“Leonidas is a very holy man,” Ormerod said. “Surely the Lion God favors him.”
“Surely.” But Gremio’s agreement dripped irony. “And surely the Lion God favors a good many hierophants back in Palmetto Province, too. Does that suit them to command a wing of Count Thraxton’s army?”
The answer was obvious. It was so obvious, Ormerod didn’t care to think about it. To make sure he didn’t have to think about it, he ordered pickets forward. “I don’t expect Doubting George to try anything nasty during the night, but I don’t want to get caught with my pantaloons around my ankles, either,” he said.
“Sensible, Captain.” This time, Gremio sounded as if he meant it.
Here and there, northern soldiers started campfires on the lower slopes of Merkle’s Hill. The fighting hadn’t stopped everywhere, either there or farther west: shouts and curses and the occasional clash of steel on steel still sounded in the distance. And everywhere, near and far, wounded men moaned. Ormerod said, “I hate that sound. It reminds me of everything that can go wrong.”
Gremio gave him an odd look, or so he thought in the fading light. “I didn’t think you worried about such things.”
“Well, I do,” Ormerod answered.
A voice came from out of the gloom: “You do what, Captain?” Major Thersites strode up. He wasn’t a handsome man; one of his shoulders stood higher than the other, and a sword scar on his cheek pulled his mouth into a permanent sneer. Some said he’d got the scar in a duel. According to others, he’d got it from an outraged husband. Ormerod knew which version he believed.
But Thersites had somehow ended up with a higher rank than his own, and was at the moment commanding the regiment. It behooved Ormerod to speak softly, and he did: “I do worry about the cries the wounded make, sir. If I’m not lucky, I might be making them myself one day.”
“That’s true, but a soldier shouldn’t fret about it,” Thersites said. His voice had a permanent sneer in it, too. Or maybe I’m just touchy, Ormerod thought. Then Thersites added, “You can’t be ready to run away from a little pain,” and Ormerod knew he wasn’t the one who had the problem.
Stiffly, he said, “Command me, sir, and I shall advance.”
“Tomorrow,” Thersites replied. Ormerod’s nod was stiff, too. I’ll show you, he thought.
VI
Count Thraxton sat in a rickety chair in an abandoned farmhouse not far from the River of Death, staring into the fire. Baron Dan of Rabbit Hill and Leonidas the Priest perched on stools to either side of him; Ned of the Forest, too active to sit, paced back and forth through the bare little room.
“We hit them a mighty blow today,” Thraxton said.
“By the Lion God, we did,” Leonidas agreed. “We’ve driven them back over a mile, and bent their army nearly double. One more strong stroke tomorrow, and they fall into our hands.”
If you’d struck them a few days ago, when I ordered you to attack, they would have already fallen into our hands, Thraxton thought resentfully. But Leonidas wasn’t wrong even now. “Strike that blow we shall,” Thraxton said.
“Almost had ’em today,” Ned of the Forest said. “I got a regiment of riders all the way around behind ’em, but they were bringing up reinforcements right where we came out, and so I couldn’t quite pull off what I had in mind.” He snapped his fingers. “Came that close, though.”
“So you said earlier this evening,” Thraxton answered. “It sounds very pretty, but it would be all the better for proof.”
That made Ned stop his pacing. The firelight flashed in his eyes as he growled, “If you’re calling me a liar, Count-”
“I said nothing of the sort,” Thraxton replied smoothly.
“You better not have,” Ned said. Thraxton ignored him. The count’s lean, somber face showed nothing. Inside, he jeered, You stupid bumpkin, do you think I’m foolish enough to do anything so overt?
“Ned’s men fought very well today on Merkle’s Hill,” Baron Dan said. “They put up such a stand against a swarm of southrons that I took them for footsoldiers, not unicorn-riders.”
“Good,” Thraxton said, but not in a tone of voice to make either Dan of Rabbit Hill or Ned think he approved. They both glowered. He looked back at them as innocently as he could. The more they squabbled, the happier he was.
Leonidas the Priest said, “I am sure the Lion God will give our just cause victory when the fight resumes tomorrow.”
Before Count Thraxton could come up with a snide comeback to that, a commotion outside distracted him. His long, pale hand paused in midair, uncertain whether to reach for the sword on his belt or the sorcerer’s staff leaning against the wall behind him. Then one of the sentries exclaimed, “Earl James!” and Thraxton’s hand fell back into his lap.
“So he got here in time for the dance after all,” Ned of the Forest said. “Next question is, did he bring his friends along?”
“Surely he would not have come alone,” Leonidas the Priest said. One of Ned’s eyebrows rose. So did one of Count Thraxton’s. Leonidas is a trusting soul, he thought. A moment later, he amended that: Leonidas is a trusting fool.
Earl James of Broadpath strode into the farmhouse. He was a bear of a man, bigger and more imposing than Thraxton had expected, burly and shaggy and, at the moment, in something of a temper. Giving what struck Thraxton as a perfunctory nod, he said, “By the gods, your Grace, I’ve been wandering over some of the wretchedest landscape I’ve ever seen, trying to find out where in the eternal damnation you’d hidden your headquarters.”
“I am glad you did at last,” Thraxton said, his bloodless tone suggesting he was anything but glad. “Allow me to introduce my subordinates to you, General-though I expect you will already know Dan of Rabbit Hill.”
James rumbled laughter. Baron Dan smiled, too. “I expect I will,” James agreed. “We’re both out of Palmetto Province, we both graduated from the officers’ collegium at Annasville the same year, and Dan’s out of the Army of Southern Parthenia, too. Good to see you again, by the Thunderer.” He clasped Dan’s hand in his own big paw.
“Touching,” Count Thraxton murmured. “Here is my other wing commander, Leonidas the Priest, and the commander of my unicorn-riders, Ned of the Forest.”
Leonidas rose and bowed. Ned was already standing. He bowed, too. James returned both bows, bending as much as a man of his physique could. He and Ned of the Forest sized each other up-like two beasts of prey meeting in the woods, Thraxton thought with distaste. Earl James said, “I’ve heard of you. By all accounts, you do good work.”
That made Ned bow again, just as if he were a real gentleman. “Thank you kindly,” he answered. “Everybody knows the Army of Southern Parthenia does good work.”
Count Thraxton fumed. Ned had just given him the back of his hand, and more smoothly than he would have expected from such a lout. Thraxton wondered if James of Broadpath had noticed. He couldn’t telclass="underline" that thicket of beard kept James’ face from showing much.
With a small sigh, Thraxton returned to business: “How many of your men have come here with you, Earl James?”
“Rather more than half, your Grace,” James replied. “Brigadier Bell is bringing the rest forward as fast as the accursed glideways in Peachtree Province will let him. The southrons don’t have to go through this sort of nonsense when they move their troops from hither to yon, believe you me they don’t.”
“That, unfortunately, is true,” Thraxton said. “Nonetheless, the men you do have will greatly augment our strength. You are senior to Baron Dan, I believe?”
“I may be,” James said quickly, “but you don’t need to do anything on my account. Dan knows what’s going on hereabouts hells of a lot better than I do.”