Advance and Retreat
( War of the Provinces - 3 )
Harry Turtledove
Turning the American Civil War literally upside-down, this winning fantasy brings to life a war to free the blond serfs of the North and raise them to equality beside their swarthy masters. Turtledove not only swaps South for North but replaces rifles with crossbows, horses with unicorns and railways with magic carpets. The book opens in the fourth year of the war, when it's clear that the gray-clad armies of King Avram of Detina have the advantage over the followers of the traitorous Grand Duke Geoffrey, who has proclaimed himself king of the seceded North. Many Northern infantrymen have been reduced to robbing Southern bodies for shoes and warm clothing; and while the North has the best wizards, the Southern engineers have invented a rapid-firing crossbow that gives their soldiers a tremendous advantage in battle. The course of this war closely parallels the real one, which makes for a somewhat predictable story but clears the way for a focus on the various entertaining and well-drawn characters, including numerous homages to-or parodies of-various historical figures. Charm and humor balance out the grimly realistic depictions of battlefields and occupied towns, flavor the beautifully subtle treatment of racism and help to mask the occasional lack of descriptive detail. While perhaps best suited to Civil War buffs, this tale proves quite enjoyable for the less tactically inclined, and it's a must-have for any fan of alternate histories.
Harry Turtledove
Advance and Retreat
(War of the Provinces — 3)
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
About The Author
Harry Turtledove is known for his historical fantasy and alternate history. His novels include The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump, Sentry Peak, Marching Through Peachtree, The Guns of the South, and the Great War and World at War series. A Hugo winner and Nebula finalist, he lives in Los Angeles.
I
Off to the north and west, an army loyal to King Avram marched through crumbling northern defenses in Peachtree Province toward the Western Ocean. Due west, in Parthenia Province, another southron army loyal to Avram laid siege to Pierreville. If the great fortress fell, Nonesuch, the capital of the rebel Grand Duke Geoffrey-he called himself King Geoffrey, a title no one but his fellow traitors acknowledged-would also fall, and in short order.
General Hesmucet led the soldiers marching through Peachtree. Marshal Bart led the soldiers besieging Pierreville.
Doubting George? Doubting George sat in Ramblerton, twiddling his thumbs.
The war between brothers in the Kingdom of Detina was deep into its fourth year now. When King Avram ascended to the throne, he’d let the world know he intended to make citizens of the blond serfs who labored on the nobles’ great estates in the northern provinces. And Geoffrey, his cousin, had promptly led the nobles-and the rest of the north-into rebellion, declaring Avram had no right to do any such thing.
A few southron men, reckoning provincial prerogative more important than the true succession-or sometimes just wed to northern women-had thrown in with the uprising against Avram. And a few northerners, reckoning a single Kingdom of Detina more important than holding the serfs in bondage, had remained loyal to the proper king, the rightful king. Lieutenant General George was one of those men. Geoffrey had promptly confiscated his estates in Parthenia.
That was how the game was played these days. Duke Edward of Arlington, who commanded Geoffrey’s most important force, the Army of Southern Parthenia, had had his estates close by King Avram’s Black Palace in Georgetown. Avram had confiscated them as soon as his soldiers overran them in the early days of the war.
I got the same punishment for being loyal as Duke Edward did for being a traitor, George thought. Is that fair? Is that just?
“I doubt it,” George said aloud. He used the phrase a lot, often enough to have given him his nickname. He was a burly man in his early forties, with a typical dark Detinan beard, full and curly, that gray was just beginning to streak.
He muttered to himself: not words, but a discontented rumble down deep in his throat. The Lion God might have made a noise like that when he contemplated chewing on the souls of sinners.
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Doubting George said when the mutters turned into words again. He’d done as much hard fighting as any southron officer in the war. If it hadn’t been for his stand, there on Merkle’s Hill by the River of Death, the whole southron cause in the east might have unraveled under the hammer blows of Count Thraxton the Braggart’s sorcery.
