What with all the rain that had fallen, the Trumpeteth came up a lot higher than Rollant’s waist now. It would have been up over his head, even at the ford. It wasn’t quite out of its banks, but it wasn’t far from flooding, either. Any army falling back toward Poor Richard would have to bridge the stream before it could cross.
Normally, that would have been straightforward work for Joseph the Lister’s artificers and mages. Things weren’t normal now. Rollant wondered if things ever were really normal in wartime. When he said that out loud, Smitty snickered. “Of course they’re normal,” he said. “They’re always buggered up.”
“Well, yes,” Rollant said. “But there’s the usual kind of mess, and then there’s this kind of mess.” He scratched his head. “If there’s a usual kind of mess, I suppose things can be normal during the war. But they’re not normal now.”
“Sure as hells aren’t,” Smitty agreed. “Not with the gods-damned traitors trying to sabotage everything we do.”
“They always try to do that,” Rollant said dolefully. “Trouble is, they’re having too much luck at it right now.”
Smitty shook his head. “That isn’t luck. They’re still better wizards than we are, even after all this time.”
“I know,” Rollant said, even more dolefully than before. “They wouldn’t have dropped our latest try at a bridge into the Trumpeteth if they weren’t.”
“And the one before that, and the one before that, don’t forget,” Smitty said. “Something tells me they don’t want us crossing over the Trumpeteth. They’re sure trying like anything to keep us from doing it, anyhow.”
“Lieutenant General Bell’s probably still mad at us for sliding past him at Summer Mountain,” Rollant said.
“I would be, if I wore his shoes-his shoe, I mean,” Smitty said.
“I bet the traitors make that joke every day,” Rollant said.
“I bet you’ve got a big mouth… Corporal,” Smitty said. For a moment, he’d forgotten Rollant outranked him. Ordinary Detinans often had a hells of a time remembering blonds could outrank them. Hastily, Smitty went on, “And I bet General Bell’s probably about ready to spit nails like a repeating crossbow on account of we did get by his bastards. Only goes to show the traitors can screw up a perfectly good position, too. Sort of reassuring, if you know what I mean.”
“We already knew they could be as stupid as we are,” Rollant said. “Remember Proselytizers’ Rise.”
“There is that,” Smitty admitted. “Yes, there is that, by the Lion God’s fangs. They should have slaughtered us.”
Rollant laughed. “You sound like you’re sorry they didn’t.”
“No, they’re the ones who’re sorry they didn’t,” Smitty said. “Only thing I’m sorry for right now is that I’ve got to stand in this miserable, muddy trench.”
“They’ve got soldiers along with their wizards,” Rollant said. “If they overrun us, we don’t get another chance to build the bridge. Besides” — he touched his crossbow, which leaned against his leg, ready to grab and pull and shoot- “anybody who tries overrunning me’ll have to kill me first.”
That wasn’t just bravado. He meant every word of it. Detinans had forced blonds in the north into serfdom because the blonds hadn’t been able to fight enough, all those centuries ago, to keep their kingdoms from being overwhelmed. Ever since then, northern Detinans had figured blonds couldn’t fight-and had taken elaborate precautions to make sure they never got the chance. The Detinans didn’t notice the paradox. Blonds did-but who cared what blonds noticed?
If Lieutenant General Bell’s men captured Smitty, he’d go into a prisoners’ camp till he was exchanged for some northerner. If Bell’s men captured Rollant, he’d go, in chains, back to the estate from whose lands he’d presumed to abscond with himself. He knew his old liege lord was dead. He’d shot Baron Ormerod himself, up at the top of Proselytizers’ Rise. But whoever owned Ormerod’s land these days still had a claim to the serfs tied to it. Whoever that was had a claim under the laws of Palmetto Province, anyhow. Rollant was rude enough to think himself entitled to the fruits of his own labor, and ready to fight to hold on to that freedom to work for himself.
Out beyond the trenches were holes in the ground sheltering the pickets who would slow down any northern attack. Out beyond the pickets were the scouts and sentries who would spot the attack before it rolled over the southrons. That was how things were supposed to work. Most of the time, they did. Every once in a while… Rollant didn’t want to think about all the things that could go so gruesomely wrong.
For now, Bell’s soldiers didn’t care to close with John the Lister’s men. Soldiers who followed both Avram and Geoffrey had, in this fourth year of the war, become very cautious about rushing earthworks. That wasn’t to say they wouldn’t, but it was to say they looked for the likelihood of reward before pressing an assault to the limit. Rollant had seen up in Peachtree Province how important entrenchments were. Bell’s men had fought there, too. They were traitors, but they weren’t morons.
An ass-drawn wagon driven by teamsters in King Avram’s gray rattled past the sentries, past the pickets, and through a gap in the entrenchments not far from the position of Rollant’s company. Another followed, and another, and another. They carried logs with one end sharpened to a point: pilings for the southrons’ next effort at a bridge.
Smitty watched them go by with world-weary cynicism. “Wonder if they’ll do any better than they did the last time,” he said, and then, before Rollant could answer, “Don’t suppose they could do much worse.”
“We have to get over the Trumpeteth,” Rollant said. “We have to. Once we’re back in Poor Richard, Bell won’t dare give us any trouble.”
“Who knows what Bell will dare?” Smitty said.
“Well, he’d be an idiot if he did,” Rollant said. “If he wants to be an idiot, that’s fine with me.”
“Me, too.” Even the argumentative Smitty didn’t seem inclined to disagree with that. “Now, if I were Bell, I’d dress some of my boys up in gray and let ’em sneak through our lines. They could have us trussed and tied before we even know what’s going on.”
“That’s a dreadful idea!” Rollant exclaimed in horror.
Smitty bowed, as if at praise. “I like it, too.”
For a heartbeat, Rollant thought the farmer’s son had misheard him. Then he realized Smitty was just being his perverse self. Acknowledging him only made him worse. Rollant said, “One of these days, Smitty…”
“I know,” Smitty said. “But I’ll have fun till then.”
At dawn the next morning, heavy stones and firepots started landing in and around the entrenchments. “The traitors must have brought their engines up during the night,” Rollant said.
Smitty bowed again. “Thank you so much for that brilliant deduction, Marshal Rollant, your Grace, sir.”
“Oh, to the hells with you,” Rollant snapped. “Can’t anybody say anything without getting it twisted around and shot back at him?”
At that moment, a stone slammed into the parapet in front of them, showering them both with dirt. Rollant rubbed at his face. Smitty spat-spat brown, in fact. “Wouldn’t you sooner have me shooting words at you than the traitors shooting big rocks?” he said, and spat again. “My mouth’s full of grit.”
“So is mine,” Rollant said, “but I got some in my eye, too.”
About fifty yards down the trench line, another stone thudded home. Two men shrieked. Rollant and Smitty exchanged dismayed glances. Rollant wondered whether the stone had hit any other soldiers and killed them outright before maiming the two who cried out. It could have. He knew that altogether too well.