Marching Through Peachtree wotp-2 Read online

  No one had spoken about exactly where in front of the Sweet One’s temple the southrons had their lines. Gremio concluded that was because no one knew. He wasn’t surprised. The whole war, on both sides, had gone like that, with armies blundering past each other and into each other as if their commanders were blind men. Maybe they are. It would explain some of the madness I’ve seen better than anything else I can think of.

  Old Straight’s wing didn’t blunder past the southrons. It blundered straight into them, discovering where they were by having a volley of crossbow quarrels tear into it at close range. Screams rose from the northerners. But so did their roaring war cry. “Forward!” Gremio shouted. “Now we’ve found the sons of bitches, so let’s go get ’em!”

  And, for what seemed like the first time in this campaign, the northerners had magecraft working for them. Thunderbolts crashed down on the southrons’ entrenchments. Dragons and other phantasms appeared in the sky. Gremio was a modern, well-educated man. He knew they couldn’t hurt him, and so they couldn’t. But if an ignorant farmer’s son believed the beasts could devour him or flame him, his superstitious belief gave them the power to do just that.

  Roaring their throats raw, the northerners swarmed down into the enemy’s trenches. A lot of southrons there were already dead or hurt from the magecraft. Some of the ones who remained threw away their crossbows and shortswords and surrendered. But others, stubborn as if they were good northern men, fought on despite long odds.

  A crossbow bolt hissed past Gremio’s ear as he jumped into the forwardmost trench. His sword spitted the southron who’d shot at him. The man in gray howled and reeled back.

  “Keep moving, gods damn you!” Gremio called to his men. “This isn’t the fight we need. We’ve got to get through these trenches and seize the shrine and the high ground around it. If we can’t manage that, whatever we do here doesn’t matter.”

  Sometimes the soldiers did need reminding of such things. To a lot of them, as to Florizel, fighting was an end in itself, not a means. That struck Gremio as madness, but he knew it to be true even so.

  “Onward!” he yelled again, and looked along the trench to make sure the troopers could go on. Not far away, Sergeant Thisbe battled a southron who had a better idea than most of his fellows about what to do with a shortsword. Gremio ran to Thisbe’s aid. The southron cared no more than any other soldier for the notion of fighting two foes at once. He turned and fled.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Thisbe said.

  “You’re welcome. I know you’d do the same for me,” Gremio answered. “Now we’ve got to get moving. If we can drive them back from the shrine, we’ve really done something.”

  Out of the trenches and east once more pushed the northerners. But they ran into another line of entrenchments only a furlong or so past the one they’d just cleared. Crossing the open ground cost them a lot of good men killed and wounded. This time, too, the lightnings mostly missed when they struck at the southrons’ fieldworks. Little by little, the enemy’s magic was coming up close to the level of that of King Geoffrey’s wizards.

  Colonel Florizel pointed with his sword at the trenches ahead. “Charge!” he cried.

  If sorcery wouldn’t do the job, crossbow quarrels and shortswords and pikes would have to. Still roaring like lions, the northern men surged toward the second line of trenches. They’d enjoyed the defenders’ advantage through most of the fights from Borders up to Marthasville. No more. Now the southrons waited for them to come, waited and took a heavy toll while they were in the open.

  I can’t go back, Gremio thought. Everyone in the regiment-everyone in the army-will reckon me a coward if I do. And so he went forward, in spite of the bolts that zipped past him and tugged at the fabric of his baggy pantaloons. All around him, men fell. When he reached the second line of trenches, he leaped down into it with a roar that was more than half a cry of despair.

  More fierce fighting in the trenches slowed the northerners’ advance. By the time the last southrons were down or fled, Gremio had a cut on his arm and another above his eye. Blood made tears run down his face. He blinked constantly, trying to clear his sight. When he saw how few men he had left, he wished his vision were blurrier, so they would seem to be more.

  “Well fought, boys!” Colonel Florizel boomed. “They can’t hold us back when we aim to go forward, by the gods.”

