The Army of Franklin was encamped not far from the road down which John the Lister’s southrons had escaped. Healers still worked on some of the men who’d been wounded in the skirmishes of the day before. Bell growled something under his breath and ground his teeth. His army shouldn’t have skirmished with the southrons. It should have crushed them.
One of the sentries pointed north. The motion swung Bell’s eyes in that direction, too. The soldier said, “Looks like Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders are coming in, sir.”
“Yes, it does,” Bell said. “I wish they’d been here yesterday. Say what you will about Ned, but he knows how to fight, which is more than most of the useless, worthless officers in this miserable, gods-forsaken army can do.”
Prudently, the sentry didn’t answer.
Before long, Ned’s men were pitching their tents and building campfires next to those of the footsoldiers in the Army of Franklin. Ned of the Forest himself rode toward Lieutenant General Bell’s pavilion. He swung down from his unicorn with an easy grace Bell remembered painfully-and that was indeed the way he remembered it-well. “By the gods, Bell,” Ned cried, striding up to him, “what went wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Bell answered, his bitterness overflowing. “What I know is, I’m surrounded by idiots. I know that right down to the ground.”
“We had ’em,” Ned declared. “We had ’em. All we had to do was bite down on ’em and chew ’em up. Why didn’t we?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Bell said. “I gave the necessary commands. I gave them repeatedly. I gave them, and I saw them ignored. The attack I ordered did not take place. I wish it had.”
“We won’t get another chance like that,” Ned warned.
Lieutenant General Bell nodded. “That, Lieutenant General, I do know. I wish I could cashier every brigade commander in my army, but I can’t, gods damn it.”
“There was a squabble like this here one after the battle by the River of Death,” Ned of the Forest said.
“So I’ve heard,” Bell said. “If I hadn’t been wounded in that fight, I daresay I would have been a part of it.”
“Reckon you’re right,” Ned said. “Thraxton the Braggart wanted to get rid of all of his officers, too, and we all wanted to kill him.” By the way Ned’s hands folded into fists, he meant that literally. Bell remembered stories he’d heard while recovering from his amputation, and what Ned had said not long ago. After a moment, the scowl fading from his face, Ned went on, “Thraxton got his way, on account of he’s pals with King Geoffrey-you’ll know about that, I expect. Thraxton got his way, all right-but the army was never the same again. Meaning no disrespect, sir, but it may be just as well you can’t get rid of ’em all.”
“I find that hard to believe-very hard, as a matter of fact,” Bell said.
“I’m telling you what I think,” Ned of the Forest answered. “If you don’t care for what I think…” He didn’t go on, but something nasty sparked in his eyes. If you don’t care for what I think, to the hells with you, had to be what he meant.
Even full of anger as Bell was, he hesitated before provoking Ned. He shrugged a one-shouldered shrug instead. “Maybe,” he said grudgingly.
“What are you going to do now?” Ned asked, adding, “Sir?” as an afterthought.
“We have to keep moving south,” General Bell answered. “John the Lister got away this time. When I catch him, though, I’ll make him pay.”
“My bet is, he’s heading toward Poor Richard,” Ned said. “I know that part of Franklin-I know it right well.” He spoke with great assurance. He’d fought all across Franklin and Cloviston and Dothan and Great River Province ever since the war began. Without a doubt, he knew them more intimately than most officers could hope to. He went on, “Some places around there, if the southrons dig in, they’ll be mighty hard to dig out.”
“Will John know those places?” Bell asked.
“If he doesn’t, somebody in his force will,” Ned said. “Plenty of traitors wearing southron gray.” To a soldier who followed King Geoffrey, a northerner who stayed loyal to Avram was a traitor. A fair number of men from Franklin and even more from Cloviston had chosen Avram over Geoffrey. They fought their own small, bitter war with Geoffrey’s backers in addition to and alongside of the larger struggle waged between the main armies of the two rival kings.
