Dan whistled softly. “Do you think we’ll get him?”
“Not likely,” James answered with genuine regret. “King Geoffrey wants to keep him between Nonesuch and the southrons. He figures his capital is safe as long as Duke Edward’s there, and he’s probably right.”
“Still, it is a telling cry of distress,” Leonidas the Priest observed.
Now James nodded. “Just so. That’s why I sent the message. If it doesn’t draw King Geoffrey’s eye to this part of the front, I don’t know what will. If it doesn’t draw his eye hither, I fear nothing will.”
“That must not be,” Leonidas said. “True, we can lose the war if Nonesuch falls, and Nonesuch is not far north of the border with the southrons. But we can also lose the war in these eastern parts, and Count Thraxton in his arrogant idiocy is doing everything he can to make that unhappy result come to pass.”
“We aren’t the only ones muttering, I’ll have you know,” Dan of Rabbit Hill told James. “Some few-some more than a few-of the brigadiers under us are circulating a petition amongst themselves, expressing their lack of confidence in the Braggart.”
“Are they?” James said, and Dan and Leonidas both solemnly nodded. James shook his head in slow wonder. “We are spending as much of our substance fighting amongst ourselves as we are against the gods-damned southrons, and we have less to spare than they do.”
“True. Every word of it true-and every bit of it Thraxton the Braggart’s fault,” Baron Dan said. “And yet we beat the foe at the River of Death. We could have won a bigger victory, and we could have won another victory afterwards. But did we?” His dismissive wave proclaimed what Thraxton’s Army of Franklin had done-and what it had failed to do.
“We didn’t.” Leonidas the Priest stated the obvious. “I shall pray once more to the Lion God to look more kindly upon us-after I protest my dismissal. If you will excuse me, your Excellency…” He pushed past James of Broadpath and into the scryers’ tent.
“I still have that to attend to myself.” Dan of Rabbit Hill also bowed to James. “I hope to have the chance to discuss these things with you at greater length when we both have more leisure and when we both find ourselves in a better temper… if such happy days should ever come.”
“May it be so,” James said. “We shall have a great deal to discuss in those happy days-of that I am certain.”
“Indeed.” Ducking past him, Dan followed Leonidas into the tent.
“A great deal to discuss,” James repeated, this time to himself. Everything had gone just as he’d hoped it would. His men had let Thraxton win a smashing victory against General Guildenstern, a smashing victory that turned out not to be quite smashing enough.
He looked south and east toward Rising Rock. Driving the southrons out of the city now wouldn’t be easy, wouldn’t be cheap, and might well prove beyond the power of Thraxton’s army. Besieging them would have been easier had Thraxton thrown a proper line around the place when he had the chance. Which left… James cursed. He had no idea what it left.
* * *
Riding for all they were worth, the southrons hurried off toward the southwest, where Whiskery Ambrose still held Wesleyton. Had they been on dogs instead of unicorns, their mounts would have had their tails between their legs. Ned of the Forest whooped to see them flee before him. If he’d had even a few regiments of footsoldiers to go with his riders, he might have taken Wesleyton back from the southrons.
Captain Watson’s little collection of siege engines had, as usual, kept right up with the rest of Ned’s riders. Watson sent a last couple of firepots after the retreating southron riders. One burst between a couple of unicorns and drenched both them and the men aboard them with flames. Ned whooped again. “Good shooting, by the gods!” he shouted. “Real good shooting.”
Watson waved to him. “Thank you, Lord Ned.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Ned was ready, even eager, to give praise where it was due. And Watson, even though he couldn’t raise a proper crop of whiskers yet, was as praiseworthy a soldier as Ned had found. “Those fellows won’t be bothering us again any time soon.”
A scryer rode toward him, calling, “Lord Ned! We’ve got orders from Count Thraxton, sir!”
“Do we?” Ned rumbled; orders from Thraxton the Braggart were the last thing he wanted right this minute. But, with the scryer’s having made that public, he couldn’t very well ignore them-not unless they’re really stupid, he thought. With a sigh, he said, “And what does the count want with us?”
