Captain Gremio's shoes thudded on the bridge the
northerners had thrown across the Trumpeteth River.
His company wasn't so loud crossing over the bridge to the south bank as he would have liked. Not enough of them had shoes with which to thud. Bare feet and feet wrapped in rags made hardly any sound at all.
Unicorn hooves drummed quite nicely. From atop his mount, Colonel Florizel called, "Step it up, men! They're waiting for us in Poor Richard."
So they are, Gremio thought unhappily. And they've had a little while to wait now, too—plenty of time to dig trenches to fight from. Trenches saved lives. Without them, Joseph the Gamecock wouldn't have been able to delay Hesmucet up in Peachtree Province for nearly so long as he had. And then Bell brought us out of our trenches and hit the southrons as hard as he could. And we lost Marthasville, and we're losing the rest of Peachtree, too.
"Keep moving," Sergeant Thisbe said. "We have to whip the southrons."
"The sergeant's right," Gremio said. "We've got more men than John the Lister, and we'll swamp his whole army."
I hope we will. We'd better. Gods help us if we don't. Maybe they won't have dug too many trenches. Maybe.
His shoes stopped thudding and started thumping on dirt. "Over the river," Thisbe said. "Not far to Poor Richard now."
On they marched. One of the soldiers in the company exclaimed in disgust. "What's the matter, Ludovic?" Gremio asked.
"I just stepped in some unicorn shit," Ludovic answered.
"Well, wipe it off your shoe and keep going," Gremio said.
"Captain, I haven't had any shoes for weeks now," Ludovic said.
"Oh. Well, wipe it off your foot and keep going, then," Gremio said. "I don't know what else to tell you. You can't stop on account of that."
"Make the southrons pay when you get to them," Thisbe said.
"Wasn't the gods-damned southrons. Was our own gods-damned unicorn-riders. I'd like to make those sons of bitches pay, them and their shitty unicorns." Ludovic scattered curses with fine impartiality.
"If you find the fellow whose unicorn did it, you have my permission to pick a fight with him," Gremio said gravely.
Ludovic pondered that. Like the weather on a changeable day, he brightened and then clouded up again. "How the hells am I supposed to do that, Captain? Gods-damned unicorn didn't leave any gods-damned calling card, you know. Not except the one I stepped in."
Snickers ran up and down the long files of marching men. Gremio said, "No, I suppose not. In that case, you'd better just slog along with everybody else, don't you think?"
"You aren't making fun of me by any chance, are you, sir?"
"Gods forbid, Ludovic." Gremio had to deny it, even though it was true. A free Detinan who thought himself mocked would kill without counting the cost. An apology would have made Gremio lose face. A simple denial didn't.
Ludovic nodded, satisfied. "That's all right, then," he said, and marched on without complaining any more about his filthy foot.
When the Army of Franklin camped that night, the southrons' fires brightened the horizon to the south. "They're waiting for us," Gremio said as he seared a chunk of beef from one of the cows from the herd that shambled along with the army. It wasn't very good beef—it was, in fact, vile, odious beef—but it was ever so much better than no beef at all.
"We knew they would be." Sergeant Thisbe, searing another gobbet of that odious beef, didn't sound worried. The only time Thisbe had ever sounded worried was about going to the healers after taking that wound in southern Peachtree Province. Other than that, nothing in army life that Gremio had seen fazed the underofficer. "We'll lick 'em."
"Of course we will." Gremio couldn't very well deny it, not in front of his men. Colonel Florizel had wanted his company commanders to make the men believe the war was still winnable. Gremio didn't know whether it was or not. No matter how much he doubted it—and that was almost enough to make him his own side's Doubting George—he couldn't show his doubts. He understood why not: if the men thought they couldn't win, why would they want to risk their lives for King Geoffrey?
"Poor southrons'll be sorry they ever heard of Poor Richard," a trooper declared.
A few men from the Army of Franklin had deserted. The ones who remained still kept plenty of fight. Maybe returning to the province for which the army was named helped. Maybe they were just too stubborn to know they were beaten. Whatever it was, Gremio didn't want to disturb it. He wished he had more of it himself.
Thisbe pulled the ragged, sorry beefsteak from the flames. The sergeant sniffed at it and made an unhappy face before taking out a belt knife and starting to haggle off bite-sized chunks. "Better than nothing. Better than your belly rubbing up against your backbone," Thisbe said.
"Yes, that's true." Gremio cut a bite from his own beefsteak. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed . . . and chewed, and chewed. Eventually, with a convulsive gulp, he swallowed. "Not a whole lot better than nothing," he said.
"I think it is." Thisbe, as usual, was determined to look on the bright side of things. "When you're empty, you can't hardly do anything. You feel all puny and sickly. It's not a wonderful supper, gods know, but it's a supper, and any supper is better than no supper at all."
"Well, I can't say you're wrong. I was thinking the same thing a little earlier, in fact." Gremio didn't want to argue with Sergeant Thisbe. He wrestled another bite of meat down his throat. "Now I know why so many men in the company have no shoes. The drovers have been butchering them and called the shoeleather beef."
Thisbe did smile at that, but then grew serious again. "I wonder what they're doing with the hides of the cattle they're killing. If they're just leaving them for scavengers, that's a shame and a disgrace. The Army of Franklin must have plenty of men who know how to tan leather. Maybe they could make shoes, or at least patch the ones that are coming to pieces."
"That's a good idea. That's a hells of a good idea, as a matter of fact." Gremio made fewer bites of the rest of his beefsteak than he should have. A couple of times, he felt like a small snake trying to choke down a large dog. When at last he swallowed the final bite, he jumped to his feet. "I'm going to find out whether we're doing anything like that—and if we aren't, why not."
He hurried to Colonel Florizel's pavilion. The regimental commander was gamely—which did seem the proper word—hacking away at a slab of meat no finer than the one Gremio had eaten. When Gremio explained Thisbe's notion, Florizel paused, swallowed with no small effort, and then said, "That is clever. I have no idea what we're doing with the hides. We should be doing something, shouldn't we?"
"If we have any sort of chance to, we should, yes," Gremio said. "If you don't know, sir, who would?"
"Patrick the Cleaver, I suspect," Florizel answered. "He sticks his nose into all sorts of things."
The other side of that coin was, I can't be bothered sticking my nose into all sorts of things. Calling Florizel on it would have been worse than useless. Gremio saluted and said, "Thank you, sir. I'll speak with him."
"I hope something comes of it." Colonel Florizel did mean well, as long as he didn't have to put himself out too much. He was a brave leader in battle. Gremio wished he were a better administrator, but Gremio, a barrister himself, highly valued organization in others.
He'd never spoken to Patrick the Cleaver before, and wondered how much trouble he would have getting to see the wing commander. He had no more than he'd had seeing Colonel Florizel. As he had with Florizel, he explained himself. "This is your notion, now?" Patrick asked him.
"No, sir," Gremio answered. "My company's first sergeant thought of it. H—uh, his—name is Thisbe."
"It's a good notion, indeed and it is," Patrick said. "My hat's off to you, Captain, for not being after claiming it for your own."
"I couldn't do that," Gremio said.
"No, eh?" The brigadier eyed him. "Plenty could, the which is nobbut the truth."
