Part of that responsibility, at the moment, involved finishing the destruction of the Army of Franklin. He pointed to Alva. “Can you make it seem to the traitors that the dragon hurt us worse than it really did?”
“I suppose so, sir. But why?” Puzzlement filled Alva’s voice.
Doubting George let out a more than barely audible sniff, as if to say that anybody who didn’t know much about soldiering had no business putting on a uniform, or even a gray robe. Then he condescended to explain: “If they see us here in dreadful shape, maybe they won’t be looking for us to outflank them and cut them off.”
“Oh!” Alva wasn’t stupid. He could see things once you pointed them out to him. “Deception! Now I understand!”
“Good,” George said. “Now that you understand, can you do it?”
“I don’t see why not,” the sorcerer replied. “It’s an elementary problem, thaumaturgically speaking.”
“You’ll be able to fool the traitors and their mages?”
“I think so,” Alva answered. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t be. The wizards on the other side of the Screw-”
“It’s called the Smew,” Doubting George said diplomatically.
Alva waved the correction away. “Whatever it’s called, those fellows aren’t very bright,” he said. “Like I told you, they have to be pretty stupid, in fact, if they go and yank a real dragon out of the air. So, yes, I ought to be able to fool them.”
That the northern wizards had succeeded in yanking the dragon out of the air impressed Alva not at all, not in this context. He didn’t waste time talking more about what he was going to do. He set about doing it instead. As far as Doubting George was concerned, taking care of what needed doing was one of Alva’s best traits.
Apologetically, the wizard warned, “You won’t be able to see the full effects of the spell, sir. You’d need to be looking from the other side of the river to do that, because it’s directional. So don’t worry about it. To the traitors, it’ll look just the way it’s supposed to.”
“All right,” the commanding general said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
He wasn’t even sure Alva heard him. The wizard had dropped back into his incantation. His skinny face showed how intensely he was concentrating. He muttered spells in Detinan and in a language George had never heard before. His bony, long-fingered hands thrashed through passes as if they had separate lives of their own. Sooner than George had expected him to, he finished the enchantment, shouting, “Transform! Transform! Transform!”
Transform things did. The wizard had been right to warn Doubting George about the directional nature of the spell. George saw the result, but as if it were made from fog: everything seemed half transparent, and ragged around the edges. He might almost have been watching the memory of a dream. Smoke, or the wraithlike semblance of smoke, poured up from the encampment. The ghosts of flames sprang from tents that weren’t really burning. Shadowy figures that might have been men ran in all directions, as if in terror.
“Bell’s wizards are seeing this sharply?” George asked.
“Not just the wizards, sir,” Alva told him. “Anybody peering across the, uh, Smew will think the dragon has wrecked everything in sight.”
“All right, then,” the general commanding said. “Hold the illusion for as long as you can, and I’ll get Hard-Riding Jimmy’s troopers and some engineers moving. If they can cross the river and hit Bell in the flank when he thinks I’m all messed up here…”
“Deception,” Major Alva said happily. “Yes, sir. I get it.”
“Good.” Doubting George shouted for a messenger. When the young man appeared, came to attention, and saluted, George gave him his orders. The youngster saluted again. He trotted off.
Before long, the unicorn-riders and the engineers hurried up the Smew. Ghostly smoke between them and the river should conceal them from prying eyes on the other side, assuming it seemed as solid as it was supposed to from the north. Doubting George had no cause to doubt that; another reason he approved of Alva as a mage was that the man delivered.
A messenger came back and reported, “We’re over the Smew, sir.”
“Good,” George said. “Can I send a column of footsoldiers after you? Have you got a ford or a bridge safe and ready to use?”
“Yes, sir,” the messenger answered. “But Brigadier Jimmy says to warn you that if you’re looking to surprise the traitors, you’re going to be disappointed. They already know we’re moving against them.”
“Gods damn it!” George exclaimed in disgust. “What went wrong?”
“We hadn’t been on the north bank of the river more than a couple of minutes before Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders found us,” the messenger replied.
