. The Braggart’s trying to deceive me. But he won’t! No, by the gods, he won’t! I knew the right was threatened. Brigadier Alexander!”

  “Yes, sir!” Alexander said smartly.

  “Take Brigadier Wood’s two brigades out of the line here and send them to the aid of Doubting George on the right at once,” Guildenstern said. “At once, do you hear me?”

  “That will leave us very thin on the ground here, sir, especially while we’re making the move,” Alexander said.

  “Do it!” General Guildenstern thundered. “It is my direct order to you, sirrah! Do it, or find yourself relieved.” Brigadier Alexander saluted stiffly and went off to obey. Guildenstern nodded in satisfaction. And, somewhere far inside Guildenstern-or somewhere far across the battlefield-a scrawny, sour-spirited soul cried out in delight and in altogether unalloyed triumph.

  * * *

  James of Broadpath was sipping his early morning tea after the nighttime meeting with Count Thraxton when a man on a unicorn galloped into his encampment. Pulling the unicorn to a halt, the rider slid off it and hurried toward James. He saluted smartly. “Reporting, sir,” he said with a grin, “as not quite ordered.”

  “Brigadier Bell!” James said. “What in the seven hells are you doing here? I left you behind with the part of my army the stinking glideway couldn’t carry. Where are they now?”

  “Heading up from Marthasville real soon, sir,” Bell replied. “But when the scryers said the fighting here had already started, I couldn’t wait. I hopped on a unicorn and rode south as fast as I could go.” He pointed to the blowing animal from which he’d just dismounted. “This isn’t the one I started with. That one fell over dead. I’m sorry I rode it into the ground, but I’m glad I’m here.”

  “You disobeyed orders,” Earl James rumbled. Bell nodded, quite unabashed. James grinned and pounded him on the back-on the right side, careful not to trouble his useless left arm. “Well, I’m cursed glad you’re here, too,” he said. “I needed somebody to lead the big attack when it goes in, and you’re one of the best in the business.”

  “Thank you, sir.” One of Bell’s leonine eyebrows rose. “Why hasn’t the big attack gone in already?”

  “Because I’ve got orders from Count Thraxton to hold it till he gives the word, that’s why,” James answered. “He’s working some sort of fancy magic against the southrons, and he wants me to wait till he gives the command.”

  Bell frowned, looking very much like a dubious lion. “Remember, sir, this is Thraxton the Braggart we’re talking about. What are the odds this fancy magic will end up being worth anything at all?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that,” James of Broadpath admitted. “But I can’t disobey a direct order just because I’m not quite sure about the general who gave it, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why in the seven hells not?” Bell demanded. “Are you afraid he’ll turn you into a rooster, or something like that?”

  “No.” James shook his big head. Where Brigadier Bell had seemed-and often did seem-leonine, James gave the impression of a bear bedeviled by bees. “No, I’m not afraid of that. But you haven’t seen him. I have. He really thinks he can do this, and he makes me think he can do it, too.”

  “Does he?” Bell shook his head, too. “Why? If he’d done everything he said he could do, we would have won the war by now. You know that as well as I do. Why are you listening to him now?”

  “Why?” James of Broadpath shrugged. “I’ll tell you why. Because when he told me what to do, he looked like the pictures you see of the conqueror priests from the old days, the ones who led the armies that smashed up the blonds’ kingdoms here in the north. You could almost hear the gods talking through him.”

  Brigadier Bell made a sign with the fingers of his right hand. Most Detinans would have used the left, but his left arm hung limp and useless. “Here’s hoping you’re right, sir,” he said, which was what the gesture meant in words.

  To the south of them, the racket of battle picked up as the sun climbed a little higher above the horizon. James said, “I am still allowed to fight, you see: along with our men from Parthenia, I’ve taken command of the ones Baron Dan of Rabbit Hill was leading.”

  “Dan’s a good man,” Bell said.

  “I know he is. I feel bad about horning in on him like this. But-” James’ broad shoulders slid up and down again. “Thraxton wanted me in charge of one of his wings, and this was how he went about it when I got here. So I’ve got his men fighting, and most of the soldiers from the Army of Southern Parthenia waiting in reserve for when Thraxton gives me the word. I’m going to put you in charge of them now that you’re here.”

  “What if the word never comes?” Brigadier Bell demanded.

  “Sooner or later, I’ll throw you in without it,” James allowed. “But I’m not going to do that right away. Thraxton’s incanting for all he’s worth, and he’s my superior. I’ve got to give him his chance.”

  “All right, sir,” Bell said stiffly. By his tone, it wasn’t all right, or even close to all right. By his tone, in fact, King Geoffrey would hear about it if things went wrong. Brigadier Bell was in good odor down in Nonesuch, probably in better odor than Earl James was himself: Geoffrey thought well of straightforward, hard-charging officers, no doubt because he’d been one himself.

  “Just remember,” James murmured, “that his Majesty thinks the world of Count Thraxton.”

  “I understand that.” Surprise sparked in Bell’s eyes. “How did you know what was in my mind, sir?”

