His riders met those of Hard-Riding Jimmy outside the town of Hayek. That was a town King Geoffrey had to hold. Both sides fought as dragoons, not as unicorn-riders in the strict sense of the term. They used their mounts to get where they were were going quickly, but they fought on foot. Scouts rode back to Ned, worried looks on their faces. “He’s got a hells of a lot of troopers with him, Lord Ned,” one of them said.
Ned of the Forest already knew that. He saw how long and thick a column of men Hard-Riding Jimmy led. “We’ve licked three times as many as we’ve got before,” he said, which was true. “We can do it again.”
He hoped he sounded as if he believed that. He wasn’t so sure, though. Jimmy’s riders had the bit between their teeth. They’d tasted victory, and they liked it. And they had those quick-shooting crossbows no northern artisan had been able to match. That made their effective numbers even greater than their actual ones.
At Ned’s shouted commands, his soldiers took the best defensive position they could. He’d never been able to spend men with the lavish prodigality of a commander of footsoldiers. Now, especially, every man he lost was one he could never have back again. Jimmy, on the other hand, looked to have been substantially reinforced since the battle in front of Ramblerton.
The southrons stormed forward, plainly hoping to overwhelm Ned’s men by weight of numbers and by the blizzard of bolts they put in the air. It didn’t happen; Ned’s veterans had been through too many fights to fail to take advantage of the ground. They gave back a murderous volley that knocked the southrons onto their heels.
“That’s the way!” Ned shouted as his troopers frantically reloaded. He wondered whether the southrons would try to rush his position again. He hoped so. If they did, he could keep killing them by swarms.
But, having been repulsed once, they paused out of crossbow range. Ned could almost see their officers’ surprise. Oh, they might have been saying as they pointed toward his line and talked among themselves. These northerners still have some fight left in them. After everything we saw down in Franklin, who could have imagined that?
Fighting flared again half an hour later. Ned would have liked to go forward himself and drive Hard-Riding Jimmy’s men while they were still shaken by their reverse. He would have liked to, but he didn’t dare. If his men left the safety of their shooting pits and trenches, the southrons’ quick-shooting crossbows would pincushion them. He knew it, and hated the knowledge.
When the southrons tried his position again, they treated it with the respect of men who knew they would be in for a brawl. He could have done without the compliment. Hard-Riding Jimmy was as lavishly supplied with engines as he was with men and unicorns. Firepots flew through the air trailing smoke. They burst in and around Ned’s lines. Men screamed when flames poured over them. Repeating crossbows sent endless streams of quarrels hissing through the air just at breastwork height. Any man who stuck his head up to shoot was asking to take a bolt in the face. Captain Watson answered back as best he could, but was able to do little to suppress the enemy’s shooting.
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.