Sentry Peak wotp-1

by Harry Turtledove

  General George peered west. He wished he knew how the fight was going for the rest of Guildenstern’s army. Odds were it wasn’t going any too well, or the commanding general would have sent him reinforcements. He could use them, but maybe Guildenstern couldn’t afford to send anyone his way. That didn’t seem good.

  And then George stopped worrying about the bigger picture and started using the sword that was supposed to be a ceremonial weapon. As had happened farther northwest, Thraxton’s troopers broke through the line in front of him. The men he commanded had to fall back or die. And he had to fight or die or end up ignominiously captured.

  The thought of living off Thraxton the Braggart’s hospitality, of enduring the traitor lord’s society, was plenty to make Doubting George fight like a madman. Crossbow quarrels whistled past him. He didn’t worry about those; he couldn’t do anything about them, anyhow. The roaring northerner in front of him was a different matter. The fellow swung his shortsword as if he were carving meat. “Geoffrey!” he shouted. “Geoffrey and freedom!”

  “King Avram!” George yelled back, as if his gray tunic and pantaloons weren’t enough to announce which king he served. “King Avram and one Detina!”

  “To the seven hells with King Avram!” the northerner bawled. He slashed again. He was strong as a bull; George felt the blow all the way up his arm and into his shoulder. But strength was all he had going for him. He would never make a real swordsman, not without long training. And he would never get the chance to have such training. Doubting George, like most nobles, had begun swordplay while still a boy. Unlike most nobles, he’d had his skills refined by the tough, unforgiving swordmasters at Annasville while training to become an officer in Detinan service.

  He sidestepped a third slash and thrust for the northerner’s throat. The force of the fellow’s own stroke had bent him half double; he had no chance of getting his own blade up in time. Blood spurted when George’s point punched through the soft, vulnerable flesh under his neck. The northerner gobbled something, but blood filled his mouth, too, and made the words meaningless. He stumbled, staggered, fell. He wouldn’t get up again.

  Another one of Thraxton’s men, though, had Colonel Andy in trouble, attacking so furiously that the aide-de-camp couldn’t do much against him. George drove his own sword into the blue-clad man’s back. The fellow shrieked and threw up his hands, whereupon Andy ran him through.

  “That wasn’t even slightly sporting, sir,” Andy said as the two of them went up the slope of Merkle’s Hill.

  “You’re right. It wasn’t,” George replied. “Now ask me if I care. I meant to kill the son of a bitch, and I cursed well did.”

  They fell in with more of their own men, and then got behind a hasty breastwork of felled trees. Crossbowmen worked a slaughter on Geoffrey’s soldiers trying to drive them back. Soldiers who could shoot from cover always had an edge on those who fought in the open. And Brigadier Brannan’s engines pounded the northerners, too.

  “Hold ’em, boys!” Doubting George shouted. “The River of Death isn’t far from here. Up to us to be the rock in it, not to let the traitors by.”

  The men in gray cheered. Colonel Andy set a hand on George’s arm. “Sir, you’re the rock in the River of Death.”

  “Me? Nonsense,” George said. “Can’t do a thing without good soldiers.” The men cheered again. He waved his hat. “Let’s beat ’em back!” he yelled. “We can do it!”

  * * *

  Ned of the Forest scowled at the slopes of Merkle’s Hill. “Damn me to the seven hells if they’re making it easy for us,” he said.

  “It’d be nice if they would, eh?” Colonel Biffle said. “How’s your arm, Lord Ned?”

  “Not too bad,” Ned answered. After gulping Biffle’s spirits, he’d hardly thought about the wound, so he supposed they’d done their job. “We could use some magecraft to help finish off those southron bastards.”

  “Don’t look at me, sir,” Biffle said. “Only magic I know is how to make some of the gals friendly, and I don’t think that’ll do us much good here. In fact, if you want to get right down to it, it’s not even magic, not rightly, anyhow.” He looked smug.

  “I wasn’t expecting it from you, Biff,” Ned said. “But where’s Thraxton the Braggart? Back when we were still in Rising Rock, he bragged me as big a brag as you’d ever want to hear about how he would lick Guildenstern’s army, lick him out of Rising Rock, lick him clean out of Franklin. He’s supposed to be such an all-fired wonderful he-witch, why isn’t he doing anything?”

