Marching Through Peachtree wotp-2 Read online

  Riding a unicorn toward Caesar was a torment for Joseph, not because he was saddle sore but because he was in an agony of suspense. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any more. He rode off into a field and motioned for a scryer to come to him. The man did his best, but said, “I can’t bring Husham Forkbeard’s scryer onto the crystal ball, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Gods damn it, how am I supposed to know what’s going on if no one will tell me?” Joseph ground out. The likeliest reason Husham’s scryer wouldn’t or couldn’t talk was that the man was busy fighting for his life. Joseph knew that only too well. However well he knew it, though, he didn’t care to think about it.

  At last, when Joseph was within three or four miles of Caesar and about to boot his unicorn up into a gallop so he could find out how things were going there, the scryer said, “Sir, here’s Brigadier Husham.”

  “Well, gods be praised!” Joseph the Gamecock snatched the crystal out of the scryer’s hands and rode along with it in his lap. “Husham! Tell me at once, are we holding there?”

  “Yes, sir.” Husham Forkbeard’s fierce features blazed with pride. They also showed a sword cut he hadn’t had before. “They came at Caesar. We gave ’em a nice warm northern hello with massed crossbow volleys and all the engines, and they fell back. Right now, they’re digging in across the mouth of Viper River Gap.”

  “Let ’em,” Joseph said. “We’re not trying to break out, no matter what Lieutenant General Bell says.” He breathed a sigh of relief-two sighs of relief, in fact, one for holding and the other… “Seems to me General Hesmucet doesn’t quite know what to do with his great big army yet. Good.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Husham allowed. “I tell you for true, though, sir, if they’d hit me with everything they had, gods only know how I would’ve held ’em. Now I’ve got that brigade from Leonidas the Priest, so I’m good for a while longer, anyways. And I hear tell you’re bringing more men up towards Caesar.”

  “I’m bringing the whole army, Brigadier,” Joseph answered. “And I’ll tell you something else, too: I don’t think I’m the only one.”

  In a tent just east of Viper River Gap, General Hesmucet looked daggers at Brigadier John the Bird’s Eye. “You had them,” Hesmucet growled. “Gods damn it, you had them, and you let them get away. The sort of chance a soldier only gets once in a lifetime. You could have strolled right into Caesar-”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the younger man broke in, “but that isn’t true at all. I tried to break into Caesar, and I took some hundreds of men killed and wounded for my trouble, and I did not succeed.”

  “One understrength brigade holding the town,” Hesmucet grumbled. “You outnumbered the traitors three or four to one. You could have had your way with them, could have seized Caesar, could have cut Joseph the Gamecock off from Marthasville, which is the one thing in all the world-the one and only thing, mind you-he knows must not happen to his army.”

  “Sir,” James the Bird’s Eye said stiffly, “my orders were to attack the glideway line to see how it was defended, and then to dig in at the mouth of Viper River Gap and to have my men ready to pursue the northerners if they took flight. I followed them exactly as you gave them to me. If you blame me for that, sir…” He didn’t go on, not with words, but the tip of his curly black beard quivered in indignation.

  And Hesmucet, contemplating the orders he had indeed given, let out a long, rueful sigh. “Very well, Brigadier. You have a point, and you made it well. I can still wish you might have done more, but you were perfectly justified in doing as you did on the basis of what I told you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Brigadier James replied, his tone still aggrieved.

  I meant every word of what I told you, though, Hesmucet thought. You had the sort of chance you may never see again, and you didn’t take it. The northerners were strong enough to stop your first tap, and you didn’t tap twice. If you had, you’d be a hero today and probably an earl tomorrow.

  “May I make an observation, sir?” Joseph the Bird’s Eye asked.

  “Go ahead,” Hesmucet said, though most men would have quailed at speaking too frankly by the way he said it.

  Young James had nerve, even if he hadn’t done everything Hesmucet would have wanted of him. He said, “Sir, if this was supposed to be your striking force and the one attacking the gaps farther south your holding force, you might have done better to let me assail the Vulture’s Nest and the Dog’s Path and to have sent Lieutenant General George up here with his much bigger army to strike at Caesar.”