“Well, to hells with Ned of the Forest, too,” the commanding general said. “All right-we’re discovered. Can Jimmy’s riders get in front of Bell’s men and hold them until the rest of us come north and finish them off?”
“Sir, I don’t think so,” the young man on unicornback said. “Bell’s men are scooting north as fast as they can go, and Ned’s unicorn-riders are slowing our troopers down so we can’t reach Bell’s main force. I’m sorry, sir.”
“So am I,” Doubting George said wearily. “We did everything right here-after that gods-damned dragon, anyhow-but it didn’t quite work. Well, we’ll go after them anyhow. Maybe Bell will make a mistake. It wouldn’t be the first one he’s made on this campaign, by the Lion God’s tail tuft.”
He said that, but he didn’t really believe it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Bell could make more mistakes; he was sure Bell could. But prisoners had told him Ned of the Forest commanded the northern rear guard. Doubting George had seen that Ned made a very solid soldier. George wished he had more officers of Ned’s ability. He was just glad the war looked nearly won. Even Ned didn’t matter-too much-any more.
X
Captain Gremio had never particularly wanted to command a regiment. For that matter, Gremio had never particularly wanted to command a company; had his previous captain not been killed at Proselytizers’ Rise, he would have been more than content to remain a lieutenant, with but a single epaulet on his shoulder.
But he had the whole regiment in his hands now, like it or not, and had it in the worst possible circumstances: a grinding retreat after a disastrous battle. And his men could hardly have had a harder time. They were worn and ragged and hungry, as was he. His shoes, what was left of them, leaked mud onto his toes at every stride. Too many of them had no shoes at all.
“What the hells am I supposed to do, sir?” one of the soldiers asked. “My feet are so gods-damned cold, how long will it be before my toes start turning black?”
“Well, we’re in camp now, Jamy,” Gremio answered, “camp” being a few small, smoky fires in a clearing in the woods. “Get as close to the flames as you can. That’ll keep you from frostbitten toes.”
“Yes, sir, we’re in camp now,” Jamy said. “But what am I supposed to do about tomorrow morning, when I start tramping through half-frozen muck again?”
“Find some rags. Wrap your feet in them.” Gremio helplessly spread his hands wide. “I don’t know what else to tell you.” Jamy muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, If I let myself get captured, I don’t have to worry about it any more. Gremio turned away, pretending not to hear. If Jamy did hang back, how could Gremio stop him? More than a few men had already given themselves up to the southrons.
Also muttering, Gremio went off to stand in line and get something to eat. Half a hard biscuit and some smoked meat that was rancid because it hadn’t been smoked long enough weren’t going to fill his belly. He asked the cooks, “What else have you got?”
They looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re gods-damned lucky we’ve got this here… sir,” one of them said. “Plenty of folks in this here army, they get a big fat nothing for supper tonight.”
“Oh.” Gremio sighed and nodded. “I suppose you’re right
. But how long can we go on with this kind of food?”
In unison, the cooks shrugged. “Hells of a lot longer than we can go on with nothing,” replied the one who’d spoken before.
The worst of it was, Gremio couldn’t even argue with him. He was incontestably, incontrovertibly, right. “Scrounge whatever you can,” Gremio told him. “I’m not fussy about how you do it-just do it. I won’t ask you any questions. We’ve got to keep moving, one way or another.”
One by one, the cooks nodded. “We’ll take care of it, Captain. Don’t you worry,” said the one who liked to talk. “Pretty good, a regimental commander who tells us we can forage however we want.” The rest of the cooks nodded again.
One of them added, “Sergeant Thisbe already said the same thing.”
“That’s a sergeant. This here is a captain. Them’s two different breeds, you bet, like unicorns and asses,” the mouthy cook said.
Gremio wondered whether officers were supposed to be unicorns or asses. He didn’t ask. The cook was all too likely to tell him. What he did say was, “If Sergeant Thisbe told you it’s all right, it is. You can bet on that.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the talkative cook agreed. “Thisbe, he’s got his head screwed on tight. Probably why he never made lieutenant.” He didn’t look a bit abashed at smearing officers. With the Army of Franklin falling to ruins, what was Gremio going to do to him? What could Gremio do that the southrons hadn’t done already?
