“The fog of war,” James said vaguely. He forced his mind back to things he could hope to learn: “How is Brigadier Bell doing?”
“Damn me to the hells if he isn’t healing up, your Excellency,” the scryer answered.
James of Broadpath’s eyebrows leaped. “Oh, really?” he said again, this time in honest amazement. Any man who could survive two wounds such as Bell had taken with so little time between them was made of stern stuff. “The gods must love him.”
“I don’t know about that, sir. He’s still in pain, lots of it,” the scryer said. “He pours down enough laudanum to knock a tiger on its tail, and it doesn’t seem to help much. But he is talking about wanting to command again.”
“That sounds like him,” Earl James agreed. “He won’t be leading from the front any more, though.”
“No, sir,” the scryer said. “Farewell, sir.” The crystal ball went back to being no more than a sphere of glass.
James sighed. Leading from the front is why Bell will be a cripple to the end of his days, he thought, and shivered a little. It could happen to any commander who wanted to mix it up with the foe and to see at first hand how his men were fighting. At Viziersville, between Nonesuch and Georgetown, King Geoffrey’s soldiers had shot Thomas the Brick Wall, Duke Edward’s great lieutenant, off his unicorn and killed him. James shivered again, a bit harder this time. A goose just walked over my grave. His hand twisted in the sign the Detinans had borrowed from their blond serfs to turn aside omens.
He strode out of the scryers’ tent and peered west toward Wesleyton. No fogs, no mists here: only the sun shining bright but cold out of a sky the blue of a swordblade. This time, James’ shiver had to do with nothing but the weather, which came as rather a relief.
Looking toward Wesleyton, however, brought him no relief at all. Whiskery Ambrose had more men than he did and plainly intended doing nothing with them but trying to hold on to the town he’d taken. Given that defenders, shooting from entrenchments and from behind ramparts, were likely to take fewer losses than attackers, who had to show themselves to come forward, he didn’t like his chances of breaking into the place.
When he sighed, his breath smoked, another sign that autumn was marching toward winter. Quickmarching, too-every day, the sun sped faster across the sky and spent less time above the horizon. The sun god always went north for the winter.
“I have to try to take Wesleyton,” he muttered, and his breath smoked when he did that, too.
He looked around the camp. His men seemed more worried about staying warm than about attacking. He had trouble blaming them. He did wish Whiskery Ambrose wanted to come out and fight. That would have made his own life much easier. Unfortunately…
When he gathered together his wing commanders and leading mages, they seemed no more enthusiastic about attacking than he was. “Sir, the odds against our seizing the town strike me as long,” said Colonel Simon, his chief mage.
Those odds struck James as long, too. Nonetheless, he said, “We have to make the effort. If the southrons stay here in western Franklin, they can stir up endless trouble for King Geoffrey.” All the assembled officers grimaced. They knew only too well that he was right. Serfs were few on the ground in this mountain country, and a great many of the yeoman farmers hereabouts preferred Avram to Geoffrey. A southron army aiding and abetting them was the last thing the already beleaguered north needed. “We have to try,” James repeated.
“Do you really think we can do it?” asked Brigadier Falayette, one of his wing commanders. “Should we risk breaking up this army with an attack unlikely to reach its goal?”
“As I said, taking Wesleyton back is important,” James of Broadpath replied. “Count Thraxton is right about that.” No matter how little else he’s right about. James wished Brigadier Bell were well enough to have come with the army. He never counted the cost before an attack. Sometimes that was unfortunate. It had been unfortunate for him personally-the gods knew that was true. But sometimes an officer like that could lead men to victory where they would never find it otherwise.
“Not wrecking ourselves is important, too,” Brigadier Falayette insisted. “If we need to come to Thraxton’s aid against the southrons, or to return to the Army of Southern Parthenia in a hurry…”
“Suppose we think about how we’re going to beat the southrons,” James said, glowering from under bushy eyebrows at Falayette. “Let’s let them worry about how to lick us.”
“Yes, sir,” the brigadier said. Any other choice of words would have brought more wrath down upon him.
