“Hells, yes, we do,” Hesmucet answered without the least hesitation. “The faster Bell comes out of his trenches and fights, if that’s what he intends to do, the happier I’ll be. I’ll give him bait, if he’s fool enough to take it.”
“Ah.” James the Bird’s Eye nodded. “Fair enough, sir.” He eyed the map again, then said, “There is one other drawback to this, you know.”
“Oh, certainly. I see it, too,” Hesmucet said. “He can concentrate his men wherever he does decide to attack, which makes him stronger there than we are.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I meant,” James said.
“Thought so,” Hesmucet said. “But the other side of that coin is, he’s weakening himself along every other part of his line. And he won’t be the only one doing the attacking. We’ll keep him busy, I promise you.”
“Good, sir. I expected as much.” James the Bird’s Eye grinned, which made him look even younger than he really was. He was tall and handsome and brave, too. Hesmucet, not far past forty himself, felt positively decrepit when he considered his dashing wing commander. “Whatever they do, sir, we’ll deal with them,” James promised.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Hesmucet said. “They had their chance after the battle by the River of Death. They had it, and they bungled it. Now it’s our turn-and, by the gods, I don’t think they can stop us.”
After James the Bird’s Eye had left, Hesmucet went out of his headquarters and stared north toward Marthasville. He could see the city clearly. He could also see the traitors’ lines that still, despite everything, held his men away from the town at which they’d aimed for so long. How much more could Bell stretch his smaller army? He would have to do something to counter James the Bird’s Eye’s next outflanking move.
James expected Bell to attack. And James knew him better than any other southron general-or, at least, better than any other under Hesmucet’s command. Everyone else agreed with the young wing commander, too. “Come ahead,” Hesmucet murmured eagerly. “You come right on ahead.” If Bell obliged him, he wouldn’t complain. No, he wouldn’t complain at all.
He snapped his fingers and called for a runner. Wouldn’t do to make a stupid mistake like that, he thought. Don’t want to let the traitors have an easier time than they ought to.
When the runner returned, he brought Colonel Phineas, puffing, in his wake. Phineas saluted. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” the army’s senior mage said. He took off his hat and used it to fan his round, bald head.
“Good to see you, Colonel,” Hesmucet said. “I’ve just got word that Joseph the Gamecock has been replaced by Lieutenant General Bell at the head of the Army of Franklin.”
“By the gods!” Phineas exclaimed. “Are you certain, sir?”
“It’s in a Marthasville paper. I can’t be much more certain than that,” Hesmucet answered. If I had really good mages working for me, they would have let me know before I found out from a prisoner or a spy, he thought. Perhaps that was unfair; the northerners’ wizards would have been doing everything they could to keep news from leaking out. But only Alva could have hoped to penetrate whatever deceptions they were spreading, and Alva hadn’t thought to look.
Phineas said, “This will probably change the way the campaign is going. Doesn’t Bell have a name for being a more, ah, aggressive fighter than Joseph?”
“That’s exactly why I called you here, Colonel,” Hesmucet said, pleased to see even so much wit from Phineas. “Everyone’s best guess is that there will be an enemy attack, and soon. I suspect the traitors will try to hit us with their magecraft as well as with their soldiers.”
“That does seem very likely, yes, sir,” Phineas agreed.
“I want you to have all your mages on alert, too, to be ready to beat back such assaults,” Hesmucet said. “I have confidence in our crossbowmen and pikemen and unicorn-riders. And I have confidence in the wizards with us.”
Sourly, Colonel Phineas said, “You have confidence in Major Alva, you mean. The rest of us are just here to watch him.”
That was, in large measure, true. Even so, Hesmucet shook his head. Phineas and the other southron wizards did have some use, and disheartening them would make that less true. The commanding general said, “Major Alva will be busy, but so will the rest of you.”
“To fetch and carry for him.” Yes, Phineas was sour, all right.
Hesmucet shook his head. “By no means, Colonel. Major Alva is best at striking back against the traitors. The rest of you will keep them from striking at us. He is sword, you are shield. We need both.”
