Sentry Peak

by Harry Turtledove

  He wouldn’t have been surprised had Joram shaken him awake in the middle of the night to take someone’s place on sentry-go. Getting jerked from sleep by a woman’s shriek, though, took him back to the bad days on Baron Ormerod’s estate, when Ormerod had enjoyed himself among the blond girls as he pleased.

  For a moment, Rollant lay frozen. Back on the estate, he hadn’t dared interfere. Few blonds did, and they all paid. But he wasn’t on the estate, wasn’t a serf, any more. A man’s cry-no, two men’s cries-rang out with the woman’s. Rollant knew exactly where he was then, and feared he knew exactly what had happened. A cry of dismay on his own lips, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward Captain Cephas’ tent.

  Hagen burst out through the tent flap. He held a butcher knife, but hardly seemed to know it. He took a couple of stumbling steps, then fell on his face. Captain Cephas’ sword stuck out of his back.

  Cephas himself came out a moment later. “I got him,” he said, and then something else, but the blood pouring from his mouth kept Rollant from understanding what. Cephas’ left hand was clasped to his undershirt, the only garment he was wearing. He swayed, said one more clear word-‘Corliss’-and crumpled as Hagen had before him.

  “Oh, by the gods,” Smitty said from behind Rollant, and set a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like you were right.”

  “I wish I’d been wrong,” Rollant said. “Is she still in the tent?”

  Smitty went inside before anyone else could. Rollant heard him gulp. “She’s in here,” he said, and his voice wobbled. “Hagen almost took her head off with that knife.” He came out in a hurry, bent over, and was noisily sick. He might-he surely had-seen worse in battle. But you expected such things in battle. Here, after the victory was won…

  “It takes the edge off,” Rollant said. “It does more than that, in fact.” He gulped, too, though he hadn’t gone into the tent. What was outside was bad enough.

  Smitty spat, swigged from his canteen, and spat again. “It does for us,” he said. “But if you think the generals will care, you’re daft.” Rollant thought that over. Reluctantly, he nodded.

  * * *

  General Bart folded his right hand into a fist and smote his left palm, as much of a gesture of excitement as he ever allowed himself. The sun rose on as complete a triumph as the southron cause had seen in some time. He nodded to Doubting George, who was also just emerging from his pavilion. “Good morning, Lieutenant General. Now that we’ve whipped the northerners, let’s see if we can run the legs off them and break their whole army to pieces.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” George said. “When General Guildenstern forced Thraxton the Braggart out of Rising Rock, he let him retreat, because he was sure Thraxton would run all the way up to Marthasville. He found out differently by the River of Death.”

  “Well, that’s two lessons for us,” Bart said.

  “Two?” Doubting George asked.

  “Yes, two,” Bart replied. “The first is, pursue vigorously. The second is, keep your eyes open while you’re doing it.” He watched George consider that and nod. He would have been disappointed had the other officer done anything else. And he said what needed saying: “Congratulations to you and your men. They were the ones who cracked the Braggart’s position and let us win our victory.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.” George grinned wryly. “I would take more credit for it if I’d actually given the order that sent my men up the slope of Proselytizers’ Rise, but thank you all the same. I do take no little pride in what my men accomplished, no matter who gave that order.”

  “If anyone did,” Bart said. “Whoever he was, he’s proved remarkably shy about coming forward and taking the credit for it.” He hesitated, then went on, “Not to take anything away from whoever it was, or from you, or from your undoubtedly brave men, but Colonel Phineas gives me to understand that part of the credit for our victory and the traitors’ defeat also goes to Count Thraxton for making a hash of a spell at just the wrong time.”

  “Yes, my mages told me the same thing,” Lieutenant General George replied. “We hoped it would happen in the heat of battle, and it did.”

  “Give Thraxton the chance to make a mistake or make a man dislike him and he will take it more often than not,” Bart said. He turned to a blond servant hurrying up with a tray. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Your breakfast, sir.” The servant sounded surprised he needed to ask. “Just what you said you wanted-a cup of strong tea, no milk, no honey, and a cucumber sliced in vinegar.”