“Sir, we’re ordered back to the rest of the army, north and west of Rising Rock,” the scryer told him. That wasn’t so bad; he’d been intending to rejoin the main force soon anyhow. Then the scryer lowered his voice and went on, “Some powerful strange things are going on back there right now, if half of what the fellow who sent the order to me said alongside of it is true.”
“Is that a fact?” Ned said, and the scryer solemnly nodded. The cavalry commander asked the next question: “What kind of strange things?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly know, sir-not exactly,” the scryer said. Ned glared. When he asked a question like that, he expected a proper answer. Flushing under swarthy skin, the scryer did his best: “From what he says, everybody who’s in command of anything is screaming bloody murder at everybody else.”
“Is that a fact?” Ned of the Forest repeated. The scryer gave him a nervous nod. Ned forgot the man in front of him. He plucked at his chin beard, thinking hard. At last, he said, “So I’m not the only one who reckons we should ought to have done more to get the southrons out of Rising Rock, eh?”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir, not for sure I don’t,” the scryer said. “I’m just telling you what I heard from the fellow back there.”
“All right.” Ned let him off the hook. Turning to the trumpeters who always accompanied him, he said, “Blow recall.”
The unicorn-riders reined in in some surprise; Ned of the Forest wasn’t in the habit of breaking off pursuit so soon. They’d whipped Whiskery Ambrose’s men, but they hadn’t crushed them. Colonel Biffle asked, “What’s up, sir?”
“Thraxton wants us back close to home,” Ned told him. “And, from what the scryer says, there’s some kind of foofaraw back at the camp. Maybe it’s just as well he ordered us back. I want to find out what’s going on.”
“He’d better not try messing with you, Lord Ned,” Colonel Biffle said.
Ned of the Forest hadn’t thought of that. His hands closed hard on the reins. “You’re right, Biff. He’d better not try that. He’d be one of the sorriest men ever born if he did.”
But he did his best to stay cheerful as he rode back toward the Army of Franklin’s encampment outside Rising Rock. Maybe Thraxton was finally deciding to try to get between the southrons and their supply base over in Ramblerton. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him to do that.
But if that was the reason he wanted the unicorn-riders back, why were all the high officers screaming at one another?
He brought his men into Thraxton’s encampment a little before sunset. He’d hardly dismounted before excited footsoldiers started passing gossip to his riders, gossip that quickly reached him: Leonidas the Priest and Dan of Rabbit Hill sacked, James of Broadpath screaming to Nonesuch, and every sort of story under the sun about Count Thraxton. Even Ned, who was inclined to believe almost anything of his commander, found the rumors swirling through the encampment hard to swallow.
And then a runner came up to him and said, “Sir, you are requested and required to report to Count Thraxton’s headquarters immediately upon your arrival.”
“Oh, I am, am I?” Ned said. “Why didn’t Thraxton order me to come in to him before I got back?” The runner just stared in confusion. Ned sighed. “Never mind, sonny boy. Lead me to him. I’ll follow you.”
He hadn’t bothered finding out where Count Thraxton now made his headquarters. It wasn’t anywhere he much wanted to go. Thraxton proved to be inhabiting a farmhouse near Prosel
ytizers’ Rise: a prosperous farmhouse, by its colonnaded front. He doesn’t do so bad for himself, Ned thought, no matter what he does to the poor army.
Maybe it would just be business. By the gods, I hope it’ll just be business. Ned made his face a gambler’s blank as he strode into the parlor. He drew himself up straight and saluted Count Thraxton. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
Thraxton, as usual, looked as if his belly pained him. Perhaps he even looked as if it pained him more than usual. “Ah, Brigadier Ned. I am very pleased to see you.” If he was pleased, he hadn’t bothered telling his face about it.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Ned asked. The sooner he was gone, the happier he would be.
“I am not pleased that you led your men so far afield while chasing Whiskery Ambrose’s unicorn-riders,” Thraxton said, pacing back and forth through the parlor and looking at the wall rather than at Ned of the Forest.
“Would you have been more pleased if they’d come down on us and rampaged all around?” Ned demanded.