  Colonel Biffle shrugged. “I expect he’ll get to it in his own time.”

  “I expect you’re right.” Ned of the Forest growled something under his breath. “That’s how Thraxton goes about things-in his own sweet time, I mean. He’d better get around to doing ’em when they need doing. We’ll all be better off.”

  “I don’t know how you can make a man move when he’s not inclined to,” Biffle said.

  “I do, by the gods. You build such a hot fire underneath his backside, he can’t do anything but move.” Ned kicked at the dirt in frustration. “I did it with Leonidas. But he’s the high and mighty Count Thraxton, don’t you know.” He did his best to affect an aristocratic accent, but couldn’t get rid of his back-country rasp. “So we’ll just have to do our best, on account of Thraxton’s backside’s so far away, it’s gods-damned near fireproof. But he’d better do something, or he’ll answer to me.” He held his saber in his left hand. The blade twitched hungrily. He pointed ahead with it. “What’s the name of the high ground the southrons are holding?”

  “That’s Merkle’s Hill, Lord Ned,” Colonel Biffle answered.

  “We’ve got to get through it or around it some kind of way,” Ned said. “You reckon we can put enough of a scare on their general to make him turn around and skedaddle?” His grin was impudent. “You put a scare on the general, you’ve got your fight won, and it don’t hardly matter what his soldiers do.”

  But Biffle said, “Those are Doubting George’s troopers.”

  Ned of the Forest cursed, the heat of battle still in him. “We can lick him. We can fool him, the way we did when he was coming up from Rising Rock toward the River of Death. But I don’t reckon we can frighten him out of his pantaloons.”

  “Do you want me to send the men forward again, sir?” Colonel Biffle asked. “They’ll go-I know they will-but they’ve already taken some hard licks.”

  “I know they have,” Ned said. “Curse it, unicorn-riders aren’t made for big stand-up fights. We can be dragoons. We’re cursed good dragoons, by the gods. But only half the point to dragoons is the fight. The other half is getting somewheres fast so you can fight where the other bastards don’t want you to.”

  “Can’t do that on Merkle’s Hill,” Colonel Biffle said positively.

  He was right. Ned of the Forest wished he were wrong. But then Ned pointed with his saber again, this time toward the southeast. “We’ll just have to see if we can’t slide around behind ’em, then. If we can get a decent-sized band of soldiers on the road between them and Rising Rock, they’ll have to fall back, on account of if they don’t, they’ll never get another chance.”

  “Can we do it?” Biffle asked.

  “Don’t know,” Ned answered. “But I’ll tell you what I do know-I do know I’d sooner try something my own self than wait for Thraxton the gods-damned Braggart to huff and puff and blow their house down.” He raised his voice to a bellow: “Captain Watson!”

  “Yes, Lord Ned?” Watson had a way of appearing wherever he was needed.

  “If we try and slide some men around to the south side of this here Merkle’s Hill, can you bring some engines along?” Ned asked.

  Captain Watson said, “I’ll give it my best shot, sir. Don’t quite know what kind of ground we’ll run into, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Ned of the Forest slapped him on the back. “That’s good enough for me.” He had to bite his tongue to keep from adding, sonny boy. He w
as young as generals went himself, but Watson could easily have been his son. When the youngster was first assigned to him, he’d thought Watson might be somebody’s nasty joke. But the boyish captain had proved able to handle catapults-to get them where they needed to be and to fight them once they got there-better than most men Ned’s age and older.

  “Let me gather up some dart-throwers and a couple of engines that will fling stones or firepots,” he said now. “I’ll be with you in half an hour.” He went off at a dead run. He almost always did. Ned, a man of prodigious energy in his own right, envied Watson his.

  He turned to Biffle. “We’ll take your regiment, Colonel. Get them on their unicorns and ready to ride inside an hour.” Colonel Biffle saluted and hurried away, not quite at Watson’s headlong speed but plenty fast enough.