  To Gremio’s amazement, the northerners raised a ragged cheer. They were ready to do whatever their officers demanded of them. And if, every now and again, those officers should happen to ask the impossible… Gremio knew the answer there. He’d seen it. Sometimes the men would give it to them. Others, they died like flies proving it an impossibility after all.

  “Form up! Dress your ranks!” Florizel called when they struggled out of the southrons’ second line of fieldworks. The regimental commander waited till the lines were neat enough to suit him, then nodded in fussy satisfaction. “Very good, men. Now-forward!”

  Forward they went once more. After another couple of furlongs, though, they came upon a third line of entrenchments. Like the first two, this one was full of southron soldiers. They started volleying away at the northerners as soon as Gremio and his comrades came into range. And they had catapults to support them. Firepots flew through the air, splashing flames over grass-and men.

  “We can’t take that position, sir,” Sergeant Thisbe said urgently. “I don’t think we can get into that trench. I’m sure we won’t come out again.”

  Gremio was sure of the same thing. But he was sure of something else, too: “If the colonel orders me forward, Sergeant, forward I shall go. We’ve got to take the Sweet One’s shrine or die trying.”

  “To the seven hells with the Sweet One,” Thisbe said. “She’s a stinking, lying bitch. She’ll laugh when we die, that’s all.”

  “It can’t be helped, Sergeant.” Gremio thought Thisbe was right, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He looked toward Colonel Florizel. It was up to the regimental commander now.

  To his dismay, Florizel was looking at him, too. Do you want me to say we should go back, sir? Gremio wondered. To the hells with me if I will. You won’t get the chance to call me craven.

  But Florizel said, “It’s no good, is it, Captain?”

  “I am at your command, sir,” Gremio answered.

  Florizel shook his head. “It’s no good,” he repeated. “Going forward into the teeth of their defenses would be murder, nothing less. Shall I make you do duty as my barrister before the gods?”

  “Colonel, I will obey any order you choose to give me,” Gremio said, “and I promise you, sir, my men will follow me.”

  “But it’s no good, Captain.” The regimental commander sounded like an old and broken man. “It’s no gods-damned good, no good at all. We’d just get ourselves killed, and we wouldn’t shift the stinking southrons even an inch.”

  Gremio had reached the same conclusion. If Florizel could see it, it had to be correct. He said, “Sir, the decision is yours.”

  Florizel looked at him-looked through him. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’d reckon you a coward if you advised me to fall back.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen you fight. I know better now. You may not be a nobleman, but you’ve got a pair of ballocks hanging from you.”

  “For which I thank you.” Punctiliously polite, Gremio bowed to his superior officer. That might have saved his life, for a crossbow quarrel whistled by over his head. He shivered a little as he straightened. “I do not believe we have any hope of taking the position in front of us, either. Nor do I see how we can seize the Sweet One’s shrine and the surrounding high ground.”

  “In that case, we’d best save ourselves for the next fight, wouldn’t you say?” Florizel asked.

  “There surely will be another fight, Colonel,” Gremio replied, and then, try as he would, couldn’t help letting some acid out: “After all, we’ve only failed to beat a bigger army four times in a row now. Bell will surely think t
hat’s an accident, and send us out to try again.”

  When Bell assumed command, Colonel Florizel had been ecstatic. I should have remembered that, Gremio thought. But Florizel only sighed and shrugged and said, “It hasn’t quite worked, has it? Maybe he’ll decide it won’t work. But even if we don’t go after these bastards, they’ll come after us, sure as hells.” He raised his voice to a full battlefield bellow: “Trumpeters! Blow retreat!”

  The mournful notes rang out. In their trenches, the southrons raised a cheer. The horn calls of both armies were the same. And why not? Gremio thought. It was all one army not so long ago.

  Florizel’s wasn’t the only regiment falling back. A couple of units tried last assaults against the southrons’ works, which only got more men shot and burned to no purpose. Then they too withdrew toward the line from which they’d begun.

  “Lieutenant General Bell won’t be very happy when he gets word of what happened here,” Florizel predicted.

  “Too bad,” Gremio said. “I’m not very happy about it, either.” His wounds were minor, but they still stung. With a shrug, he went on, “Of course, nobody cares what I think.”