  “I didn’t need to read the entrails of a sacrifice to figure it out,” James of Broadpath answered. Brigadier Bell shook his leonine head, plainly still bewildered. James had all he could do not to laugh in Bell’s face. He was no straightforward hard charger; he had a nasty, devious mind, and enjoyed using it. He sometimes thought that in itself went a long way toward explaining why King Geoffrey preferred certain other soldiers to him.

  He shrugged. He couldn’t help that. He was as the gods had made him. If King Geoffrey didn’t fully appreciate him, then he didn’t, that was all.

  No complications, no deviousness in Brigadier Bell. There he stood in front of James, every inch of him but his dead left arm quivering with eagerness to get into the fight. “Why did we come here from Parthenia, if we’re just going to wait in the wings?” he deman
ded.

  “Our time will come,” James said.

  “When?” It wasn’t a word-it was a howl of frustration from Bell.

  “When Count Thraxton gives the order,” James repeated. “If you don’t care for that, I suggest you take it up with the count. He can do something about it, and I can’t.”

  He watched Brigadier Bell weigh that. Bell was a man of impetuous, headlong courage, but even he hesitated to break in on Count Thraxton while Thraxton was at his magics. That was one of the few bits of wisdom James had ever seen him show.

  James said, “Perhaps you should-” but a messenger came trotting up before he could finish telling Bell to go soak his head. He nodded to the messenger. “Yes? What is it?”

  Saluting, the messenger said, “Count Thraxton’s compliments, sir, and you are to strike the center with all your strength as soon as may be. The time, he says, is now.”

  “There, you see?” James said to Bell. Returning the messenger’s salute, he replied, “You may tell Count Thraxton we shall obey him in every particular.” The messenger hurried away. James gave his attention back to Bell. ” `As soon as may be,’ he said. He’s had some trouble getting his own officers to move fast. Let’s show him how the Army of Southern Parthenia executes orders.”

  “Right you are, sir. And now, if you will excuse me…” Bell didn’t wait for an answer. He dashed off, shouting to the men he would lead into the fray. He didn’t know what lay in front of him, and he didn’t much worry about it, either. Whatever it was, he would hit it hard and hope it fell over.

  Division commanders could have worse traits. A great many division commanders did have worse traits. Once pointed in the right direction, Brigadier Bell got the most from the men he led.

  Unlike Count Thraxton’s commanders, Bell wasted no time. Not a quarter of an hour after he got the order, he had his men moving forward, all of them roaring with eagerness to close with the southrons at last.

  And, not a quarter of an hour after Brigadier Bell sent his men into the battle, a messenger sprinted back to James of Broadpath. The young soldier in blue was almost bursting with excitement. “General James, sir!” he shouted. “There’s nobody in front of us, nobody at all. We’re rolling up the stinking southrons like a bolt of cheap cloth.”

  “By the gods,” Earl James said softly. He turned away from the runner.

  “What are you doing, sir?” the youngster asked.

  “I am saluting Count Thraxton,” James answered. He meant it literally, and gave a salute as crisp as he ever had at the military collegium in Annasville. He’d almost called the commander of the Army of Franklin Thraxton the Braggart. He shook his head. That wasn’t right, not this time. If Thraxton had managed to magic away a big chunk of Guildenstern’s army, to get it out of the way so this attack could go in unhindered, he’d earned the right to brag.

  “Orders, sir?” the runner asked.

  “Turn in on the southrons once you’ve accomplished the breakthrough,” James said. “Don’t let them rally. We want General Guildenstern’s army ruined. Make sure you use that word to Brigadier Bell.”

  “Yes, sir,” the runner said. “Ruined. Sir, I really think they are.” He saluted, too-not Count Thraxton, but James-and hurried away.

  “Ruined,” James repeated, liking the sound of the word. He strode toward Count Thraxton’s headquarters. He’d heard any number of uncomplimentary things about Thraxton before coming east. His meeting with Thraxton the night before hadn’t left a good taste in his mouth. But if Thraxton’s magecraft had done this, the officer’s less than sterling personality didn’t matter. In battle, victory mattered, nothing else.

  When he reached the farmhouse, he was shocked to see Thraxton. The commander of the Army of Franklin might have aged five years since the previous night. He looked stooped and exhausted and so thin that a strong breeze could have blown him away. But the air was calm, and Thraxton had created the breeze that would blow the southrons away from the River of Death.

  “Your Grace, we’ve broken them,” James of Broadpath said, and saluted again. “The men are swarming into the gap your sorcery made for them.”

  No matter how worn Count Thraxton was, triumph blazed in his deep-set eyes. “Good,” he rasped in a voice that seemed a ragged parody of the one he’d used only the day before. “We shall drive them out of Peachtree Province. We shall drive them out of Rising Rock. We shall drive them out of Franklin altogether.” He muttered something under his breath that James didn’t quite catch. It sounded like, I shall have my parade, but what was that supposed to mean?

  “Give me your orders, sir, and I’ll obey them,” James said.