James unfolded a map of Wesleyton and its environs. His plump, stubby forefinger stabbed down at one of the forts warding the eastern side of the town. “Here,” he said. “If we can break in at Fort WiLi, we can roll up the southrons. Brigadier Alexander!”
“Sir?” said the officer in charge of James’ engines.
“Concentrate your engines in front of that fort. Nothing like a good rain of firepots to make the enemy lose his spirit.”
“Yes, sir.” Brigadier Alexander was young and eager. Unlike Brigadier Falayette, he didn’t worry about whether something could be done. He went out and did his best to do it.
But, given the dispositions of James’ men… “Brigadier Falayette!” James waited for the wing commander to nod, then went on, “As your men stand before Fort WiLi, you shall make the assault upon it. As soon as you have gained control, rapidly send soldiers north and south so as to secure as much of the enemy’s line as you can, easing the way for our other forces.”
“Yes, sir,” Falayette said.
James did his ponderous best to hide a sigh. He heard no eagerness there. “Colonel Simon!” he said.
“Sir?” Simon the mage replied.
“As with Brigadier Alexander’s specialty, the attack on the fort will require all that your mages can give,” James said.
“I understand, sir,” Simon said. “You’ll have it.”
“Good.” James wondered how good it was. Brigadier Falayette had a point. Wouldn’t it be better to hang on to what they had now than to throw it away on an attack that held little hope of success? Earl James sighed again, openly this time. Count Thraxton had given the orders, and he had to obey. And retaking Wesleyton would be important-if they could do it.
He gave the order for the attack with more than the usual worries. Brigadier Alexander’s engines pummeled the earthen walls of Fort WiLi. Stones battered them. Firepots sent flame dripping down them and over the battlements to burn the men inside. James of Broadpath wouldn’t have cared to find himself on the receiving end of that bombardment.
And Simon the mage and his wizardly colleagues did all they could to punish the fort and the southrons inside it. Lightning struck from a clear sky. The ground trembled beneath James’ feet, and presumably did more than tremble inside Fort WiLi. Batwinged demons shrieked like damned souls as they swooped down on the defenders.
Against the blonds in the old days, the days of conquest, the sorcerous assault would have been plenty to win the fight by itself. But the southrons knew all the tricks their northern cousins did, even if they weren’t always quite so handy with them. Their lightnings smote James’ men, too. The tremors died away as the southron mages mastered them. And as for the demons, as soon as they manifested themselves in the real world, they were as vulnerable to weaponry as any other real-world creatures. Once the stream of darts from a repeating crossbow knocked three of them from the sky in quick succession, the rest grew much more cautious.
And the southrons had many more engines to turn on James’ men than Brigadier Alexander had to turn on them. One after another of the catapults brought with such labor from Rising Rock went out of action. Alexander’s artificers shrieked as fire engulfed them.
James beckoned for a runner. “Tell Brigadier Falayette to start his footsoldiers moving right this minute. We’re getting hammered harder than we’re hammering.”
“Yes, sir.” The runner dashed off.
&
nbsp; Despite the order, the pikemen and the crossbowmen who would follow them did not go forward. Fuming, James of Broadpath dispatched another runner to his reluctant brigadier, this one with more peremptory orders. After a little while, the second runner came back, saying, “Brigadier Falayette’s compliments, sir, but he believes the enemy has strung wires in front of his position. Have we tinsnips or axes to cut them?”
“Tinsnips?” James clapped a hand to his forehead. “Tin snips?” The word might have come from one of the more obscure tongues the blond tribes used. “You tell Brigadier Falayette that if he doesn’t get his men moving this instant-this instant, do you hear me?-we’ll find out if we’ve got a pair of tinsnips big enough to fit on his gods-damned neck.”
With a gulp, the runner fled.
And the pikemen and crossbowmen did go forward-straight into everything the southrons’ still undefeated engines could throw at them, straight into the massed shooting of every crossbowman Whiskery Ambrose could put on the walls of Fort WiLi. They went forward roaring, plainly intending to sweep everything before them.