  Florizel only growled and scowled and shook his head. He didn’t care what anybody thought, not right then. But Sergeant Thisbe said, “That isn’t true, sir!”

  “Thank you,” Gremio said, and felt better about retreating than he had.

  * * *

  Doubting George stood atop the parapet in front of the earthworks the northerners had held between Goober Creek and Marthasville. These days, Bell’s army held a line just outside Marthasville’s southern outskirts. Lieutenant General George was more than a little amazed the traitors still held the city. Bell was stubborner than he’d thought.

  General Hesmucet was making Bell pay for his stubbornness, too. From where George stood, he had a fine view of the southrons’ siege engines lobbing destruction into Marthasville. Pillars of smoke rose here and there in the besieged city. Even as he watched, another fire started.

  Brigadier Brannan came walking along what had been the traitors’ line. The siege-engine specialist looked pleased with himself. He looked even more pleased with the way things were going. “Good morning, sir,” he said, beaming at Doubting George. “Now we get to see what our toys can do.”

  “Well, I thought we already had a pretty fair notion of that,” George replied. “Now Lieutenant General Bell gets to see what our toys can do, and we’ll find out how he likes it.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s more or less what I meant, sir,” Brannan said. “Getting besieged can’t be much fun when we’ve got the power to burn the place where he’s sheltering down around his ears.”

  “I wouldn’t think so, anyhow,” George said. “And it’s not even as if Marthasville had a strong central keep. By the gods, the town’s only a generation old, and nobody ever bothered building one here.”

  “No one ever saw the need,” Brannan said, no little scorn in his voice for men who hadn’t looked far enough ahead. “No one thought there would be a war between the provinces, or that we would come so far if there were.”

  “A keep wouldn’t do Bell much good anyhow,” Doubting George observed. “Even if he managed to stay inside it, we’d still squeeze the life out of Marthasville-we’d seize the glideways, and we’d wreck the manufactories.”

  “That’s right, sir.” Brigadier Brannan nodded and grinned. “If Bell wants to go out in a blaze of glory, we’re giving him the chance.” As if to underscore his words, yet another big fire broke out in Marthasville.

  “If you were Bell,” George said, “what would you do to get yourself out of the mess you’d got yourself into?”

  Brannan’s grin got wider. “You mean, besides wish like hells Geoffrey’d never, ever, chosen me commander of the Army of Franklin?”

  George smiled, too. “Yes, besides that. By now, he’s seen he can’t force us back from the city. He’s tried four times, he’s thrown away what has to be the third part of his army, and he hasn’t moved us a foot. I expect he’s finally drawing the right conclusions from that, eh?”

  “A blind man would. By the gods, sir, a dead man would,” Brannan answered. “Of course, whether Bell would remains an open question.”

  “Naughty, Brigadier-distinctly naughty,” George said. “If he can’t force us away from here, what can he do? I see two possibilities.”

  “Magic is one,” Brannan said.

  “Magic is always one, where the northerners are concerned,” Doubting George agreed. “The other is turning his unicorn-riders loose and wrecking the glideway line that comes up from Rising Rock and keeps us in food and firepots and such.”

  “Congratulations, sir,” Brigadier Brannan said. George raised a questioning eyebrow. Brannan explained: “I think you’ve just spelled out the meaning of what they call a theoretical possibility.”

  “A theoretical possibility is one that might happen but won’t,” George said. “Sort of on the order of false King Geoffrey’s turning out to be an honest man.” Brannan guffawed. George hadn’t been joking, or not very much. He nourished a fine, flourishing resentment against King Avram’s cousin for confiscating his estates in Parthenia after he chose a united Detina over the call of his province.

  Of course, King Avram had confiscated Duke Edward of Arlington’s estates when Edward chose Parthenia over a united Detina. But George was on Avram’s side, so he didn’t fuss about that. Besides, it wasn’t his land.

  But when General Hesmucet summoned his wing commanders for a conference, he wasn’t quite so cheerful. “Bell’s turned his unicorn-riders loose, gods damn him,” he said. “They’re going to see how hungry they can make us.”