“Hmm.” Phineas considered that. “Very well, sir. You may rest assured that all of us-and I mean all — will do everything in our power for the kingdom.”
“Thank you,” Hesmucet said. Phineas’ feathers remained ruffled, but perhaps not so much now. Hesmucet waved toward the north. “We can see Marthasville from where we stand. We had better not let it slip through our fingers now.”
“I could hardly disagree with that, sir.” Phineas bowed stiffly. “We shall give you what you require, to the best of our ability.”
“Can’t ask for more than that.” Hesmucet clapped the tubby wizard on the shoulder. “Let all the men who share your art learn what I want of them.”
“Yes, sir,” Phineas said. “We’ll do everything we can, sir.”
“I know that. I’ve known that all along.” Hesmucet clapped the mage on the back again, hard enough to stagger him this time. Without Alva, it wouldn’t be enough, Hesmucet thought. When we didn’t have Alva, the traitors’ wizards always got the drop on us. Well, no more, by the gods.
Phineas made more promises that he and his sorcerous colleagues might or might not prove able to live up to. Hesmucet made more polite protestations that he didn’t really mean. At last, with what seemed like relief, Phineas decamped. With what Hesmucet knew to be relief, he watched the wizard waddle away.
He looked toward Marthasville once more. One thing at a time, he thought. Let James the Bird’s Eye get a solid stranglehold on the glideway line to Julia. Then I’ll send Doubting George over Goober Creek. If we can lick the northerners there, we ought to be able to bring our engines up close enough to start flinging stones and firepots into Marthasville itself.
He didn’t want the fight for the city to come down to a siege. He wanted to storm in and take the place away from the Army of Franklin. He was by nature almost as much an attacker as Lieutenant General Bell over on the other side, and Joseph the Gamecock’s delaying campaign had left him badly frustrated. But what he wanted most of all was Marthasville. How he got it didn’t really matter. If he had to starve the traitors into yielding, he would do that.
He wasn’t sorry to see Joseph the Gamecock go. Joseph had been like one skilled swordsman holding off two as he retreated down a long, narrow corridor. He hadn’t let them get past him, not even once; to do so would have been fatal. Now Bell would try to come up the corridor against the same two swordsmen, or so everyone assumed.
“Let him come,” Hesmucet murmured again. He wasn’t a particularly pious man, nor one to send up prayers to the gods at any excuse. The gods, he’d always reckoned, would do as they pleased, and let people pick up the pieces as best they could. This time, though, the general commanding doffed his hat and looked up to the mountain beyond the sky. “Please, Thunderer; please, Lion God. Let him come.”
He got no immediate answer to his petition. He’d expected none. No Detinan had seen a heavenly choir in years. Even so, looking north once more, he doubted he would have long to wait before finding out whether the gods were listening.
VIII
Colonel Florizel was almost beside himself with excitement. “Now we get to hit back!” the regimental commander burbled. “Now we get to drive the gods-damned southrons out of our kingdom once for all!”
“Well, your Excellency, we certainly get to try,” Captain Gremio answered.
“Bell is a man who knows what fighting’s all about,” Florizel said
. “We’ll hit the southrons a lick the likes of which the world has never seen the likes of.” He was fond of that phrase; Gremio had heard it before from him. He’d never figured out what, if anything, it meant.
He did know he was worried. “They still have more men than we do, sir. We hurt them more when we made them come at us. It won’t be so easy when we go at them, I’m afraid.”
“If you’re afraid, Captain, you may stay behind,” Florizel snapped. “I’ll send you back to Karlsburg, if you like, the way King Geoffrey sent Joseph the Gamecock down to Dicon. Joseph was afraid to face the southrons-that’s as plain as the nose on my face.”
Gremio’s ears felt on fire. “Sir, you ought to know I’m not afraid to advance. I’ve always gone forward as boldly as anyone, and who can say that I haven’t?”
“Very well,” Earl Florizel said. “I cannot deny that.” By the way he sounded, he wished he could. “But I am going to keep my eye on you, young fellow, you may rest assured of that. A man who grumbles too much is not likely to have his heart in the fighting.”