"I don't steal," Gremio said stiffly. From anyone but Thisbe, he might have. From the sergeant? Never.
"Well, good on you," Patrick the Cleaver said. "If you're after giving this sergeant the credit, you might also be thinking of giving him lieutenant's rank to go with it."
"Sir, I tried to promote the sergeant during the fighting south of Marthasville, for bravery then," Gremio said. "Thisbe refused to accept officer's rank. I doubt anything has changed . . . his mind since."
Patrick chuckled. "Sure and there are sergeants like that. Most of 'em, I think, are fools. The army could use officers o' their stripe—better nor a good many of the omadhauns giving orders the now."
Thisbe had reasons for declining that Patrick the Cleaver probably hadn't contemplated. Gremio saw no point in discussing those reasons with the wing commander. He asked, "Is there any chance of doing what the sergeant suggested, sir?"
"By the gods, Captain, there is that," Patrick answered. "Once we're after driving the gods-damned southrons from Poor Richard, I'll see to it. You may rely on me."
"Thank you, sir." Gremio believed him. Patrick was one of the youngest brigadiers in King Geoffrey's armies, but he'd already acquired a reputation for reliability to go with his name for hard fighting. Gremio said, "May I ask you one thing more?"
"Ask what you will," Patrick said. "I do not promise to answer."
"That's only fair," Gremio said. "What sort of ground will we be fighting on at this Poor Richard place?"
"It's open," Patrick the Cleaver replied. "It's very open." His face, which had been very open a moment before, all at once closed. "If I were Lieutenant General Bell . . ." He didn't go on.
"If you were Bell . . ." Gremio prompted.
"Never you mind," Patrick said. "I've told the general commanding my opinions, and I need not repeat 'em to another soul."
Had he stood in the witness box, Gremio could have peppered him with questions as with crossbow quarrels. That wasn't how things worked here. A man who tried to grill a superior not inclined to be forthcoming wouldn't find out what he wanted to know, and would wind up in trouble.
Patrick said, "Give my compliments to your clever sergeant, if you'd be so kind, and the top o' the evening to you."
That was dismissal. Captain Gremio saluted and left the wing commander's pavilion. He made his way back to his own regiment's encampment. "Well, sir?" Sergeant Thisbe asked when he sat down by the fire once more.
"Well, Sergeant, Brigadier Patrick says you ought to be promoted to lieutenant for your cleverness," Gremio replied.
Thisbe stared into the flames. The sergeant said nothing while a soldier dumped more wood on the fire. Then, in a low voice, Thisbe said, "I don't want to be promoted. I told you that, sir, the last time you were generous enough to offer that to me. I'm . . . content where I am."
Gremio looked around. The soldier with the wood was building up another campfire ten or twelve feet away. A couple of men lay close to this blaze, but they were already snoring thunderously. Gremio spoke in a low voice: "Do you have the same reasons now as you did then?"
"Yes, sir," the sergeant answered.
"Are they the same reasons that kept you from wanting to see a healer when you were wounded?" Gremio persisted.
Thisbe looked into the flames again. "My reasons are my reasons. I think they're good ones." The sergeant would not meet Gremio's eyes.
"Are they the reasons I think they are?" Gremio asked.
That made Thisbe look at him. It didn't get him a straight answer, though. With what might have been a smile, the underofficer said, "How can any man know what another man is thinking?"
Gremio took a deep breath. He'd never asked Thisbe a direct question about the matter that interested him most. Even as he started to ask one now, he stopped with it unspoken. Thisbe might give him a truthful answer. But even if the sergeant did give him that kind of answer, it might preclude further questions. One of these days—very likely not till the war ended, if it ever did—Gremio hoped to have the chance to ask those questions.
All he said now was, "Sergeant, do you know how difficult you make things?"
"I'm sorry, sir." And Thisbe really did sound sorry. "I never wanted to be difficult. All I ever wanted was to do my job, and to do it as well as I could."
"You've done it very well—well enough to deserve promotion," Gremio said.
"I don't want to be a lieutenant," the sergeant said.
"I know. You deserve to be one anyhow," Gremio said. They eyed each other, back at their old impasse. Thisbe shrugged. Gremio smiled a rueful smile. And then, in spite of everything, they both started to laugh.
Doubting George wished he could go north to Poor Richard. All hells were going to break loose up there, and he sat here in Ramblerton gathering soldiers a dribble at a time. Actually, he knew he could go up to Poor Richard. John the Lister was hardly in a position to shoo him away if he hopped on a glideway carpet and sped up there. But John was only a captain in King Avram's regulars. If he could hold Bell off or beat him, he would surely gain permanent rank to match his ability. George already had it: less than he craved, less than he thought he deserved, but a sufficiency.
And so he stayed behind the line, and did the things a good regional commander was supposed to do, and didn't do anything else. If he sometimes drummed his fingers on his desk and looked longingly toward the north . . . well, he was the only man who knew that.
Colonel Andy came in, a troubled look on his round face. "Sir," he said, "word from the scryers is that Lieutenant General Bell is getting ready to attack John the Lister."
"John's got himself ready at Poor Richard, hasn't he?" George asked.
"As ready as he can be, yes, sir." His adjutant nodded.
"Better Bell should attack him there than when he was on the march and vulnerable by Summer Mountain, eh?" George said.
"Well . . . yes, sir, put that way." Andy nodded again, but reluctantly. "Even so, he's badly outnumbered."
"There is that," Doubting George allowed. "How imminent is this attack? Can we down here do anything about it?"
"I don't think so, sir." Colonel Andy looked very much like a worried chipmunk. "From what the scryers say John says, Bell will be on him this afternoon at the latest."
"We could send men by glideway that fast, if everything went perfectly," George said. "We couldn't send so many as I'd like, and we couldn't send much in the way of equipment with them, not on such short notice, but they would be better than nothing."
"That was the other thing I wanted to tell you," Major Andy said unhappily. "The northerners have desorcerized a stretch of the glideway line between here and Poor Richard. I don't know whether Bell got wizards past John and Alva, or whether these are local traitors sneaking out and making trouble now that we've recalled so many garrisons to Ramblerton. Either way, though, till our mages repair the break, we can't use that line to move soldiers."
"Well, gods damn the northerners, then," George said. "I was just thinking John had the chance to make a name for himself. I doubt he would have wanted quite such a good chance, though."
"Yes, sir. I doubt that, too," Andy said. "I wish we could do something more."
"So do I." Doubting George drummed his fingers on the broad desktop, right out there where Andy could see him do it. He'd sent John the Lister north to delay Bell, not to serve as a snack for him. After a moment, he brightened. "Bell's not what you'd call a very clever fellow, and he's bound to be spitting mad because John got away from him once. He'll go in as quick and as hard as he can, no matter what's waiting for him."
"If he has enough men, how much will it matter?" Colonel Andy asked bleakly.
"Always an interesting question," George admitted. "Of course, there's another interesting question—what do you mean by 'enough'? The north has never had enough men for all the ground false King Geoffrey needed to cover at the start of the war. That's why they're losing."
"In general terms, that's true, sir. But whether Bell has enough to smash John is a rather more specific question, wouldn't you say?"
