“King Avram’s got more soldiers, too,” Lieutenant Gremio said.
Ormerod and Florizel both pursed their lips and looked away from him, as if he’d broken wind at a fancy banquet. It wasn’t so much that Gremio was wrong-he was right. But saying it out loud, bringing it out in the open where people had to notice it was there… The warriors who fought under King Geoffrey’s banner rarely did that, as it led to gloomy contemplations.
To avoid such gloomy contemplations, Ormerod asked, “Colonel, where are we stopping tonight?”
“Rising Rock,” Florizel answered, which gave rise to other gloomy contemplations. “And take a good look around while you’re there, too.”
“Why’s that?” Ormerod asked.
Lieutenant Gremio was quicker on the uptake. “Because we’re not bloody likely to see it again any time soon, that’s why,” he said.
“Oh.” One mournful word expressed an ocean of Ormerod’s frustration.
“He’s right.” Florizel sounded no more delighted than Ormerod felt. “We’ll be some of the last men into Rising Rock, too, and it looks like we’ll be some of the last ones out as well.” Out meant retreating to the northwest. Colonel Florizel pointed in that direction. Sure enough, Ormerod could see the dust men and unicorns by the thousands raised as they marched along the road through the gap between Sentry Peak and Proselytizers’ Rise, the gap that led up into Peachtree Province.
Closer, Rising Rock itself looked deceptively normal. The sun played up the blood-red of the painted spires on the Lion God’s temples, and glinted from the silver lightning bolts atop the Thunderer’s shrines. Ormerod sighed. The southrons worshiped the same gods he did, but they would send the local priests into exile for speaking out against the perverse belief that serfs were as good as true Detinans.
No sooner had that thought crossed Ormerod’s mind than he saw a blond young man in ragged pantaloons-no tunic at all, and no shoes, either-making his way east with a bundle at the end of a stick on his shoulder. The serf was moving against the flow of soldiers on the road, toward the advancing southrons.
“Runaway!” Ormerod shouted, and pointed at him. He was amazed nobody’d pointed and shouted at the serf before he did.
The blond young man ran for the cover of the trees that grew close to the road. He dropped his bundle so he could run faster. Ormerod cursed; he couldn’t send men after the runaway without disrupting the company’s march.
Then he stopped cursing and pointed again. “Shoot him!” he yelled.
Some of his men hadn’t bothered waiting for the order. They were already cocking their crossbows and setting bolts in them. Triggers snapped. Bowstrings thrummed. Quarrels hissed through the air. With a meaty thunk!, one of them caught the fleeing serf in the small of the back. He shrieked and fell on his face.
Ormerod trotted after him. The serf kept trying to crawl toward the woods. He wasn’t going to make it. Ormerod saw that right away. If a crossbow quarrel didn’t hit a bone, it could punch right through a man. By the trail of blood the serf was leaving, the bolt that hit him had done just that.
Drawing a knife from the sheath on his belt, Ormerod stooped beside the blond man. The fellow stared at him out of eyes wide with hate and pain. “I’ll cut your throat for you, if you want, and put you out of your pain,” Ormerod said. He did what needed doing with runaways, but he wasn’t deliberately cruel about it.
“Red Lady curse you,” the serf ground out. “Death Lord pull you under the dirt and cover over your grave.”
“Serfs’ curses. Serfs’ gods,” Ormerod said with a shrug. “They won’t bite on a Detinan. You blonds ought to know that by now. Last chance: do I finish you, or do I walk away and let you die at your own speed?”
Blood dribbled from a corner of the serf’s mouth. He’d bitten his lips or his tongue in his torment. His eyes still held hate, but he nodded up at Ormerod and said, “Get it over with.”
The noble caught him by his yellow hair, jerked his head back, and drew the knife across his throat. More blood spurted, scarlet as the Lion God’s spires. The serf’s expression went blank, vacant. Ormerod let his head fall. The blond lay unmoving. Ormerod plunged his knife into the soft earth to clean it, then thrust it back in its sheath.
