“Shoot!” a southron officer yelled. Another volley tore into the men in blue. Gremio heard the shrieks behind him. He looked back again. What seemed like half the men who had still been on their feet were down.
Sergeant Thisbe waved urgently. “Sir, we can’t do it,” he called.
“We’ve got to try,” Gremio answered, which meant, I’m going to die before I retreat without orders. That was very likely a kind of madness of its own, but it was a madness most men on a battlefield shared. Without such a madness, anyone put in danger of his life would simply run away, and how could kings and generals hope to fight their wars like that?
But, before shouting, “Forward!” again, Gremio looked around for Colonel Florizel. If the regimental commander had already fallen, Gremio got some of his discretion back. He knew what he would do with it, too, for Thisbe was right: the attackers lacked the numbers to go any farther forward.
Florizel waved a sword bloodier than Gremio’s. Whatever the earl’s flaws, cowardice was not among them. “Good fighting!” he bawled.
“If you say so, your Excellency,” Gremio answered.
Then Florizel scowled, not at him but at the southrons. “Gods damn it, I don’t think we can shift them,” the regimental commander said.
The attack had jolted the southrons, but no more. “What are your orders, sir?” he called to Florizel.
A man of sense, seeing no hope the attack could succeed, would have ordered his men back. Earl Florizel said, “Let’s give it one more try, on the off chance I might be wrong.” He waved his sword again. “I hate to pull back from such a fine fray.”
That stuck Gremio as madness, but what point to saying so? What he did say was the only thing that would have satisfied the colonel: “Forward!” Forward he went, with such men as were still able to go with him.
Two more deadly volleys from the southrons broke the charge before it came to hand to hand. Gremio looked for Florizel, wondering if one of those crossbow quarrels had stretched him dead in the dirt. Somehow, the regimental commander still stood, but only a forlorn corporal’s guard stood with him.
“Sir, they won’t leave a one of us alive if we stay here much longer,” Sergeant Thisbe said urgently.
“If Florizel orders me to die here, then die here I shall,” Gremio answered. Thisbe was more practical than that, as sergeants had a way of being. If he stayed, it was only because Gremio did: another species of madness, without a doubt.
At last, even Florizel saw it was hopeless. He ordered the men back toward the works from which they’d erupted. Those who could, obeyed.
* * *
Lieutenant General Bell scowled at his wing commanders. Roast-Beef William and Alexander the Steward gave back the exhausted stares of men who had seen too much fighting that day. Bell didn’t care how battle-weary they looked. He cared about nothing except the results of that fight.
“You failed me,” he growled. “Your men failed me.”
“Sir, we did everything we could,” Brigadier Alexander said.
“That’s the truth-the whole truth and nothing but,” Roast-Beef William agreed. “The southrons were there in numbers too great for us to move them. We tried. We did everything we could, everything we knew how to do.”
“You failed me,” Bell repeated. “Your men have turned craven, on account of cowering too long in trenches. They didn’t, they wouldn’t, push the attack with the spirit required to destroy the enemy.”
“Sir, that is not true,” William said. “They fought as bravely as any men could fight-look how many dead and wounded we left on the field.”
“If they had fought bravely enough, we would have won,” Bell said. “We should have won. We didn’t win. What have you got to say for yourselves?”
“Sir, if you’re going to attack an army that’s bigger than your own, you’ve got to know the odds aren’t on your side,” Old Straight said.
“But I had to attack. King Geoffrey insisted on it. That’s why Joseph the Gamecock isn’t commanding any more,” Bell said. The misfortune that had befallen his army couldn’t possibly have been his fault. “The soldiers just didn’t put enough into it. Otherwise, they would have won.”
“Do you want to throw away the whole army, then?” William asked.
“No! I want to drive back the southrons. We have to drive back the southrons,” Bell said. “If we don’t, they can cut the glideways to Marthasville one by one till they hold the town in the palm of their hand.”
“They’re already doing it,” Brigadier Alexander said. “That move to extend their left flank means they’re sitting on the glideway path to Julia. We’ll get no more supplies from the west.”
