Sentry Peak wotp-1

by Harry Turtledove

  “Can we lick him if he does?” George asked. He knew his own opinion, but wanted to hear what his brigadiers had to say.

  But then Brigadier Negley said, “May it please you, sir, I’m not altogether convinced these aren’t more holdouts making nuisances of themselves, like those dragoons a few days ago.”

  “Nonsense,” Brannan said.

  Negley glared at him. He was handsome, too, in a foppish way. He wore a bushy mustache and a neatly trimmed little tuft of hair under his lower lip. He hadn’t been a soldier before the war-in fact, he’d got wealthy as a horticulturalist, of all unlikely things-but he’d raised a regiment of volunteers for King Avram and had fought it well enough to win promotion from colonel to brigadier.

  “It isn’t nonsense,” he said, looking from Brannan to George and back again. “Some people just think they know everything to know, that’s all.” He sniffed. Having dismissed the catapult enthusiast, he spoke to George again: “Why should the traitors fight here when everything they need to hold is so much farther north?”

  George couldn’t dismiss that argument out of hand, not when it was the same one General Guildenstern had made to justify splitting up his army. He said, “By all the signs I’ve seen, by all the reports the scouts are bringing in, there are more than holdouts in front of us. Suppose Thraxton the Braggart hits this column with everything he’s got. Can we whip him?”

  His brigadiers looked at one another. Absalom the Bear was first to answer, in rumbling tones that helped explain how he’d acquired his nickname: “I wouldn’t care to bet on it, sir. He’s got more men than we do here, and we’re stretched out pretty stinking thin, too.”

  Brigadier Rinaldo nodded. “He could hurt us. But I don’t think he’s stayed in the south, either. What’s the point of it?”

  “Nice to know someone can see sense,” Brigadier Negley murmured.

  Brigadier Brannan set a hand on the hilt of his sword. “If you don’t care for the way I think, sir, we can meet at a place of your choosing and you are welcome to try to make me change my views. Make sure you let someone know where you want your urn interred, though.”

  Negley returned a stiff bow. “I am altogether at your service, sir.”

  Doubting George decided it was a good time to lose his temper, or to seem to. He slammed the palm of his hand on the folding table behind which he sat. His brigadiers all jumped at the noise. “That will be quite enough of that,” he growled. “What do you think you are, a pack of northern nobles? They’ve got the blue blood and the blue shirts, and as far as I’m concerned they’re welcome to them. You both know perfectly well that dueling is forbidden in this army, and for good reason, too. We’ve got ourselves a job to do. By the gods, we’re going to do it. Do I make myself plain?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brigadier Brannan said. Brigadier Negley nodded as stiffly as he’d bowed.

  “Good.” George hoped he could let it rest there. “If we have traitors in the neighborhood, what do we need to do?”

  “We’d better let General Guildenstern know,” Absalom the Bear declared.

  “I’ve already done that,” George said.

  Absalom nodded. “Does he believe you?”

  That was indeed the right question to ask. “I don’t know yet,” George replied. His smile was dry. “I have my doubts.”

  All four brigadiers chuckled. They took a certain amount of pride in serving under a man who had the sort of a reputation that had won him a nickname like Doubting George. George didn’t want anyone serving under him who didn’t take that sort of pride. He’d weeded out a few officers who didn’t measure up. But he’d done it quietly, so as not to touch off doubts in anyone else.

  Brigadier Brannan asked, “Have you checked with our mages, to see what they think?”

  That was another good question. George thought so, at any rate. But before he could answer it, Negley snapped his fingers and said, “The mages will tell you they don’t know. That’s all they’re good for.”

  “Well, not quite,” George said, though he’d been disappointed in the quality of the sorcerers who served King Avram a good many times.

  Brannan’s smile showed sharp teeth as he nodded to Negley. “I presume the sorcerers aren’t much use in the flower trade, eh?” he asked with exquisite, sardonic politeness. Beneath Negley’s swarthy hide, he turned red.

  Before he could snap back, before Brannan could take it any further, George said, “I’ve already told you once, that will be quite enough of that.” He’d enjoyed Brigadier Brannan’s gibe, too, but not enough to want to watch his subordinates quarrel among themselves. “We’d do better turning all our tempers against the traitors, don’t you think?”

