Sentry Peak

by Harry Turtledove

  Lances and sabers and iron-shod unicorn horns gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. “Bide your time, boys,” Ned said. The onrushing unicorns thundered nearer. Here and there, Ned’s men began to shoot in spite of orders. Then he shouted, “Now!” and all his men, both those in the open and the far larger number concealed under the trees, shot a volley at the unicorn-riders that broke their charge as if it had run headlong into a stone wall. Unicorns tumbled. Men pitched off them. Unhurt beasts fell over wounded ones. Ned’s men kept right on shooting; thanks to those pack animals, they had bolts to spare.

  Cries of “Magecraft! Black magecraft!” rose from the southrons. Ned of the Forest threw back his head and laughed out loud. And General Guildenstern’s footsoldiers, seeing that the unicorns had failed but not seeing why, kept coming forward till they too took a couple of volleys from his massed dismounted force of riders.

  “We’ll lick ’em all!” one of his troopers cried.

  But he shook his head. “Next time, they’ll bring up enough to deal with the lot of us,” he said. “The idea is, not to stick around here to get dealt with. Back in the woods, boys. Back to the unicorns. We’ll be gone, and we’ll hit ’em again somewheres else pretty soon-doing what we want, not what they want us to.” He clapped his hands together. “That’s what this here war’s all about, ain’t it?”

  “Forward!” General Guildenstern cried grandly. Horns blaring, drums thumping, the part of the army he hadn’t given to Doubting George marched out of Rising Rock, heading north toward the border with Peachtree Province. Guildenstern wished the army-or at least he-could have stayed longer. One of the blond serving girls-a serf no longer, of course, but still a servant-at the hotel had served him as delightfully as he’d ever imagined a woman doing. He sighed, then loosed another shout: “Forward! Duty calls!” He wasn’t just telling his men. He was reminding himself, too.

  Having reminded himself, he used his knees and the reins to urge his unicorn forward. Its every step took him farther from the blond girl. He wished he hadn’t reminded himself of that. To keep from thinking about it, he loosed the brandy flask he wore next to his sword and swigged from it. Maybe the peaches from which the potent stuff was brewed had come from the province toward which he advanced. That was some consolation for leaving the wench behind. Some, yes. Enough?

  Probably plenty of willing blond wenches up in Peachtree Province, he thought. That notion, possibly sparked by the brandy he’d poured down, went further toward consoling him for leaving Rising Rock.

  And they’ll all fall at my feet-or into my bed-once I smash up Thraxton the Braggart’s army once for all. I can do it. I will do it. Once I get clear of these woods, I’ll outflank him again and again, the same way I flanked him out of Rising Rock, out ofFranklin altogether. He can flee or he can fight. If he flees, I throw more wood on King Geoffrey’s pyre with every mile of land I take back for King Avram. If he fights, I crush him. Guildenstern nodded and took another nip from his flask. The sun shone down brightly, as if on him alone. The breeze smelled sweet, at least to him. Victory made a better perfume than flowers or spice.

  Let me crush Thraxton, Guildenstern thought. Let my scryers send word to King Avram that Marthasville is his again, that the gold dragon, the true dragon, has driven out the red. What will that mean? Earl Guildenstern? Count Guildenstern? Even Duke Guildenstern, by the gods? Duke Guildenstern. I like the sound of that.

  He came from a family of merchants and artisans. No one except a couple of worthless cousins had ever gone hungry. Some of his kin enjoyed more wealth than most nobles. He’d never lacked for anything in all his days-anything except respectability. He shook his head. That was the wrong word. In the bustling south, merchants and artisans were perfectly respectable. He’d lacked… prominence.

  He nodded. That fit. Becoming an officer had given him some of what he wanted. Becoming a noble would give him the rest.

  “Duke Guildenstern,” he murmured, and nodded again. It had a fine ring to it.

  Doubting George, now, Doubting George was already a baron over in Parthenia, though King Geoffrey-Geoffrey the traitor-had seized his estate when he stayed loyal to King Avram, just as Avram had declared Duke Edward of Arlington’s lands forfeit to the crown when Edward chose Geoffrey over him. Guildenstern was sure George scorned him because his blood wasn’t higher. Let me settle Thraxton, and it will be. Let me rescue George, in fact, and it will be.