“Sergeant Thisbe has been offered promotion to officer’s rank more than once, but has always declined,” Gremio said stiffly.
The cooks looked at one another. None of them said a thing, not even the mouthy one. Gremio turned away in dull embarrassment. They hadn’t embarrassed him; he’d done it to himself. If Thisbe was a good soldier (and Thisbe was) and if Thisbe didn’t want to become an officer (and Thisbe didn’t, as Gremio had admitted), what did that say about officers?
It says officers are asses, Gremio thought. Feeling very much an ass, he went off to eat his meager and unappetizing supper.
He was cleaning his mess tin when Thisbe came over to the creek to do the same thing. Scrupulous as always, Thisbe saluted. Gremio answered with an impatient wave. “Never mind that nonsense,” he said. “Nobody’s going to worry about it now.”
“All right, sir,” Thisbe said equably.
“What’s this I hear about your saying it was all right for the cooks to gather food any which way they could?” Gremio inquired.
With an anxious look, Thisbe asked, “Was I wrong, sir?”
“Not so far as I’m concerned,” Gremio answered. “I told them the same thing.”
“We’ve got to keep eating,” Thisbe said. “If we don’t eat, we can’t march and we can’t fight. We might as well lay down our crossbows and shortswords and give up, and I’m not ready to do that.”
“Neither am I.” But Gremio thought of Jamy. How long could his men keep marching without shoes? Not forever; he knew that too well. Remembering Jamy made him ask, “How are your feet, Sergeant?”
“Not bad at all, as a matter of fact.” Sure enough, shoes much newer than Gremio’s covered and protected Thisbe’s feet. The underofficer explained, “I found this dead southron, a little short fellow. His shoes were some too big on me even so, but I stuffed some rags into the toes, and they’re all right now-a lot better than the ones I had.”
“Good. That’s good. Nice somebody’s taken care of, one way or another,” Captain Gremio said. “I wish all our men were that lucky.” His laugh held nothing but bitterness. “I wish a lot more of our men were lucky enough to still be here.”
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Thisbe nodded. “Sir, can we fight another battle now? If we have to, I mean?”
“Depends on what you mean by a battle-and on what Lieutenant General Bell wants us to do,” Gremio answered. “We can fight plenty of these rear-guard actions-and we’ve got to, to keep the southrons from running over us like a brewery wagon on a downgrade. But if the Army of Franklin lines up against everything Doubting George has got… if that happens, we’re all dead.”
Thisbe nodded once more. “That’s about the way I look at things, too. I just wondered whether you were thinking along with me again.”
That again warmed Gremio. “When we get back to Palmetto Province, Sergeant…”
“Who knows what will happen, sir?” Thisbe said. “We have to worry about getting home first of all, and about whether home will even be worth getting back to if…” Now the sergeant’s voice trailed away.
“If?” Gremio prompted. But that wasn’t fair; that was making Thisbe say something Gremio didn’t want to say himself. With an effort of will, he forced it out:
“If we lose the war.”
No one but Thisbe could have heard the words. Gremio made sure of that. Even so, mentioning defeat came hard, despite all the disasters the Army of Franklin had already seen. Just imagining the north could lose, imagining King Avram could rule all of Detina, felt uncommonly like treason.
So Gremio thought, at any rate. But when he said so, Thisbe faced the idea without flinching. “We’ll pick up the pieces and go on, that’s all,” the sergeant replied. “What else can we do?”
Win. Gremio wanted to say it, but found he couldn’t. With the Army of Franklin broken, with Duke Edward of Arlington penned up inside Pierreville north of Nonesuch, what did his side have with which to resist the oncoming southron armies? Not enough, not from what he could see.
“Sergeant-” he began.
Thisbe held up a hand. “This isn’t the right time, is it, sir?”
“If it’s not, when would be?”