  None of the brigadiers had the nerve to say no. Absalom the Bear said, “Mages are good for something every now and again. You never can tell.”

  “That’s true-you never can.” Doubting George raised his voice. “Colonel Andy!”

  “Sir?” His aide-de-camp bustled into the meeting. All four brigadiers gave him matching fishy stares. He didn’t have so much rank as any of them, but he had-or they thought he had-more influence with George, so they resented him.

  “Fetch me Colonel Albertus, if you’d be so kind,” George said. Colonel Andy nodded, saluted, and bustled away to get the mage. He was very good at looking busy, even when he wasn’t.

  “Albertus.” Brigadier Negley sniffed. “Calls himself the Great, like a circus mountebank. Great compared to what, is what I want to know.”

  He kept on fuming and muttering insults till the tent flap opened and Colonel Albertus strode into the pavilion. Then, most abruptly, Negley fell silent. Insulting a mage to his face was risky business.

  But the brigadier had had a point. When Albertus the Great bowed to George and asked, “How may I serve you, your Excellency?” in deep, vibrant tones, he sounded like a circus mountebank. And he looked like one, too. He wore his gray beard very long, and trained it to a point. His eyes flashed. His posture was very erect. His hands twitched, as if he were about to pull a goldpiece from Doubting George’s ear.

  George didn’t want a goldpiece. He was after something more precious still, and more elusive: the truth. “By your magecraft, Colonel, have you noted any signs that Count Thraxton’s men are nearby in numbers greater than they ought to be? You and your fellow sorcerers, I mean.”

  “Yes, of course.” Even Albertus’ frown was theatrical. “Sir, I am able to give no certain answer, much as I should like to. The northerners have set so many masking spells on the landscape, my colleagues and I are hard pressed to see anything at all.”

  “Why would they do that, if they didn’t have something to hide?” Brigadier Brannan asked.

  “Why? I can think of several reasons,” Albertus said. “One, obviously, is to conceal their forces. But another would be to conceal that which is not there, to use magic to deceive and slow us where warriors cannot.”

  “Are they such sneaky demons as that?” Brigadier Rinaldo asked.

  “Do we dare think they aren’t?” Absalom the Bear said before anyone else could answer. George had to give Rinaldo credit: he very visibly thought about that before at last shaking his head.

  To Colonel Albertus, the so-called Great, George said, “Can you tell whether the enemy is masking emptiness or building up his forces behind all those screening spells?”

  “Maybe,” Albertus said-an answer Doubting George accepted as basically honest, if nothing else. The mage went on, “If the masking spells are laid on with enough skill and force, they will hide whatever lies behind them, whether that be nothing or a great deal. That is their function, after all.”

  “Well, so it is,” George said. “But your function, Colonel, is to pierce that magic, no matter how skilfully and forcefully the traitors use it.”

  “In theory, no doubt, that is true,” Albertus replied.

  “If the theory’s not worth anything, Colonel, why aren’t you carrying a pike instead of your wand there?” Brigadier Absalo
m demanded. His manners were altogether unpolished, but he was the man George relied upon when the going got heavy.

  Albertus the Great, however, looked at him as if he’d just found him on the sole of his boot. He stroked his splendid, gleaming beard and said, “I assure you, sir, we of the mystical profession are doing everything within our power to aid in King Avram’s just fight to keep Detina a single kingdom.”

  That within our power was, of course, the rub. King Geoffrey’s mages were on the whole better than the ones who’d stayed loyal to Avram, even if Albertus had a more impressive beard than any of them. George said, “Colonel, we urgently need to know what, if anything, is behind those masking spells. You and your fellow mages are to attempt to learn that. You are to do whatever becomes necessary in order to learn it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” Albertus saluted as crisply as any soldier could have-or perhaps as crisply as an actor impersonating a soldier might have done up on the stage. His about-face also held some of that theatrical quality. He stalked out of Lieutenant General George’s pavilion.