  Hesmucet pondered that. He was not a sweet-tempered man, but he was, on the whole, a just one. However much he wanted to scorch Brigadier James for his presumption, he discovered he couldn’t. “Well, gods damn it, you’re right,” he said.

  James the Bird’s Eye blinked. “Sir?” Evidently, that wasn’t what he’d expected to hear from the general commanding.

  “You’re right,” Hesmucet repeated. “I wish you weren’t, but you are. I sent a boy to do a man’s job, and I had a man ready to hand. That was a mistake. I hope I won’t make the same one again. A good general makes mistakes once. A bad general keeps doing the same stupid gods-damned thing over and over.”

  “That’s… probably something worth remembering,” James said.

  “So it is-for you and me both,” Hesmucet said. “All right, Brigadier-you may go. It would have been nice if we could have just swarmed into Caesar and ruined Joseph the Gamecock right at the start of this campaign, but if we can’t, we can’t. We’ll try something else, that’s all.”

  Saluting, James the Bird’s Eye ducked his way out of the pavilion. Hesmucet paused, thinking how the war had changed since its early days. Doubting George had had it right. Back then, armies on both sides had largely marched where they would. When they happened to collide with an opposing army, they would fight. Now both Marshal Bart and Hesmucet himself had clear goals in mind: Bart to hammer the Army of Southern Parthenia till it could stand no more hammering, Hesmucet to do the same to the Army of Franklin. No one in the first two years of the war could even have imagined such efforts. These truly were campaigns, perhaps the first such that had ever been fought in the Kingdom of Detina.

  “What that means is, I’d better not bungle this one any more,” Hesmucet muttered. He stepped out of the pavilion and called for a couple of runners. When the men came up, he said, “My compliments to Doubting George and Fighting Joseph, and ask them to attend me here at their earliest convenience.”

  “Yes, sir,” the runners chorused. They put their heads together for a moment, no doubt deciding who would go to which general. Then they loped away.

  Lieutenant General George got to Hesmucet’s tent first. The commanding general would have been surprised had it been the other way round. George might not love me, but he does love the kingdom, Hesmucet thought. Fighting Joseph loves Fighting Joseph, and nobody and nothing else.

  “Your flanking move didn’t quite work, sir,” George remarked.

  “No, not quite,” Hesmucet agreed. “I probably should have used James the Bird’s Eye to demonstrate against the two gaps farther south and sent your bigger army through Viper River Gap against Caesar.”

  “I rather thought so at the time, sir, but I doubted whether I should press the point,” George said. “I know you’re keeping that kind of eye on me.”

  “Well… yes.” Hesmucet wasn’t easily nonplused, but Doubting George had done the job. “We will manage to work together, though, one way or another, I think. And I’m still figuring out what I can do with all the soldiers I’ve got here. This is a large command. Next time, I’ll manage my moves better.”

  “Fair enough, sir,” George said. “I don’t doubt that in the slightest.”

  Fighting Joseph rode up just then, a procession of one. Hesmucet, an indifferent rider, had an indifferent unicorn. Doubting George, a good rider, had a fine unicorn. And Fighting Joseph, a splendid rider, had the most glorious unicorn Hesmucet had ever seen: whiter th
an snow, horn shod with polished silver rather than workaday iron, coat and mane and tail all combed to magnificent perfection.

  Fighting Joseph looked moderately magnificent himself. He was a handsome, ruddy man whose hair had gone silver, not mere gray. He looked as if he ought to be a king, not so lowly a creature as a general. Many people-King Avram not least among them-believed he thought he ought to be king, too. Avram had given him command in the west anyhow the year before, willing to gamble victories against the chance of a usurpation after them.

  He hadn’t got the victories. Duke Edward of Arlington not only beat but embarrassed Fighting Joseph at Viziersville. Now Joseph commanded a wing here in the distant east, not an army in the vital west. But he still thought well of himself.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said as he dismounted and tied his unicorn to a tree branch. He saluted with a certain reluctance, as if unhappy about acknowledging any man his superior, even if only in a formal sense. “Now that we didn’t break through here, what are we going to try next?”

