It didn’t quite happen. Bell and Ned left behind crossbowmen and unicorn-riders who fought a series of stubborn rear-guard actions and kept the southrons from overwhelming what was left of the Army of Franklin. As twilight spread over the land, Rollant realized his comrades and he weren’t-quite-going to destroy the Army of Franklin that day.
A lone unicorn-rider came up to Sergeant Joram’s company. For a moment, Rollant thought the fellow was a messenger. Then he took a longer look and joined the cheers ringing out: it was Doubting George himself.
“Gods damn it to hells, boys,” the commanding general said, waving his hat at the southron soldiers, “didn’t I tell you we’d lick ’em? Didn’t I tell you?”
“Yes, sir!” Rollant roared along with everybody else.
“And we’ll finish the job, too,” George said. “I aim to run the legs right off the traitors. Any of ’em who get away from us’ll be some of the fastest men nobody’s crucified yet. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir!” the men cried, even more excitedly than before.
Doubting George rode past them, as if he intended to capture singlehanded not only Bell but also all the men the enemy general still commanded. Rollant turned to Smitty, who stood not far away. “You know something?”
“What’s that, your Corporalship, sir?” Smitty asked.
“George was the rock in the River of Death, but he’s the hammer at Ramblerton.”
“The Hammer.” Smitty paused, tasting the words. “You’re right, by the Thunderer’s lightning bolt.”
“I don’t want to stop here tonight,” Rollant said. “I want to go on, the way Doubting George went on. I want to stomp the traitors into the ground. I want them beaten, gods damn it. How about you, Smitty?”
“Me?” Smitty shrugged. “Right now, what I want is supper.”
Thus reminded of the flesh and blood of which he was made, Rollant realized he wanted supper, too. In fact, he was ravenous. He remembered gulping down a hasty breakfast. Had he had anything after that? He didn’t think so, and he’d come a long way since then.
A cook handed him a hard cracker and a chunk of raw, dripping meat. He roasted the gobbet on a stick over a fire without asking what it was. Beef? Dead donkey? Unicorn? He didn’t much care, not right now. It helped fill the hole in his belly. Next to that, nothing else mattered.
Picking his teeth with a twig, Smitty gave his own opinion of what supper had been: “I don’t know for sure, mind you, but I think I just ate Great-Aunt Hilda.”
“That’s disgusting!” Rollant exclaimed.
“I didn’t know you’d met the old battle-axe,” Smitty answered. Rollant grimaced. Blithely, Smitty continued, “We should’ve turned Great-Aunt Hilda loose against the traitors. She’d’ve nagged ’em back into the kingdom in about five minutes, tops.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Rollant said, “and I’m sure your Great-Aunt Hilda is, too. After all, she’s related to you. But the way things are going, I think we can handle the traitors without her.” Smitty didn’t argue. Evidently he thought so, too.
* * *
Marching down to Ramblerton, Captain Gremio had thought of the Army of Franklin as a dead man walking. On the second day of the battle in front of the town, the dead man stopped walking. He fell over.
That was true only in the metaphorical sense. Literally speaking, the Army of Franklin, or those parts of it that managed to escape Doubting George’s men, spent most of that second day in headlong retreat. Only when night fell at last could the survivors begin to take stock and figure out how enormous the disaster truly was.
But that came later. When the second day of fighting started, Gremio, whose regiment remained on the far right of Lieutenant General Bell’s line, again thought the southrons weren’t pushing so hard as they might. Every attack they made, his men and the rest of Colonel Florizel’s wing pushed back without much trouble.
Sergeant Thisbe said, “I don’t much care what Bell thinks, sir. It doesn’t look to me like Doubting George is putting all his weight into the fight here.”
“I’d say you’re right, Sergeant,” Gremio replied. “I wish you were wrong, but I’d say you’re right. Which makes me wonder… If he’s not putting his weight into the fight here, where is he putting it?”
He got his answer within an hour. A horde of northern soldiers came running over from the left, with southrons on their heels and even in their midst. “Surrounded!” the men from the Army of Franklin cried. “Footsoldiers!” some of them yelled. “Unicorn-riders!” others shouted. “Trapped! Outflanked!” They all seemed pretty sure about that.