“I would have been more pleased had your men been closer to my hand and more ready to obey my orders,” the Braggart answered. What orders? Ned thought scornfully. If you’d had any halfway sensible orders to give, we’d be in Rising Rock by now. Thraxton went on, “Accordingly, I am detaching three regiments from your command and transferring them to the control of Brigadier Spinner, the cavalry commander for the division led-formerly led, I should say-by Dan of Rabbit Hill.”
Ned most cordially loathed Brigadier Spinner. From everything he could tell, the feeling was mutual. “You can’t do that!” he blurted.
“You are mistaken.” Thraxton’s voice came cold as a southron blizzard. “I can. I shall. I have.” Relenting ever so slightly, he added, “These regiments will be returned to you after Spinner comes back from his planned raid east of Rising Rock.”
“If you want my men, why in the seven hells don’t you send me out?” Ned barked.
“Because if I send Spinner, I have some assurance he will do as I command and return when I command,” Count Thraxton replied, more coldly still. “You have given me no reason for any such confidence. You may pick the regiments you wish to turn over to him.” Another tiny concession.
Too tiny-far too tiny. But the order was legal. Ned knew that all too well. If he refused it, Thraxton would sack him, too. Choking back his fury-he wouldn’t give the Braggart the satisfaction of showing it-he snarled, “Yes, sir,” saluted again, and stalked out.
Had Brigadier Spinner been standing outside the farmhouse, Ned might have drawn sword on him. But the other general of unicorn-riders was nowhere to be seen. Still fuming, Ned of the Forest stomped back to his own men. Soldiers who saw him had the good sense to stay out of his way and not ask unfortunate questions.
He arrived among the unicorn-riders in the foulest of foul tempers. Seeing his visage, Colonel Biffle hurried over to him in some alarm, asking, “Is something wrong, sir?”
“Wrong? You just might say so, Biff. Yes, you just might.” The whole story poured out of Ned, a long howl of fury and frustration.
“He can’t do that,” Biffle blurted when Ned finally finished.
“I told him the same thing, but I was wrong, and so are you,” Ned said. “If he wants to bad enough, he bloody well can. That’s what being a general is all about.” He said something else, too, something his beard and mustache fortunately muffled. After a moment spent recapturing his temper, he went on more audibly: “The one reason I’ll sit still for it at all is that he did promise he’d give me my men back once Spinner was done with them. If it wasn’t for that…” His left hand dropped to the hilt of his saber.
“Whose regiments will you… lend to Brigadier Spinner, sir?” Biffle paused in the middle there to make sure he found and used the right word, the word that would not ignite Ned further.
“I was thinking yours’d be the one I keep for my own self,” Ned replied, and Colonel Biffle preened a little. Ned of the Forest slapped him on the back, hard enough to stagger him. “He’s a pile of unicorn turds, Biff, but there’s not a single stinking thing we can do about it.” He yawned. “Only thing I want to do now is sleep. When I wake up, maybe I’ll find out Thraxton the Braggart was nothing but a bad dream. Too much to hope for, I reckon.” He went into his tent.
When he woke up the next morning, Count Thraxton and what he’d done remained all too vivid in his memory. But, as he’d told Biffle, he couldn’t do anything about the Army of Franklin’s sour commanding general. What he could do was get himself some breakfast; his belly was empty as, as… Empty as Thraxton’s head, he thought happily, and went out to get some food in better spirits.
He was sitting on the ground, eating fried pork and hard rolls and talking things over with Colonel Biffle, when a runner came up, saluted, and said, “Count Thraxton’s compliments, sir, and he asked me to give you this.” He handed Ned a rolled sheet of paper sealed with Thraxton’s seal, saluted again, and hurried off.
“What’s he want now?” Biffle asked.
“Don’t know. Suppose I’d better find out.” Ned broke the wax seal with a grimy thumbnail. He wasn’t fluent with pen in hand, but he had no trouble reading. And Thraxton’s hand, though spidery, was more legible than most. Upon due consideration, he wrote, I have decided that, with a view to the best interests of the Army ofFranklin as a whole, your cavalry regiments shall in fact be permanently transferred to the command of Brigadier Spinner. Trusting this meets with your approval, I remain… He closed with the usual polite, lying phrases.
