Under cover of that bombardment, Jimmy’s troopers advanced again. This time, they came in loose order, moving up in short rushes and then dropping to take advantage of whatever cover the ground offered. Watching them, Ned cursed. They knew what they were doing, all right. And they could do it, too.
And then, as the shooting heated up, a soldier from the left came dashing up to Ned. “They’ve got a column nipping around our flank, Lord Ned!” he cried. “They’re mounted and riding like hells. If they hit us from the side or behind, it’ll be the second day at Ramblerton all over again.”
“Gods damn it!” Ned of the Forest shouted. But, however much he cursed, he could see the dust the enemy unicorn-riders were raising. The messenger was right. If they got where they wanted to go, they could wreck his army. He said what he had to say: “Fall back! Fall back, you bastards! We can’t hold ’em here!”
If his men couldn’t hold the southrons here, they couldn’t hold Hayek, either. And if the north lost Hayek, another big log thudded onto the pyre of King Geoffrey’s hopes. Ned swore again, in anger at least half aimed at himself. He’d had a good notion this would happen when he began the campaign. Now it was here, and the end of everything looked closer by the day.
The scryer who came up to Doubting George had the sense to wait to be noticed. George took his own sweet time, but finally nodded to the man in the gray robe. “Yes? And what exciting news have you got for me today?”
“Sir, I just got word from Hard-Riding Jimmy’s scryer,” the mage replied. “He’s taken Hayek and burnt it to the ground.”
“What? Hard-Riding Jimmy’s scryer has done that? What a remarkable fellow he must be.”
“No, no, no!” Doubting George’s scryer started to explain, then sent the general commanding a reproachful look. “You’re having me on, sir.”
“Would I do such a thing?” George said. “Heaven forfend!”
“Er, yes, sir,” the scryer said warily. “But isn’t that good news? Hard-Riding Jimmy licked Ned of the Forest-licked him high, wide, and handsome-and he took Hayek, and now he’s heading on up toward Clift. Isn’t it grand?”
“Well, to the hells with me if I don’t want to see Clift burnt to the ground,” Doubting George said. Few men who backed King Avram would have said anything else. Clift was where Grand Duke Geoffrey put a crown on his head and started calling himself King Geoffrey. If that didn’t make the capital of Dothan deserve whatever happened to it, George couldn’t think of anything that would.
The scryer waited to see if George would have anything more to say. When the commanding general didn’t, the young man in the gray robe shrugged and walked away. George said something then. He said several somethings, in fact, all of them pungent and all of them low-voiced so no one but him could hear them.
Indeed, Hard-Riding Jimmy was doing wonderful things-as an independent commander. John the Lister’s wing was going to help throw logs on the pyre in the west-under Hesmucet’s command. Another couple of brigades that had fought well in front of Ramblerton were now marching on Shell-under the command of Brigadier Marcus the Tall.
Doubting George did some more muttering. “No good deed goes unpunished,” he said. He’d saved Avram’s hopes in the east with his stand at the fight by the River of Death. He’d smashed Lieutenant General Bell in front of Ramblerton, wrecked the Army of Franklin beyond hope of rescue or repair, murdered false King Geoffrey’s chances east of the mountains… and what had he got for it? His command pruned like a potted plant, and very little else.
Colonel Andy came up to him. George set his teeth. Andy was going to be sympathetic. George could tell, just by the way his adjutant carried himself; by the way he pursed his lips; even by the way he took a deep breath and then let it out, as if he stood by a sickbed and didn’t want to talk too loud.
“You’ll have heard, I suppose?” Andy said.
“Oh, yes.” Doubting George nodded. “Hard-Riding Jimmy’s scryer has gone and done great things.”
Andy frowned. “His scryer, sir? I don’t understand.”
“Never mind,” George said. “But isn’t it remarkable how a man becomes a genius-a paladin-the instant he escapes my command?”
“What’s remarkable,” Andy said, swelling up in righteous wrath, “is how Marshal Bart keeps nibbling away at your command. Remarkable and disgusting, if anyone wants to know what I think.”
No one did-no one who mattered, anyhow. Doubting George knew as much. Colonel Andy surely did, too. The only opinion that counted was Bart’s, and Bart didn’t want George in charge of anything much any more. King Avram could have overruled Bart, but Avram hadn’t raised up a Marshal of Detina to go around overruling him afterwards.
“With me or without me, Colonel, we are going to whip the traitors,” George said. “I console myself with that.”
Colonel Andy nodded. “Yes, sir. We are. But you ought to play a bigger part. You’ve earned the right, by the Lion God’s talons.”
“I think I have, too.” Doubting George sighed. “Marshal Bart doesn’t, and he and King Avram are the only ones who matter. Bart thinks I’m slow because I waited for all my men before I hit Bell and the Army of Franklin. I think I was just doing what I had to do. And we won, gods damn it.”
“That’s right, sir. We sure did.” Colonel Andy still had plenty of confidence in George. The only trouble was, Colonel Andy’s confidence didn’t matter. Bart’s did. And Bart had decided other men could do a better job. He was the Marshal of Detina. He had the right to do that. And if George didn’t care for it, what could he do? Nothing. Not a single, solitary thing.
“Baron Logan the Black,” George muttered. At least he’d been spared that humiliation. To be ousted by a man who wasn’t even a professional soldier… But it hadn’t happened. He had gone forward. He had won. He had got no credit for it. Nor, by all appearances, would he ever.
He found out exactly how true that was at supper. He’d just sat down to a big plate of spare ribs (though he doubted the pig they’d come from had thought them spares) when a scryer came in and said, “Sir, Marshal Bart wants to speak to you right away.”
“He would.” Doubting George didn’t want to speak to the Marshal of Detina. What a mere lieutenant general wanted in such circumstances mattered not at all. “Well, run along and tell him I’m coming.” He cast a last longing glance at the spare ribs before heading off to the scryers’ pavilion.
There was Bart’s image, staring out of a crystal ball. Bart wasn’t an impressive man to look at. In a crowd, he tended to disappear. But no one could deny he had a driving sense of purpose, a refusal to admit he could be defeated, that had served Detina well. “Good evening, Lieutenant General,” he said now when he spotted George. “How are you?”
“Hungry, sir, if you want to know the truth,” George answered. “What can I do for you at suppertime?”
If the barb bothered Bart-if Bart even noticed it was a barb-he gave no sign. He said, “I want you to move your force to Wesleyton in western Franklin as soon as is practicable. The less delay the better. You must be in place there in two weeks’ time.”
“Move the force I have left, you mean,” Doubting George said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Bart agreed, again ignoring the sarcasm. “I have an important task for you there.”
“Do you?” George said. “I thought my sole and entire function in this army was to stay where I am and grow moss. What else am I supposed to be doing?”