From behind them came other shouts, the kind Gremio least wanted to hear: “King Avram!” “Freedom!” “Hurrah for Doubting George!”
“What do we do, sir?” Thisbe asked urgently. The underofficer commanding a company didn’t sound afraid. Gremio never remembered hearing Thisbe sound afraid. But Gremio could hardly blame the sergeant for that urgency.
He also wished he had a better response than, “Try to hold them back. What else can we do?”
“Them who?” Thisbe said. “Them the enemy, or them our own men?”
That was another excellent question. Gremio had no idea whether anything could stop the retreat-he didn’t want to think rout — sweeping down on his regiment. “You soldiers!” he shouted, doing his best. “Get into line with us. Face the southrons! Maybe we can stop them.”
A few of the retreating-he didn’t want to think fleeing, either-soldiers obeyed him. He pulled some of his own men out of the south-facing trenches to join them. But more men from the Army of Franklin kept right on going. They’d had all the war they wanted. And the southrons who hadn’t been pushing hard now saw their foes in disarray and stepped things up.
More and more shouts of “Avram! King Avram!” came from what had been the left but was rapidly turning into another front. More and more crossbow quarrels came from that direction, too. The southrons were putting more bolts in the air than Gremio would have imagined possible from their numbers. Then he realized that when people talked about the quick-shooting crossbows the southron unicorn-riders used, they weren’t joking.
He also realized his makeshift line facing east wasn’t going to hold. At almost the same time, he realized what had been the real line, the line facing south, was liable not to hold, either.
“Captain, they’re going to break through!” Sergeant Thisbe exclaimed in dismay. What was obvious to Gremio was also obvious to other people, then.
“Hold fast! By the gods, men hold fast!” Colonel Florizel shouted, diligently whipping a dead unicorn: the soldiers on the right weren’t going to stop the southrons even if they died in place to the last man. But Florizel made more sense when he went on, “They’ll just shoot you down from behind if you run away.”
“Pikemen!” Gremio yelled, looking around for some. “We need more pikemen to hold the enemy off our crossbows!”
Not far away, another officer was roaring, “Crossbowmen! Gods damn it, where can I get some crossbowmen? The southrons are shooting down my pikemen, and I can’t answer back!”
Not enough crossbowmen, Gremio thought glumly. Not enough pikemen, either. We can put them together and have not enough of both-which is about what the north has everywhere these days. Even so, he sent a runner to the officer who commanded pikemen. They did join forces… just as the southrons rolled down on them.
And they did prove not to have enough of both. More than a little to Gremio’s surprise, they beat back the southrons’ first charge, leaving dead and wounded men lying in front of their improvised line. The pikemen did vicious work against the southrons who leaped down among them, while the crossbowmen shot down Avram’s gray-clad soldiers in droves.
Gremio was proud of the detachment he’d patched together-proud for about five minutes. Then a mournful cry rose from his left: “We’re flanked!” As if to underscore that, crossbow quarrels zipped up the line, cutting down one northerner after another. The southr
ons there on the left whooped with glee. They knew what they’d done.
So did Gremio. He looked around, wondering if making a stand here and selling his regiment as dearly as he could would let the rest of the Army of Franklin escape. He was willing to sacrifice the men, but only for something worthwhile.
He didn’t see the point, not here, not now. Even Colonel Florizel had stopped shouting about holding fast. Florizel was a stubborn man, but he wasn’t altogether an idiot. “Retreat!” Gremio shouted. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t like getting destroyed, either. “Fall back! Form a new line as you can!”
If you can, he should have said. A lot of his men had already started falling back without permission. Once they got it, they fell back faster. The Army of Franklin had some order left as the southrons drove its remnants north, but only some. Gremio had heard of routs before. Up till now, he’d never been part of one. Today, he was. He felt like a man staggered after a blow to the head with a club.
