Sentry Peak (22 page)

Lieutenant General George shook his head. “No, sir. That’s only part of the question.”

Guildenstern glared at him.
Gods damn you, too, Doubting George
, he thought. George had warned him Thraxton wasn’t retreating so fast as he’d thought himself. And George had had the nerve to be right, too. General Guildenstern did his best not to remember that as he growled, “What’s the other part?”

“Why, what we can try to do to him, of course,” George answered.

George’s Parthenian accent made it seem as if Thraxton the Braggart had an officer of his own at this council of war. But no one, not even Guildenstern, could challenge his loyalty to King Avram. And he wasn’t wrong here, either. “Fair enough,” Guildenstern said. “What
can
we do to that Thraxton bastard?”

“I would strengthen the right,” George answered around an enormous yawn. That yawn made Guildenstern yawn in turn, and went in progression from one officer to the next till they’d all shown how weary they were. Guildenstern had a cot to call his own. Doubting George—who yawned again—was perched on a three-legged milking stool. The rest of the generals either stood up or sat cross-legged on the rammed-earth floor.

“Of course you would strengthen the right, sir,” Brigadier Alexander said. “You
are
the right.”

“And if the traitors get through me or around me, everything goes straight to the seven hells,” Doubting George replied. “Ned of the Forest took a whack at it this afternoon, and the bastard almost ended up sitting on our route back to Rising Rock. If he hadn’t bumped into some of our boys coming forward, that would have been a lot worse than it was.”

“If you think the fighting wasn’t heavy in the center, too, you can think again, sir,” Brigadier Thom said.

Doubting George yawned once more. “I would strengthen the right,” he repeated. His eyes slid shut. Guildenstern wondered why he didn’t fall off his stool.

A couple of brigadiers started to snore, one lying on the ground, the other leaning up against the log wall of the widow’s hut. General Guildenstern took another pull at the brandy. It might not have made him think better, but it made him feel better. Right now, that would do.

It also made him sleepy. He yawned and stretched out on the cot. Some of his subordinates had higher social rank than he did, but he held the highest military rank. In wartime, that was what counted, not who was a count. The commander got the cot.

Before General Guildenstern could fall asleep, Doubting George stirred from his restless doze. “I would strengthen the right,” he said for the third time. He wasn’t looking for an answer. Guildenstern doubted he was even fully awake. But he said what was on his mind, awake or not.

He’s probably not even wrong
, Guildenstern thought—no small mark of approval when contemplating the views of his second-in-command.
If he needs help, or if I see the chance, I
will
strengthen the right
.

He yawned again, rolled over, and fell asleep. The next thing he knew, morning was leaking through the narrow windows in the log hut. He muttered a prayer of greeting to the sun god, then noticed he had a headache. His hand reached out and unerringly found the brandy flask. He took a swig. “Ahh!” he said—not quite a prayer of greeting, but close enough.

With a little restorative in him, he noticed the delicious smell filling the little farmhouse. A blond steward was frying ham and eggs in a well-buttered pan over the fire in the fireplace. A couple of brigadiers already had their tin plates out, waiting for the bounty that was to come. Guildenstern wasted no time in grabbing his own. As he’d got the cot, so he would get the first helping.

“Where’s Doubting George?” he asked, noticing Brigadier Thom perched on the milking stool. “He’ll miss breakfast.”

“He went back to his wing, sir,” Thom answered. “A runner came in right at first light and said the fighting over there had started up again.”

“Curse the traitors,” Guildenstern said as the steward ladled ham and eggs onto his plate. “They’re an iron-arsed bunch of bastards indeed, if they won’t even let a man get a little food inside him before he goes back into battle.” He started shoveling food into his own face. “By the gods, that’s good. Poor old George doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Another runner came in just as Guildenstern was finishing. “Sir, there’s fighting all along the line,” he said. “And Thraxton the Braggart’s got men from the Army of Southern Parthenia fighting alongside his own, sir. We’ve captured some.”

That produced exclamations from every officer still inside the log hut. Guildenstern’s was loudest and most profane. “No wonder the gods-damned son of a bitch had the bastards to hit us with,” he said once the stream of curses had died to a trickle. “Well, we’ll whip ’em any which way.”