“You’ll see, sir,” Gremio said grimly. If Florizel was going to watch everything he did, he would have to fight as if his life didn’t matter at all to him. And, fighting that way, he was much more likely to lose it. He knew that too well.
“We-our regiment, and Brigadier Alexander’s whole wing-have the honor of holding the left,” Florizel said. “As the southrons come north over Goober Creek, we’re going to drive them back into the stream. You’ll have the chance to make good on what you say, Captain. Dismissed.”
Fuming, Gremio saluted and walked off. He sat down on a boulder, took out a whetstone, and began honing his sword. He wanted the edge as sharp as he could make it. Every little bit helped.
“Is the attack on, sir?” Sergeant Thisbe asked.
That made Gremio look up. “Oh, yes. It’s on,” he answered. “We get to swarm out of our trenches and drive the southrons back. So says Colonel Florizel, which means it should be easy, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Thisbe said. “We’d better try something, though, don’t you suppose, before the southrons surround Marthasville altogether?”
That had no good answer. Gremio wished it did. He said, “We’ll do the best we can, that’s all. Let’s get the men formed up, shall we? I want this company to make everyone who watches it proud.”
“We’ll do that, sir,” Thisbe promised. “How can we help it, when we’ve got you leading us?”
Gremio’s ears got as hot as they had when Florizel scorned him, but for an altogether different reason. Before he could find anything to say, the regimental trumpeters blew assembly. He knew what he had to say then, and so did Sergeant Thisbe. They had the company in place before any of the others had formed ranks.
Colonel Florizel didn’t look impressed. Florizel, Gremio was convinced, wouldn’t look impressed at anything this side of his heroic death. His hand dropped to the hilt of that newly sharpened sword. He might have to oblige the colonel. When the rest of the regiment had assembled, Florizel struck a pose and said, “Boys, with Bell leading us, we’re going to chase the gods-damned southrons all the way back to Franklin. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes!” The deep, fierce roar stunned Gremio’s ears. The men were ready to go forward; that was plain. Whether they could… Everyone would find out soon enough.
“We’re going to catch the bastards crossing Goober Creek,” Florizel went on. “Old Straight’s wing-that’s ours-and Roast-Beef William’s wing’ll hit ’em together. And, by the gods, we’re going to break ’em! Wait for the brigade’s trumpeters to blow, then go forward and don’t slow down for anything. Have you got that?”
“Yes!” the men roared again.
“That’s all I’ve got to say, then,” Florizel said, and stood down. It wasn’t a speech that would have done much in the lawcourts. In the field, it was first-rate. The soldiers cheered and waved their crossbows in the air. Gremio dutifully cheered, too. He drew his sword and waved it. Sunlight glittered off the edge.
A few minutes later, trumpets blew advance! “Forward!” Gremio shouted. “We’ll lick them!” He didn’t know if they could. He was sure they would give it a hells of a try.
“Out of the trenches!” one of his men said cheerfully as they swarmed up the sandbagged steps that led to the open country between the lines outside Marthasville and Goober Creek. Gremio waved his sword again, urging his soldiers on. He wasn’t so happy to have left the fieldworks himself, but he had his orders and he had to obey them.
Looking to the right, he saw the assembled warriors from Brigadier Alexander’s wing and that of Roast-Beef William all advancing together. So many men in blue tunics and pantaloons storming toward the enemy at the same time did go a long way towards inspiriting him. How could King Avram’s men hope to throw them back?
When he looked ahead, he got a piece of his answer. The southrons were already well over Goober Creek and coming north toward Marthasville. Through the dust their advance raised, he saw rank on rank of soldiers in gray. His comrades might have the spirits. The southrons, as usual, had the numbers.
But those numbers might not do them so much good this time. Several rills ran south from Marthasville into Goober Creek. The valleys they’d carved in the red land wouldn’t be easy to cross. If one group of southrons got in trouble, their comrades to the right and left wouldn’t easily be able to reinforce them. Maybe Lieutenant General Bell hadn’t picked too bad a time to advance after all.
