“Don’t you worry about it, sir,” Alva said. “We’ll lick them.”
“How can you be so sure?” Hesmucet asked. “You’re the one who said the gods don’t worry about us so much as we think.”
“Even so,” Alva said.
“Well, then?” Hesmucet growled. He knew he sounded impatient. As far as he could see, he could hardly sound any other way. The fight on Funnel Hill wasn’t going the way he wished it were.
“There’s more of us, and we’ve got more engines,” Alva said. “If we lose in spite of that, we should be ashamed of ourselves.”
“General Bart says the same thing,” Hesmucet replied. “He’s right about the war. I’m pretty sure about that. But I don’t know whether he’s right about this fight here-and right this minute, this fight here is all that counts.”
* * *
Lieutenant General George was not happy with the role General Bart had assigned to his army. The soldiers General Guildenstern had formerly commanded were making what amounted to a noisy demonstration against Proselytizers’ Rise. Even if Bart hadn’t spelled it out in so many words, their assignment was to keep Thraxton the Braggart’s men busy in the center while Fighting Joseph and Hesmucet won glory on the wings.
Bart’s orders did read, If possible, your force shall scale the heights of Proselytizers’ Rise and expel the enemy therefrom. “I like that,” George said to Colonel Andy. “I truly like that. If the gods themselves attacked Proselytizers’ Rise from below, could they carry that position?”
“Sir, I…” His aide-de-camp spoke with all due deliberation, and with malice aforethought: “Sir, I doubt it.”
“So do I,” Doubting George said morosely. “By the Thunderer, so do I.”
“General Bart doesn’t think this part of the army can really fight,” Andy said. “He doesn’t think we’re worth anything.”
“I’m very much afraid you’re right,” George said. “And, as long as he gives us impossible positions to try to take, all he has to do is see that we haven’t taken them to get all his assumptions proved for him.”
“It isn’t fair,” Andy said. “It isn’t even close to fair.”
“Well, there I would have to agree with you.” George raised a forefinger. “Now don’t get me wrong. I want this whole great force to whip Count Thraxton. That comes first, and I’ve said so many times. But I don’t want my men, so many of whom fought like heroes by the River of Death even though we lost, I don’t want them slighted.”
“I should say not, sir,” Andy replied. “It’s a reflection on them, and it’s also a reflection on you.”
Privately, Doubting George agree with that. Publicly… He said what he’d been saying: “No one man’s part is all that important. But I think we could serve the kingdom better with different orders.”
“Do you want to complain to Bart?” Andy asked. “It might do some good.”
“Unfortunately, I doubt that,” George said. “It wouldn’t make the commanding general change his mind, and it would get me a reputation as a whiner, which is not the reputation I want to have.”
Pulling the brim of his hat down lower over his eyes, he watched his men doing their best to go forward in the face of formidable odds. The eastern slope of Proselytizers’ Rise was very high and very steep. No one could reasonably be expected to get close to it, let alone scale it with an enemy waiting at the top.
But, as long as George’s men kept trying, Thraxton couldn’t move any of his own soldiers away from Proselytizers’ Rise to Sentry Peak or Funnel Hill. We’d be a proper fighting army if Bart would let us, George thought. Then, reluctantly, he checked himself. As long as the battle is won, how doesn’t much matter. And there will be credit to go around.
And if the battle isn’t won, where will the blame land? He imagined coming before the panel of Avram’s ministers empowered to review the conduct of the war. He imagined some crusty, white-haired pen-pusher rasping, “You were requested and required to drive the traitors from this place called Proselytizers’ Rise. Would you care to explain to us how you failed to carry out your duty?”
He wouldn’t be able to. He knew he wouldn’t be able to. If the king’s ministers saw the ground, they might possibly begin to understand. Without seeing the ground? Not a chance, he thought. Not a single, solitary chance, not in any one of the hells. All they would see was that he’d got an order and failed to carry it out. And that panel was full of vindictive souls. They would remember he was a Parthenian. They would forget he was called the Rock in the River of Death. And they would, without the tiniest fragment of doubt, kill his soldierly career.