"Unfortunately, I would. Anything I can do to help our wizards fix the desorcerized stretch of glideway? Would sending more sorcerers help?"
"Probably not, sir," Andy answered. "They're doing all they can, and half the time more wizards only mean more quarrels."
"More than half the time," Doubting George said. "All right, then. We'll do everything we can. If we can't do enough, John the Lister will fight his own battle." He brightened slightly. "I did send him Major Alva before the traitors got at the glideway line. That's something, anyhow."
"Yes, sir," Colonel Andy said. "And he has Hard-Riding Jimmy's unicorn-riders with him."
"Hard-Riding Jimmy hasn't got very many men, not if he wants to stand against Ned of the Forest." Doubting George sounded even more dubious than usual.
His adjutant spoke soothingly: "They carry those newfangled quick-shooting crossbows, though. There may not be many of them, but they can put a lot of bolts in the air."
Hesmucet had offered Doubting George the same sort of consolation when he'd given him Hard-Riding Jimmy's brigade. "Newfangled crossbows are all very well," George said now, "but one of the reasons you take newfangled weapons into the field is to find out what goes wrong with them. Tangling with Ned of the Forest's unicorn-riders is liable to be an expensive way to find out."
"That's if they don't work as advertised," Andy said.
Doubting George raised one dark eyebrow. "When have you ever known a newfangled weapon that did, Colonel?"
Andy frowned. After a moment, he shrugged. "Well, you've got me there, sir. But these have seen some use—and besides, there's bound to be a first time."
"Yes, so there is," George agreed. "But has the Lion God come down from Mount Panamgam and whispered in your ear that this is it?"
"Uh . . . no, sir." Colonel Andy looked as if he wasn't sure whether George was serious.
Since the commanding general wasn't sure whether he was serious, either, that suited him fine. He gave Andy his blandest smile. "Have you got any other delightful news for me, Colonel?"
"Uh . . . no, sir," his adjutant repeated.
"All right. You're dismissed," George said. "I'm going to review our works here. Unless John the Lister takes Lieutenant General Bell's army clean off the board, Bell's heading this way. Or do you think I'm wrong?"
"No, sir." Andy sounded sure about that. "And it's not very likely that John can smash Bell, is it, not when he's so badly outnumbered?"
"I thought I just said that. Maybe I'm wrong." Doubting George dug into his map case. Andy departed, shaking his head.
The maps showed what George already knew: Ramblerton was a town fortified to a faretheewell. The southrons had taken it away from King Geoffrey's men when the war was barely a year old, and they'd held it ever since, even when Thraxton the Braggart mounted an invasion of Cloviston. To hold it with the fewest possible men, they'd surrounded it with a ring of trenches and forts as strong as any in Detina save perhaps those of Georgetown itself.
Doubting George shook his big head. The works at Pierreville, north of Nonesuch—the works Marshal Bart was now besieging—were probably this strong, too. He hadn't thought of them for a moment because they belonged to the traitors. But that was wrong. Detina was still one kingdom. If not, why fight for Avram?
He hadn't dwelt on such things for a while. And he'd already given his own answer, to himself and to Detina. As far as he was concerned, his homeland was and could be only one kingdom. If that meant it would be one kingdom without serfs, then it did, and he would worry about what, if anything, that meant later on. He'd felt the same when he declined to follow Duke Edward of Arlington after Parthenia Province declared for Geoffrey and against Avram: that even though he'd been a liege lord himself, over a small fief in Parthenia.
False King Geoffrey had solved his problem there long before King Avram could have worried about it. George chuckled. Now, at a distance of more than three years, he could find it funny. He didn't need to worry about serfs if he didn't own that estate any more. And he didn't, not according to Geoffrey, who'd taken it away from him.
If the south won the War Between the Provinces—no, when the south won the War Between the Provinces—he could go back again. He could take his place among his neighbors as a minor nobleman. He could, yes, but how much good would it do him? He would be a minor nobleman without blonds to work the land. Under those circumstances, what point to going back at all?
That was one obvious question. Another question, equally obvious, was, what would his erstwhile neighbors, who were also minor nobles in Parthenia Province, do after the south won the war? How would they bring in their crops without plenty of blond serfs to do the hard work for them? Would they labor in the fields themselves, with their wives and children?
"I doubt it," George said, and went back to the maps.
But maps could show him only so much. They chiefly showed him the places he needed to see with his own eyes. He put on a wool hat and a gray overcoat and left his warm headquarters to give his own eyes the looks they needed.
Ramblertonians glowered at him as he made his way north up a muddy street (and, when it rained, Ramblerton had no other kind of street). King Avram's soldier's had held Franklin's metropolis—such as it was—for two and a half years now. The locals still resented them. Doubting George laughed. The locals did more than resent. They hated southrons, with a hatred that had curdled and grown more sullen over time because it was so impotent.
"Bell'll bundle you bastards back where you belong!" somebody shouted after George walked past.
He stopped and looked back. That was exactly what the Ramblertonian had wanted him to do, of course . . . whichever Ramblertonian it was. Six or eight Detinans in civilian clothes sent mocking stares his way. He judged they would all mock him if he said, I doubt it. What he said instead was, "Well, he's welcome to try." Then, tipping his hat to them, he went on his way.
They muttered behind him. He doubted they would have the nerve to rush him, and he proved right. They could jeer, but that was all they could do. And Geoffrey's so-called kingdom is no better off than they are, George thought, and smiled again.
The maps had got behind the fortifications they were supposed to represent. Doubting George had hoped that was so, but hadn't dared to expect it: if he assumed the worst, he was unlikely to be disappointed. Here, though, areas that had seemed weak on parchment looked rugged in reality.
Blonds did most of the ongoing work, under the orders of Detinan engineers. Runaway serfs dug trenches, carried dirt in barrows and hods, and raised ramparts where none had stood before. Some of them wore gray tunics and pantaloons of a cut not much different from that of southron uniforms. Others had on the rags of the clothes they'd worn while fleeing their liege lords' estates. All of them were probably working harder than they ever had back on those estates.
What struck Doubting George was how happy the blonds looked. Detinans, especially Detinans from the north, thought of blonds as a happy-go-lucky lot, always smiling regardless of whether things called for a smile. That, George now suspected, was a mask serfs wore to keep Detinans from knowing what was really in their minds. These blonds, by contrast, looked and sounded and acted really happy, no matter how hard they were working.
One of them recognized Doubting George. Waving, the fellow called, "General, we want you to use these works to kill loads and loads of those stinking northern nobles."
"We'll do our best," the general commanding answered. He wondered if the blond knew he was a stinking northern noble. He had his . . .
"Kill 'em all," the blond said. "Bury 'em all. Stick 'em in the ground. Don't give 'em to the fire. Don't let their spirits rise up with the flames and the smoke."
The rest of the runaways now laboring for King Avram nodded. Back in the old days, before the conquerors came, most blonds had buried their dead. Now they followed ordinary Detinan usage, and looked on burial with as much horror as ordinary Detinans did. Odds were these fellows hadn't the faintest idea what their ancestors had done.
Are they savages, or just savage? Doubting George wondered. And if people had done to me what we've done to the blonds for generations, wouldn't I have good reason to be savage?