His men had kept going while he finished the runaway. He quickmarched after them, and was panting a little by the time he caught up. “Dead?” Lieutenant Gremio asked him.
“I didn’t go after the bastard to give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him what a good boy he was,” Ormerod answered. “Of course he’s dead.”
“His liege lord could bring an action against you for slaying him rather than returning him to the land to which he’s legally bound,” Gremio observed. “It falls under the statutes for deprivation of agricultural resources.”
“His liege lord could toast in the seven hells, too,” Ormerod said. “As far as I’m concerned, that sort of action falls under the Thunderer’s lightning bolt.”
“I merely mentioned what was legally possible,” Gremio said with his annoying lawyerly precision. Baron Ormerod spat in the dirt of the roadway to show what he thought of such precision.
As Colonel Florizel had said it would, his regiment camped just outside Rising Rock that night. Florizel said, “Ned’s unicorn-riders are supposed to keep the enemy away from us till we fall back, too.” He eyed Ormerod and the rest of his captains. “Ned is an able officer, but I wouldn’t put all my faith in his riders, any more than I would put all my faith in any one god.”
Ormerod had already planned to post double pickets to make sure his company got no unpleasant surprises from the east. After hearing that, he posted quadruple pickets instead. But the southrons didn’t trouble his men, and the regiment, along with the rest of Count Thraxton’s rear guard, passed a quiet night.
“Ned knows his business,” Ormerod remarked the next morning.
“Nice that somebody does,” Lieutenant Gremio answered. He looked around to make sure nobody but Ormerod was in earshot, then added, “It’d be even nicer if some more people up above us did.”
Ormerod grunted. “And isn’t that the sad and sorry truth? But there’s not one cursed thing we can do about it, worse luck.” He raised his voice so the whole company could hear him: “Come on, boys. We’ve got to move out. I wish we didn’t, but we cursed well do.” Along with the rest of the regiment, the rest of the rear guard, he and his company marched out of Rising Rock, out of the province of Franklin, and into… he didn’t want to think about what they were marching into. Into trouble, was what crossed his mind.
* * *
“General?” someone called outside of Earl James of Broadpath’s pavilion. “Are you in there, General?”
“No, I’m not here,” James answered. “I expect to be back pretty soon, though.”
As he’d hoped it would, that produced a fine confused silence. When he strode out of the pavilion, the runner who’d come up was on the point of leaving. He brightened when he saw James. “Oh, good, your Excellency,” he said. “Duke Edward’s compliments, and he’d like to see you at your earliest convenience.”
“Would he?” James of Broadpath said. “Well, of course I’ll see him straightaway. He’s in his pavilion?” He waited only for the runner to nod, then hurried over to the rather mean tent housing the commander of the Army of Southern Parthenia. He was panting and sweating by the time he got there, though the walk wasn’t very long. His bulk and Parthenia’s heat and humidity didn’t go together. As Duke Edward’s sentries saluted, James asked, “Is his Grace here?”
“Yes, your Excellency, he is, and waiting for you, too-or I think so, anyhow,” one of the sentries answered. He raised his voice: “Duke Edward? Earl James is here to see you.”
“Is he?” Duke Edward of Arlington came out of the pavilion. James saluted. Punctilious as always, Edward returned the courtesy. Then he plucked a folded sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his indigo tunic and presented it to James. “This may possibly be of int
erest to you, your Excellency.”
“Ah?” James rumbled. The paper was sealed with a dragon’s mark stamped deep into golden wax. “That is King Geoffrey’s seal,” James breathed, and Edward nodded. Only a king would or could use the dragon’s mark, and Avram’s sealing wax would have been crimson, not gold-not that Avram was likely to send a sealed letter to a general in his rival’s service.
With his thumbnail, James broke the seal. He opened the paper. The spidery script within was King Geoffrey’s, too; James had seen it often enough to recognize it. The missive read, In regard to the proposal to send the army under the command of General James of Broadpath, the said army presently constituting a wing of the Army of Southern Parthenia commanded by General Edward of Arlington, to the aid and succor of the Army of Franklin commanded by General Thraxton, the aforesaid proposal, having been endorsed by the aforementioned General Edward of Arlington, is hereby accepted and approved. Let it be carried out with the greatest possible dispatch. Geoffrey, King in the northern provinces of Detina.
