“I should hope so,” Guildenstern growled. “If it weren’t, every bloody one of our riders’d go on foot.” He sent Lieutenant General George a baleful stare. Was the seemingly easygoing officer trying to undermine him by pointing out the obvious? When Doubting George muttered something under his breath, Guildenstern’s ears quivered. “What was that?” he asked sharply.
“I said, `The enemy is weak,’ sir.” Doubting George’s voice was bland.
That wasn’t what General Guildenstern thought he’d said. Gods knew it had sounded a lot more like “Unicorn Beak.” Guildenstern’s left hand came up to stroke his nose. It was of generous, even noble, proportions, yes, but no one had presumed to call him by that uncouth nickname since he’d graduated from the officers’ collegium at Annasville. He’d hoped it was years forgotten.
Maybe he’d misheard. Maybe. He tried to make himself believe it.
Asses-unicorns’ humbler cousins-hauled the wagons that kept the army fed and supplied. They also brought forward the stone-throwers and the dart-flingers that made the footsoldier’s life so unpleasant in this war and that sometimes-when the gods chose to smile-made siegecraft move at something faster than a glacial pace.
A company’s worth of men in long gray uniform robes also, to a man, rode asses. General Guildenstern’s lip curled as his eye lit on them. “Why is it,” he demanded of no one in particular, “that we can’t find a wizard-not a single bloody wizard-who knows what to do when he climbs on a unicorn?”
“I don’t much care about that, sir,” Doubting George said. “What I want to know is, why can’t we find a single bloody wizard who knows what to do when he opens a grimoire?”
“Demons take them all,” Guildenstern muttered. That was, of course, part of the problem. Demons had taken a couple of southron wizards in the early days of the war. Down in the south, mages were more used to using sorcery in business than in battle, and military magic was a very different game, as the elegant and arrogant sorcerers who served Grand Duke Geoffrey had proved several times.
“We do need them,” Lieutenant General George said with a sigh. “They are up to holding off some of what the enemy’s wizards throw at us.”
“Some,” Guildenstern granted grudgingly. He kept on glaring over toward the mages, though. As if his gaze had weight, it drew the notice of a couple of them. He would have taken pride in the power of his personality… had he not misliked the way they looked back at him. Like any man of sense, he wore an apotropaic amulet on a chain around his neck. His left hand stroked it, as if reminding it to do its job. Measured against the mages who fought for Geoffrey, most of King Avram’s wizards were less than they might have been. Measured against a man who was a soldier and not himself a mage, they remained intimidating.
Doubting George said, “I wonder what sort of hellsfire Count Thraxton’s cooking up over there in Rising Rock.”
Now General Guildenstern glared at him. “You were the one who said his spells kept going wrong. Have you changed your mind all at once?”
“Oh, no, sir.” His second-in-command shook his head. “I think we’ll lick him right out of his boots.” Yes, he could afford to be confident; he wouldn’t have to explain what had gone wrong if the army failed. “But it’s always interesting to try and figure out what the whoresons on the other side’ll throw at us, don’t you think?”
“Interesting.” It wasn’t the word Guildenstern would have used. Rather to his relief, he was spared having to figure out which word he would have used, for a scout came riding toward him, waving to be noticed. More often than not, Guildenstern would have let the fellow wait. Now he waved back and called, “What’s your news?”
Saluting, the young rider answered, “Sir, some of our pickets have run the traitors out of Whiteside. The little garrison they had there is falling back toward Rising Rock.”
“Splendid.” Guildenstern brought a fist down on his thigh in solid satisfaction. “I’ll spend the night there, then.” The scout saluted again and galloped back off toward the west, no doubt to warn the men who’d taken the hamlet to have ready a lodging suitable for the army commander.
They didn’t do a perfect job. One of Grand Duke Geoffrey’s banners-red dragon on gold-still floated above Whiteside when General Guildenstern rode in as the sun was setting. At his snarled order, troopers hastily replaced it with Detina’s proper ensign-gold dragon on red. The general doffed his hat to the kingdom’s banner before dismounting and striding into the village’s best, and only, inn.
The innkeeper served up a decent roast capon and a tolerable bottle of white wine. He’d likely favored Geoffrey over Avram, but did a fair job of hiding it. By their blond hair and blue eyes, both the serving wenches who brought Guildenstern his supper were serfs, or rather had been till his army entered Whiteside. The wine-and, no doubt, the brandy he’d put away before-left the general feeling expansive. Beaming at the wenches, he asked them, “And how do you like your freedom?”
“Oh!” they exclaimed together, like characters in a comedy. Their names were Lindy and Vetty; Guildenstern wasn’t quite sure which was which. Whichever the younger and prettier one was, she said, “Hadn’t thought about it much, your lordship, sir. I guess it’ll be pretty good-money of our own and all, I mean.”
By his scowl, the innkeeper didn’t think it would be so good. Now he’d have to pay them wages instead of hiring them from whichever local noble controlled their families. “Freedom,” Guildenstern said, quoting King Avram, “is worth the price.”
He wasn’t altogether sure he believed that; he’d never had any great liking for yellow-hairs himself. But he enjoyed throwing it in the innkeeper’s face and watching the fellow have to paste on a smile and pretend he agreed. “Just as you say, General,” he replied, as if each word tasted bad.
“Just as I say?” Guildenstern echoed complacently. “Well, of course.”
When the innkeeper took him up to his bedchamber over the dining hall, he found it a rough match for the supper he’d had: not splendid, but good enough. “Won’t find anything finer this side of Rising Rock,” the innkeeper said.
“No doubt.” Guildenstern’s voice was dry; there weren’t any more towns between Whiteside and Rising Rock. But he put that out of his mind, for something else was in it: “Send me up the prettier of your girls, the one with the freckles, to warm my bed tonight.”
“With the freckles? That’s Lindy.” The innkeeper’s smile went from deferential to rather nasty. “Can’t just send her up, now can I, sir? Not if she’s free, I should say. She’ll have to decide all by herself if she wants to come up here.”
“By the gods!” General Guildenstern exploded. “That’s taking things too far, don’t you think?” The innkeeper just stood there. “Oh, all right,” Guildenstern said with poor grace. “Ask her, then.”
He wondered if he’d made a mistake. If the girl said no, he would never live it down. But Lindy knocked on his door a few minutes later. As soon as he closed it behind her, she pulled her shift off over her head. Guildenstern enjoyed himself. If she didn’t, she was a reasonably good actress.
Afterwards, she leaned up on one elbow beside him, so that the soft, pink tip of her bare breast poked him in the shoulder. “You trounce our lords,” she said earnestly. “Trounce ’em good, and every blond girl in the kingdom’ll open her legs for you.”
“One more reason to win,” Guildenstern said, and caught her to him again.
If Count Thraxton had ever been happy in all his born days, his face didn’t know it. He was tall and thin and lean, beard and mustache and eyebrows going gray. His features might have come from one of the masks tragic actors wore so even people in the highest rows of the amphitheater could see what they were supposed to be feeling. His eyes were large and dark and gloomy, the eyes of a sorrowing hound. Harsh lines of grief scored his cheeks. His thin-lipped mouth perpetually turned down at the corners.