  And Ned shouted for a runner. When he got one, he said, “Go back to the unicorn-holders. Tell all of them-no, tell all of them who aren’t in Biffle’s regiment-to tie the gods-damned beasts to whatever trees or bushes they choose, to grab their crossbows, and to get their arses forward into the fight.”

  “Yes, sir,” the runner said, and he hurried off. Ned grinned after him. That was what a general was good for: to set a whole lot of men running every which way. Putting the unicorn-holders into the fight wouldn’t replace as many men as he was pulling out with Biffle’s regiment, but it would be better than nothing. And, if things went as Ned hoped, he would soon set an army’s worth of southrons running every which way.

  He yelled for a scryer. At his command, the mage relayed what he aimed to do to Count Thraxton’s headquarters. Unlike Watson and Biffle and the runner, the scryer could stay where he was. Once he’d sent Ned’s message, he asked, “Shall I wait for a reply from the count, sir?”

  “By the gods, no!” Ned exclaimed. “Matter of fact, put your crystal ball away and don’t look at it for a while. He can’t say I didn’t tell him what I have in mind, but I don’t want him to go telling me he won’t let me do it. He can’t very well do that if you aren’t listening for him, now can he?”

  “No, sir,” the scryer answered with a grin. He wasn’t one of the northeastern yeomen who made up the bulk of Ned’s force-men much like Ned himself, with more grit than blue blood and more stubbornness than learning from a codex. He’d had to have some book learning, or he wouldn’t have known what to do with that crystal ball of his. But by now he was just as ornery as any of the unicorn-riders with whom he served.

  A little more than an hour after Ned gave his orders, he led Colonel Biffle’s regiment and half a dozen engines south and east in a long loop around Merkle’s Hill. The battle there had lost none of its ferocity. If his men, or Leonidas the Priest’s, could dislodge Doubting George’s soldiers, Count Thraxton would have the smashing victory he hoped for. Well, if that happens, we’ll make it a bigger one, on account of we’ll ruin the southrons’ retreat, Ned thought.

  If Thraxton got the victory, he would surely take all the credit for it. People didn’t style him the Braggart for nothing. And he had King Geoffrey’s ear. If he didn’t have Geoffrey’s ear, he wouldn’t still be in charge of an army after all the fights he’s bungled. Ned was sure that thought had crossed other men’s minds, too. But, since Thraxton did have the king’s ear, he couldn’t do much about it, and neither could anyone else.

  The path the regiment followed wound through thick woods-perfect for keeping the southrons from spying them. “If we get in their rear, we’ll give them a hells of a surprise,” Ned said, anticipation in his voice.

  “Yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle nodded. “Of course, that’s what the hierophant told the actress, too.” He laughed. Ned of the Forest chuckled. Young Captain Watson howled with mirth, and almost fell off his unicorn. That made Ned chuckle again. When he was Watson’s age, he would have laughed himself silly at such bits of dirt, too.

  The forest opened out onto a broad clearing. There on the far side of the clearing was the road leading north toward the River of Death-and there, marching along the road, was a long column of King Avram’s gray-clad soldiers heading toward the fight. They shouted when they caught sight of Ned and the first of his troopers.

  Ned shouted, too: he shouted curses. Such a splendid idea, ruined by brute fact. Or was it ruined? If he could make the southrons run away, he’d have the road and he’d have their whole army by the throat.

  “Forward!” he shouted, and spurred his own unicorn toward the southron soldiers. Roaring as if the Lion God spoke through them, the riders of Colonel Biffle’s regiment followed him.

  Avram’s soldiers were marching in blocks of pikemen and crossbowmen. They wouldn’t have anywhere near the time they needed to put up a proper line in front of the archers. If Ned’s men could get in among them, they would work a fearful slaughter.

  If. The southrons were veterans. Ned could see as much by the way they turned from column into line, by the way their first rank dropped to their bellies and their second to one knee so the third, standing, rank could shoot over both of them. And he could see as much by the volley of bolts that tore into his men.

  Unicorns fell. Men crumpled in the saddle and crashed to the ground. And the first three ranks of enemy footsoldiers moved back to the rear of the line while the next three stepped forward. They poured in a volley as devastating as the first-if anything, more devastating, because the unicorn-riders were closer and easier to hit.