He walked up and down the line, from one end to the other. It was anchored at both east and west by the Cumbersome River. A solid fleet of catapult-carrying war galleys rowed up and down the Cumbersome. All of them flew King Avram's gold dragon on red. The northerners had no galleys on the Cumbersome, and none on the Great River, either, not any more. Several river fights and the losses of Old Capet and, after a long siege, Camphorville had made sure of that.
In the center, the line bulged out toward the north, swallowing up the whole town of Ramblerton and taking advantage of the high ground out beyond the edge of settled territory. The more George walked, the fewer the doubts he had. He didn't see how Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin could batter their way through these works and into Ramblerton.
Of course, what he saw and what Bell saw were liable to be two different beasts. "I hope they're two different beasts," Doubting George muttered. The mere idea that he and Bell might think alike offended him. And if it also offended Bell . . . George did some more muttering: "That's his worry."
It was already past noon when Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin neared John the Lister's defensive position by Poor Richard. Bell looked across the wide, empty fields toward the three slightly concave lines of entrenchments awaiting him. King Avram's banners fluttered on the earthworks.
He glanced over toward his wing and brigade commanders. With a brusque nod, he said, "We attack."
"As simple as that, your honor?" Patrick the Cleaver asked.
"As simple as that," Bell said. "Unless you haven't the stomach for it, as you hadn't the stomach for it at Summer Mountain."
Like most men from the Sapphire Isle, Brigadier Patrick was swarthy even by Detinan standards. That didn't keep him from showing an angry flush now. "I'll show you what sort of man I am," he growled. "Sure and you've shown me now what sort of man you are."
That did nothing to improve Bell's temper. Neither did the pain he could never escape. "We can discuss this further at your leisure, Brigadier," he said.
Patrick bowed. "I am at your service in that as in all things."
"And I," Brigadier Provincial Prerogative said. "When you insult Brigadier Patrick, you insult all your officers."
"That's true," Otho the Troll said in a rumbling bass.
Brigadier John of Barsoom bowed to Bell. "As a proper northern gentleman, I would be remiss if I said this did not also hold for me."
"And me, for gods' sake," For Gods' Sake John added.
Hiram the Cranberry turned even redder than usual and nodded without speaking.
Bell wondered if he would have to duel with every officer in the Army of Franklin, down to the rank of lieutenant. He had a hells of a time cocking a crossbow, but he could shoot quick and straight with one hand. If they wanted to quarrel with him, he would give each of them a quarrel, right in the ribs.
Ned of the Forest said, "I thought we were supposed to be fighting the southrons, not each other."
"Theory is wonderful," Provincial Prerogative said, still glaring at Bell. He'd been one of the leaders in the attack on Sumptuous Castle in Karlsburg harbor, the attack that had started the War Between the Provinces. Bell glared back. He didn't care what Provincial Prerogative had done in what now seemed the dim, distant, dead past.
"We'd better fight the southrons," Ned said. "Anybody who doesn't care to fight them can fight me instead."
That produced a sudden, thoughtful silence. No one was eager to fight Ned. Lieutenant General Bell said, "I require no proxies."
"I'm not doing this for you, sir," Ned of the Forest answered. "I'm doing it for the kingdom. Seems to me a lot of folks here have forgotten about the kingdom."
Some of Bell's brigadiers still looked angry. But several of them nodded. "For gods' sake, he's right!" For Gods' Sake John burst out. No one disagreed, not out loud.
Ned said, "Sir, by your leave, I'd like to take my riders over to the left and back into the southrons' rear. When you lick 'em, we'll be there in perfect position to fall on 'em as they're running away."
Bell didn't need to think long. Anything but victory was unimaginable. This time, he'd follow up victory once he got it. He nodded to Ned. "Good idea. Go do it."
Ned of the Forest started to leave the assembled officers, then stopped and turned back. "Matter of fact, sir, I reckon we can flank 'em right out of their works. If you'll hold up a little, you won't even need to charge 'em. That there's liable to be a hard line to take by assault."
Several brigadiers brightened. One man after another nodded. The longer Bell watched them, the angrier he got. He shook his leonine head. "No. We will attack."
The commander of unicorn-riders scowled. "Why the hells do you want to pick a fight when you don't have to . . . sir?" he asked. "Give me a brigade of footsoldiers to go with my riders and I will agree to flank the southrons from their works within two hours' time. I can go down the Folly-free Gap, the one the Ramblerton road goes through, and sneak behind 'em before they even know I'm around."
"What a fine notion you're after having there!" Patrick the Cleaver exclaimed. "We're asking for naught but trouble, crossing such a broad stretch of open space towards earthworks the Thunderer's hard prong couldn't pierce."
Brigadier Benjamin, called the Heated Ham because he'd made a bad schoolboy actor, also nodded. The wing commander said, "Sir, I think Ned and Patrick are right. I don't like the looks of this fight here. The southrons have a good position, and they're well fortified."
"No," Bell said again. "My mind's made up. Ned, you may use your flanking move, but with unicorn-riders only. You, at least, have shown you are not afraid to manfully fight out in the open."
Ned of the Forest looked even angrier than he had before. The wing and brigade commanders started screaming at Lieutenant General Bell all over again, louder than ever. "How dare you call us cowards, for gods' sake?" For Gods' Sake John demanded.
"How dare you act like cowards?" Bell retorted, which might have been a new firepot bursting among his subordinates. Ned of the Forest stamped away, throwing up his hands in disgust.
John of Barsoom cried, "At least have the decency to tell us why you're sending us off to be slaughtered."
"I will tell you exactly why," Bell said in tones of ice. "I have made the discovery that this army, after a forward march of more than one hundred fifty miles, is still seemingly unwilling to accept battle unless under the protection of breastworks, and this has caused me to experience grave concern. In my inmost heart I question whether or not I will ever succeed in eradicating this evil. It seems to me I have exhausted every means in the power of one man to remove this stumbling block from the Army of Franklin."
"Meaning no disrespect, sir, but it seems to me you don't know what the hells you're talking about," Benjamin the Heated Ham said.
Bell wondered how he would have spoken had he meant disrespect. The commanding general gave one of his one-shouldered shrugs. "I do not care how it seems to you," he said, his voice even colder than it had been a moment before. "It seems to me that some of my subordinates have a great deal to learn about obeying orders."
"It seems to me somebody has a deal to learn about giving orders," Otho the Troll muttered.
"What's that? What's that?" Bell said. "By the Lion God's claws, King Geoffrey trusts me to give orders for the Army of Franklin. That's the truth, and anybody who doesn't like it can go to the devils!"
"King Geoffrey trusted Thraxton the Braggart to give orders for this army, too," Otho the Troll snapped. "Fat lot of good that did us."
"If I report that to his Majesty, you'll be sorry for it," Bell said.
"I'm already sorry for all sorts of things. What's one more?" Brigadier Otho waved toward the southrons' lines. "Besides, if we go up against that, how many of us are coming back, anyhow?"
"We're not planning on coming back. We're planning on going through the gods-damned southrons and on to Ramblerton," Bell said.