  “Perfect,” Bart said. He dipped his head to Doubting George. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Of course, sir,” George said. “What an… interesting breakfast.”

  “I eat it almost every day,” Bart said. “I’m not a man of fancy tastes. I do as I do, and I am willing to let the men under me do as they do, provided they also do as I require when the time for that comes on the battlefield.”

  “You’d better be careful, sir,” George said gravely. “Such judiciousness will get you into trouble.” Only when he smiled could Bart be sure he was joking.

  An aide said, “Lieutenant General Hesmucet is here, sir. Now that the traitors have left Funnel Hill, his men have occupied it.”

  “Good; that’s very good.” Bart resigned himself to eating breakfast in front of his subordinates. Doubting George said nothing at all to the aide. But Bart didn’t need to be a mage to know what he was thinking. His men, who didn’t have a reputation for boldness, had taken Proselytizers’ Rise, while Hesmucet’s soldiers, who did, had spent two fruitless days assailing Funnel Hill, and hadn’t seized it till after the northerners withdrew.

  Hesmucet gave the reins of his unicorn to a waiting trooper and hurried over to Bart and Doubting George. Without preamble, Hesmucet said, “Let’s chase those traitor sons of bitches to the hells and gone. The less we let ’em up, the better off we’ll be.”

  “I have no quarrel with that,” Bart said.

  “Neither have I,” George said, “though I do think we would be wise to scout carefully out ahead of our main line of march, to keep us from running into trouble the way General Guildenstern did.”

  “Well, I have no quarrel with that,” Hesmucet said. “I can’t see how any sensible man would have a quarrel with that, although you never can tell with some people.”

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” General Bart said. “Soonest begun, soonest done, or so they say. I want to drive the Army of Franklin so far into Peachtree Province that it can’t ever even dream of coming back to Franklin again.”

  “That’s fine. Mighty fine, in fact,” Hesmucet said.

  “It will be fine indeed, if we can bring it off,” George said. “Talking about such plans is always easier than making them work, though.”

  He’s not a coward, Bart reminded himself. He’s a cautious man. There’s a difference. Hesmucet bristled at George’s words, but didn’t say anything himself. He wanted to go after the enemy, and was confident Bart would give him what he wanted.

  Before Bart could make any remarks of his own, a scryer came up to him and said, “Sir, King Avram would speak with you from Georgetown.”

  “Would he?” Bart replied. The scryer solemnly nodded. Bart said, “Well, if the king wants to speak to the likes of me, I don’t suppose I ought to keep him waiting. Take me to the right crystal ball and sit me down in front of it.”

  “Yes, sir. Come with me, sir,” the scryer said.

  Very shortly thereafter, Bart did sit down in front of a crystal ball from whose depths the long, bony face of King Avram stared out. “Congratulations, General, on the great victory you and your men have earned these past two days.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” Bart said. “Thank you for all the confidence you’ve had in me throughout this war.”

  Avram smiled a lopsided smile. Most of his smiles were lopsided. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a handsome man. Geoffrey and those who followed him made much of that, calling Avr
am a mistake of the gods and other, less complimentary, things. Handsome or not, though, Avram was engaging in a way the cold-blooded Geoffrey could never match. Seeing his smile, Bart had to return it; he couldn’t help himself. Avram said, “I’d better be confident in you. You have the one quality I can’t do without in a general: you fight.”

  “That’s the point of the exercise, your Majesty,” Bart said.

  “You understand as much. It’s second nature to you,” the king said. “Too many men, though, think they’ve got their fancy uniforms for no better reason than looking pretty on parade. Now, if you’d be so kind, describe your present situation for me, and tell me what you plan to do next.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bart obeyed. Avram had no formal soldierly training, but he’d learned a good deal about making war since he’d had to start doing it.