And what was his reward? How had a grateful kingdom shown him its appreciation for all he’d done, for all he’d sacrificed?
More words emerged: “Here I am in Ramblerton, twiddling my gods-damned thumbs.”
Ramblerton was the capital of Franklin. It lay by the bank of the Cumbersome River, in the southeastern part of the province. Doubting George might have been farther out of the fight down in New Eborac City, but not by much. He’d done the work, and others had got the glory. The war looked well on the way toward being won. He was glad of that. He would have been even gladder to have a bigger part in it.
A sentry stuck his head into Lieutenant General George’s office. “Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but Major Alva would like to see you, if you’ve got the time.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve got the time,” George replied. “By the Thunderer’s beard, to the seven hells with me if I can think of anything I’ve got more of.”
The sentry withdrew. A moment later, Major Alva came in. He looked preposterously young to be a major. But, for one thing, a lot of officers in this war were preposterously young. And, for another, he was a wizard, and so an officer at least as much by courtesy as because he was expected to command soldiers in the field.
Major Alva, in fact, was short on just about everything that made soldiers what they were. His gray wizard’s robe hung from his scrawny frame. His beard hadn’t been combed any time lately. He plainly needed to remind himself to salute Lieutenant General George.
But he was also far and away the best wizard in Doubting George’s army-maybe the best wizard in any southron army. Before the war, southron mages had done most of their work in manufactories, which didn’t suit them for battle magic. Wizards in the north had worked hard to keep the serfs in line and overawed, which did. In the early years of the war, northern prowess at wizardry had helped hold back southron numbers. Now…
Now Doubting George hoped it wouldn’t any more. Nodding to Alva, he said, “What can I do for you, Major?”
“Something’s going on,” Alva said. Lieutenant General George folded his arms across his broad chest and waited. Alva was swarthy, but not swarthy enough to keep his flush from showing. “Uh, something’s going on, sir.”
Back in the days when Alva was a mere lieutenant, he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what George was waiting for. Now he knew, though he still plainly thought the idea of military courtesy absurd. George didn’t care what Alva thought. He cared what Alva did. “Do you have any idea what’s going on, Major, or where it’s going on?” he inquired.
“Something to do with the traitors… sir,” the wizard answered.
“I had suspected that, yes.” Doubting George’s voice was dry enough to make Alva flush again. “I doubted you’d have come to me with news of a barge wreck on the Highlow River-although you never can tell.”
“Er, yes,” Major Alva said, visibly off-balance. Like a lot of mages, he conceived of generals as a stiff, stodgy lot. Evidence to the contrary, which Doubting George gave now and again, flustered him.
“And how do you know what you think you know?” George asked.
With a lot of wizards, that would have spawned an endless epistemological discussion. There was one vice, at least, of which Alva was free. He said, “I feel it in my bones, sir.”
George would have thrown most wizards out of his office after an answer like that. With some, he wouldn’t have bothered opening the door first. He paid Alva a high compliment: he took him seriously. “What else can you tell me?” he asked.
“Not much, sir, not yet,” Major Alva said. “But the northerners are stirring, or thinking about stirring. And when they come, they’ll come hard.”
“Best way,” Doubting George agreed, which flustered the young wizard all over again. George went on, “Do you think you could find out more if you did some serious sorcerous poking around?”
“I don’t know for certain, sir,” Alva replied. “I could try to find out, though.”
“Why don’t you do that, then?” George said. “Report back to me if you find anything interesting or important.” Alva was one of those people you needed to remind of such things. Otherwise, he was liable to forget.
He nodded now. “All right. I’ll do that. Snooping is fun. It’s not like General Bell has any wizards who can stop me.” He certainly owned all the arrogance a good mage should have.
“Good enough,” George said. “You’re dismissed, Major.”
