“Geoffrey!” someone nearby yelled. Without even thinking about it, Rollant lunged with his shortsword. His blade cleaved flesh. The traitor howled.
“Well done, Corporal!” Lieutenant Griff called. A crossbow quarrel or swordstroke had carried away the lobe of his left ear. Rollant wondered if he even knew it. Then he shrugged. With the sort of fight this was turning out to be, Griff was lucky to have got away so lightly-and he himself, so far, luckier still.
John the Lister had known he would have a fight on his hands at Poor Richard. Even he hadn’t guessed the Army of Franklin would be able to make it as savage a fight as it was. A year and a half before, at Essoville down in the south, Duke Edward of Arlington had ordered the Army of Southern Parthenia to charge across open country against a fortified position. Most of the northern soldiers had given way under southron bombardment, and never reached the southrons’ lines at all. The few who did were quickly killed or captured.
Here… Bell’s men had to cross far more open ground than the Army of Southern Parthenia had. They had only a handful of engines of their own, where Duke Edward’s catapults had pounded and pummeled the southron line before the charge. But they held part of John’s position, refused to be dislodged, and still threatened to break through and cut his army in half. He had to admire them.
He also had to keep them from doing what they wanted. If he didn’t, his whole army was liable to perish. He knew how badly his men had hurt them as they advanced into the fight. Now that they were in it, they were striking back with a fury at least half compounded of the lust for revenge. John ordered more men to move from the flanks, where the northerners hadn’t been able to break into his entrenchments, to the center, where they had.
When lightning began striking in the center, John cursed and shouted, “Major Alva! Where in the hells is Major Alva?”
“I’m right here, sir,” Alva said from beside him: from, in fact, almost inside the breast pocket of his tunic.
John the Lister glowered at him, and not because he hadn’t noticed him, either. “What in the damnation are the traitors doing pounding us like that? Aren’t you here to stop them from working this kind of wizardry?”
“No, sir,” Alva answered. John glowered even more, but the mage ignored him, continuing, “I’m here to stop them from working any really big spells, and I’ve done that.” John suddenly noticed how weary he sounded. After a sigh and a shrug, Alva went on, “If you knew what they wanted to do, and what they almost did… Well, they didn’t manage it, and they gods-damned well won’t now. This other stuff… This is fumbling in your pocket and and pulling out copper when you went looking for gold.”
“Oh.” John felt foolish. Not knowing exactly what to say, he tried, “I suppose I ought to thank you.”
“That would be nice. Not a hells of a lot of people ever bother,” Alva said. “But don’t worry about it. I won’t turn you into a red eft or anything like that if you don’t.”
“What in the name of the Lion God’s tail tuft is a red eft?” John the Lister demanded.
“It’s what you call a mostly water salamander-a newt-during the time it lives on land,” Major Alva answered. Somehow, John was sure he would remember that utterly useless bit of information the rest of his life.
At the moment, though, he had more things to worry about than red efts. Pointing toward the center of his line, he said, “Look. That farmhouse is burning. It’s a strongpoint for our men. If we get forced away from there, Bell’s army will break thought and split us in half. If that happens, we’ll all end up dead or captured. Stopping their lightning would make that a lot less likely, even if you don’t think much of it as far as magic goes.”
Alva very visibly paused to think it over. “Well, yes, I suppose you have a point,” he said at last, as if it was one he hadn’t thought of himself. Maybe he hadn’t, for he went on, “We really do need to win this battle, don’t we?”
“That would be nice, if you plan on living long enough to show how clever you are after this gods-damned war finally ends,” John the Lister said dryly.
“I do.” Now Alva sounded very determined. “Oh, yes. I certainly do.” He pointed at the farmhouse, as imperiously as a king. He said one word, in a language John did not know and never wanted to learn. The fire ceased to be. It might have been a candle flame he’d blown out; the disappearance was as sudden and abrupt as that. “Now,” the mage murmured, reminding himself, “the lightnings.”
They struck again only moments after he spoke. He muttered something under his breath. Then he spoke aloud, again only one word. When the lightnings came down once more from the clear night sky, they struck off to one side of where they had been hitting.
“Is that still our position, or are they coming down on the traitors’ heads now?” Alva asked. “Their mages are a little stronger than I thought. I wanted to stop that bolt, but all I could do was shift it.”
John the Lister goggled. Alva was taking on several northern wizards at once… and winning? That sort of thing hadn’t happened all through the war. John wasn’t sorry to see it-he was anything but sorry to see it-but it took him by surprise. He needed a moment to remember the question Alva had asked. “I’ll need to send a runner and find out,” he said, several heartbeats slower than he should have.
“All right.” Alva stretched and yawned. He still looked like an unmade bed. But John the Lister saw why Doubting George, a man who had confidence in no one, relied on Major Alva.
On John’s command, a runner dashed toward the fighting. John hoped he wouldn’t get killed up there. More lightning struck, in about the same place as the last bolt. Which side was it punishing? They would-John hoped they would-know soon.
He turned to Alva. “If you can do this now, what will you do in peacetime, when you get a little older and you come into your full power?”
“Do you think it will be greater than this?” Alva asked interestedly. “I’ve wondered about that myself. I suppose I’ll just have to find out.”
Back came the runner, going flat out, his face streaked with sweat in spite of the chilly night. “Sir,” he panted, “those are still hitting our men, but not in such a bad spot.”
“Thank you,” John said, and turned to Alva. “What can you do about that, Major?”
“We’ll see,” the mage answered. “They’re rallying against me, but they haven’t got any one fellow who’s really strong. A bunch of bricks doesn’t make one rock, because they’ll fall apart if the rock hits them the right way. Now I have to find it.”
The northern wizards loosed another thunderbolt a couple of minutes later, in that same spot, while Alva stood there thinking hard. John the Lister wondered if the wizard’s arrogance-which he unquestionably had, despite his shambling manner-had got the better of him.
Then Alva laughed out loud, a sound childish in its sheer glee. He snapped his fingers and hopped up into the air. “That’s what I’ll do, by the Thunderer. Let’s see how they like it.”
This time, the charm he used wasn’t just one word. He brought it out in a way that made it sound almost like one of the work chants blond serfs used. John found himself tapping his foot to the rollicking rhythm. Alva was tapping his foot, too. With a last little hop and a skip-and a pass as intricate as any John had ever seen-he sent the spell on its way.
“What will it do?” John the Lister asked when he judged it safe to jog the wizard’s metaphorical elbow.
“Deflect the strike a little more,” Alva answered absently. “We’ll find out how they like that, and what they can do about it.” By his manner, he didn’t think they could do much. Yes, he had arrogance, all right. John waited to see if he deserved what he had.