“After the war is over.” Thisbe looked around, too, before adding, “I don’t reckon it’ll be too much longer.” Another pause, and then the sergeant said, “I’d kind of hate to get killed now, when dying won’t make the least bit of difference one way or the other.” A laugh, of sorts. “That’s probably treason, too.”
“If it is, they’ll have to crucify me next to you,” Gremio said. They smiled at each other. With a grimace, Gremio went on, “Sometimes dying can make a difference even now. Not about who wins and loses-I think that’s pretty much over and done with. But if you can help some of your friends get away safe… Well, what else is a rear guard for?”
Sergeant Thisbe looked as unhappy as Gremio felt. “You’re right, sir. You usually are.” Gremio shook his head. He felt as empty-as emptied — of good answers as of everything else. Thisbe ignored him. “But even though you are right, I still think it’d be a shame.”
“Oh, so do I. I don’t want to get killed. I’ve never been what you’d call eager for that.” From somewhere, Gremio dredged up a wry smile. “I’ve known a few men who were, or seemed to be.” Bell, gods damn him. Getting mutilated-getting mutilated twice-didn’t satisfy him. No, not even close. He had to cut off his army’s leg, too.
By the way Thisbe nodded, the underofficer was also thinking of the commanding general. Thisbe went back by the fires, got out a blanket, and made a cocoon of it. Around a yawn, the sergeant said, “Maybe it’ll look better in the morning.”
Following Thisbe toward what warmth they had, Gremio doubted that. He doubted it would ever look better for King Geoffrey’s cause. But he was also too weary to see straight. He rolled himself in his own blanket, using his hat for a pillow. “Good night, Sergeant. Maybe it will. It can’t look much worse, can it?”
With the winter solstice close at hand, nights were long and cold. Gremio woke well before sunrise. He wasn’t much surprised to find Thisbe already up and gone. He also wasn’t much surprised to find Ned of the Forest prowling around on foot. Ned’s eyes threw back the dim red light of the campfires like a cat’s. Men’s eyes weren’t supposed to be able to do that, but Ned’s did.
“Who’s in charge of this here regiment?” he demanded of Gremio.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Gremio gave his name and rank, adding, “At your service, sir.”
“I don’t wa
nt service. I want to kill some of those southron bastards. Are your men up to it?”
Such straightforward bloodthirstiness appealed to Gremio. “Tell us what to do, sir. If we can, we will. If we can’t, we’ll try anyway.”
That won him a thin smile from the commander of the rear guard. “All right, Captain. That’ll do. Can’t ask for anything more, in fact. Here’s what I’ve got in mind…”
An hour or so later, Gremio found himself behind a tree trunk, waiting as Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders galloped past to the north. It looked as if even the rear guard of the Army of Franklin were breaking up in ruin, as so much of the rest of the army already had. It looked that way, but it wasn’t true. Gremio hoped it wasn’t, anyhow.
After a brief pause, riders in King Avram’s gray pounded after Ned’s troopers. The southrons weren’t worried about their flanks. They weren’t worried about anything. Why should they worry? Bell’s men were on the run.
Gremio remembered Ned of the Forest’s instructions. Don’t shoot too soon, the commander of unicorn-riders had said. I’ll rip the head off any fool who starts shooting too soon. Gremio didn’t think he’d meant it metaphorically. He didn’t think Ned would have known a metaphor if it walked up and tried to buy him a brandy (and, for that matter, he probably would have turned it down if it did-he was famous for his abstemiousness with spirits).
And so Gremio and his crossbowmen waited till the southrons were well into the trap. They were veterans. They could all figure out when that was. And they all raised their crossbows to their shoulders and started shooting at almost exactly the same moment.
Unicorns screamed like women in anguish. Unicorn-riders screamed, too, some in pain, others in fury. Unicorns crashed to the ground. Unicorn-riders crouched behind them. Those who could started shooting back.
Frantically reloading and shooting, Gremio discovered how many bolts the enemy put into the air with their quick-shooting crossbows. It was as if each of them had five or six pairs of arms, each pair busy with its own crossbow. Without the advantage of surprise, Gremio’s regiment would have been mad to attack them.
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