“Plenty of traitors to good King Geoffrey still in blue,” Bell muttered. “If my commanders had done what they were supposed to-”
Ned of the Forest held up a hand. “Plenty of people-plenty of people with fancy uniforms on-are natural-born fools. I don’t reckon anybody could quarrel with that. But you have to remember, there’s a sight of difference between a natural-born fool and a traitor.”
“Maybe,” Bell said, even more grudgingly than before. “By the Lion God’s claws, though, I wish you’d been at my van and not harassing the southrons’ rear. You’d have blocked the road down to the Trumpeteth River and Poor Richard the way it should have been blocked.”
“I hope I would,” Ned said. “But it takes more than magic to let a man be two places at once. If I hadn’t been harrying the southrons, they could’ve moved quicker, and they might’ve got out of your trap before you could spring it.”
He was right. Bell knew as much. That didn’t make his words any more palatable, though. “Bah!” Bell said: a reply that didn’t require him to admit Ned was right. Realizing he needed something more, he continued, “I trust, Lieutenant General, you will lead the pursuit of the southrons now.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Ned answered. “I’ll send the boys after ’em. I’ll do it right this minute, if you want me to.”
“No, let it wait till the morning,” Bell said. “Your unicorns are worn, and so are my pikemen and crossbowmen. No point to a strong pursuit unless we’re fit to fight.”
“My boys are always fit to fight,” Ned of the Forest declared. “If yours aren’t, too bad for them.” Having had the last word, he got back onto his unicorn and rode away, the beast’s hooves kicking up dirt at each stride.
Bell started to growl at him, to order him to come back and explain himself and apologize. He left the order unspoken. He was as brave a soldier as any who served King Geoffrey. No one without great courage would, or could, have stayed in the field after the wounds he’d taken. But even he didn’t care to antagonize Ned of the Forest.
“We’ll get them,” Bell muttered. “If we don’t catch up to them on the road, we’ll get them in Poor Richard. John the Lister might have slid by me once, but he won’t do it again.”
Where railing at his subordinate commanders hadn’t done a thing, that did help ease his wrath. All I need is another try, he thought. All the north needs is another try. We can still lick those southron sons of bitches. We can, and we have to. And so, of course, we will.
He went back into his pavilion. A folding chair waited for him. With a weary sigh, he sank into it and leaned his crutches against the iron-framed cot nearby. With his one good hand free, he fumbled for the laudanum bottle. He pulled it out, yanked the stopper free with his teeth, and took one more long swig.
Little by little, the latest dose of the drug washed through him. He sighed. At last, he had enough laudanum coursing through his veins to stop worrying quite so much about what might have been. He felt much more alive with the mixture of opium and brandy than he ever had without it. There were times when he felt his mutilations were almost worthwhile. Without them, he never would have made the acquaintance of the wonders of laudanum, and he couldn’t imagine living apart from it, not any more he couldn’t.
But not even laudanum’s soothing influence altogether stifled his rage against the men who had let him down. How many times do I have to give the command to advance? he wondered. What can I do when they refuse to listen? I can’t charge the gods-damned southrons myself, not on one leg. He had charged them, many times. The catapult stone that had smashed his thigh by the River of Death was the reason he went on one leg th
ese days.
“Next time,” he muttered. “We will get them next time.” Then the huge doses of the drug he’d taken overwhelmed even his laudanum-accustomed frame. A wriggle and a scramble shifted him from the chair to the cot. He twisted into a position that put the least weight on his bad shoulder and his stump, closed his eyes, and slept, dreaming of blood and victory.
* * *
“Here you are, sir,” the gray-robed scryer said, standing up from the stool in front of his crystal ball so Lieutenant General George could take his place.
“That’s true. Here I am.” Doubting George sat down. John the Lister’s image, tiny and perfect, stared out of the crystal ball at him. George said, “So you’re on your way to Poor Richard now, are you?”
“Yes, sir,” John answered. “By the Thunderer’s beard, I’m glad to be past the traitors, too. I thought they’d cooked our goose at Summer Mountain.”
“Never give up,” Doubting George said. “Till they kill you, you’re still in the fight. And after that, make ’em worry about your ghost.”