  “Breaking through again, obviously,” Hesmucet said. Fighting Joseph had nerve, throwing his failure in his face like that. But then, Fighting Joseph did have nerve and to spare. What he didn’t quite have was the soldierly talent to go with it.

  “Just as you say, sir,” Fighting Joseph replied. “I did it on the slopes of Sentry Peak, and George here did it at Proselytizers’ Rise-with a little help from Thraxton the Braggart, of course.” He chuckled. “I expect we can manage something along those lines for you again.”

  Hesmucet glared at him. He’d led troops himself in that fight, but he hadn’t taken Funnel Hill south of Proselytizers’ Rise-the defenses there turned out to be stronger than he and Marshal Bart had believed. To be reminded that his subordinates had done what he hadn’t stung. If he showed the sting, though, he gave Fighting Joseph what he wanted.

  And so he said, “I’m sure you’ll do your best.” He pointed westward. “Going through the Army of Franklin won’t be so neat or so cheap as stealing a march on it would have been, but we do what we have to do, not always what we want to do.” I have to put up with you, for instance, not least so King Avram doesn’t have to do it on the other side of the Green Ridge Mountains.

  Fighting Joseph peered west, too. So did Doubting George. Fighting Joseph coughed once or twice before remarking, “Those are formidable works the traitors have there.”

  “I know,” Hesmucet said. “They set their serfs to digging like moles. If we can force them out of their trenches, though, the advantage swings to us. You and Lieutenant General George will try tomorrow at sunrise.”

  Faced with a direct order, Fighting Joseph said the only thing a soldier faced with a direct order could say: “Yes, sir.”

  When Hesmucet glanced toward Doubting George, his second-in-command nodded and also said, “Yes, sir.” He added, “I hope we’ll have as much magecraft as possible supporting the attack.”

  “You will,” Hesmucet promised. “Now go ready your men.” The two generals saluted again and rode off toward their own encampments. Hesmucet called for two more runners. “Fetch me Colonel Phineas and Major Alva,” he said.

  The mages arrived together, both of them aboard asses; for some reason Hesmucet had never been able to fathom, wizards made shockingly bad unicorn-riders. “Good day, sir,” Phineas said. He was round-faced and plump and bald as a turnip. He’d been senior mage in the army since General Guildenstern commanded it. He was excellent at keeping track of things, but, like a lot of southron sorcerers, only moderately good at actual conjuration.

  “Good day, Colonel,” Hesmucet returned, every bit as formally. Getting the most out of Phineas involved taking him seriously, or at least seeming to.

  “What can we do for you, sir?” That was Major Alva, his young voice cracking with eagerness. He was tall and skinny, with a beard still patchy in spots and with a shock of panther-black hair that wouldn’t lie flat no matter how he greased and combed it, but that stuck out in all directions like the springs from a skinned sofa. He’d been Lieutenant Alva till a few months before, but he was the most potent southron mage Hesmucet had ever found. Phineas kept track of things. Alva did things, and liked doing them.

  “We are going to have another try at Viper River Gap tomorrow,” Hesmucet told him. “We want to take Caesar away from the traitors. Anything you can do in the sorcerous line would be appreciated.”

  Colonel Phineas coughed a couple of loud, formal coughs. “If you could have given us more notice, General, we might well have been able to offer you assistance of a more comprehensive nature.”

  “No doubt you’re right, Colonel,” Hesmucet said. “But you will, I trust, understand that war is not a business where we know everything ahead of time. If James the Bird’s Eye had broken into Caesar a couple of days ago, I wouldn’t be worrying about attacking the place now, would I?”

  “Most disorderly,” Phineas said disapprovingly. Phineas was good at disapproving of things, less good at approving of them.

  Alva said, “Don’t worry, sir. I expect I can come up with something.” He ignored the existence of every other mage in Hesmucet’s army. Considering his strength as compared to that of the other mages, Hesmucet didn’t blame him. Leaning toward the commanding general, he asked, “What have you got in mind, sir? Shall we try scaring the northerners out of their shoes, the way we did at Funnel Hill, or doing something to help our men move forward?”

  “Let’s see what we can do to help our side, Major,” Hesmucet answered. “Fine as your spells were at Funnel Hill, they didn’t shift the enemy so much as I would have liked. The northerners are traitors, but they’re Detinans, too, same as we are. They don’t scare easily.”

