Blonds did most of the ongoing work, under the orders of Detinan engineers. Runaway serfs dug trenches, carried dirt in barrows and hods, and raised ramparts where none had stood before. Some of them wore gray tunics and pantaloons of a cut not much different from that of southron uniforms. Others had on the rags of the clothes they’d worn while fleeing their liege lords’ estates. All of them were probably working harder than they ever had back on those estates.
What struck Doubting George was how happy the blonds looked. Detinans, especially Detinans from the north, thought of blonds as a happy-go-lucky lot, always smiling regardless of whether things called for a smile. That, George now suspected, was a mask serfs wore to keep Detinans from knowing what was really in their minds. These blonds, by contrast, looked and sounded and acted really happy, no matter how hard they were working.
One of them recognized Doubting George. Waving, the fellow called, “General, we want you to use these works to kill loads and loads of those stinking northern nobles.”
“We’ll do our best,” the general commanding answered. He wondered if the blond knew he was a stinking northern noble. He had his…
“Kill ’em all,” the blond said. “Bury ’em all. Stick ’em in the ground. Don’t give ’em to the fire. Don’t let their spirits rise up with the flames and the smoke.”
The rest of the runaways now laboring for King Avram nodded. Back in the old days, before the conquerors came, most blonds had buried their dead. Now they followed ordinary Detinan usage, and looked on burial with as much horror as ordinary Detinans did. Odds were these fellows hadn’t the faintest idea what their ancestors had done.
Are they savages, or just savage? Doubting George wondered. And if people had done to me what we’ve done to the blonds for generations, wouldn’t I have good reason to be savage?
He walked up and down the line, from one end to the other. It was anchored at both east and west by the Cumbersome River. A solid fleet of catapult-carrying war galleys rowed up and down the Cumbersome. All of them flew King Avram’s gold dragon on red. The northerners had no galleys on the Cumbersome, and none on the Great River, either, not any more. Several river fights and the losses of Old Capet and, after a long siege, Camphorville had made sure of that.
In the center, the line bulged out toward the north, swallowing up the whole town of Ramblerton and taking advantage of the high ground out beyond the edge of settled territory. The more George walked, the fewer the doubts he had. He didn’t see how Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin could batter their way through these works and into Ramblerton.
Of course, what he saw and what Bell saw were liable to be two different beasts. “I hope they’re two different beasts,” Doubting George muttered. The mere idea that he and Bell might think alike offended him. And if it also offended Bell… George did some more muttering: “That’s his worry.”
It was already past noon when Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin neared John the Lister’s defensive position by Poor Richard. Bell looked across the wide, empty fields toward the three slightly concave lines of entrenchments awaiting him. King Avram’s banners fluttered on the earthworks.
He glanced over toward his wing and brigade commanders. With a brusque nod, he said, “We attack.”
“As simple as that, your honor?” Patrick the Cleaver asked.
“As simple as that,” Bell said. “Unless you haven’t the stomach for it, as you hadn’t the stomach for it at Summer Mountain.”
Like most men from the Sapphire Isle, Brigadier Patrick was swarthy even by Detinan standards. That didn’t keep him from showing an angry flush now. “I’ll show you what sort of man I am,” he growled. “Sure and you’ve shown me now what sort of man you are.”
That did nothing to improve Bell’s temper. Neither did the pain he could never escape. “We can discuss this further at your leisure, Brigadier,” he said.
Patrick bowed. “I am at your service in that as in all things.”
“And I,” Brigadier Provincial Prerogative said. “When you insult Brigadier Patrick, you insult all your officers.”
“That’s true,” Otho the Troll said in a rumbling bass.
Brigadier John of Barsoom bowed to Bell. “As a proper northern gentleman, I would be remiss if I said this did not also hold for me.”
“And me, for gods’ sake,” For Gods’ Sake John added.
Hiram the Cranberry turned even redder than usual and nodded without speaking.
Bell wondered if he would have to duel with every officer in the Army of Franklin, down to the rank of lieutenant. He had a hells of a time cocking a crossbow, but he could shoot quick and straight with one hand. If they wanted to quarrel with him, he would give each of them a quarrel, right in the ribs.
Ned of the Forest said, “I thought we were supposed to be fighting the southrons, not each other.”
“Theory is wonderful,” Provincial Prerogative said, still glaring at Bell. He’d been one of the leaders in the attack on Sumptuous Castle in Karlsburg harbor, the attack that had started the War Between the Provinces. Bell glared back. He didn’t care what Provincial Prerogative had done in what now seemed the dim, distant, dead past.
“We’d better fight the southrons,” Ned said. “Anybody who doesn’t care to fight them can fight me instead.”
That produced a sudden, thoughtful silence. No one was eager to fight Ned. Lieutenant General Bell said, “I require no proxies.”
“I’m not doing this for you, sir,” Ned of the Forest answered. “I’m doing it for the kingdom. Seems to me a lot of folks here have forgotten about the kingdom.”
Some of Bell’s brigadiers still looked angry. But several of them nodded. “For gods’ sake, he’s right!” For Gods’ Sake John burst out. No one disagreed, not out loud.
Ned said, “Sir, by your leave, I’d like to take my riders over to the left and back into the southrons’ rear. When you lick ’em, we’ll be there in perfect position to fall on ’em as they’re running away.”
Bell didn’t need to think long. Anything but victory was unimaginable. This time, he’d follow up victory once he got it. He nodded to Ned. “Good idea. Go do it.”
Ned of the Forest started to leave the assembled officers, then stopped and turned back. “Matter of fact, sir, I reckon we can flank ’em right out of their works. If you’ll hold up a little, you won’t even need to charge ’em. That there’s liable to be a hard line to take by assault.”
Several brigadiers brightened. One man after another nodded. The longer Bell watched them, the angrier he got. He shook his leonine head. “No. We will attack.”
The commander of unicorn-riders scowled. “Why the hells do you want to pick a fight when you don’t have to… sir?” he asked. “Give me a brigade of footsoldiers to go with my riders and I will agree to flank the southrons from their works within two hours’ time. I can go down the Folly-free Gap, the one the Ramblerton road goes through, and sneak behind ’em before they even know I’m around.”
“What a fine notion you’re after having there!” Patrick the Cleaver exclaimed. “We’re asking for naught but trouble, crossing such a broad stretch of open space towards earthworks the Thunderer’s hard prong couldn’t pierce.”
Brigadier Benjamin, called the Heated Ham because he’d made a bad schoolboy actor, also nodded. The wing commander said, “Sir, I think Ned and Patrick are right. I don’t like the looks of this fight here. The southrons have a good position, and they’re well fortified.”
“No,” Bell said again. “My mind’s made up. Ned, you may use your flanking move, but with unicorn-riders only. You, at least, have shown you are not afraid to manfully fight out in the open.”
Ned of the Forest looked even angrier than he had before. The wing and brigade commanders started screaming at Lieutenant General Bell all over again, louder than ever. “How dare you call us cowards, for gods’ sake?” For Gods’ Sake John demanded.