“Then we have to drive them back,” Bell declared. “It’s as simple as that.”
“Saying it’s as simple as that,” Roast-Beef William remarked. “Doing something about it won’t be so easy, I’m afraid. When you sent us south against Doubting George, you didn’t leave Benjamin the Heated Ham very many men. He may be able to hold back James the Bird’s Eye-but, on the other hand, he may not. He surely hasn’t got the numbers he needs to attack.”
Bell took the laudanum bottle from his tunic pocket and raised it to his lips. Maybe the drug would shield him from things he didn’t care to contemplate. Resentment in his voice, he said, “Hesmucet has no trouble attacking wherever he pleases.”
Patiently, William answered, “Hesmucet has more men than we do, sir. It’s in the nature of things that he can do a good deal we can’t.”
Brigadier Alexander added, “The one thing wrong with attacks is that they’re expensive even when they succeed-and a lot more expensive when they fail.”
“Gods damn it, I didn’t send you out there to fail,” Bell said. He studied the map. “We have to strike a blow against their left. We have to. That will free up the glideway line, and we’re holding Marthasville on account of those lines.”
“An attack would be splendid, if we had the men to do it,” Roast-Beef William said. “But whence will you conjure them up, sir?”
“If we can’t do what we’d like to do, we’ll do what we have to do,” Bell replied. “You pull your men out of the fieldworks south of town, Lieutenant General. March them north and west through Marthasville till they outflank the end of the southrons’ line, which is-which has to be-unguarded, up in the air. Attack at dawn, roll them up, and send them back in the direction from which they came.”
“As easy as that, sir?” William said tonelessly.
“As easy as that,” Bell agreed, taking no notice of the way the wing commander sounded. “It will be a famous victory.”
“Sir,” William said, “my men fought their hearts out today. The ones who aren’t hurt are weary to the bone. Send them marching all through the night and you won’t get the best from them come morning.”
“I certainly will, because I have to,” Bell replied. “The kingdom requires it. Are you telling me it can’t be done? Do you want me to have to tell King Geoffrey it couldn’t be done?”
“No-o-o,” Roast-Beef William said, drawing the word out as long as he could. “I don’t say it can’t be done. But I do say the odds are steep against it.”
“It must be done,” Bell said. “I order you to try it. Once we hit the southrons in the flank, they’re bound to fold up. And Brigadier Benjamin will give you all the support he possibly can.”
“What am I supposed to be doing during all this?” Alexander the Steward asked.
“Hold the southrons away from Marthasville if Doubting George tries to come up from the south,” Bell answered. “In those trenches, you can do that.”
“I hope I can do that,” Old Straight replied. “I don’t have a whole lot of men left myself, you know, what with one thing and another.”
“We all have to do everything we can.” Bell’s gaze swung back toward Roast-Beef William. “Sunrise. Hit them hard. Roll them up. The kingdom is counting on it.”
The veteran wing commander let out a long, sad sigh.
At last, after waiting much too long for proper subordination, he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, somehow contriving to make obedience sound like reproof.
“We’ll beat them,” Bell said. “We’ve got to.”
“We’ll do our best,” Roast-Beef William said. “And now, sir, if you’ll excuse me…” He sketched a salute to Bell and left the headquarters.
Alexander the Steward said, “If I’m going to hold the south-facing fortifications with the men of my wing alone, sir, I’d better get back there and spread them out as best I can.” He too gave Bell a salute and departed.
And that left the new commanding general for the Army of Franklin alone in the farmhouse with nothing but the haze of laudanum between him and the knowledge that his first attack had failed. He’d hoped to throw the southrons back into Goober Creek. Instead, his own men were back in the fieldworks from which they’d set out so boldly that morning-those who could come back to the works, at any rate. The knowledge of his failure hurt even more than his ruined arm and his missing leg, and the drug did less to ease that pain.