  After he was gone, Brigadier Brannan said, “It would probably be a good idea to nab some northern prisoners, too, sir, to find out what they say. Anybody who counts on mages and nothing else dooms himself to disappointment.”

  “I’m already doing it, Brigadier,” George said, and Brannan grinned at him. George went on, “If we could rely on our mages, we’d’ve long since won this war.” He held up a hand before any of his fractious subordinates could speak. “I’m not done, gentlemen. If the traitors could rely on their mages, they’d’ve long since won the war.”

  The meeting with his division commanders broke up a few minutes later. The four brigadiers left the pavilion, Brannan and Negley ostentatiously not speaking to each other. Doubting George stepped out with them. Part of that was so they wouldn’t go for their swords as soon as they were out from under his eye. Part of it was in the hope that the air would be cooler and a little less muggy. His two quarreling officers left each other alone, so that was a success. But hoping for cool, dry air in summer anywhere in Peachtree Province… George shook his head. No chance. No chance at all.

  He glanced toward the mages’ tents. He couldn’t see anything summoning the sorcerers, but one by one they left their own tents and strode into Colonel Albertus’. Going to get crowded in there before long, he thought, but more and more magicians went inside without the tent’s bursting at the seams. Maybe there was something to this magecraft business, if magic could make tents bigger inside than out-.

  Then George shrugged. He would have been happier with his mages if they’d shown better at the little skirmish by the stone fence. He would have been happier with them if they’d shown better at any number of fights in two and a half years of war.

  They are trying, he thought. Yes, they’re very trying. The sardonic second thought followed the charitable first as naturally as night followed day.

  He could hear them chanting, there in Albertus’ tent. They had fine, resonant voices. He wondered what, if anything, that had to do with the price of brandy. Maybe better music made for better magecraft. He could hope so, at any rate. He’d hoped for all sorts of things from mages, and been disappointed more often than he cared to recall.

  All at once, the chanting stopped. The ground shook beneath Doubting George’s feet, as if a troop of unicorns were trotting by not far away. Mages started spilling out of Albertus’ tent. By the way they fled, by their cries of horror and expressions of dismay, the shaking had been worse, a great deal worse, in there. George hadn’t thought there were so many synonyms for earthquake, or so many lewd adjectives that would cling to the term.

  Colonel Albertus the Great was the last man out of the tent. George gave him some credit for that, as he would have given the captain of a sinking quinquereme some credit for being the last man off his stricken vessel. “What happened?” George called.

  Colonel Albertus’ eyes were wild. So was his beard; instead of doing as he wanted, it stuck out in all directions. He staggered over to Doubting George and managed a sort of a salute. “Sir,” he said, “if you want to find out what’s on the other side of those masking spells, you’re just going to have to do it with soldiers. I’m sorry, but I must report myself… not quite fit for duty.”

  He swayed and toppled. As George caught him, the general reflected that he’d got information from the mage-if only he knew what to do with it.

  * * *

  “Well, where are the stinking sons of bitches?” Captain Ormerod demanded. “By the gods, I’m sick of tramping through these endless woods for southrons who might as well be down in New Eborac for all we’ve seen of them.”

  “Beats me,” Colonel Florizel replied. The regimental commander didn’t mind complaints, not when he was none too happy about tramping through these pine woods himself. “As far as I’m concerned, if they didn’t know exactly where the enemy was, they should have used mages or bloodhounds to find him, not soldiers. We’ve got better things to do.”

  “Or Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders,” Ormerod said. “Ned’s a serfcatcher, or he was. He ought to be able to find out where the southrons are skulking if anyone can.”

  “Everything started boiling after Count Thraxton paid a visit to Leonidas,” Lieutenant Gremio said. “My guess is, Thraxton wanted Leonidas to do more, and so Leonidas started flailing around every which way.”

  “Leonidas the Priest is a very holy man,” Florizel said reprovingly. “The gods love him.”

  “They must,” Gremio said. “Otherwise, how could such a dunderhead have become a general in the first place?”

  “Now, Lieutenant,” Ormerod said, deliciously scandalized. “Do have a care what you say. Isn’t that libel?”