  The king plucked at his beard. He’d grown it only after King Buchan died, perhaps to try to make himself look more regal. In Bart’s opinion, it hadn’t quite worked. But King Avram, though interested in Bart’s views on matters military, had never given any sign he cared about the general’s opinions on other matters. Avram said, “Had you planned to send your whole army after Count Thraxton?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bart said again. “Anything less would be asking for a nasty surprise like the one he gave General Guildenstern by the River of Death.”

  “Mm, yes, something to that, I suppose,” Avram said. “At the same time, though, I am concerned about General Ambrose, over in Wesleyton. With James of Broadpath laying siege to him there, he could use some reinforcements, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Your Majesty, I’m not at all sure Earl James can go on with that siege now that we’ve beaten Thraxton the Braggart,” Bart replied. “He has the last force loyal to the pretender left in the whole province of Franklin. If we were to go after him instead of Thraxton, we could crush him, and he has to know it.”

  “That wouldn’t be so if he took Wesleyton before you got there, would it?” the king said. “I tell you frankly, General, I would be mighty unhappy if that happened. I’ve wanted to get an army into Wesleyton ever since this war started, and I don’t care to see the chance lost before we can take advantage of it. Do I make myself plain?”

  “You certainly do, your Majesty,” Bart said with a sigh. “I still think you’re fretting more than you need to, but-”

  “But me no buts. That’s what kings are for: to fret about things, I mean,” Avram said. “Kindly take care of Wesleyton, General.”

  “I was about to say, sir, that I can send Fighting Joseph’s wing in that direction,” Bart said. “He has enough men under his command to meet James of Broadpath by himself, if need be, and enough to have a sizable edge on James if you add his men and Whiskery Ambrose’s together.”

  King Avram stroked his beard again. After a moment, he nodded. “All right, General. Yes, I think that will do the trick.” He raised one shaggy eyebrow. “I won’t be sorry to see Fighting Joseph marching off into the middle of nowhere, either, and I’ve got a suspicion it won’t exactly break your heart. Eh? What do you say about that?”

  Avram might not have been a general, but he showed a shrewd understanding of his fellow man. “What do I have to say to that, your Majesty? I’d say you were right,” Bart answered. “But I also have to say that, if I send Fighting Joseph off toward Wesleyton, it will delay my pursuit of Thraxton the Braggart.”

  “I’m willing to pay that price,” the king said. “And, by the time the pursuit does get started, it may not be yours any more anyhow.”

  “Sir?” Bart said in surprise.

  “One of the things I’ve been thinking for a while is that Detina hasn’t had a marshal, an overall commanding general, for a goodish while, and that we need one right about now,” Avram said. “Another thing I’ve been thinking for a while is that you’re shaping pretty well for the job. That, I expect, would bring you here to the west to take charge of the fight against Duke Edward of Arlington and the Army of Southern Parthenia. What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “Sir, if you think I’m up to it, I’ll do my best not to disappoint you,” Bart replied.

  Avram nodded. “That will do. That will do nicely. What you try, General, you have a way of succeeding at.”

  I have to, Bart thought. If I don’t do well here, what can I fall back on? The spirits jar, and I’d fall into that, fall into it and never get out. “Thank you kindly for all the trust you’ve placed in me,” he said aloud.

  “Thank you for not making me sorry I’ve done it,” Avram answered. Yes, they understood each other well.

  “Your Majesty, Detina’s done a lot for me,” Bart said. “The least I could do is give a little something back to the kingdom.”

  “General, what you and your men had given isn’t a little something,” the king said. “After what happened at the River of Death, I was afraid-I was very much afraid, though I wouldn’t say so to most people-we would have to start the war in the east all over again, so to speak. Thanks to you, that isn’t going to happen, and I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart. Good day to you.”

  “Good day, sir,” Bart replied. In the middle of his words, the crystal ball went blank and empty. He turned and nodded to the scryer. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” the young man said.

  When Bart went out to Doubting George and Hesmucet, both lieutenant generals all but pounced on him. “What are our orders, sir?” one of them asked, at the same time as the other one was saying, “What did the king tell you?”