  “Right you are, sir.” Alva was an easygoing fellow, if he deigned to notice you at all. Hesmucet took a certain amount of pride in being able to draw the wizard’s attention. Alva turned to Phineas. “That variation of the befoggery we were talking about the other day…”

  “On that scale?” Phineas looked dubious. He often did. The way his face settled into the expression like a fat man sinking into a soft, comfortable hassock proved as much. Shaking his head, he went on, “It’s too much for any one man, yourself included, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, don’t be afraid, sir,” Alva said, which made Phineas splutter and turn red. Alva blithely pushed ahead: “I can set it up and leave parts of it for squadrons of mages to put into operation.”

  He casually assumed himself to be worth whole squadrons. By the way Phineas grunted, he assumed Alva was worth them, too, but he didn’t like the idea. “Can you set it up in that fashion?”

  “Of course I can.” Now Alva sounded certain, infuriatingly certain. “Same principles of division of labor that go into a well-run manufactory. I create, the others duplicate. Should be easy.” Phineas looked appalled at that. Alva didn’t seem to notice. He turned to Hesmucet. “Do you want to know what we’re talking about, sir?”

  “No,” Hesmucet told him. “I want to know what you’ll do, and when. How is your business.” Alva beamed at him. He chuckled, a bit self-consciously. More than half by accident, he’d said the right thing.

  Rollant had several extra sheaves of crossbow quarrels clipped to his belt. He was far from the only man in Lieutenant Griff’s company to take such a precaution. Despite that, he wasn’t unduly astonished when Griff singled him out: “Don’t you know that’s contrary to regulations, soldier?”

  You wouldn’t pick on me if my hair were black, the escaped serf thought. Aloud, he said, “Yes, sir.” He made no move to divest himself of the extra crossbow bolts. Lieutenant Griff didn’t ask him to, either. The company commander had got it out of his system by complaining. Rollant sighed. Sure enough, he was a lodestone for such gripes.

  Trumpets blared. “Come on!” Griff yelled. “Form up! Nobody’s going to say this company doesn’t pull its weight in the regiment.”

  So far as Rollant knew, no one had ever said any such thing. Griff al
ways needed something to be unhappy about.

  Colonel Nahath, the regimental commander, surveyed his men. “We’re going to break into Caesar, boys. There aren’t enough traitors in front of us to stop us. There aren’t enough traitors in the whole wide world to stop us. We’re good New Eborac men, and there isn’t anything at all in the whole wide world that can stop us.”

  The soldiers raised a cheer. Lieutenant Griff added, “Remember, men, we got to the top of Proselytizers’ Rise. If we can do that, may the Thunderer smite me if we can’t do anything.”

  Beside Rollant, Smitty murmured, “Oh, he’s right, no doubt about it. All we need is for the northerners to botch another spell, and we’ll just walk into this Caesar place.”

  “We can lick the traitors,” Rollant said. That was why he’d taken King Avram’s silver: to hit back at the liege lords who’d held him down just as men with dark hair had held down his ancestors since their ancestors came ashore on the beaches of the Western Ocean.

  “Of course we can,” Smitty agreed. “We wouldn’t be up here in Peachtree Province if we couldn’t. But saying the enemy is going to make another mistake and make things easy for us is just a piece of gods-damned foolishness.”

  “Quiet in the ranks,” Sergeant Joram growled. He knew what his job was, and he did it.

  Nahath spoke again: “We’re going to advance a little slower than usual, because the mages have something special in mind to help us.”

  “Gods help us,” Rollant muttered, and Smitty nodded. The northerners were stronger mages than the southrons. Even the botch from Thraxton the Braggart that had panicked his own men on Proselytizers’ Rise was a botch on a scale the southrons wouldn’t have tried to imitate.

  More horns screeched. Along with countless other men from Doubting George’s army, Rollant and his comrades advanced on the traitors’ trenches in front of Caesar. Those trenches looked like formidable works-and so, no doubt, they were. Why shouldn’t they be? Rollant thought. Plenty of serfs have spent plenty of sweat on them. Liege lords won’t dig when they’ve got blonds to do it for them.