  “Of course not,” Gremio replied with a barrister’s certainty. “Slander, yes. Libel, no. I wouldn’t waste time libeling Leonidas, anyhow-except for hymn books, there’s no proof he can read.”

  Something buggy bit Ormerod. He swatted at it. Whatever it was, Gremio had proved he owned a sharper tongue than it did.

  Sergeant Tybalt came out from behind a tree. He was buttoning his fly, which gave more than a hint of why he’d gone back there in the first place. Seeing Ormerod, he asked, “Sir, even if we do find the stinking southrons in this miserable country, how in the names of all the gods are we supposed to fight them hereabouts?”

  “As best we can, Sergeant,” Ormerod answered. “As best we can.”

  Tybalt looked dissatisfied. Ormerod didn’t blame him, but he had no better answer to give. Battles, proper battles, were usually fought in broad plains that gave both sides room to maneuver and to see farther than a few feet. But there were no broad plains here in this miserable country-Tybalt had had the right word for it-by the River of Death, only endless woods, mostly pine, some oak, punctuated by occasional farms and their mean little fields.

  Colonel Florizel said, “Our ancestors beat back the blonds and broke them to servitude in country like this. If they could do it, we can do it, too.”

  Lieutenant Gremio looked about to say something, too. Before he could, Ormerod contrived to kick him in the ankle. Gremio let out an indignant yelp. Ormerod looked as innocent as he could, which wasn’t very. Knowing Gremio, he had a pretty good idea of what the lieutenant would have said: something that exposed all the historical inaccuracies in Florizel’s remark.

  “There’s a time and a place for everything, by the gods,” Ormerod muttered. Maybe Gremio heard him, maybe he didn’t. Ormerod wasn’t going to worry either way. Gremio kept quiet, and Ormerod did worry about that. Contradicting Earl Florizel at a feast where the audience was nobles and wealthy commoners was one thing. Contradicting Colonel Florizel, the regimental commander, and disheartening the sergeant the colonel had been encouraging was something else again. Perhaps because he was an aggressive barrister, Gremio had trouble grasping the distinction.

  Before Ormerod could explain it to the lieutenant-not that Gremio,
who was convinced he knew it all, would have been likely to listen-a sharp challenge rang out ahead: “Who goes there?”

  “Hold up!” Ormerod called to the rest of his company. Then he pitched his voice to carry: “Who are you?”

  “Third company, twenty-sixth regiment from New Eborac,” came the reply. “The sign is Avram. Give the countersign, or be known for a traitor and an enemy.”

  Rage ripped through Ormerod. “The countersign is, Die you son of a bitch!” he shouted, and yanked his sword from its scabbard. “Come on, boys!” he yelled to his own company. “We’ve found some of the southrons, anyway.”

  A crossbow quarrel hissed past his head and buried itself in a pine behind him. More than half its length had vanished. It would have done worse yet had it pierced him. His leg twinged. Yes, he knew what a bolt could do when it tore through flesh.

  His men fought the way their ancestors had when attacked by blonds: they scurried behind trees and started shooting from in back of them. In country like this, how else could anyone fight? Captain Ormerod would have loved to come up with a different answer, a better answer, but none occurred to him.

  “Geoffrey!” he shouted as he hurried toward a tree, too. He might brandish that sword, but how much good did it do him with no foeman within reach of his steel? “Geoffrey and provincial prerogative!” That was the slogan the northern provinces used to deny that Avram had the authority to make them do anything they didn’t care to do-such as freeing serfs from their ties to the land-unless their nobles consented.

  “King Avram!” the southrons shouted back. “King Avram, and to the seven hells with provincial prerogative!” Other cries rose, too, wordless cries of pain as crossbow quarrels from both sides began finding targets.

  A soldier near Ormerod went down. His feet drummed and thumped on the pine needles, but he wouldn’t be getting up again, not with a bolt between the eyes. Ormerod looked again at the sword in his hand. If the enemy charged, it would do him some good. Meanwhile… Meanwhile, he scrambled over and scooped up the shot man’s crossbow and pulled the sheaf of bolts off his belt. By the time he got back to his own tree, the soldier had realized he was dead and stopped kicking.