“See you later,” Alva said cheerfully, and touched the brim of his gray hat as he might have back in civilian life. Doubting George coughed. Major Alva turned red again. Little by little, George kept on persuading him he was a soldier. In even smaller increments, the lessons took. Mumbling, “Sorry,” Alva gave him another salute. He coughed again. Alva’s stare held nothing but indignation. “Now what?”
“’Sorry, sir,’” George said, as if to a four-year-old.
“’Sorry, sir,’” Alva repeated, obviously not sorry in the least. “What the hells difference does it make?”
“Magic has rituals, eh?” George said.
“I should hope so,” the young wizard answered. “What’s that got to do with anything, though?”
“Think of this as a ritual of the army,” George said. “You don’t need to salute me because you like me or because you think I’m wonderful. You need to salute me because you’re a major and I’m a lieutenant general.”
Alva sniffed. “Pretty feeble excuse for a ritual-that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Maybe. Maybe not, too,” Doubting George said. “But I’ll tell you this-every army in the world has rituals like that. Every single one of ’em. If there ever were armies without those rituals, the ones that do have ’em squashed the others flat. What does that tell you?”
It told Alva more than George had expected it to. The mage’s foxy features shut down in a mask of concentration so intense, he might have forgotten George was there. At last, after a couple of minutes of that ferocious thought, he said, “Well, sir, when you put it that way, you just may be right. It almost puts you in mind of the Inward Hypothesis of Divine Choice, doesn’t it?”
Doubting George gaped at him. “Not that gods-damned daft heretical notion!” he exclaimed. On the far side of the Western Ocean, back in the mother kingdom, the land from which the Detinan colonizers left for their newer world, a mage who called himself Inward had proposed that the gods let beasts compete over time, those better suited to whatever they did surviving and the others failing to leave offspring behind. Every priest in the civilized world immediately started screaming at the top of his lungs, the most common shriek being, With an idea like that, who needs gods at all?
“It makes a lot of sense, if you ask me,” Alva said. George had long known his wizard lacked conventional piety. He hadn’t known Alva followed the Inward Hypothesis. As far as he was concerned, the wizard who’d proposed it had known what he was doing when he chose a false name. Now Alva went on, “You said it yourself, sir. Armies that develop these rituals survive. Those that don’t-don’t.”
He hadn’t even been insubordinate this time. He’d left Doubting George nothing to do but repeat, “Dismissed.”
Major Alva saluted. “A pro-survival ritual,” he said thoughtfully. “I won’t forget.” And out he went.
Doubting George drummed his fingers on his desk. He’d scorned the Inward Hypothesis from the moment he first heard about it. But now, though he hadn’t even known he was doing it, he’d argued in favor of what he’d thought he scorned. What did that say? Nothing good, he was sure.
If I hadn’t tweaked Alva about saluting, he wouldn’t have tossed a firepot at my thoughts. George sighed. Alva hadn’t even meant to be inflammatory. As far as George was concerned, that made the wizard more dangerous, not less. “What am I going to do with him?” he wondered aloud. Asking was easy. Finding an answer wasn’t.
And what am I going to do if the northerners really are up to something? he wondered. That was about as puzzling as what he would do with Major Alva. The problem was, he didn’t have all the men he needed. General Hesmucet had gone traipsing across Peachtree toward the Western Ocean with all the best loyal soldiers in the eastern part of the Kingdom of Detina. He hadn’t expected the northerners to be able to mount much of a challenge here in Franklin. If he was wrong…
“If he was wrong, gods damn it, I’ve got my work cut out for me,” Doubting George muttered.
He scowled. That would do for an understatement till a bigger one came along. Among the men Hesmucet had taken with him were a good many from the wing George had commanded on the campaign that ended up seizing Marthasville. The soldiers Hesmucet hadn’t taken made up the nucleus-the small nucleus-of the force George had here in Franklin.