  “Well, it could be worse, sir,” John the Lister said. “He’s still got Brigadier Spinner in charge of his riders, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s right.” Hesmucet gestured to his new wing commander. “I know what you’re going to say, Ducky-to the seven hells with me if I don’t. You’re going to say it’d be a lot worse if Ned of the Forest had charge of the traitors’ unicorns.”

  “Yes, sir, that is what I was going to say,” John agreed. “Will you tell me I’m wrong?”

  “Not for a minute,” Hesmucet said. “Not even for half a minute. What I’m going to tell you is, I’m gods-damned glad you’ve got charge of that wing now, and not Fighting Joseph any more. He’s a brave man, and I’d never say anything less as far as that goes, but he’s a first-class son of a bitch, too, and he never did bother learning much about the traitors’ commanders here in the east.”

  “By his record, he never bothered learning much about their commanders in the west, either,” Doubting George remarked.

  “I didn’t say that.” Hesmucet grinned. “I may have thought it as loud as I could, but, gods damn it to the hells, I didn’t say it.”

  “Sir…” That was Brigadier Oliver, the late James the Bird’s Eye’s successor. “Sir, must you take the names of the gods in vain quite so much?”

  He was earnest. He was polite, even plaintive. He was properly subordinate. By all the signs, he even succeeded in embarrassing the commanding general. That impressed George, who hadn’t been sure such a thing was possible. After coughing a couple of times, Hesmucet said, “Well, Brigadier, I will try to do better. I’ve had a ready tongue for a lot of years now, though, so I don’t promise I’ll be perfect, nor anywhere close.”

  “The gods do admire effort, sir,” Brigadier Oliver said, as if the Thunderer, or perhaps the Sweet One, had come down from Mount Panamgam beyond the sky to whisper as much in his ear.

  No god had ever come down and whispered in Doubting George’s ear. Given a choice, he would have picked the Sweet One for such a duty, but men seldom got such choices, and often got in trouble when they did. Resolutely pushing his mind away from what the love goddess’ whispers might be like, he asked, “What are we going to do if Spinner’s running loose?”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Hesmucet replied. “I’ll send Marb
le Bill out to keep Spinner’s riders off our glideway line.”

  It was indeed the obvious answer. John the Lister pointed out what George hesitated to: “Bill’s not the best commander of unicorns ever born.”

  “No, but neither is Spinner, so it evens out,” Hesmucet said.

  “A point,” Doubting George said after a little thought. “Sure enough, that is a point. The bland fighting the bland, you might say.”

  “You might,” Hesmucet said with a groan. “As for me, I feel the same way about such things as Brigadier Oliver feels about taking the name of the gods in vain.”

  “Sir,” Oliver said, “you don’t have a religious duty to punish those who make foolish jokes.”

  “No, eh?” Hesmucet rumbled. “Well, gods… bless it, I ought to have such a duty. Every righteous man ought to have such a duty.” He glowered at George. “Don’t you agree, Lieutenant General?”

  “Well, sir, actually, I am more inclined toward mercy,” George replied. “My notion is, the gods make note of everything they say. I expect they can deal with these matters in their own good time.”

  “Hmm.” Hesmucet gave him a severe look. “Why do I suspect you’re saying that because you’re the culprit here?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, sir,” Doubting George replied-blandly. “I assure you, I’d do the same for anyone else.”

  “Of course you assure me of that,” Hesmucet said. “You assure me of all manner of nonsensical things and gods-damned lies.”

  He sounded so pugnacious, Brigadier Oliver spoke up again: “Sir, you would be well-advised to show mercy to those who disagree with you, not to revile them.”

  “No.” Where Hesmucet had sounded fierce while teasing George, now he really was. George could tell the difference. Hesmucet pointed north toward Marthasville, saying, “What I aim to do with those who disagree with me-and who disagree with King Avram, gods bless him-is whip them right out of their boots.” He walked over and set a hand on Doubting George’s shoulder. “And that’s why I put up with this son of a bitch in spite of his foolishness. Put him in the field against the traitors and he’s a tiger. Next to that, nothing else matters, not even a little bit.”