  Easier to hit, yes, but they couldn’t hit back. Ned cursed again. This time, though, he cursed himself, for folly. He’d been annoyed at having his ploy thwarted, and he’d gambled on putting a scare on King Avram’s men. It wasn’t the worst of gambles. Charging unicorns, their iron-shod horns and their riders’ sabers gleaming in the sun, were among the most terrifying things in the world. But King Avram sometimes led brave men, too.

  How many men will I have left if they take another volley? Enough to drive the southrons off the road? Enough to hold it if I do? Neither seemed a good bet to Ned. And so he shouted, “Back! Back, gods damn it! We aren’t going to do what we came for, and there’s no point to doing anything less.” He wheeled his own unicorn back toward the forest without a qualm. Unlike some of King Geoffrey’s officers, he didn’t fight for the sake of fighting. If he couldn’t win, he saw no point to it.

  As the unicorn turned, a crossbow quarrel caught it in the throat. Blood gushed, spurted, fountained-a big artery must have been cut. Ned leaned forward and thrust a finger into the wound. With it plugged, the unicorn galloped on. It even had the spirit and strength to leap over another unicorn that lay dead on the grass of the meadow.

  Back under the trees, Ned pulled his finger out again. The unicorn took a couple of steps forward, then sank to the ground and finished its interrupted job of dying. Ned scrambled off. He looked around for another mount. He didn’t have to look long. More than a few unicorns had been led back to the forest without their riders.

  “If we can’t do it here, we’ll have to do it at the real fight,” he told Colonel Biffle. Then he shouted, “We’re going back!” to Captain Watson.

  Watson was busy bombarding the southrons with firepots and hosing them down with darts. “Do we have to leave?” he shouted back.

  “Yes, gods damn it, we do have to leave,” Ned answered. “We can’t do what we came to do-fool bad luck, but no help for that. So we’ll go back and give the rest of King Avram’s bastards a hard time.”

  His men rode hard. More often than not, they didn’t take their unicorns straight into battle, but fought dismounted. That let them push the pace when they were on the move. They tied their mounts beside those of the rest of Ned’s riders and hurried back to the fight on Merkle’s Hill.

  “General Ned!” someone called in a battlefield bellow. “General Ned!”

  “I’m here,” Ned shouted back. He advanced toward the call, sword in hand. If any southron wanted to meet him man to man, he was more than ready to oblige. The gods would judge one of them after the fight was done, and Ned didn’t inte
nd that they should judge him for a good many years to come.

  But it wasn’t a southron. It was Baron Dan of Rabbit Hill. Ned hadn’t had much to do with him since his quarrel with Count Thraxton back in Rising Rock. Dan thrust out his hand. As Ned took it, the other general saw the bandage on his right arm and exclaimed, “You’re wounded?”

  “Just a scratch, and I’m a lefty anyways,” Ned replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “Not so long ago, Doubting George’s men made a counterattack here, and they had some numbers while they were doing it,” Baron Dan said. “I saw some of our men most bravely holding them back, and I asked whose footsoldiers they were. The answer I got was, `We’re Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders.’ I salute you, sir, for their magnificent behavior.” He suited action to word.

  “Thank you kindly.” Ned returned the salute. “Thank you very kindly indeed. You’re a gentleman, sir.” He did not use the word lightly, or often. Perhaps sensing as much, Dan of Rabbit Hill bowed. Ned returned that compliment, too, and said, “Now let’s whip these southron sons of bitches clean out of their boots.”

  “Right you are, Lord Ned,” Dan said with a laugh. They went up the hill toward the fighting together.

  * * *

  “Come on, boys!” Captain Ormerod shouted. “One more good lick and those stinking southrons’ll run like rabbits.”

  At his side, Lieutenant Gremio said, “In the courts back in Karlsburg, sir, I would object to a statement such as that on the grounds of insufficient evidence to support it. The southrons not having run up to this point in time, why should they commence now?”

  “Because we’re going to hit them that one good lick, that’s why,” Ormerod answered in a voice everyone around him could hear. For Gremio’s ear alone, he went on in quieter tones: “And because I want the men to fight like mad bastards, and I don’t care a fart about evidence. Have you got that?”