None of the assembled brigade and wing commanders said a word. The silence seemed to take on a life of its own. Bell's stump hurt. His right leg hurt, too, though he had no right leg. His ruined left arm was also full of anguish. He longed for laudanum. Taking it here and now, though, taking it in front of his brigadiers, would be an obscure admission of weakness and defeat.
Instead of using the drug he craved, he tried to hearten himself and his officers with hope: "By the gods, we can do this. We outnumber them. We'll roll over them like an avalanche."
More silence, colder than the late autumn afternoon. Lieutenant General Bell's wounds throbbed and burned worse than ever. Of itself, his good hand again started toward the little bottle he always carried with him. He made it hold still: far from the easiest thing he'd ever done.
"Well," he said at last. Again, silence all around him. He stood as straight as he could. "Well," he said again. It seemed a complete sentence. In case it wasn't, he spoke once more: "I have given you your orders, gentlemen. I expect you to show me what manner of men you are in the way you obey them."
Mechanical as if they were so many machines stamped out by the manufactories of the south, the wing and brigade commanders saluted. Still, though, not one of them spoke to Bell.
He didn't care. He was past caring. He was as sure of what wanted doing as if the Lion God had growled the plan into his ear. "We will go forward," he said. "Brigadier Patrick!"
Directly addressed, Patrick had no choice but to answer. Saluting once more, he said, "Yes, sir?"
"Do you see the path there, the one going through the field toward the center of the enemy line?"
"Yes, sir. I see it, sir." Patrick the Cleaver was offensively polite.
Bell matched him in fussy precision: "Good. Form your men to the right of the path, letting your left overlap the same. Give orders to your soldiers not to shoot a crossbow bolt until you run the southron skirmish line out of the first line of works, then press them and shoot them in the back as they run to their main line. Then charge the enemy's works. Poor Richard is the key to Ramblerton, and Ramblerton is the key to independence."
Patrick the Cleaver smiled grimly. "Sure and you have given me the hottest part of the fire to quell, your honor. Well, that is as it is, and no help for it. I will take the southrons' works for you, sir, or I will die trying." His salute was, of its kind, a thing of beauty. He turned and walked over to his unicorn, which was tethered to a nearby oak: no doubt a splendid tree in summer, but bare-branched and skeletal now. Mounting with a grace that roused nothing but envy in Lieutenant General Bell, Patrick rode off to the soldiers he commanded.
Did I put his men in the most dangerous position on purpose, because he has caused me so much trouble? Bell wondered. After a few seconds, he shrugged another of his painful, one-shouldered shrugs. What if I did? Someone has to be there, and Patrick the Cleaver has never been a man to shrink from striking a mighty blow. We need a mighty blow right now. He nodded to himself. If he'd ever had any serious doubts, that stifled them.
One by one, the other wing and brigade commanders straggled off toward their soldiers, some riding, others walking. Those who stayed on foot all went with bowed heads and stooped shoulders, as if trying to bear the weight of the world on their backs. They did not look like officers heading into a battle for which they were eager. Bell had seen many such officers in the early days of the war. Up till the battle by the River of Death and his second maiming, he'd been such an officer. He didn't think many of that sort were left in King Geoffrey's army.
A victory will make more, he told himself. We have to have a victory. Because we have to have one, we'll get one. It's as simple as that.
Last of the subordinate commanders to stay by Bell was Benjamin the Heated Ham. He looked as gloomy as any of the other brigadiers. "Are you sure you want to do this, sir?" he asked. "Are you sure we've got men and engines enough to do the job?"
The soldiers were starting to shake themselves out into a battle line. "I am sending everything I have," Bell answered. "What more can I do? What more can Geoffrey's kingdom do? If everyone gives all he has, our victory will be assured."
Benjamin still looked as mournful as a man planning his own cremation. He said, "Yes, sir," in a way that couldn't possibly mean anything but, No, sir. Then, shaking his head, he too went off to command his wing.
Bell stroked his beard, deep in thought. Where to get more men? All his soldiers were here, all except those riding off for that trip around the southrons' flank with Ned of the Forest. "By the Thunderer!" Bell exclaimed, and shouted for a messenger.
"Yes, sir?" the young man said.
"Ride after Lieutenant General Ned," Bell told him. "Kill your unicorn if you have to, but catch up with him. Tell him I am recalling two of his regiments. They are to report back here to me at once, for direct use against Poor Richard. Have you got that?"
"Yes, sir," the messenger said again, and repeated it to him.
"Good—you do have it straight. Now go, and ride like the wind," Bell said. Nodding, the messenger dashed to his unicorn, sprang aboard, roweled it with his spurs, and went off like a crossbow quarrel. Bell nodded. That would take care of that. Ned might grumble, but Bell was prepared to ignore grumbling. He commanded here, and the fight came first.
More long files of northern soldiers moved out over the field, forming themselves into a battle line. Their brave standards, red dragon proud on gold, fluttered in the chilly breeze. For all the carping and whining and grumbling Bell had heard from his brigadiers, the men complained not at all. They knew they had a job to do, and they were ready to give it everything they had in them.
With a nod, Bell turned to the trumpeter beside him. "Blow advance," he said.
Ned of the Forest listened to Lieutenant General Bell's messenger with a mix of fury and disbelief. "You can't mean that," Ned said when the youngster finished. "You can't possibly mean that. Gods damn it, Bell can't mean that."
"I do, sir. He does, sir," the messenger replied. "He requires the men at once, to help in the attack on Poor Richard."
"That's half my force!" Ned exclaimed. The messenger merely rode his unicorn alongside the commander of unicorn-riders without a word. Ned tried again. Maybe the young soldier would see reason: "It'll help his attack a hells of a lot more if I can strike at the southrons' flank with all the power I've got."
"I'm sorry, sir," the fellow said uncomfortably. "I don't give the orders. I only send them on from the general commanding."
"This is a fool's order." Ned of the Forest thought hard about disobeying it, about pretending he'd never got it, even about making something unfortunate happen to this messenger so he could be convincing when he pretended that. Reluctantly, he decided he couldn't justify something unfortunate. He didn't know how things were back by Poor Richard. Maybe Bell did desperately need two regiments of unicorn-riders to turn John the Lister's right flank or for some other reason. Maybe. Ned of the Forest still had a hard time believing it. But, hard time or not, he turned to the trumpeter trotting along close by and said, "Blow halt." The words tasted putrid in his mouth, like salt beef that had gone off.
A quarter of an hour later, two regiments of unicorn-riders trotted back with the messenger. The rest of Ned's force pressed on. Colonel Biffle, whose troopers Ned had kept with him, muttered into his beard. He didn't need long to stop muttering and come right out and say, "This is a bad business, sir—a very bad business."
"Don't I know it?" Ned said bitterly. Then he laughed, and that was more bitter still. "Bell only half wanted to let me go in the first place, and so he's ending up letting me go with only half my men. I reckon that leaves me just about half a chance of doing anything worthwhile. How do you cipher it, Biff?"
"About the same, sir. Don't suppose anybody could cipher it any different. What the hells do we do now?"
"The best we can," Ned of the Forest answered. "Don't know what else there is to do." He raised his voice to call to a couple of men riding farther away from him than Colonel Biffle: "Captain Watson! Major Marmaduke!"