  His second-in-command had stuck close to the western flank of Sentry Peak. General Guildenstern-I outrank Doubting George, no matter how blue his blood is -moved his slightly larger force north along roads farther west still. If Count Thraxton was rash enough to have lingered in the neighborhood, Guildenstern and George would smash him between them.

  But Guildenstern didn’t really believe Thraxton had done any such thing. No matter what Doubting George thought, he remained convinced Thraxton had hightailed it for Stamboul. If anything, George’s belief that the enemy might be closer made him sure Thraxton wasn’t.

  He turned to Brigadier Alexander, who commanded one of the two divisions in the part of the army Guildenstern still led personally. “I say we have them on the run,” he announced.

  “Hope you’re right, sir,” Alexander answered with a smile. His face usually wore one; he had a bright, easygoing disposition.

  His smile was enough to make General Guildenstern give one back-which meant it was sunny indeed. Expansiveness perhaps fueled by brandy, Guildenstern said, “No wonder you’re a brigadier-your family’s given King Avram a brigade’s worth of men.”

  “Oh, not quite, General.” Alexander chuckled at the commanding general’s quip, even if he’d surely heard the like before.

  “How many kinsfolk of yours have come out of Highlow Province, anyhow?” Guildenstern asked with genuine curiosity.

  “Seventeen in all, sir, if you count my father,” Alexander said proudly. “They wouldn’t let him come north with us-said he was too old. But when John the Hunter led his unicorns south of the Highlow River to stir things up in our part of the kingdom last year, Father went out against him. They killed him in one of the little fights down there, the bastards.” For a moment, his smile faded. But then it returned, though tinged with sorrow. “Not many of them got back over the river, and Geoffrey hasn’t tried anything like that since.”

  “Seventeen.” Even Guildenstern hadn’t thought it was quite so many. “Not all brothers, surely-or your father was an even mightier man than I would have reckoned. Mightily beloved of the Sweet One, anyhow.” He extended his middle finger in the gesture sacred to the goddess.

  “Well, she did smile on him, General-there are ten of us sprung from his loins,” Alexander answered. “The rest are close cousins. My brother Niel is one of your colonels of foot, and Cousin Moody leads one of your cavalry regiments. If Geoffrey wants to win this war, he’ll have to lick every one of us, and I don’t suppose he’s got enough men to do it.”

  “I like that.” Guildenstern took another swig of brandy. After the spirits seared their way down to his belly, he liked it even better. And he put it to his own purpose: “No wonder Thraxton’s probably scurrying back toward Marthasville right this minute.”

  “No wonder at all,” Brigadier Alexander said agreeably. “After the way you flanked the Braggart out of Rising Rock, what else could he do?”

  “Not a thing. Not a single, solitary thing, by the gods.” General Guildenstern smiled again. Yes, he liked the way Alexander thought.

  “No wonder about what, sir?” asked Brigadier Thom, Guildenstern’s other division commander.

  “No wonder Thraxton the Braggart’s on the run,” Guildenstern replied. He gave Thom a wary look. The brigadier’s father, Count Jordan of Cloviston, had done everything he could to keep Detina a single kingdom. Count Jordan had done a great deal to keep Cloviston loyal to King Avram, too, but the divisions in the realm also split his own family, for Thom’s older brother, George the Bibber, had served as a brigadier under Geoffrey
till cashiered for drunkenness. Even now, Guildenstern wondered about Thom’s loyalty.

  But the dark, shaggy-bearded officer nodded without hesitation. “No wonder at all,” he said. “We’ve got him where we want him, sure as sure.”

  “Well said. By the gods, Brigadier, well said!” Guildenstern boomed. He leaned over to clap Thom on the shoulder. He almost leaned too far, far enough to fall off his unicorn. Only a quick shift of weight saved him from that ignominious tumble. Having righted himself, he did his best to pretend nothing had happened. “Sure as sure, as you put it so well, Count Thraxton must ingloriously flee, or else see himself ground like wheat between the millstones of our victorious army.”