He got up, jammed his hat down low on his head so the wide brim helped shield his eyes from the light—which seemed uncommonly bright and fierce this morning—and went outside. Sure enough, the din of combat had begun again, not far to the north of the widow’s house. His own men were yelling King Avram’s name and cheering, while the traitors roared like lions.

Colonel Phineas hurried up to him. “Sir, the northerners are seeking to work some large and desperate sorcery,” the mage said.

“Are they?” Guildenstern said, and the wizard nodded. With a shrug, Guildenstern went on, “Well, it’s your job to see they don’t do it. Why else are you here, by the gods, if not for that?”

Phineas saluted. “We shall do everything in our power, sir.”

Guildenstern shook his head. That reminded him he had a headache. He couldn’t figure out why.
Maybe a slug of brandy will help
, he thought, and tried one. He wasn’t so sure about the headache, but the brandy made
him
feel better. He shook his head again. It still hurt, but not so much. “Ahh. No, Colonel. I don’t want you to do everything in your power.” He put a mocking whine in the last four words. “I want you to bloody well stop them. Have you got that?”

“Yes, sir.” The unhappy-looking mage saluted again. “We’ll do our best, sir. But the northerners seem to be pressing this with all their strength.”

“All the more reason for you to stop them, wouldn’t you say?” Guildenstern demanded. “What are they up to, anyway? Are they
probing
us again?” He spoke the word with heavy-handed irony.

Phineas’ jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. I think this is something else. It is something unusual, whatever it is. And it has the stamp of Count Thraxton all over it.”

“All the more reason to stop it, then, wouldn’t you say?” Guildenstern asked.

“All the more reason to, yes, sir,” Colonel Phineas agreed. “But stopping Thraxton the Braggart is not so easy as stopping an ordinary man.”

“Oh, foof!” Guildenstern said. “Half the time, Thraxton’s spells come down on the heads of his own men, not on ours.”

“Yes, sir, that is true.” Phineas still looked thoroughly grim. “But Thraxton’s failures have come through his own errors, not because we thwarted him. He is not very careful, he is not very lucky—but he is very strong.”

“I don’t care what he is,” Guildenstern rasped. He poked Colonel Phineas’ protruding belly with his forefinger. The finger sank unpleasantly far into flesh; Guildenstern jerked it away. “What I care about, sirrah, is that we have more mages than the traitors do. If you aren’t so strong as the Braggart, then you had better work together. A dozen little men can drag down one big one.”

“We
are
doing our best,” Phineas repeated.

“Go on, little man,” General Guildenstern said contemptuously. “Go on. Go away. I have a battle to fight.”

Clucking like a mother hen with a missing chick, the mage hurried away. Guildenstern resisted the urge to apply his boot to Phineas’ backside. It probably would have sunk in even farther than his finger had.

And he was right when he told the wizard he had a battle to fight. Colonel Phineas hadn’t been the only man waiting for him, just the first of an endless stream. Runners dashed up to report northern attacks on the right against Doubting George on Merkle’s Hill, against Brigadier Thom’s soldiers on the far left, and against the center, where Guildenstern and Brigadier Alexander still held sway.

Guildenstern didn’t need to be told about enemy assaults on the center. He was there, and could see them for himself. The traitors flung great stones and firepots at the loyal soldiers in front. His own engines responded in kind, and he had more of them than Thraxton the Braggart did. Thraxton might have got soldiers from the Army of Southern Parthenia, but he hadn’t got any engines to go with them. Had he got some engines, life would have been even more difficult for Guildenstern’s soldiers.

Every so often, Phineas would send a messenger. All the mage’s messengers said the same thing: “We’re still grappling with Count Thraxton.”

After a while, Guildenstern got sick of hearing them. “I’m still trying to fight my battle here,” he growled.

As morning wore along toward noon, his sense of confidence began to grow. “By the gods, we
are
going to throw the cursed traitors back,” he said to Brigadier Alexander. “They can’t lick us. No way in the seven hells can they lick us.”

“I hope you’re right, sir,” Alexander replied. “I think you may be right. We’re holding pretty well, aren’t we?”

“Bet your arse we are,” Guildenstern said. But then he glanced nervously toward the right. “I wonder how Doubting George is doing over there.” When he thought of the right, he somehow couldn’t stay confident no matter how hard he tried. He swigged more spirits, to bolster his courage.