By all the gods, we’d better win.
Seeing where he was, seeing what lay ahead of him, seeing what his orders were, he had to rely on Fighting Joseph to his right and Lieutenant General Hesmucet to his left. He wasn’t going to win the battle by himself. He hated that. Relying on others came no easier to him than it did to most Detinans. If he had to do something, he wanted to be in charge of it. But this battle was too big to make that possible. Come on, Fighting Joseph. Make them run.
Colonel Andy pointed. “Look, sir! We’ve got a lodgement there, right at the base of the Rise.”
“So we do,” Doubting George said. “Next question is, can we keep it?”
They couldn’t. George hadn’t really expected that they would, not with the advantage in numbers the northerners held. The traitors rolled boulders down onto his men, sweeping them away as a blond scullery maid might sweep crawling ants off a wall. They rained firepots on the southrons, too, and plied them with crossbow quarrels. A few men in gray clung to the ground they’d gained, but more-even those who weren’t hurt-fell back. George had a hard time blaming them.
“I thought we had something going there,” Andy said dejectedly.
“I hoped we had something going there,” George replied, which wasn’t the same thing at all.
“The traitors will know they’ve been in a battle, by the Lion God’s fangs.” Colonel Andy looked and sounded as belligerent as a man could when he wasn’t doing any actual fighting himself.
“I want them to know they’ve lost a battle,” George said. “Right now, Colonel, I have to confess, I don’t know how to make that happen, not on this part of the field.”
“I wish I did, sir,” his aide-de-camp said.
“I wish you did, too. I wish anybody did. I hope we’re doing well on the ends of the line, because we’re in a devils of a fix here in the middle.” Doubting George sighed. “We’re all doing the best we can. I have to remember that.”
“General Guildenstern was doing the best he could, too,” Andy said acidly.
“Why, so he was,” George said. “Guildenstern is a brave man, and he had the start of a good plan. I think General Bart has a better plan, and it may well work. But he gave me a hard role to play.”
Shouting King Avram’s name, his men made another lunge toward the eastern face of Proselytizers’ Rise. A few more of them got into the trenches of the base of the Rise. Some of the ones who did came out again. Nobody seemed able to hold on there. You are not here to win the battle, George reminded himself. You’re here to keep the men on the wings from losing it. Remembering that came hard.
“There’s some sort of a commotion over to the north,” Colonel Andy said.
“Well, so there is.” George peered off in that direction, trying to figure out what sort of a commotion it was.
Andy’s voice broke in excitement: “It’s-it’s the northerners running back from the slope of Sentry Peak, that’s what it is!”
“Looks that way,” Doubting George agreed. “And there’s our men after them, too. Looks like Fighting Joseph has won himself a victory, it does, it does.”
“It sure does,” his aide-de-camp exulted. After a moment, Andy said one more word: “Oh.”
George answered him with one word, too: “Yes.” Seeing Fighting Joseph’s men storming forward in pursuit of the traitors while his own soldiers impotently
smashed themselves against Proselytizers’ Rise ate at him. But then, with an effort he regretted but could not help, he said, “It’s for the good of the kingdom. We always have to remember, that comes first.”
“Of course, sir.” Colonel Andy didn’t sound as if he fully believed it, either.
Fighting Joseph, George thought with distaste. I wouldn’t mind nearly so much if it were Hesmucet, over there on the other flank. But he looks as though he’s having as much fun as I am, or maybe even more.
Part of it was his personal judgment of Fighting Joseph: overfond of gambling and spirits and hookers, the man would never be a gentleman. Part of it was his, and everyone else’s, professional judgment of Fighting Joseph: having botched the battle of Viziersville, and having botched it in the way he did, why was he given another important command? General Bart probably had the right of that-King Avram didn’t mind giving Joseph another command of sorts, so long as it wasn’t anywhere close to Georgetown or the Black Palace.