Because his regiment, along with the rest of Colonel Florizel’s wing, kept more cohesion than the rest of the Army of Franklin, he went on trying to form new lines and hold back the southrons while the rest of Bell’s men pelted off toward the north. Sometimes the enemy disrupted his efforts before they were well begun. Sometimes he did manage to hold them off for a while. But then, as they had before, Doubting George’s soldiers would outflank the line he’d pieced together. Then it was retreat again, retreat or stand and be massacred.
One of his men asked, “Why have the gods turned their backs on us, Captain?” He sounded not far from despair.
Gremio felt not far from despair himself, and had no time for anyone else’s. “Ask a priest,” he snapped. “Maybe he’d know, or tell you he knows. All I know is, we’ve still got to try to come out of this in one piece.”
The soldier sent him a wounded look. He had no time for those, either. Too many men were really wounded; their groans filled his ears. He looked back over his shoulders. A couple of hundred yards to the rear stood a woodlot, the trees bare-branched and skeletal now that winter was at hand. He didn’t much care about the branches. The trunks? The trunks were a different story.
Pointing to the trees, he said, “We’ll get in among them and use the trunks for cover. We haven’t got time to dig trenches, and the tree trunks will be better than nothing. When the southrons get close, we’ll give ’em a volley they’ll remember for a long time.”
His men did, too. The southrons recoiled, as much from surprise-here were northerners still showing fight-as because of the damage the volley did. But the surprise didn’t last long. Neither did the recoil. The men in gray started sliding around the woodlot to the east and west. They also brought engines forward with what was, to Gremio, truly damnable speed.
Firepots flew through the air. Some of them smashed on bare ground. Those were harmless, or near enough. But the ones that hit trees set them afire. Before long, the whole woodlot would burn. Not only that, Gremio saw the southrons’ outflanking move.
“Fall back!” he yelled once more, coughing from the lungful of smoke he’d inhaled.
“Fall back!” Sergeant Thisbe echoed. “We’ll make another stand soon. They can’t drive us like this forever.” Gremio wondered why not. What was going to stop the southrons? Not the Army of Franklin, not by what had happened today. But Thisbe had never been one to give up a fight as long as one last crossbow quarrel remained in the quiver.
Before long, Gremio began to wonder whether that last bolt was gone. Doubting George’s men were pressing him from the front and both flanks, and they’d got so far ahead of his regiment that even retreat would be like running the gauntlet. He thought about throwing aside his officer’s sword and raising his hands in the air. The war would be over for him, and he would have lived through it.
But he knew Thisbe wouldn’t surrender; Thisbe, of all people, would think it impossible, and had good reasons to think so. Gremio couldn’t stand to give up while the sergeant was watching. And then, quite suddenly, he didn’t have to. A detachment of Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders came galloping up from the east and pitched into the southrons assailing Gremio’s flank. The men in gray, taken by surprise, scattered in wild disorder. Had they had any notion Ned’s riders were close by, they surely would have put up a better fight. As things were? No.
“Thank you kindly, Colonel,” Gremio called to the rider who looked to be in charge of the detachment.
“You’re welcome,” the other officer answered, touching the brim of his hat. “Nice to know not quite everything’s gone to hells in a handbasket, isn’t it?”
“Not quite is about the size of it, I’m afraid,” Gremio said. “Do you knew where, or even if, the army is going to make some real stand?”
The colonel of unicorn-riders shook his head. “Sorry, Captain. Wish I did.”
“Colonel Biffle! Colonel Biffle, sir!” A rider hurried up to the officer, and reined in. He pointed off to the west. “More footsoldiers in trouble over there, sir.”
With a weary sigh, Colonel Biffle nodded. “Well, let’s see if we can’t get ’em out of it, then.” He tipped his hat to Gremio again. “Nice talking with you, Captain. Sorry I can’t stay longer. Good luck.” He rode off, followed by his men.
Colonel Florizel limped over to Gremio. “Still here, I see.”
“Same to you, sir,” Gremio replied.
“Oh, yes. Still here.” Florizel shrugged wearily. “For how much longer, though, who knows? They’ve whipped us right and proper this time.”