“You know what it is, your Grace?” James asked.
“I don’t know, no, but from your countenance I should guess his Majesty has chosen to send your soldiers east,” Duke Edward replied.
“He has.” Earl James of Broadpath bowed to his commanding officer. “And I am in your debt, sir, for your generous endorsement.”
“Hard times require hard measures,” the duke said. “I am not certain this action will answer, but I am certain inaction will not answer. Go east, then, and may the gods go with you. I trust your men are ready to move at short notice?”
“Yes, sir,” James said. “All we need do is break camp, march to the glideway port at Lemon’s Justiciary, and off we go eastward.”
“Not quite so simple as that, I fear,” Edward said, “for it is reported the southrons have lately wrested from us the most direct glideway path leading eastward. But the wizards in charge of such things do assure me a way from here to Count Thraxton’s army does remain open: only it is not so direct a way as we might wish.”
“Then I’d best leave without any more delay, hadn’t I, your Grace?” Without waiting for Duke Edward’s reply-although Edward might not have had one; he approved of men who took things into their own hands and moved fast-James bowed, spun on his heel in a smart about-face, and hurried back toward his own pavilion.
As he neared it, he shouted for the trumpeters who served him. They came at the run, long, straight brass horns gleaming in their hands. “Command us, sir!” one of them cried.
Command them James of Broadpath did: “Blow assembly. Summon my whole army to the broad pasture.”
The trumpeters saluted. As they raised the horns to their lips, one of them asked, “Your Excellency, does this mean we’re heading east, to whip the stinking, lousy, gods-detested southrons out of Franklin?” Rumor had swirled through the army for days.
Getting King Geoffrey’s army back into Franklin would be a good first step toward getting the southrons out. But James just waggled a finger at the trumpeter and said, “You’ll hear when everyone else does. I haven’t the time to waste-the kingdom hasn’t the time for me to waste-telling things over twice.”
Martial music rang out-the call for Earl James’ army to gather together. As the trumpeters played, they eyed James reproachfully. He knew why; Count Thraxton’s army wouldn’t have fallen to pieces had James given them the news before anyone else got it. He wagged his finger at them again. One of them missed a note. That made the others eye their comrade reproachfully. They took pride in what they did. James nodded at that; anything worth doing was worth doing well.
Soldiers in blue tunics and pantaloons-and some in blue tunics and in gray pantaloons taken from southrons who didn’t need them any more-hurried from their tents and huts to the meadow where they gathered to hear such announcements as their commander chose to give them. They formed by squads, by companies, by regiments, by brigades, by divisions. At the head of one of the three divisions stood Brigadier Bell, a fierce smile brightening his pain-wracked face. Unlike the trumpeters, he had a pretty good notion of what James would say.
James strode out in front of the crossbowmen, the pikemen, and the unicorn-riders he commanded. As he ascended to a little wooden platform, he was very conscious of the thousands of eyes upon him. That sort of scrutiny made most men quail. Whatever else James was, he wasn’t modest. He relished the attention.
When he held up a hand, complete and instant silence fell. Into it, General James boomed, “Soldiers of the Army of Southern Parthenia, soldiers of my wing, King Geoffrey has given us the duty of coming to the rescue of our beset comrades in the east. As you will know, Count Thraxton has been forced from Rising Rock, forced from Franklin altogether. He is-the kingdom is-counting on us to come to his aid, to help him drive the invaders from our sister province. The Army of Southern Parthenia is the finest force of fighters in Detina-in all the world. When we go east, shall we show Thraxton-shall we show General Guildenstern, may the gods curse him-how soldiers who know their business make war?”
“Aye!” his troopers roared, a great blast of sound.
“Good,” James said. “Tomorrow morning, then, at dawn, we march to the glideway port at Lemon’s Justiciary. From there, we fare forth to Peachtree Province, and from there we help Count Thraxton bring Franklin back to its proper allegiance. Is it good?”