“Let’s let them hear us!” Gremio shouted. His men loosed the roaring northern battle cry that might have come straight from the throat of the Lion God himself. That cry was often worth brigades in battle. The southrons owned no real answer for it, nor had they ever.
“King Avram!” the enemy yelled. “Freedom!” Some few of the southron soldiers had yellow hair and beards: escaped serfs, most of them. Gremio hated to see blonds in gray uniforms-hated it not only because it argued against everything the north held dear but also because those escaped serfs fought with special ferocity, knowing they were likelier to die on the field than be taken prisoner.
Men from both sides raised crossbows to their shoulders and started shooting. As so often happened, they opened the exchange of missiles before coming into range. Bolts thudded into the ground in front of Gremio and his company. But then the first northern man howled when a quarrel pierced him, and the first southron crumpled as if all his bones had turned to water.
Before long, men on both sides fell like autumn leaves as southrons and northerners volleyed away at one another. Men reloaded as fast as they could, as if one more bolt in the air would slay the last enemy in front of them and let their side storm forward. But, for every southron who toppled, another strode forward to take his place and start shooting at Gremio and his comrades.
Lightning smashed down out of a clear sky. He hoped it would clear the southrons in front of him. But the bolts hit ground where no enemy soldiers stood, or else smote Goober Creek and raised clouds of muddy steam. Gremio cursed. After more than three years of war, the southrons were at last becoming able to match the mages on his own side.
“Onward!” Colonel Florizel yelled, brandishing his own blade. He looked around to see what his captains-and, most especially, Captain Gremio-were doing.
“Onward!” Gremio cried, louder still. He ran toward the southrons. This is a good way to get killed, he thought. But his men came after him. This is a good way to get all of us killed.
A quarrel hummed past his ear and struck a man behind him with an unmistakable meaty thunk. The fellow didn’t even cry out. He must have died while hardly knowing what had happened to him. There were worse ways to go. Gremio had seen too many of them.
And then, quite suddenly, it wasn’t a fight of crossbow quarrels any more. It was pikes and shortswords and men cursing and shouting-and screaming as they were hurt, too. Gremio beat aside the gleaming iron head of a pike. Before the fellow who carried the heavy
spear could draw back for a second thrust, Gremio leaped forward and lunged. His point pierced flesh.
The pikeman howled, staring down and seeing steel inside him stabbing, stabbing. Gremio yanked back the blade. The point was bloody. That wound, he knew, was likely deep enough to kill, if not by making the southron bleed out then from the festering sure to follow. But the fellow wasn’t dead yet, and wouldn’t die right away. He managed another thrust at Gremio, who had to skip back smartly to keep from being spitted. Only then did the southron’s knees slowly buckle.
“Forward!” Gremio shouted. “We’ll push the bastards into Goober Creek!” He did his best to roar as if the Lion God were speaking through his body.
Ferocity-perhaps desperation wasn’t too strong a word-propelled the northerners into and then through their foes. Some southrons fell back toward the creek. Others simply fell, and would not rise again. For a few heady minutes, Gremio thought his comrades might indeed throw the enemy back into the stream and work a great slaughter on him there.
But the southrons had too many men. Those who ran away rallied when they met fresh, unpanicked troopers coming up from the south. And the reinforcements poured a couple of withering volleys of bolts into the oncoming northerners. A good many of King Geoffrey’s men had slung or thrown aside their crossbows to fight with shortswords instead. They couldn’t match the southrons quarrel for quarrel, as they had before.
“Forward!” Gremio cried yet again, and rushed toward the new and dreadfully steady southron line. The enemy might-likely would-kill him, but Colonel Florizel couldn’t complain he was a coward. The things we do for pride, he thought sourly, brandishing blood-bedaubed blade.
He looked back over his shoulder. His men kept on following, such of them as remained on their feet. Sergeant Thisbe trotted along only a few paces behind him. Gremio didn’t know whether to be proud about that or sad. You’re not just getting yourself killed for no purpose, but all the best men in the company.
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