“Yes, sir.” Gremio admitted what he could hardly deny. “How do we go on after… this? How can we go on after… this?”
“I have no idea,” Florizel answered. “All I know is, nobody’s ordered me to throw down my sword. Till someone does, I’m still in the fight. Until King Geoffrey has to give up, if he ever does, he’s still in the fight. So we’ve got to keep grinding away, see what happens next, and hope it’s something good.”
He’s a simple man, Gremio thought, not for the first time. Here, though, Florizel’s simplicity amounted to strength. The wing commander didn’t worry about what he couldn’t help. He kept his mind on his own job, and did that as well as he could. Anything else? Anything else was-simply-beyond his ken, and he didn’t dwell on it. Gremio wished he could ignore the world falling to pieces around him as well as his superior managed the trick.
“If we can use a couple of more rear-guard actions to get some separation between our main force-” Florizel began.
“You mean, the biggest mob of soldiers running away,” Gremio broke in.
Florizel only nodded. He didn’t even bother quarreling about the way Gremio put it. “If we can get some separation,” he went on, “we can salvage something from the ruins, anyhow: an army that can keep Doubting George from marching all the way through Dothan to Shell Bay the way Hesmucet’s marching through Peachtree.”
“Maybe,” Gremio said, though he wasn’t sure the Army of Franklin could have done that even before the southrons smashed it to bits. It certainly would have had a better chance then; he couldn’t deny that, either.
“Gods damn it, we’re free Detinans,” Florizel said, as if Gremio had claimed they were blond serfs. “I’d sooner die on my feet than live on my knees.”
“Yes, sir,” Gremio said. “But I’d sooner live on my feet, if I possibly can.”
Florizel considered that. By the startled look on his face, it hadn’t occurred to him up till now. After more than a little thought, he nodded. “Yes, that would be best, wouldn’t it? It would if we could manage it, I mean. I don’t know how we’re going to.”
“We have to get away from the southrons.” Gremio preferred not to mention that only a little while before he’d almost surrendered to Doubting George’s men. Florizel didn’t need to know that. It hadn’t happened, and now-maybe-it wouldn’t. Gremio dared hope, anyhow.
But even if they did get back up to Dothan or Great River Province, what could they do then? Precio
us little, not after the losses they’d taken. For years, the Army of Franklin had been the heart of King Geoffrey’s power here in the east. Now it was broken, and so was that power. How could it be revived? Could it be revived? Gremio didn’t know. He shook his head. No, that wasn’t true. He did know. He just didn’t care to think about what he knew.
* * *
For as long as Lieutenant General Bell could, he looked on the second day’s fighting in front of Ramblerton much as he had on the first day’s: the southrons had pushed his men hard, but he’d held his lines together even if he had had to give some ground.
The night before, though, his wing commanders and Ned of the Forest had agreed with him, or at least not disagreed too loudly. None of them had quarreled with his intention of inviting the second day of battle. None of them had seen any better choices available to the Army of Franklin. Tonight, though… tonight, the wing commanders and Ned didn’t wait to be summoned. They sought Bell out in the pavilion he’d run up when he couldn’t find a farmhouse as night fell.
One word came from all the officers: disaster. “Sir, my wing was attacked from front, rear, and flank all at the same time,” Stephen the Pickle said. “Those gods-damned southron unicorn-riders with their quick-shooting crossbows…” He shuddered. “We didn’t break, not in any ordinary sense of the word. They tore us to shreds. Not much of what was the left is left.”
“Or of the center,” Benjamin the Heated Ham said. “The southrons tore us to pieces, too, from the front and then from the flank when the left retreated.” He nodded to Stephen. “Seeing what happened to it, I don’t know how it could have done anything but retreat.”
Bell turned to Florizel. “And you, Colonel? What have you got to say?” He’d expected the least from Florizel. He’d got the most. A fair part of Florizel’s wing remained in good fighting trim-or as good as any in the Army of Franklin.
“Well, sir,” Florizel answered, “we thought the hardest blows would fall on us, and I’d say we got the softest. That’s why we’re not in such dreadful shape-compared to the other wings, I mean.”
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