“Aye!” the men in blue roared again.
Earl James saluted them as if they were his superiors, which made them cheer louder than ever. But when he raised his right hand, the cheers cut off as if at a swordstroke. They’re fine men, he thought. No commander could ask for better. More, perhaps, but not better. “Dismissed!” he called to them. “Be ready to move when your officers and underofficers give the word.”
As the soldiers streamed back toward their encampment, Brigadier Bell came up to James. The lines of agony from Bell’s crippled arm would probably never leave his face, but his eyes shone. “A new chance,” he breathed. “A chance to strike the southrons the blow we’ve been looking to strike since the war began.”
“A new chance,” James of Broadpath agreed. “Maybe our best chance.”
“Yes!” Bell said. “We have never shifted men from the Army of Southern Parthenia to the east. Guildenstern won’t expect it.” His lip curled. “Guildenstern hasn’t the mother wit to expect much.”
“Maybe our best chance,” Earl James repeated. His spirit wanted to soar. Bell’s eagerness and the way the men responded to the transfer order tried to make it soar. But the war-the war he, like so many of Geoffrey’s followers, had gaily assumed would be won in weeks-had ground into its third year with no end in sight. And so, instead of scaling his hat through the air in glee, he added, “Maybe our last chance, too.”
The divisional commander stared at him. “Your Excellency, this is your scheme,” Bell reminded him. “Have you no faith in it?”
“With the way the war has gone, my view at this stage of things is that any man who has faith in anything but the gods is a fool,” James answered. “What I have is hope, a more delicate, more fragile flower.”
He might as well have started speaking the language of the camel-riding desert barbarians of the western continent, for all the sense he made to Brigadier Bell. Well, that was the advantage of being a superior officer. Bell didn’t have to see the sense in his words. All he had to do was obey. And he could be relied upon for that.
Getting James’ effects ready to move took some doing: he had a great many more effects than his troopers did. Even with some serfs from Broadpath helping knock down the pavilion and load it and its contents into a couple of wagons, he felt rushed and harried. But he couldn’t very well require of the men what he did not match himself. And so, mounted on his big-boned unicorn, he led the march out of camp at sunrise the next morning.
Lemon’s Justiciary was named after the stone fortress where an early Count Lemon had had his courthouse. A little town had grown up around the
fortress after the local blonds were subdued, a little town that had got bigger when the glideway went through and the port was built a stone’s throw from that frowning stone keep.
For ages, men had dreamt of flying. Those camel-riding desert barbarians had tales of flying carpets. But that was all they were: tales. Modern mages in Detina and in the kindred kingdoms back across the Western Ocean had finally persuaded carpets to rise a couple of feet off the ground and travel along certain sorcerously defined glideways at about the speed of a galloping unicorn. It wasn’t what poets and storytellers had imagined-but then, the real world rarely matched poems and stories. It was a great deal better than nothing.
Or it would have been, had any carpets waited at the Lemon’s Justiciary glideway port. James and his men were there. Their conveyances?
James set hands on hips and roared at the portmaster: “Where are they, you worthless, stinking clot?”
“Don’t blame me, your Excellency,” the portmaster answered. “By the gods, you can’t blame me. Something must have got buggered up somewheres further north-in Nonesuch its ownself, or up in Pierreville north of there. I can’t give you what I don’t got.” He spread his hands. He went further than that: he pulled out the pockets of his pantaloons to show he had no traveling carpets hidden there.
Cursing did no good. James cursed anyway. Setting his hand on the hilt of his sword did no good, either. That didn’t stop him from half drawing the blade. He said, “I can’t travel on what I haven’t got, either. And if I can’t travel, I can’t save the kingdom. The longer I have to wait here twiddling my thumbs, the longer the army has to wait here twiddling its thumbs, the greater the risk the war in the east will be lost past fixing. Well, sirrah, what do you say to that?”
With a shrug, the portmaster answered, “Only one thing I can say, your Excellency: I can’t do nothing about it.”
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