Brigadier Alexander said, “Sir, if he needed help over there, don’t you think he’d ask for it?”

“You never can tell with George,” Guildenstern insisted. No matter how hard he tried to keep his mind on other things, his eyes kept drifting back toward Merkle’s Hill. Something was going to go wrong there. Something
was
. He couldn’t tell how he’d grown so sure, but he had. The knowledge, the certainty, built in him, seeping up from below. It didn’t feel like conscious knowledge: more like the faith he had in the Lion God and the rest of the Detinan pantheon.

“I know you and Lieutenant General George don’t get along perfectly, sir,” Alexander said, “but he’s a solid soldier. If he needs help, I’m sure he won’t risk the battle by going without. After all, he was saying just last night that he
was
worried. If the worries come true, he’ll let us know.”

That made good logical sense. Somehow, though, good logical sense seemed to matter less to General Guildenstern than it might have. Trouble was brewing on the right. He felt it in his bones.

Before Guildenstern could explain as much to Alexander, Colonel Phineas came rushing up to him at a turn of speed astonishing for one so roly-poly. “General!” he cried. “Woe to us, General! Count Thraxton’s magic has defeated our best efforts to withstand it, and now runs loose in our army!”

“Ha!” Guildenstern cried. “I knew it. The Braggart’s trying to deceive me. But he won’t! No, by the gods, he won’t! I
knew
the right was threatened. Brigadier Alexander!”

“Yes, sir!” Alexander said smartly.

“Take Brigadier Wood’s two brigades out of the line here and send them to the aid of Doubting George on the right at once,” Guildenstern said. “At once, do you hear me?”

“That will leave us very thin on the ground here, sir, especially while we’re making the move,” Alexander said.

“Do it!” General Guildenstern thundered. “It is my direct order to you, sirrah! Do it, or find yourself relieved.” Brigadier Alexander saluted stiffly and went off to obey. Guildenstern nodded in satisfaction. And, somewhere far inside Guildenstern—or somewhere far across the battlefield—a scrawny, sour-spirited soul cried out in delight and in altogether unalloyed triumph.

*   *   *

James of Broadpath was sipping his early morning tea after the nighttime meeting with Count Thraxton when a man on a unicorn galloped into his encampment. Pulling the unicorn to a halt, the rider slid off it and hurried toward James. He saluted smartly. “Reporting, sir,” he said with a grin, “as not quite ordered.”

“Brigadier Bell!” James said. “What in the seven hells are you doing here? I left you behind with the part of my army the stinking glideway couldn’t carry. Where are they now?”

“Heading up from Marthasville real soon, sir,” Bell replied. “But when the scryers said the fighting here had already started, I couldn’t wait. I hopped on a unicorn and rode south as fast as I could go.” He pointed to the blowing animal from which he’d just dismounted. “This isn’t the one I started with. That one fell over dead. I’m sorry I rode it into the ground, but I’m glad I’m here.”

“You disobeyed orders,” Earl James rumbled. Bell nodded, quite unabashed. James grinned and pounded him on the back—on the right side, careful not to trouble his useless left arm. “Well, I’m cursed glad you’re here, too,” he said. “I needed somebody to lead the big attack when it goes in, and you’re one of the best in the business.”

“Thank you, sir.” One of Bell’s leonine eyebrows rose. “Why hasn’t the big attack gone in already?”

“Because I’ve got orders from Count Thraxton to hold it till he gives the word, that’s why,” James answered. “He’s working some sort of fancy magic against the southrons, and he wants me to wait till he gives the command.”

Bell frowned, looking very much like a dubious lion. “Remember, sir, this is Thraxton the Braggart we’re talking about. What are the odds this fancy magic will end up being worth anything at all?”

“I don’t know the answer to that,” James of Broadpath admitted. “But I can’t disobey a direct order just because I’m not quite sure about the general who gave it, if you know what I mean.”

“Why in the seven hells not?” Bell demanded. “Are you afraid he’ll turn you into a rooster, or something like that?”

“No.” James shook his big head. Where Brigadier Bell had seemed—and often did seem—leonine, James gave the impression of a bear bedeviled by bees. “No, I’m not afraid of that. But you haven’t seen him. I have. He really thinks he can do this, and he makes me think he can do it, too.”