“Send a messenger to him,” George told his aide-de-camp. “Ask him if we can do anything to help in the pursuit.”
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Andy spoke as if the words tasted bad. Doubting George didn’t reprove him. He hadn’t enjoyed giving the order, either, however necessary he knew it to be.
Sooner than George quite wanted, the runner returned. After saluting, he said, “Fighting Joseph’s compliments, sir, and he declines your generous request. He says he’s quite able to do what wants doing all by his lonesome.”
“He would say something like that,” Andy sneered.
“Of course he would,” George said. “He wouldn’t be the man he is if he were the sort who could be gracious at times like this.”
“What do we do now, sir?” Andy asked.
“What can we do?” George replied. “We’ve done everything we can. We’ve served our purpose. In the north, Joseph did break through, as General Bart hoped he would. Maybe Lieutenant General Hesmucet can do the same in the southwest. I wish him the best.”
“We can’t break through here,” Colonel Andy said.
“We’re not supposed to break through. We’re just supposed to keep the traitors too busy to send reinforcements anywhere else along the line,” George said, trying not to think about the exact words of the order Bart had given him. “We’ve done exactly that. We wouldn’t need just wizards to do more. We’d need… I was going to say real, live miracle-workers, but even they’d have trouble.”
“For the sake of the men, I wish we could stay out of range of the enemy’s engines and crossbows,” his aide-de-camp said.
“So do I, but we can’t,” Doubting George said. “We wouldn’t seem very dangerous here if we did.” Not that we seem all that dangerous here now.
“I suppose you’re right,” Andy said. Whatever he supposed, he didn’t sound very happy about it. A moment later, though, he had a thought that seemed to cheer him. “The battle looks as if it will still be going tomorrow. I hope General Bart will see fit to give us reinforcements.”
“I don’t, by the gods,” George answered. “As best I can see, all we’d do if we had them was get them killed. Do you really think we can force Proselytizers’ Rise?”
“It’s our duty,” Colonel Andy said.
Doubting George was glad his aide-de-camp wasn’t in the line of command. If he went down himself, Brigadier Absalom would take over for him. And Absalom the Bear knew how things were supposed to work. Andy was excellent at details, not nearly so good at the big picture. George said, “No, no, no. Our duty here is just to keep the traitors busy. As long as we manage that, all’s right with the world.”
“If you say so, sir.” Andy didn’t sound convinced, and George was too worn to argue with him any more-and he wasn’t convinced, either.
Instead of arguing, he watched the sun go down between Proselytizers’ Rise and Sentry Peak. “We aren’t going to accomplish anything more today,” he said at last, and sent orders forward to have his men leave off fighting and encamp out of range of the northerners atop the Rise.
As they pulled back, a rather short man with a neat dark beard rode up on a fine unicorn. “Good evening, Lieutenant General,” General Bart called.
“Good evening to you, sir,” Doubting George replied. He held his salute as the commanding general dismounted. A trooper took charge of the unicorn’s reins. George asked the question surely uppermost in everyone’s mind: “What’s your view of the battle thus far?”
“Up in the north, Fighting Joseph has done everything I could have hoped for, and a little more besides,” Bart answered. “He’s driven Thraxton’s men as handsomely as you please, and I expect he’ll do more tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” George said. “I gather things aren’t going quite so smoothly in the southwest.”
“Well, no,” General Bart allowed. “Hesmucet and I looked over the ground ourselves before I ordered the attack, and-”
“Did you?” That impressed George. Few generals were so thorough.
“We did indeed. We looked it over, but we might not have done the best job in the world, because that Funnel Hill looks like a tougher nut than we thought it would. Hesmucet will have another go at things in the morning, too, and we’ll just have to find out how that fares.” Bart shrugged. “I still think we can beat the traitors here. It’s a question of making them crack somewhere.”
“Yes, sir.” That impressed Doubting George, too. A lot of generals, having fought hard one day, were content to take things easy the next. Bart didn’t fit that pattern. “What are your orders for me, sir?”