“Haven’t seen any ghosts on the battlefield, sir,” John the Lister said. “It’s the live sons of bitches who worry me. If Bell pursues hard, I could still wind up in trouble.”
“What can I do to help you?” Doubting George asked.
“Another ten thousand men would be nice,” John replied. George chuckled. He’d made many such wry remarks himself.
But this one, unfortunately, he couldn’t answer with more than a chuckle. He said, “I’d send them to you if I had them, but I don’t. Do you know how much trouble I’m having pulling garrisons out of towns and off of glideway lines here and down in Cloviston?”
“I have some small idea.” John sounded even drier than before. “You wouldn’t have sent me up here to take a beating-I mean, to slow down Lieutenant General Bell, of course-if you thought it would be easy. Still, if you had them to spare, I could really use them right now.”
“I haven’t got them to spare. I haven’t got them at all, as a matter of fact,” George said. “You’re commanding more men than I am right now. General Hesmucet did me no favors when he put me in charge of these provinces after he went and stripped most of the good soldiers out of them.”
“Superiors don’t usually do favors for subordinates they give hard, nasty jobs to,” John the Lister said.
“Uh, yes.” Doubting George felt skewered by the sort of dart he usually aimed at other officers. He’d given John a hard, nasty job, and was uncomfortably aware of it. “I am doing the best I can,” he assured the man to whom he’d given it.
“I’m sure of that, sir.” John didn’t come right out and call him a liar, but he didn’t miss by much. “If you can’t give me reinforcements, can you send that hotshot mage of yours up to me?”
“Major Alva, you mean?”
“I forget his name. The one who actually knows what he’s doing, even if he looks like an unmade bed and has no idea how an officer is supposed to behave.”
“That’s Major Alva, all right,” George said. “I hate to lose him. He’s far and away the best wizard around-gods only know why Hesmucet didn’t take him along for the march across Peachtree.”
John took a deep breath that was both visible and audible. “I wouldn’t ask for him if he weren’t good, sir. I’m trying to keep from getting slaughtered, you know. Anything you can do to help would be nice.”
“You’re right, of course,” Doubting George said contritely. “I’ll send him straight to you. Shall he wait for you in Poor Richard, or do you need him on the north bank of the Trumpeteth?”
“If you can get him all the way up here, I’ll be glad to have him,” John said. “The river’s running high right now, what with all the rain we’ve had lately, and bridging it won’t be easy. A good wizard would be a handy thing to have.”
“Call Major Alva a thing to his face, and he’ll make you sorry for it,” George warned. “It’s not just that he forgets he’s supposed to be an officer. He’d be touchy even if he weren’t one.”
“Too smart for his own good, eh?” John the Lister asked.
“You might say so,” George answered. “Yes, by the gods, you just might say so. Why I haven’t wrung his scrawny neck… But I know why, as a matter of fact. I haven’t wrung his neck because he is good.”
“Well, fine. I can use somebody who’s good,” John said. “The mages I’ve got up here with me can’t grab their backsides with both hands. They can’t spell cat if you spot them the c and the a. They can’t-”
“I get the idea,” Doubting George said. “I’ll send Alva to you as fast as I can, and I hope he does you some good.”
“Thanks very much, sir,” John said. “I am grateful for it. If we can get over the Trumpeteth and into Poor Richard, I think we’ll give a good account of ourselves when Lieutenant General Bell comes to call.”
“That’s good. That’s what I want to hear.” Especially if it’s true, George thought. He asked, “Anything else?” John the Lister shook his head. George gestured to the scryer in charge of the crystal ball. The man in the gray robe broke the mystical connection between this ball and the one John was using. John’s image disappeared. The crystal ball went back to being nothing but a round lump of glass that twisted light oddly when you looked through it.
“Do you need to speak with anyone else, sir?” the scryer asked. “With Marshal Bart, maybe, or King Avram?”
“No, thanks,” George said. “The only time they want to talk to me is when they think I’ve done something wrong. As long as they’re happy leaving me alone, I’m happy being left. The less I do to remind them I’m around, the better off I am. This way, I get to run my own war.”