  Thraxton yawned enormously. “For now, I am fordone. Your men cannot do wrong if they press the enemy hard.”

  “Yes, sir!” James said enthusiastically. “That’s the sort of order Duke Edward of Arlington might give.”

  “Is it?” Thraxton’s voice was cool, uninterested, distant. If being compared to King Geoffrey’s best general pleased him, he concealed it very well. “How nice.”

  Cold fish, Earl James thought. Fish on ice, in fact. He shrugged. It still didn’t matter, not after what Thraxton had done. With another salute, James said, “I’ll be getting back to my own headquarters, sir.”

  Thraxton’s nod said he would be just as happy not to see James again any time soon. Fighting to hold on to his temper, James left the farmhouse. He’d just returned to his own place when a runner dashed up and cried, “Brigadier Bell is wounded, sir!”

  “Oh, gods damn it to the hells!” James of Broadpath exclaimed. “Is he badly hurt?”

  To his further dismay, the runner nodded. “A stone from an engine smashed his leg, sir. The chirurgeons say they’re going to have to take it off if he’s to live. He was leading the men forward, sir, when he was hit.”

  “I believe that,” James said somberly. “It’s always been Bell’s way-he never did know how to hang back and command from the rear. But oh, by the Thunderer’s lightning bolt, the price he’s paid.” He shook his head. Bell had had that arm ruined earlier in the summer in Duke Edward’s failed invasion of the south, and now a leg lost… He wouldn’t be leading attacks from the front, not any more. Trying to see if anything could be salvaged from misfortune, James asked, “Is the wound below the knee?” A peg leg might let Bell move around fairly well.

  But the runner shook his head. “No, sir, it’s up here.” He touched his thigh. “I saw it myself.” James winced and grimaced. That was about as bad as it could be.

  Earl James gathered himself. Even if Bell was wounded, the fight had to go on. The southrons had to be whipped. “Is Dan of Rabbit Hill in command up there now?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the runner said. “He sent me back for your orders.”

  “Tell him to keep on pressing the enemy hard,” James of Broadpath replied. “That’s also Count Thraxton’s command: I’ve just spoken with him.” The runner nodded. James went on, “Tell him to swing in and finish rolling up Alexander’s wing, and Thom’s. Once we’ve settled them, we’ll deal with Doubting George, and that will be the end of General Guildenstern’s whole army.”

  “Yes, sir,” the runner said, and repeated his words back to him. When James nodded, the young man saluted and trotted away.

  “Ah, Brigadier Bell,” James said, and kicked at the dirt. Bell was fierce, Bell was bold, Bell was recklessly brave-and Bell was hurt, Bell was ruined, Bell was broken. And the war ground on without him. And, James thought with grim certainty, more than Bell would be ruined by the time it finally ended.

  * * *

  General Guildenstern had been so very sure of himself when he ordered Brigadier Wood’s men out of their place in the line and over to the right to aid Lieutenant General George. The move had seemed so obvious, so necessary, so right, that the Lion God might have put it into his mind.

  And, not a quarter of an hour after Wood’s men left the line, before any replacements could fill the gap, what seemed like eve
ry traitor in the world swarmed into it, and now the battle was ruined for fair. “How in the seven hells did they do that?” Guildenstern groaned to anyone who would listen. “They might have known the cursed hole would open up!”

  “General, I think they did.” That was Colonel Phineas, so worn and wan as to look like a shadow-a fat shadow, but a shadow nonetheless-of his former self.

  Guildenstern rounded on the mage. “What nonsense is that?”

  “I told you the northerners had us under sorcerous assault,” Phineas answered. “I told you Thraxton’s wizardry was loose in our army. I think that wizardry was aimed at you, sir, to make you go wrong at just the right time-the right time for the traitors, I mean.”

  “You useless, blundering son of a bitch,” Guildenstern growled. “I ought to cut your heart out and put it on the altar for the Lion God to eat. How are we supposed to set this fornicating mess to rights now?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I really have no answer for that,” Phineas said sadly. “I wish I did.”

  At the moment, Guildenstern had no answer for it, either. All he could do was watch his army fall to pieces before his eyes. And it was doing exactly that. Crossbowmen and pikemen turned their backs on the foe to flee the faster.

  Siege-engine crews harnessed their unicorns to the catapults they served and hauled them away from danger. A few didn’t bother with their engines, but clambered aboard the unicorns themselves so they could get away.

  “Brigadier Alexander!” he shouted. “Where in the damnation are you, Brigadier Alexander?”

  “Here, sir.” Alexander looked as harried as Guildenstern felt. “Sir, they’ve knifed us right in the belly. A whole division of northerners has broken through here, maybe more. We can’t stop ’em. What in the hells do we do?”

  Before Guildenstern could answer, a breathless runner gasped, “Sir, Brigadier Thom says the left is falling to pieces. The traitors are turning in and flanking out his men one brigade after another. He can’t hold, sir, not unless you’ve got reserves to give him. Even then it won’t be easy.”