By strict protocol, he should have named Marmaduke first. But he couldn't bring himself to put a mere wizard ahead of the man who led soldiers and engines. Both the sorcerer and the commander of catapults answered, "Yes, sir?" and guided their mounts—one unicorn, one ass—closer to his.
"Are you ready to do everything—and I mean everything—to make up for the loss of the soldiers Bell just stole from us?" Ned asked them.
"Yes, sir!" they chorused again. Ned knew he could rely on Watson. No matter how young he was, he'd fought like a veteran from the day he'd taken service with the unicorn-riders. Major Marmaduke, on the other hand . . . Ned of the Forest sighed and shrugged. Counting on a wizard was always a roll of the dice. That was one problem the southrons had, too. It might have been the only problem they had worse than King Geoffrey's men, as a matter of fact.
A scout rode back, calling, "Folly-free Gap just ahead, sir. There's southrons at the far end of it, too."
Ned swore. He'd hoped he could get through the gap and into the southrons' rear before meeting up with their unicorn-riders. Then he would have had the edge, or more of it, even if Bell had robbed him of half his force. He shrugged again. What you hoped for in war and what you got were all too likely to be different animals.
He turned to Watson and Marmaduke. "You heard that?" he asked. They both nodded. He went on, "All right, then. We're going to have to shift the gods-damned sons of bitches. Do everything you know how to do."
"Yes, sir," they said once more. Watson added, "I'll bring the engines up as close to the enemy as I can."
"I know you will," Ned said. Major Marmaduke made no such promises. Odds were, he didn't know how he would be useful till the moment came. Ned hoped he would figure it out then.
Colonel Biffle had heard the scout's report, too. As the leading unicorn-riders entered Folly-free Gap, the regimental commander asked, "You aim to move as near as we can mounted and then attack on foot, sir?"
"Best way to do it, far as I can see," Ned answered. "I wish we had more cover coming down on 'em, gods damn it." In summertime, the low, gentle slopes of the gap would have offered plenty of concealment, and he might have sneaked around the southrons before they knew he was there. No chance of that now, not with all the branches bare. If he wanted to unplug the gap, he'd have to knock the enemy riders out of it.
Colonel Biffle pointed ahead. "Nice little stand of woods there where we can tether our unicorns. We'll only need to leave a handful of men behind to watch 'em."
"I don't want to leave any, not after Bell went and robbed me." Ned of the Forest drummed the fingers of his left hand against his thigh. "You're right, though, Biff. We've got to leave a handful, I reckon. By the Thunderer's beard, we won't leave many."
Tiny in the distance, southrons on unicorns rode back toward their main body of men. Ned could easily see the unicorns because they were so very white. He laughed. One of these days, if he ever got the chance, he would have to slap brown paint on his men's beasts so they wouldn't stand out so much from the terrain over which they rode. That might let him give King Avram's unicorn-riders a nasty surprise.
No surprises here. This would be straight-up, toe-to-toe slugging. Ned hated this kind of fight, but the ground dictated it. So did Bell's insistence on slamming straight ahead at Poor Richard. Ned muttered into his chin whiskers. If only Bell had had some sense to go with his undoubted courage . . .
The unicorn-riders reached the copse Colonel Biffle had seen. They scrambled off their mounts, tethered them, and trotted toward the southrons. They didn't move in neat lines, as footsoldiers did. All they wanted to do was close with the enemy or find some way to outflank him. Once they managed that, they were convinced the rest would be easy. It usually had been up till now.
A few of Ned's men stayed behind to guard the tethered unicorns. A few of the unicorns went forward: those ridden by officers, Ned among them, and those pulling Captain Watson's catapults and repeating crossbows. Major Marmaduke went forward still mounted, too. Again, though, Ned had trouble taking a man who rode an ass seriously. A fellow who rode an ass was all too likely to be one, too. . . .
As usual, Ned sent his unicorn trotting out ahead of his men. He wanted to make the southrons start shooting at him, so he could discover where they were. He also wanted them to see him, to know who he was. He won as much by intimidating the enemy as by outfighting them.
A firepot arced through the air and burst about twenty feet in front of him. The unicorn sidestepped nervously. He fought it back under control. Waving his sword, he pointed to the stand of trees from which the firepot had flown. "Captain Watson, there's some of what the bastards have waiting for us!" he shouted.
"Right, sir," the young officer said gaily. He waved the siege engines he led forward. Because he came forward with them—ahead of them, in fact—the men who served the catapults and repeating crossbows didn't hesitate in advancing. They set up in the open and got to work shooting at the southrons' engines.
Dismounted soldiers in gray came up in the same irregular way as Ned's own troopers. Ned recognized it at once, recognized it and didn't like it. The southrons weren't supposed to fight as dragoons, and weren't supposed to look as if they knew what they were doing when they did. Ned also recognized what Hard-Riding Jimmy's men were up to. If they could get close enough to Watson's engines to reach them with their crossbows, they could pick off the soldiers serving the engines. Yes, they knew what they were doing as dragoons, all right.
"Well, gods damn them, let's see how they like this," he growled, and spurred his unicorn toward them. If he killed a couple, the rest might run away. He'd seen that happen before.
He didn't see it this time. He didn't see the crossbow quarrels buzzing past his head, either. They were going too fast for that. He didn't see them, but he heard them. They sounded like a swarm of angry wasps. For a moment, he thought a big repeating crossbow had decided to open up on him alone, an honor he could have done without.
Then he realized it wasn't one big repeating crossbow, but a lot of quick-shooting weapons in the hands of southron troopers. They seemed to be crank- and lever-operated and to shoot ten-bolt clips, and they put more quarrels in the air than anything he'd ever imagined. One tugged at the brim of his hat. A couple of inches to one side and it would have hit him in the face.
Another bolt glanced off his blade, sending a shiver up his left arm. And another caught his unicorn in the neck. The beast's scream of pain turned to a gurgle. It staggered, stumbled, toppled.
Were this Ned's first unicorn lost in battle, he might have been badly hurt. But, having had so many mounts killed under him, he knew what to do. He kicked free of the stirrups even before the unicorn went down. When it did, he rolled away instead of getting crushed beneath its body. And then he was on his feet and running forward, shouting, "Come on, boys! Let's get 'em!"
On came his riders, all of them roaring like the Lion God: the fierce northern war cry that struck fear into southron souls. They shot as they advanced, too. Ned of the Forest didn't believe in closing with the sword as the be-all and end-all of battles. If crossbow quarrels would kill the foe, that was fine with him. That the southrons ended up dead mattered. How they ended up that way didn't.
Hard-Riding Jimmy's men were still shooting, too, shooting as if they'd brought all the bolts in the world with them. More quarrels hissed past Ned's head. One snipped a slice from his sleeve. It might have been a friend, pulling on his arm to urge him to go that way. It might have been, but it wasn't.
And he was one of the lucky ones. All around him, dismounted unicorn-riders in blue fell. The cries of the wounded echoed through Folly-free Gap. He wondered how the place had got that name. However that had happened, it was badly miscalled. Trying to force his way through was turning out to be nothing but folly.
"How many of those southron sons of bitches are there?" a trooper howled after two quarrels buried themselves in the dirt at his feet and a third snarled by his body.