  “A pretty figure, General,” Thom said, “and one we shall make true.” If he would sooner have been serving under Thraxton the Braggart, he did conceal it well. Of course, from everything Guildenstern knew about his immediate foe, even a man who might sooner serve King Geoffrey than King Avram was apt to have second thoughts about serving under Thraxton.

  As General Guildenstern had during the advance on Rising Rock, he admired the concentrated might of the army he led. Crossbowmen, pikemen, unicorns cavalry, dart- and stone- and firepot-throwers, mages… He sighed, wishing mages were less necessary. But if the northerners had them-and they did-he needs must have them, too, and so he did.

  On paced his unicorn. On marched the army. Rising Rock vanished in the distance behind him, obscured by bends in the road, by forest, and by the red dust boots and hooves and wheels raised. He sighed again. He would sooner have stayed back there sporting with that yellow-haired wench. She’d fit him very well, in every sense of the word. Well, no help for it-and there would be other women ahead.

  He was musing thus when a courier shouting, “General Guildenstern! General Guildenstern!” rode toward him, fighting his way south against the northbound stream of soldiers in gray.

  “Here!” Guildenstern called, and he waved for good measure. Both call and wave were probably needless: a swarm of banners and gold dragons marked his place in the line of march. But he didn’t care to seem to be doing nothing.

  The courier brought his unicorn up alongside Guildenstern’s and saluted. “Sir, I’m Captain Menander, one of Lieutenant General George’s guardsmen. You need to know, sir, that we had a sharp little run-in with Ned of the Forest’s troopers late yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did you?” Guildenstern said, and Menander the guardsman nodded. “Whereabouts was this?” Guildenstern asked. “How far had Doubting George got before they jumped you?”

  He didn’t notice he’d used George’s disparaging nickname till too late. Captain Menander was in no position to take offense. The courier answered, “Sir, our vanguard had got within perhaps six miles of the River of Death.”

  “Had it?” Guildenstern said-George was wasting no time in moving north. “And what precisely happened?”

  Menander looked disgusted. “If you want to know the truth, sir, Ned suckered us. I hate to say it, but it’s true.”

  Guildenstern wasn’t altogether sorry to learn of Doubting George’s discomfiture-not even close. But showing that too openly wouldn’t do. He said, “Ned of the Forest has managed to sucker more commanders more often than we’d like to admit. How did he do it to George?”

  “He felled some trees to block the road and shot at our vanguard,” Captain Menander answered. “Then, when we brought up more men to deal with his skulkers, he showed some of what he had hiding in the woods. We sent up still more men-and his whole force showed itself, gave us a black eye, and then ran away.”

  “His whole force, you say? Are you sure of that?” Guildenstern asked.

  Menander the guardsman nodded. “Sure as can be, sir. I was up there at the edge of the fighting. As a matter of fact, it seemed like Ned had twice as many men as we thought he could. They handled us pretty roughly.” He took off his hat and looked at it. So did General Guildenstern. Up near the crown, it had two small, neat holes through it. Captain Menander said, “A couple of inches lower, sir, and somebody else would be giving you this report.”

  “I see.” Guildenstern nodded. He plucked at his beard as he thought. “I wonder if Thraxton left Ned of the Forest behind to harass our advance while he retreats with the rest of his army.”

  Captain Menander didn’t answer. Guildenstern would have been affronted had he done so. Judging strategy wasn’t a captain’s place. King Avram gave me that job, Guildenstern thought.

  “Wherever Thraxton the Braggart is, we have to find him and beat him,” Guildenstern said. Menander nodded at that. He could hardly do anything else. The commanding general went on, “I still do believe he’s running away as fast as he can go.” He raised his voice: “Brigadier Alexander! Brigadier Thom!”

  “Sir?” the two division commanders chorused.

  “I intend to pursue Thraxton on a broad front, as broad as possible,” General Guildenstern said. “Brigadier Thom, you shall take your men north up roads farther west. Brigadier Alexander, you shall continue on our present route, and hold the center between George and Thom. I’ll come with you, and stay in touch with each wing through messengers and scryers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thom and Alexander said together. Guildenstern nodded. They were subordinate to him. They couldn’t possibly say anything else.