Ned of the Forest sprang to his feet, rage on his face. So did Colonel Biffle, alarm on his. “What’s wrong, sir?” he asked, as he had so often lately.
“That lying son of a bitch!” Ned ground out. “I’m going to tell him where to go and how to get there, and I may just send him on the trip.” He stormed off toward Thraxton’s headquarters, Biffle in his wake.
An adjutant tried to turn him aside from Count Thraxton. He brushed past the man as if he didn’t exist and roared into the parlor. Thraxton gave him an icy stare. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” he demanded.
Ned of the Forest took a long, deep, angry breath. “I’ll tell you what. You commenced your cowardly and contemptible persecution of me soon after the battle of Pottstown Pier, and you have kept it up ever since. You did it because I reported to Nonesuch facts, while you reported gods-damned lies. You have begun again your work of spite and persecution and kept it up. This is the second formation of unicorn-riders organized and equipped by me without thanks to you or King Geoffrey. These men have won a reputation second to none in the army, but, taking advantage of your position as the commanding general in order to humiliate me, you have taken these brave men from me.”
He thrust his left index finger at Count Thraxton’s face. Thraxton retreated into a corner and sank down onto a stool. Ned pressed after him. “I have stood your meanness as long as I intend to. You have played the part of a gods-damned scoundrel, and are a coward, and if you were any part of a man I would slap your jaws and force you to resent it. You have threatened to arrest me for not obeying your orders promptly. I dare you to do it, and I say to you that if you ever again try to interfere with me or cross my path it will be at the peril of your life.”
Thraxton said never a word. He sat there, pale and shaking, while Ned kept prodding with that finger. At last, snarling in disgust, Ned turned on his heel and stormed out of the farmhouse. Colonel Biffle followed. Once Biffle was outside, Ned thunderously slammed the door.
As the headed back toward the unicorn-riders’ camp, Biffle remarked, “Well, you are in for it now.”
“You think so?” Ned shook his head to show he didn’t. “He’ll never say a word about it. He’ll be the last man to mention it. Mark my word, he’ll take no action in the matter. I will ask to be relieved and transferred to a different part of the fight, and he will not oppose it.”
“I hope you’re right, sir.” The regimental commander d
idn’t sound convinced.
“I reckon I am,” Ned said. “And if I chance to be wrong, I’ll kill the mangy son of a bitch and do King Geoffrey a favor.”
“Geoffrey won’t thank you for it,” Colonel Biffle said.
“I know,” Ned answered. “Nobody ever thanks the fellow who kills the polecat or drains the cesspool or does any of the other nasty, smelly jobs that need doing just the same. But I don’t think it’ll come to that.” He sighed. “By the gods, though, Biff, I wish it would.”
VIII
Peering down into Rising Rock from the height of Sentry Peak, Earl James of Broadpath grunted in dissatisfaction. He turned to the officer commanding one of the regiments holding Sentry Peak for King Geoffrey. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Major…?”
“Thersites, sir,” the officer replied. He was an ugly customer, and would probably be dangerous in a fight.
“Major Thersites, yes.” James nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, as I say, but doesn’t it look to you as if the stinking southrons are bringing more and more men into Rising Rock?”
“It surely does, your Excellency,” Thersites said. “I’ve been telling that to anybody who’d listen, but nobody cares to listen to the likes of me. If you don’t have blue blood, if you’re from Palmetto Province instead of Parthenia…”
James of Broadpath did have blue blood, but he was from Palmetto Province, too. Sure enough, the Parthenians looked down their noses at everybody else. He said, “Count Thraxton will hear about this. I’ll make sure Thraxton hears about it.” He liked saying I told you so as much as any other man.
“Is it true what they say about Thraxton and Ned?” Major Thersites asked.
“To the seven hells with me if I know,” James answered. He told the truth: neither Ned of the Forest nor the commanding general of the Army of Franklin was saying much about whatever had passed between them. Rumor, though, rumor blew faster and stronger than the wind. But James was not about to gossip with a lowly major he barely knew.
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