But, as Brigadier Falayette had said, the southrons did have thin wires strung in front of Fort WiLi. They slowed the attackers so that Whiskery Ambrose’s men and engines could pound them without mercy, and the northerners were able to do little to reply.
“Where’s Simon the mage?” James shouted in fury. When the wizard came before him, he growled, “Why didn’t you clever sons of bitches notice those wires ahead of time?”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but we can’t possibly notice everything,” Simon said.
“Sometimes it seems as if you can’t notice anything,” James said. The colonel gave him an aggrieved look, which he resolutely ignored. “Is there anything you can do to get rid of the gods-damned wires? Conjure up some demons with sharp teeth and a taste for iron, maybe?”
Simon the mage shook his head. “We would need some considerable, time-consuming research, and we have no time to consume, I fear.”
He was all too obviously right about that. Instead of going forward with roars, James’ men were streaming away from the fort outside Wesleyton. They’d made their attack and seen it fail. They were veterans. They knew what that meant: no point in staying close to the enemy and getting hurt to no purpose.
After a while, Whiskery Ambrose sent out a young captain with a white flag. Northern soldiers led him to James of Broadpath. “The general’s compliments, sir,” the youngster said, “and he would be pleased to grant you two hours’ truce to recover your wounded.”
James bowed. “That is very courteous and gentlemanly of General Ambrose, and I accept with many thanks.” They exchanged a few more compliments before the southron captain went back to Fort WiLi.
Now I’ll have to explain to Captain Thraxton how and why I didn’t break into Wesleyton, James thought gloomily. That will be every bit as delightful as going to the dentist.
A scryer came up to him, as if the thought of having to talk to Thraxton were enough to bring the fellow into being. “What now?” James asked.
The scryer looked worried. James felt his own temper, stretched thin by the repulse, fray even further. Had the illustrious Thraxton decided to sack him even in advance of knowing what had happened here? James didn’t intend to disappear peacefully. But then the scryer said, “Sir, the fighting’s started up by Rising Rock.”
XI
Another gray, foggy, misty day. Captain Ormerod was sick of them. “Is this what fall is like in these parts?” he asked, leaning closer to the campfire. “If it is, why in the hells does anyone live here?”
“It really isn’t, sir,” Lieutenant Gremio answered. “I’ve spoken with some men who come from this part of Franklin, and-”
“Looking for evidence, eh?” Ormerod broke in.
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” Gremio said. “They tell me they can’t recall seeing such a wretched run of weather. It’s almost as if some mage were holding a blanket of clouds and mist over Rising Rock.”
Ormerod raised an eyebrow. “Do you suppose some mage is? Some southron mage, I mean?”
“I wouldn’t think so, sir,” Gremio said. “Surely Count Thraxton would notice if that were so.”
“Oh, surely.” Ormerod put as much sarcastic venom in that as he could. “Thraxton is just like a god-he notices everything that goes on around him. Haven’t you seen that for yourself?”
“It’s foggy. I can’t see anything much,” Gremio said.
But then Ormerod said, “It is starting to clear out a bit, I suppose.” The more he looked, the more and the farther he could see. If it had been a spell-and he didn’t know about that one way or the other-the wizard who’d been casting it seemed to need it no longer. When he looked up to the top of Sentry Peak, he spied King Geoffrey’s flag, red dragon on gold, floating where his regiment (though Major Thersites would have had something memorable to say had he put it that way in earshot of him) had placed it.
And when he looked east… When he looked east, his jaw dropped and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Lieutenant Gremio was already looking east. Being a barrister, he’d likely had a tongue hinged at both ends since birth. “By the Lion God’s mane,” he said hoarsely, “if that isn’t every stinking southron in the world out there, it might as well be.”
“Oh, gods be praised,” Ormerod said. “I was afraid I was imagining them.”
“And they’re all heading this way,” Gremio added.
“I know,” Ormerod said. That also made him afraid, but in a way different from, and more concrete than, he’d felt before.