  * * *

  As Captain Ormerod strode along the northern bank of the River of Death, he shook his head in frustration. “This would be miserable country for fighting a battle,” he said.

  “Sir, this is miserable country whether we fight a battle here or not.” As usual, Lieutenant Gremio was more exact than he needed to be. That didn’t mean he was altogether wrong, though. The woods, mostly pine with oak and elm and chestnut scattered through them, were thick and hard to navigate. Bushes and brambles grew in riotous profusion under the trees, making things worse yet.

  “What’s that?” Ormerod raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t care to have an estate hereabouts?”

  After the words were out of his mouth, he wondered if Gremio would take offense. Living in Karlsburg, the lawyer didn’t have-and didn’t seem to want-a proper landed estate. But Gremio just said, “The only thing this country would be good for is burying my enemies. May it bury a lot of them.”

  Ormerod peered south, as if expecting to see King Avram’s gray-clad villains bursting out of the trees in division strength or more. All he saw were more woods, identical to those on this side of the river. He said, “I hear Ned of the Forest buried a good many southrons a couple of days ago.”

  “The Lion God grant it be so,” Gremio said. “Ned’s no gentleman, but he fights like a round sawblade-there’s no good place to get a grip on him.”

  “They say he almost fought Count Thraxton before we pulled out of Rising Rock,” Ormerod remarked.

  “He wouldn’t be the first,” Gremio said. “He won’t be the last.” His opinion of Thraxton was not high. Since Ormerod’s wasn’t, either, he nodded.

  Before he could say anything, a gong chimed. “The call to worship,” Ormerod said. He raised his voice to a shout: “Come on, men! Time to pay our respects to the Lion God.”

  “Time to keep Leonidas the Priest happy,” Lieutenant Gremio said with a sneer. “I wish we were in Dan of Rabbit Hill’s division, so the gods wouldn’t hit us over the head every sixth day.”

  “You’re nothing but a citified scoffer,” Ormerod said, to which his first lieutenant nodded emphatic agreement. Ormerod went on, “The gods will recognize you, whether you recognize them or not.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Gremio replied. “And ifsobe I’m wrong, and end up toasting in the seven hells-why, I’ll save you a spot by the fire, Captain.”

  “Avert the omen!” Ormerod exclaimed. His fingers twisted in a sign the Detinans had borrowed from their serfs so long before, only a few scholars knew they hadn’t brought it over the Western Ocean with them. Ormerod’s own piety might not have been profound, but it was deep and heartfelt. He�
��d been a young man when a wave of proselytizing swept through northern Detina twenty years before, and he’d sealed his soul to the gods then.

  Colonel Florizel had consecrated himself during that wave of proselytizing, too. “Up!” the regimental commander called. “Up, you Detinans! Let the gods know you care for them, and they’ll be happy to care for you!”

  Soldiers in indigo tunics and pantaloons made their way toward the altar Leonidas the Priest had set up in a clearing not far from the River of Death. Baron Ormerod and Earl Florizel accompanied their troopers. So did Lieutenant Gremio; he might be a scoffer, but he didn’t advertise it to the men.

  Again and again, the gong rang out. Florizel’s regiment wasn’t the only one assembling in the clearing; several more joined it. Off in the distance, more gongs belled. Leonidas couldn’t be everywhere at once, but he made sure the men he led had every chance to worship.

  When the southrons were closer, Ormerod had sometimes heard their gongs calling the faithful to prayer. All Detinans followed the same gods. All Detinans were convinced those gods favored them. Some Detinans would end up disappointed. Not a man usually given to deep thought, Ormerod simply assumed the southrons would prove the disappointed ones.

  Florizel poked him in the ribs with an elbow. “Isn’t that a splendid altar?” the regimental commander said. “You couldn’t find better in a proper temple back in Karlsburg, not hardly.”

  “No, sir, you surely couldn’t,” Ormerod agreed. The altar, gleaming with gilt, stood on a platform of new-sawn boards so more soldiers could see it. Also gilded were the bars of the cage in which the lion prowled, thrashing his tufted tail back and forth. Even the chain securing the frightened lamb to the altar had been slapped with several coats of gold paint.