Along with those men, he had garrison troops scattered through countless fortresses in Cloviston and Franklin. They guarded not only towns but also the glideway line that kept men and supplies moving. That meant they were scattered over the two provinces-one of which had stayed in the Kingdom of Detina but still furnished soldiers to Grand Duke Geoffrey’s army, while the other had tried to leave but was, after a fashion, reconquered-and not in the best position to fight if they had to.
I’d better concentrate them, Doubting George thought gloomily. Then his scowl blackened as he shook his head. If I do, Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders will play merry hells with the glideways. Ned of the Forest was no ordinary commander of unicorn-riders, no ordinary raider. When he hit a glideway line, he didn’t just damage it. He wrecked it. His troopers and mages knew their business altogether too well.
Doubting George shrugged. Keeping the glideway lines intact mattered less than it had earlier in the year. Hesmucet’s men weren’t tied to them for food and firepots and crossbow bolts any more. They were living off the country now, living off the country and by all accounts doing well. Raids against the glideways would still be a nuisance. They wouldn’t be a disaster.
That decided Lieutenant General George. He hurried over to the scryers, who had their headquarters next door to his own. When the gray-robed mages looked up from their crystal balls, he said, “Send word to all garrisons of company size and above: they’re to move at once, to concentrate here at Ramblerton.”
“Yes, sir,” the wizards chorused. Unlike Major Alva, they knew how to obey orders. Also unlike him, they were utterly ordinary when it came to sorcery. Doubting George usually thought Alva’s talents outweighed his shortcomings. Sometimes, though, he wondered.
* * *
Lieutenant General Bell looked down at himself. The northern officer was a big, strong man, with a bushy beard and a face that for years had put men in mind of the Lion God. These days, he looked like a suffering god. His left arm hung limp and lifeless at his side. He’d been with Duke Edward of Arlington and the Army of Southern Parthenia down at Essoville when he’d taken the crippling wound. And later that same summer, here in the east at the River of Death, a stone flung from a catapult had smashed his right leg, which now ended a few inches below the hip.
/> He was not a man much given to whimsy, Lieutenant General Bell. Nevertheless, surveying the ruins of what had been a redoubtable body, he nodded to Ned of the Forest with something approaching geniality and said, “Do you know what I am?”
“What’s that, sir?” the commander of unicorn-riders asked.
“I am the abridged edition,” Bell declared.
That brought a smile-a cold, fierce smile-to Lieutenant General Ned’s face. “I reckon we ought to see what we can do about abridging us some o’ those stinking southrons,” he said, a northeastern twang in his voice. Unlike most high-ranking northern officers, he held not a drop of noble blood in his veins. He’d been a serfcatcher before the war, and enlisted as a common soldier when fighting between the two halves of Detina broke out. He’d risen to his present rank for one reason and one reason only: he was overwhelmingly good at what he did.
Bell knew perfectly well how much he needed such a man. He said, “With your help and the help of the gods, Lieutenant General, I look forward to doing just that.”
“Good,” Ned said. “A pleasure to have a man I can work with in charge of the Army of Franklin.”
“Yes.” Bell nodded. “I was wounded, I think, when you had your… disagreement with Thraxton the Braggart.”
“Disagreement, hells. I was going to kill the son of a bitch,” Ned said matter-of-factly. “He had it coming, too. But did you ever run across a miserable cur dog not worth wasting a crossbow bolt on? By the Thunderer’s beard, that’s Thraxton. So I let him live, and I daresay the kingdom’s been regretting it ever since.”
“Er-yes,” Bell said. Count Thraxton’s patronage, along with that of King Geoffrey, had got him the command of this army when Geoffrey sacked Joseph the Gamecock outside of Marthasville. Joseph hadn’t fought the oncoming southrons; he’d stalled for time instead, hoping to make King Avram and his folk weary of the war. Bell had fought-and Marthasville had fallen. Bell remained convinced that wasn’t his fault. Coughing a couple of times, he added, “You are… very frank.”
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