Major Thersites saw the advancing enemy, too. “Stand by to repel boarders!” he called, as if the southrons were so many pirates about to swarm onto a fat, rich merchantman. But General Bart’s men advanced with far better discipline than pirates were in the habit of showing.
“Can we hold them back, sir?” Lieutenant Gremio asked, in the voice of a small child looking for reassurance.
But Ormerod had no reassurance even for himself, let alone to give to anyone else. “To the hells with me if I know,” he answered, while Not a chance on earth or under it ran through his mind.
Thersites was right, though: they had to try. Ormerod shouted orders to his men, who found the best cover they could and got ready to fight back. The Franklin River anchored the southern end of their line, the steep slopes of Sentry Peak the northern. Thersites said, “Gods damn it, where’s that louse-ridden Thraxton the Braggart when you really need the son of a bitch? He ought to have a spell ready that’d sweep away these bastards like a blond wench sweeping out your bedroom.”
The more the mist lifted, the more Ormerod saw. The more Ormerod saw, the more he wished he didn’t. “I think Thraxton is liable to be busy somewhere else,” he said unhappily.
From Sentry Peak here in the north to Funnel Hill, the extension of Proselytizers’ Rise in the far southwest, southron troops advanced against the line the Army of Franklin had set up to hold them inside Rising Rock. How many soldiers had General Bart brought into the town? Ormerod didn’t know, not in numbers, but the southrons were sending forth far more men than he’d thought they had.
He couldn’t pay so much attention to the distant vistas of the battlefield as he would have liked. The southrons moving on his part of the line from the east drew closer by the minute. He cursed as he recognized the banners their regimental standard-bearers waved.
“Those are Fighting Joseph’s troopers!” His voice rose to a furious shout. “Those are the sons of bitches we fought when we went west toward Brownsville Ferry. Some of you boys ran away from jackasses on account of you thought they were unicorn-riders. You’re not going to let these bastards shift you now, are you?”
“No!” his men yelled, and he hoped they meant it.
“We haven’t got enough of anything,” Gremio said worriedly. “We haven’t got enough men, we haven’t got enough engines, we haven’t got enough mages. How are we supposed to stop-that?” He pointed
toward the gray flood rolling down on them.
“We’ve got to try,” Ormerod said, echoing Thersites. “If you like, Lieutenant, I’ll write you a pass so you can go to the rear.” Gremio bit his lip but shook his head. Ormerod slapped him on the back. “Stout fellow.”
“No, just a fool, ashamed of looking like a coward before my comrades,” Gremio said. “I’d be smarter if I took you up on that, and we both know it.”
“They haven’t killed me yet,” Ormerod told him. “Futter me if I think they can do it this time.”
“I admire your spirit,” Gremio said. “I would admire it even more if I thought Count Thraxton could send us reinforcements from elsewhere on the field.”
“We’ll manage,” Ormerod said; he didn’t think Thraxton the Braggart could send them reinforcements, either. “We have to manage.”
King Geoffrey’s soldiers were doing everything they could. Artificers turned engines away from Rising Rock and toward the east so they would bear on the advancing foe. Stones and firepots began to fly. So did streams of darts from the big repeating crossbows. Southrons in gray started falling.
But the southrons, along with everything else, were bringing their own wheeled engines forward. They started shooting first at the catapults and repeating crossbows that were tormenting them. That spared Ormerod and his fellow footsoldiers for a while, but only for a while. Gremio was right: the southrons had more engines here than did this part of Count Thraxton’s army. Little by little, they battered Thraxton’s engines down to something close to silence, and then turned their attention to his pikemen and crossbowmen.
By that time, Ormerod’s soldiers were shooting at the oncoming enemy footsoldiers. “Avram!” the southrons yelled. “Avram and freedom! One Detina, now and forever!”
Some of the northerners gave their lion-roar of defiance. Others shouted Geoffrey’s name or cried, “Provincial prerogative in perpetuity!” And still others yelled things like, “We don’t want to stay in the same kingdom with you sons of bitches!”
Sentry Peak Page 37