  “We’re going to have to send reinforcements to Whiskery Ambrose in Wesleyton,” Bart answered. “That’s what King Avram wants, and he is the king we swore to obey. It’s not necessarily what I would do if I had a choice, but I don’t.”

  Neither of the other officers made any effort to hide his disappointment. “That means we won’t be able to chase the Braggart the way we ought to, gods damn it,” Hesmucet growled.

  “Whom will you send west to Wesleyton?” George asked.

  Will you send me? he meant. Will you get me out of the action after my men won your battle for you? Bart understood him as plainly as if he’d been shouting. The commanding general said, “King Avram and I talked that over. We agreed Fighting Joseph would be the best man for the job.”

  “Good choice!” Hesmucet said. Doubting George nodded. Better him than me, they both had to be thinking.

  Bart coughed and then said, “There is some talk of my going west in the not too distant future.”

  “Congratulations, sir,” George said. ” `Some talk’ from the king is as good as an oration from anybody else.”

  He didn’t ask whom Bart would leave in command in western Franklin if he did happen to be summoned to Georgetown. He probably already knew. Bart said, “I thank you. And I want everyone here to bear in mind that, even if we aren’t going after Thraxton right this minute, that doesn’t mean we aren’t going to go after him at all. The day will come, and it will come soon.”

  “I’ll go after Thraxton, if that’s what needs doing,” Hesmucet said. “I’ll go after Marthasville, if that’s what needs doing. But mostly, I aim to go after the traitors, grab hold of ’em, and shake ’em by the neck.”

  “Good,” Bart said. “If King Avram calls me to the west, that’s what I aim to do there.”

  * * *

  “No, sir,” the scryer who’d spoken to his opposite number in the Army of Franklin told Earl James of Broadpath. “There can be no possible doubt, not any more. The southrons have struck a heavy blow against Count Thraxton, and have forced his army off Sentry Peak and Proselytizers’ Rise.”

  “Well, gods damn them,” James said glumly. “I wouldn’t have thought a horde of half-divine heroes from the long-gone days could have forced an army off Proselytizers’ Rise if it wasn’t inclined to go, but what do I know? Did General Bart find some way to outflank our host?”

  “No, sir,” the scryer repeated. “They stormed Proselytizers’
Rise from the front.”

  “What?” burst from Earl James. “How in the seven hells did even that imbecile Thraxton the Braggart-I beg your pardon, did Count Thraxton the commanding general-let such a thing happen?”

  “As I understand, sir, there was a certain amount of difficulty with some piece of sorcery or another,” the scryer said. “I am not certain of that, of course, but it does seem to be the most widely credited explanation.”

  ” `A certain amount of difficulty with some piece of sorcery or another’?” James echoed. The scryer nodded. “Oh, by the Lion God’s claws!” James groaned. “By the Thunderer’s prick! So he went and botched another one, did he?”

  “That is my understanding,” the scryer said primly.

  “At least you have some understanding,” James of Broadpath said. “By all the signs, that’s more than Count Thraxton can claim.” The scryer said nothing in response to that, which was probably wise on his part. With a sigh that sounded much like anther groan, James asked, “What does Thraxton want me to do now? Does he think I ought to try to rejoin him?”

  “No, sir,” the scryer told him. “Count Thraxton believes the southrons are sending an army from Rising Rock in your direction, and does not find it likely that you could successfully evade it.”

  After a moment’s thought, Earl James nodded. “Yes, they’d do that. All right, then. I’ll hold my position here in front of Wesleyton for as long as I can.”

  “Very good, sir. I shall report that to Count Thraxton’s man.” The scryer set about livening up his crystal ball once more.

  James of Broadpath stood as if frozen in the scryers’ tent for a moment. Then he exploded in a torrent of curses. They did no good at all. He knew as much. They did make him feel a little better, though. When he left the tent, he no longer felt like strangling the first man he saw in lieu of wrapping his meaty hands around the scrawny neck of Count Thraxton, whom he could not reach.