“We have to beat them,” Bell repeated. No one was there to hear him now, or to contradict him. It felt as if saying it were plenty to make it so. He laughed bitterly. If only battles were so easy!
He drank more laudanum to help him sleep. Even so, he woke up in the middle of the night. At first, he thought the noise he heard was rain pounding on the roof. He wouldn’t have minded that; it would have made moving harder for Hesmucet and the southrons. But what he heard wasn’t the patter of rain. It was the patter of feet: Roast-Beef William’s men tramping past by moonlight, to take their positions for the morning’s attack against James the Bird’s Eye and the southrons’ left.
Good old William, Bell thought drowsily. He may not think I’m right-he doesn’t think I’m right-but he’ll follow orders anyway, and follow them as well as he knows how. I wish all my officers were so reliable. He fell back to sleep with a smile on his face.
Even before sunrise, the distant racket of battle woke him: bowstrings snapping, firepots bursting, men screaming and cursing for all they were worth. That racket was the sweetest music Bell knew. When he cursed, it was in frustration because his wounds no longer let him take the field. He’d never felt more like a man than when risking his life and taking those of his foes. His injuries had robbed him of that forever.
Those injuries clamored for his notice, too. He reached out with his good hand and grabbed the laudanum bottle, which sat on a table next to his bed. Yanking the cork with his teeth, he swigged. Before long, the fire in his shoulder and in his stump would ease.
Even before it did, though, someone pounded on the farmhouse door. “Just a minute,” Bell shouted. Getting out of bed wasn’t easy. He had to position his crutches and then lever himself upright. He didn’t bother putting on his one boot, but hitched across the dirt floor on the crutches and his bare foot. He unlatched the door and eyed the runner waiting there. “Well?” he demanded.
“We’re driving ’em, sir,” the runner told him. “We’re driving ’em like hells, pushing ’em back like nobody’s business.”
“Ah,” Bell said. That felt as good as the laudanum now beginning to glide through his veins. “Give me the details.”
“Haven’t got a whole lot of ’em, sir,” the soldier answered. “I expect you’ll hear more later on. But I know for a fact there’s places where we’re shooting at the gods-damned southrons from the front and the back at the same time.”
“That’s good,” Bell said, which would do for an understatement till a bigger one came along. “That’s very good. If we can drive them to destruction, the entire campaign looks different.”
“Hope so, sir,” the runner said. “Plenty of good fighting-I’ll tell you that.” He saluted and hurried away.
Bell wished he were at the head of the wing attacking the southrons, not Roast-Beef William. Nothing made him feel more truly alive than roaring like a lion and flinging himself at the enemy. When his sword bit… Feeling steel pierce foe’s flesh had a satisfaction even feeling his own lance pierce a woman’s flesh couldn’t match. He muttered a curse under his breath. With all the laudanum he drank, his lance didn’t stand and charge the way it had before he got hurt, either.
That made him remember that attackers as well as defenders could get hurt. He forgot that whenever he could. Attacks went in. If they went in properly, they carried everything before them. So he’d made himself believe. It had always-well, almost always-worked for Duke Edward of Arlington and the Army of Southern Parthenia. It had worked for Earl James of Broadpath here in the east at the River of Death. It had worked there even if that fight cost Bell his leg.
That it had worked in those places and for those commanders because the said generals picked their spots and timing with care never entered Bell’s mind. To him, such things were of scant importance. Coming to grips with the southrons and hammering them-that was what really mattered.
His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He cursed again. For him nowadays, it was-it had to be-a purely ceremonial weapon. He still wanted to kill southrons, but anything that moved faster than a tortoise was safe from him. He couldn’t even duel if his honor was affronted. Who would fight a cripple?
Another messenger galloped up on unicornback. The man dismounted and hurried to the farmhouse. “We’re still pushing ’em hard, sir,” he said when Bell opened the door for him. “Gods-damned sons of bitches are digging like moles, though. Every time we drive ’em another furlong or two, bastards run up another set of earthworks and make us charge ’em. They’re usually good for a couple volleys before we reach ’em and clear ’em out, too. Makes the job expensive, but we’re doing it.”