"And how long can they keep shooting those gods-damned crossbows of theirs?" another soldier complained.
"Don't you know about that?" asked a third, who at least wasn't disheartened. "They load 'em on the day they sacrifice to the Lion God and keep shooting 'em all week long."
Ned of the Forest laughed. He would have laughed harder if the soldier hadn't told too much of the truth in sour jest. The enemy's quick-shooting crossbows made him seem to have at least three times as many soldiers as he really did. Since he probably outnumbered Ned's men anyway, that just made matters worse.
To the hells with Lieutenant General Bell, too, Ned thought angrily. He might have had some chance in spite of those fancy crossbows if he'd had his whole force along. With only half of it? He shook his head. Barring a miracle, it wasn't going to happen, and the gods had been chary about handing the north miracles lately.
Then Ned shook his head again. There was a miracle, or what would do for one: Colonel Biffle remained on his unicorn and unwounded, though he was even closer to the enemy than Ned. He kept urging his men on. They would surge forward, whereupon a blizzard of bolts would knock them back till they could nerve themselves for another surge.
Ned looked for Major Marmaduke. Maybe magic would help. But Marmaduke was down with a quarrel in his shoulder; a soldier stooped beside him to bind up the wound. There would be no fancy wizardry today, even if Marmaduke had had such a thing in him, which was anything but obvious.
Spying Ned, Biffle called, "We can't do it, sir, not the way they're shooting."
Before Ned could answer, a bolt plucked the hat off his head. Calm as if no one were taking aim at him, he turned, stooped, picked it up, and set it back in place. "If we get in amongst 'em—"
"How?" Colonel Biffle asked bluntly.
Ned started to reply, but realized he had nothing to say. His men were not going to get in amongst the southrons, not with the enemy spraying so many quarrels all over the landscape. He'd been in a lot of hard fights in more than three years of war, but this was the first time he'd had to own himself whipped. Pain and wonder in his voice, he said, "What can we do, then, Biff?"
"I only see two things," Biffle said. "We can hang on here and keep getting shot to no purpose, or we can pull back, maybe see if we can outflank these sons of bitches, maybe just wait and see how Bell does back at Poor Richard and hope that makes them leave the gap on their own."
"Pull back." The words tasted foul in Ned's mouth. But they weren't going forward here, and they weren't going to outflank Hard-Riding Jimmy, either.
Folly-free Gap was the only way through the hills. Oh, Ned's unicorn-riders could filter past a few men at a time, but far too slowly to do them any good. "It's up to Bell, then," Ned said, hoping that wasn't so bad an omen as it seemed.
As Captain Gremio mustered the men of his company along with the rest of Colonel Florizel's regiment, along with the rest of the wing, Brigadier Patrick the Cleaver came riding up on his unicorn to look over the ground his men would have to cross before closing with the southrons entrenched outside of Poor Richard.
Seeing Patrick's face, Sergeant Thisbe whistled softly. "He doesn't look very happy, does he?" the underofficer said in a low voice.
"He sure doesn't," Gremio answered, also quietly. Patrick stared toward the waiting field fortifications sheltering John the Lister's men, then shook his head. His sigh was loud enough to make people thirty or forty paces from him turn and look his way.
Colonel Florizel rode his unicorn out toward Patrick. The young brigadier from the Sapphire Isle reined in. He managed a weary nod for Florizel. The two high-ranking officers spoke together not twenty feet in front of Gremio and Thisbe.
"We must be after doing it, Colonel." Patrick pointed toward the southrons' works. "Come what may, we have to take them. There's to be no shooting till the skirmishers amongst those southron spalpeens flee back to their line. So says the great and mighty Lieutenant General Bell, and he is to be obeyed."
"I shall so order my company officers, sir," Florizel said stiffly.
"You do that. They all must know. I'll not give Bell the least excuse to tell me I would not follow his orders in every particular." Yes, Patrick sounded weary and gloomy beyond his years.
Florizel also eyed the long, long stretch of ground the northern army would have to cross before closing with John the Lister's soldiers. He saluted Patrick the Cleaver, then remarked, "Well, sir, there will not be many of us that will get back to Palmetto Province."
Patrick nodded. He reached out and let his left hand rest for a moment on the regimental commander's shoulder. "Well, Florizel, if we are to die, let us die like men." His voice held sadness, but no fear. He flicked the unicorn's reins. The white beast slowly walked on down the line.
Florizel shook himself, as if awakening from a dream, a bad dream. He turned to Gremio, asking, "Did you hear that?"
"Yes, sir," Gremio replied. "It didn't sound good." He too stared across the expanse of ground he would have to cover before breaking into the southrons' lines. How bare it seemed! "If you'll forgive my saying so, it doesn't look good, either."
"No, it doesn't," Florizel agreed glumly. "Come what may, though, we can only do our duty. The gods, I trust, will favor our cause. The gods must favor our cause."
"They had better," Gremio said. "If they don't, we've got no chance at all."
He waited for the regimental commander to round on him for talking like a defeatist. But Baron Florizel only nodded. His gaze kept going back toward the southrons' entrenchments, there so far away. "We would stand a better chance if we were asked to storm almost any other position, I fear," he said.
Gremio also nodded. Florizel had always been a man who looked for the best, hoped for the best, expected the best. If he now thought the Army of Franklin would have a hard time managing what Lieutenant General Bell required of it . . . Gremio was used to drawing inferences from evidence. He didn't care for the inferences he couldn't help drawing here.
Otho the Troll commanded the brigade of which Florizel's regiment was a part. He came by now on foot. His broad, muscular shoulders slumped, as if he carried a sack full of rocks on his back. "No help for it," he muttered, again and again. "No help for it at all."
Sergeant Thisbe walked up to Gremio and spoke in a low voice: "I wish they'd send us, sir. All this waiting around and thinking about what we've got to try and do wears on the nerves."
"It does, doesn't it?" Gremio agreed. "Me, I'm scared green."
"You, sir?" Thisbe sounded astonished. "You never show it."
"That only proves I'm a better actor than I thought," Gremio said. "All barristers have to act some. It's part of the job. But I haven't been this frightened since Thraxton the Braggart's spell went awry at Proselytizers' Ridge last year. That wasn't my fault. It was the spell. I see what we've got to do now, and I'm terrified. No magic today. Just me."
"I'm scared, too," Thisbe said. "I wouldn't admit it to anybody but you, but I am. They can massacre us, and we don't even get to shoot back at 'em till we're just about up to their trenches. If we get that far."
Before Gremio could answer, bugles sounded up and down the line. Without being told to, standard-bearers stepped out in front of their companies and regiments and flourished the flags. Officers—Gremio among them—drew their swords. The bugles cried out again, this time with an order officers and underofficers echoed: "Advance!"
Advance they did, at a steady, rapid pace. Once his feet sent him toward the enemy, Gremio found a lot of his fear falling away, as if he'd left it behind where he'd waited while Patrick's wing shook itself out into line of battle. Logically, that was madness. Every step took him closer to danger. But now he was doing something, not waiting and brooding. It helped.