Belatedly, he realized he might get in trouble if the scryer passed his sentiments on to Marshal Bart over in Pierreville, or to King Avram’s henchmen in the Black Palace at Georgetown. Then he shrugged. Even if the marshal or the king did get wind of his sentiments, he’d probably escape without anything worse than teasing. What Detinan didn’t think he could do almost anything? What Detinan didn’t resent having superiors looking over his shoulder? George had the job here. He intended to take care of it.
He left the building where the scryers kept their crystals. As soon as he walked out onto the streets of Ramblerton, he flipped up his collar and stuck his hands in his pockets to protect them and his neck from the chilly wind blowing up from the south. He came from Parthenia himself, and had no use for the nasty weather that made winter so unpleasant through much of King Avram’s realm.
Sentries came to attention and saluted when he returned to his headquarters. “Fetch me Major Alva, if you’d be so kind,” he told one of them, adding, “and don’t let him dawdle on the way any more than you can help.”
“Yes, sir.” The sentry saluted again and hurried off, crossbow slung on his shoulder, quiver full of bolts hanging at his hip next to his shortsword.
Alva arrived soon enough to keep Doubting George from getting too annoyed at him. He even remembered to salute, which warmed the cockles of the commanding general’s heart. And when he said, “What can I do for you?” he tacked on, “Sir?” with a hesitation even George, who was looking for it, had trouble noticing.
“You can go to Poor Richard,” George told him. “At once. Go pack. Be on the next northbound glideway caravan.”
Major Alva gaped. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why? Did you fart?” Doubting George asked. Major Alva’s jaw dropped. George ignored the histrionics. He went on, “I gave you an order. Please obey it, without fuss and without wasting time.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Alva said dazedly. “But why?” The expression on his face said, What did I do to deserve this?
“You’re not in trouble. It’s even a compliment, if you like,” George said. “John the Lister asked for you by name.” That wasn’t quite true, since John hadn’t remembered Alva’s name, but it came close enough. “He’s having some difficulties with Lieutenant General Bell and his wiza
rds, and he wanted a good mage on his side to make sure things don’t go any wronger than they have already.”
“Oh,” Alva said, still a trifle stunned. “All right. I’ll go.”
“How generous of you,” Doubting George said.
Alva needed a moment to notice the lurking sarcasm. When he did, his flush was unmistakable despite his swarthy skin. “I said I’d go,” he muttered, voice petulant.
“You don’t need to make it sound as if you deserve a decoration for doing what I tell you to do,” George said. “I hope you do well enough to deserve a decoration.” He paused, then shook his head. “No, I take that back.”
“You hope I don’t do well enough to deserve a decoration?” Alva asked. “Why?”
“I hope you don’t need to do well enough to deserve a decoration,” George answered. “I hope everything is simple and easy, and the traitors don’t do a single thing to cause you any trouble. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“That would be lovely,” the mage said in hollow tones. “That would be splendid. But I doubt it’s going to happen. Don’t you?”
“Me? Doubt? What a ridiculous notion,” Doubting George said. “Why, I’m as full of positive thoughts as the inside of a daffodil is full of crossbow quarrels.”
“Er, yes… sir.” Major Alva looked like a man who wanted to leave. Rapidly. After a moment of very obvious thought, he found an excuse: “If I want to be on the next glideway carpet, I’d better get ready. May I be excused, sir?”
“Oh, yes. You’re dismissed,” the commanding general said. Alva had to remember to salute. He hurried out of the headquarters. Doubting George threw back his head and laughed. He’d put the fear of the gods into Alva, or at least done a good job of confusing him, which would serve every bit as well.
Now if I could only assemble an army that easily, he thought. Getting men to come to Ramblerton so they could actually do some fighting got harder by the day. News that General Bell had invaded Franklin should have made men rush together to defend their kingdom. Instead, it had made each little garrison want to stay exactly where it was, so it could defend its own little town or fortress.
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