“For now, you’re doing what you ought to do,” the commanding general replied. “I have no complaints against you, not in the slightest.”
“We’ll see what happens tomorrow, then, sir,” George said. “I think we can beat them, too. I hope we can.” We’d better, he thought.
* * *
The campfires of Doubting George’s men flickered down on the flat country below Proselytizers’ Rise. Up on the crest of the Rise, the traitors’ fires likewise showed where they were. General Bart studied those latter flames, doing his best to gain meaning from them. His best, he feared, was none too good. Thraxton the Braggart had men up there. He’d already known that much, but he couldn’t learn much more.
“Colonel Phineas!” he called. “Are you there, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir, I’m here,” the army’s chief mage answered. He bustled up beside Bart. Firelight flickered from his plump, weary face. “What can I do for you?”
“What sort of sorcerous attacks has the enemy made against us in the fighting just past?” Bart asked.
Phineas licked his lips. “Actually, sir, not very many. For one thing, young Alva has kept the traitors remarkably busy down in the south.”
He didn’t sound altogether happy about that. Bart thought he understood why. “The youngster is strong, isn’t he? I’d be surprised if he stayed a lieutenant very much longer. Wouldn’t you be surprised, too, Colonel, if that were so?”
“Sir, deciding whom to promote is always the commanding general’s prerogative,” Phineas said stiffly. “I will admit, young Alva has proved himself stronger than many of his colleagues had thought he might.” He didn’t admit that he was one of those colleagues.
Bart almost twitted him about that, but decided to hold his peace. The less he said, the less cause he would have later to regret it. Sticking to business seemed the wiser course: “Does the northerners’ quiet mean they won’t be able to do anything much with magic tomorrow, or does it mean they’re saving up to give us as much trouble as they can?”
“Obviously, you would have to ask Thraxton the Braggart to get the full details of their plans,” Colonel Phineas said.
“But I can’t very well ask Thraxton.” Now Bart did let some annoyance come into his voice. “And so I’m asking you, Colonel. Give me your best judgment: what can we look forward to when the fighting picks up again?”
Phineas licked his lips once mor
e. Now, on the spot, he looked very unhappy. The firelight probably made that worse by exaggerating the lines and shadows on his jowly face. With a sigh, he said, “My best judgment, sir, is that they’re holding back, and that they still may try something strong and sorcerous against us tomorrow.”
“All right,” Bart said. “That’s my best guess, too. I’m glad our thoughts are going in the same direction. Has Thraxton made any sorcerous attempts against me, the way he did against General Guildenstern up by the River of Death?”
“None I or my fellow mages have been able to detect, sir,” Phineas replied.
“You so relieve my mind, Colonel,” Bart said dryly. “You’re saying that if he has tried to turn me into a frog, you haven’t noticed him succeeding.”
“Er-yes.” Phineas didn’t seem to know what to do with a general in a whimsical mood.
Bart decided to let the flustered wizard down easy. “All right, Colonel. I want you to go right on keeping an eye out for me. If Count Thraxton does try to get nasty with me, I want you and your mages to try your hardest to stop him-if you happen to notice him doing it, that is.” He decided he didn’t want to let Phineas down too easy after all.
“Yes, sir,” the chief mage said. As best Bart could tell by the firelight, Phineas looked as if he wanted to hide.
Bart wasn’t quite ready to let him get away, either. “And if you don’t mind too much, be sure and let Lieutenant Alva know to keep an eye on the Braggart along with his other duties.”
“Yes, sir,” Phineas said once more, this time in a hollow voice. “Will there be anything else, sir?” He sounded like a gloomy servant in a bad play.
“That should just about do it, I expect,” General Bart said. “You go get yourself a good night’s sleep. We’ll start bright and early in the morning.” He nodded to show Phineas he really was finished. The mage bowed and saluted and fled. If the traitors run as fast as he does, Bart thought, we’ll win ourselves a great and famous victory tomorrow. Wouldn’t that be fine?
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