His men came with him. Not a one hung back. In a way, that made him proud of them. In another way, he thought them all idiots. He thought himself an idiot, too. At some point, the men of the Army of Franklin would get close enough for the southrons to open up on them with everything they had. Every step he took brought that point closer. Who else but an idiot would deliberately march into deadly danger?
"Come on, men!" Thisbe called. "Let those bastards hear you! Let 'em know whose side the Lion God's on!"
They roared. Southron prisoners had told Gremio that that roar was worth regiments of men on the battlefield. The soldiers who fought for King Avram had no war cry to match it. Other companies and other regiments took up the great growl of the Lion God. Soon, all of Patrick the Cleaver's men snarled out defiance at their foes.
Gremio hoped it made the southrons afraid. He looked back over his shoulder. His comrades and he had come more than halfway from their starting point toward the enemy's line. More than a mile. Before too much longer, the southrons' engines would bear on them. They would have to take whatever the men in gray dished out till they got close enough for revenge.
Thisbe said it—if we get that close, he thought, and wished he hadn't.
On came the northerners, roaring fiercely. On they came . . . and a firepot arced through the air toward them, smoke trailing from the oil-soaked rag that would ignite it when it hit and burst. It landed fifty yards in front of the advancing men in blue. The splash of fire was impressive, but harmed no one.
"See? They are afraid of us, if they start shooting that soon!" Thisbe said scornfully. Gremio hoped the sergeant was right, though he doubted it—both sides usually started trying their weapons beyond their true reach. Even if Thisbe was right, though, how much difference would it make in the end? Avram's men would have plenty of chances to do more and worse.
Another catapult let fly, this one hurling a thirty-pound stone ball. Instead of sticking where it landed, it bounded toward the men from the Army of Franklin. They scrambled to get out of its way. Once, a long time before, an incautious soldier had tried to stop a bounding catapult ball with his foot. It had looked easy, and safe enough—and had cost him a broken leg for his foolishness. People knew better now.
More firepots flew. So did more stones. Some of them smashed down among the northerners. Men crushed or burning shrieked and fell. The rest closed their ranks and kept on. Up on his unicorn, Florizel brandished his sword. "Forward!" he cried.
And then the enemy's repeating crossbows began their ratcheting clatter. Soldier after blue-clad soldier went down, some kicking, some screaming, some silent and still. Gremio watched a skirmisher out ahead of the main line take two or three staggering steps while clutching at his chest, then crumple bonelessly to the ground.
But the pits that held John the Lister's skirmishers were very close now. Men in gray scrambled up out of those pits and ran back toward their main line. "There's the sign, Colonel," Gremio called. "May we shoot now?"
"Yes!" Florizel answered. "Shoot! Send all those sons of bitches to the hells and gone!"
Behind Gremio, crossbows clicked and snapped. His men, those who still stood, took vengeance on the southrons for everything they'd endured. "Kill the bastards!" they shouted, and the pickets in gray died like flies, most of them perishing long before they reached their own entrenchments.
But they're only pickets, Gremio thought uneasily. A moment later, he once more wished he hadn't had a thought, for all the southrons in the first row of proper earthworks leaped up onto the shooting steps, leveled their crossbows on the parapet, and delivered a volley the likes of which Gremio had never seen for sheer destructive power. Horrible screams rose all along the line of Patrick the Cleaver's wing. Soldiers in blue toppled as if scythed.
Colonel Florizel's unicorn might have charged headlong into a stone wall. Pierced by half a dozen quarrels, it crashed to the ground. Gremio feared for Florizel, but the regimental commander twisted free from his mount's ruin and limped forward on his bad foot. "Bravely done, Colonel!" Gremio shouted. Florizel brandished his sword and went on.
So did Gremio. He had no idea why the gods had chosen to spare him. He knew that, had he had any sense, he would have run away. But his fear of looking bad in front of Thisbe and the ordinary soldiers of his company was worse than his fear of getting shot. By any logical standard, that was madness. Logic, though, died when battle beckoned. Fear of letting comrades down was the glue that held the Army of Franklin together—and probably all the armies on both sides.
Gremio almost stumbled over a body. The corpse wore blue, not gray: and not only blue, but also gold lace and stars and the other accouterments of rank. There lay Otho the Troll, shot once in the face, twice in the chest, and, for good measure, once in the leg. Gremio's stomach did a slow lurch. Battles when brigadiers fell like common soldiers did not bode well for the side that lost them.
Colonel Florizel needed to know, if he didn't already. "Colonel!" Gremio yelled. Florizel waved his sword again to show he'd heard. Gremio went on, "Brigadier Otho's down." That didn't say enough. "He's dead," Gremio added. He couldn't get much balder than that.
"Thank you, Captain," Florizel answered. He wasn't long on brains, but nobody could say he wasn't brave.
The only question was, would bravery be enough? Another volley tore into the northerners' ranks. More men crumpled. Behind Gremio, Sergeant Thisbe yelled, "Keep going! For gods' sake, keep going! When we get in amongst 'em, we can pay 'em back for everything they've done to us!"
Hearing Thisbe's voice, Gremio let out a sigh of relief. He'd been through too much with the sergeant to want to think about . . . He didn't have to think about it. There was the southrons' parapet, just ahead. He sprang onto it. A soldier in gray in the trench thrust up at him with a pike. He beat aside the spearhead with his sword. Shouting, "Provincial prerogative forever!" he leaped down into the trench.
He wasn't alone there for even a heartbeat. "Follow the captain!" Thisbe shouted. Yelling King Geoffrey's name, the northern soldiers did. Southrons rushed up to reinforce their men in the trench line. The soldiers thrust with pikes and slashed with swords and shot the bolts they had in their crossbows and then used the weapons to smash in their foes' heads. No one on either side gave an inch of ground. Both sides fed more men into the fight.
This wasn't war any more. This was madness. Soldiers were killed where they stood and had no room to fall down. Men clambered up on corpses to get at their foes. No one down in the trenches could hope to load a crossbow. Soldiers behind the line passed forward weapons already loaded and cocked. Whoever got them shot at the first man in the wrong-colored uniform he saw. The soldiers who got the loaded crossbows tried to shoot, anyhow. Sometimes they got shot or speared before they could. Then someone else would clamber up onto their bodies and shoot or thrust at the foe till he was wounded or killed. It went on and on and on.
Why am I still alive? Gremio wondered after perhaps half an hour went by. He had no idea, save that he was luckier than he deserved. Blood turned his blue tunic and pantaloons black, but it wasn't his blood. Most of it wasn't, anyhow. He had a couple of cuts and a crossbow graze that was actually a little more than a graze, but nothing he had to worry about except getting crushed to death in the press, which was anything but an idle fear.
Where was Thisbe? Gremio turned his head—at the moment, the only part of him that would move—but didn't see the sergeant. He managed to twist his right arm free, and slashed at a southron who couldn't hit back. It wasn't sporting. He didn't care. He just wanted to live, and killing southrons was the best way he knew how to do that.
After another time that might have been forever or fifteen minutes, the southrons ran out of men to throw into that part of the fight. Scrambling out of the trench over the bodies of the slain, Gremio dashed toward a farmhouse, the next southron strongpoint. And there, by the gods, came Thisbe, trotting along not ten feet away. Gremio ran harder. Maybe, in spite of everything, this was victory.