“Of course we are,” Bell said heartily. “We’ll lick them right out of their boots. Once we do that, we can count the cost.”
Joseph the Gamecock, that old cheeseparer, had counted the cost before he tried to buy his battles, and so he’d never spent the men winning them would have taken. Bell didn’t care if he bankrupted himself winning the first. Everything after that would just have to take care of itself.
“Keep hitting them,” he told the messenger. “That’s the order. We’ve got to keep hitting them, no matter what.”
“Yes, sir,” the fellow said, and went back to his unicorn at the run. Clods of rust-colored dirt flew up from under the white beast’s hooves as it galloped away.
All Lieutenant General Bell could do was wait for messengers to bring him news of what was happening to the northwest. If Roast-Beef William didn’t throw the southrons back from the glideway leading to Julia… Bell shook his head. He wouldn’t think about that. He refused to think about that.
As morning wore away and afternoon came on, the news the messengers brought was less and less anything Bell wanted to hear. The southrons had stiffened. “We’re hitting ’em with everything we got, sir,” one man said, “but we ain’t got enough. Maybe if we wasn’t so worn from marching all night to get to where we needed to be at so as we could hit ’em at all… But there’s a lot of them bastards, and they don’t want to move.”
“But they have to!” Bell exclaimed, as if he could push the southrons off the glideway with his one good arm.
With a mournful shrug, the messenger went his way. Bell stared off to the northwest. Men marching and countermarching had raised a great cloud of dust, by which he could tell where the fighting was taking place, but not, try as he would, how it was going. He drummed the fingers of his good hand against his crutch and waited for another messenger to bring more news.
Before long, one did. Even as he rode up, he shouted in excitement: “Lieutenant General Bell! Lieutenant General Bell!”
“What is it?” Bell barked. “What’s the word?”
“We’ve killed James the Bird’s Eye, sir,” the messenger exclaimed. “The southrons’ wing commander’s dead as shoe leather, gods damn the son of a bitch to the seven hells!”
* * *
“Wh
at?” General Hesmucet stared at the messenger in dismay. “James the Bird’s Eye dead? I don’t believe it!”
“I’m afraid it’s true, sir,” the southron unicorn-rider said. “Gods damn those traitor sons of bitches to the seven hells, but they shot him right off his unicorn while he was riding toward the thick of the fighting.”
“That sounds like him. That sounds just like him, in fact.” Hesmucet shook his head in dull wonder. “But dead? That’s dreadful! He can’t even be thirty-five. He’s… he was… strong and brave and handsome, and everybody likes-liked-him. He was a noble man, and I’m sure King Avram would have made him a nobleman had he lived. What are the gods thinking of, to let him die so young?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know how to answer that, sir,” the messenger replied.
Hesmucet didn’t know how to answer it, either. He knew what Major Alva would have said: that the gods paid much less attention to earthly affairs than people were in the habit of thinking. Hesmucet didn’t like to hear such things. But when an officer who had everything to live for stopped a crossbow quarrel, he couldn’t help wondering whether Alva had a point.
The rider pointed back towards a unicorn-drawn ambulance coming down from the northwest. “Sir, I don’t know for a fact, but I believe that’s his body in there.”
Seeing the ambulance made hope rise in Hesmucet. “Maybe he’s not dead. Maybe he’s only wounded,” the commanding general said. The messenger shook his head, but Hesmucet shouted for a healer.
As soon as the ambulance stopped, a couple of men removed James the Bird’s Eye’s body from it. One look told Hesmucet the young wing commander would never rise again. Hesmucet had seen enough corpses the past three years and more to have no doubt when he saw another. The healer stooped beside James, then looked up at the general commanding. “Through the heart, sir, I’m afraid,” he said. “It would have been over very fast, if that’s any consolation.”
“Not fornicating much,” Hesmucet snapped. And then, as he had to, he thought about the battle still unfolding. “Who’s in command now on the left?” he demanded of the messenger.
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