“Well, boys, we’re in a scrap, no two ways about it,” Guildenstern said. He swigged from a bottle of brandy. “Ahhh! That’s good, by the gods. We’re in a scrap,” he repeated, hardly noticing he’d already said it once. “We are, we are. But we can still lick ’em, and we will.”
He clenched the hilt of his sword as if it were a traitor’s neck. When Thraxton’s attack went in, he’d had to do some real fighting himself. He knew there were men who questioned his generalship-he had plenty of them right here in the farmhouse with him. But no man ever born could have questioned his courage.
He looked around at the assembled military wisdom-he hoped it was wisdom, at any rate. “All right. Here we are, not quite where we wanted to be when we set out from Rising Rock. But we aren’t lost yet. Anybody who says we are is a gods-damned quitter, and welcome to go home. Question is, what will that Thraxton son of a bitch try and do to us when the fighting picks up in the morning?”
Lieutenant General George shook his head. “No, sir. That’s only part of the question.”
Guildenstern glared at him. Gods damn you, too, Doubting George, he thought. George had warned him Thraxton wasn’t retreating so fast as he’d thought himself. And George had had the nerve to be right, too. General Guildenstern did his best not to remember that as he growled, “What’s the other part?”
“Why, what we can try to do to him, of course,” George answered.
George’s Parthenian accent made it seem as if Thraxton the Braggart had an officer of his own at this council of war. But no one, not even Guildenstern, could challenge his loyalty to King Avram. And he wasn’t wrong here, either. “Fair enough,” Guildenstern said. “What can we do to that Thraxton bastard?”
“I would strengthen the right,” George answered around an enormous yawn. That yawn made Guildenstern yawn in turn, and went in progression from one officer to the next till they’d all shown how weary they were. Guildenstern had a cot to call his own. Doubting George-who yawned again-was perched on a three-legged milking stool. The rest of the generals either stood up or sat cross-legged on the rammed-earth floor.
“Of course you would strengthen the right, sir,” Brigadier Alexander said. “You are the right.”
“And if the traitors get through me or around me, everything goes straight to the seven hells,” Doubting George replied. “Ned of the Forest took a whack at it this afternoon, and the bastard almost ended up sitting on our route back to Rising Rock. If he hadn’t bumped into some of our boys coming forward, that would have been a lot worse than it was.”
“If you think the fighting wasn’t heavy in the center, too, you can think again, sir,” Brigadier Thom said.
Doubting George yawned once more. “I would strengthen the right,” he repeated. His eyes slid shut. Guildenstern wondered why he didn’t fall off his stool.
A couple of brigadiers started to snore, one lying on the ground, the other leaning up against the log wall of the widow’s hut. General Guildenstern took another pull at the brandy. It might not have made him think better, but it made him feel better. Right now, that would do.
It also made him sleepy. He yawned and stretched out on the cot. Some of his subordinates had higher social rank than he did, but he held the highest military rank. In wartime, that was what counted, not who was a count. The commander got the cot.
Before General Guildenstern could fall asleep, Doubting George stirred from his restless doze. “I would strengthen the right,” he said for the third time. He wasn’t looking for an answer. Guildenstern doubted he was even fully awake. But he said what was on his mind, awake or not.
He’s probably not even wrong, Guildenstern thought-no small mark of approval when contemplating the views of his second-in-command. If he needs help, or if I see the chance, I will strengthen the right.
He yawned again, rolled over, and fell asleep. The next thing he knew, morning was leaking through the narrow windows in the log hut. He muttered a prayer of greeting to the sun god, then noticed he had a headache. His hand reached out and unerringly found the brandy flask. He took a swig. “Ahh!” he said-not quite a prayer of greeting, but close enough.
With a little restorative in him, he noticed the delicious smell filling the little farmhouse. A blond steward was frying ham and eggs in a well-buttered pan over the fire in the fireplace. A couple of brigadiers already had their tin plates out, waiting for the bounty that was to come. Guildenstern wasted no time in grabbing his own. As he’d got the cot, so he would get the first helping.
“Where’s Doubting George?” he asked, noticing Brigadier Thom perched on the milking stool. “He’ll miss breakfast.”
“He went back to his wing, sir,” Thom answered. “A runner came in right at first light and said the fighting over there had started up again.”
“Curse the traitors,” Guildenstern said as the steward ladled ham and eggs onto his plate. “They’re an iron-arsed bunch of bastards indeed, if they won’t even let a man get a little food inside him before he goes back into battle.” He started shoveling food into his own face. “By the gods, that’s good. Poor old George doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
Another runner came in just as Guildenstern was finishing. “Sir, there’s fighting all along the line,” he said. “And Thraxton the Braggart’s got men from the Army of Southern Parthenia fighting alongside his own, sir. We’ve captured some.”
That produced exclamations from every officer still inside the log hut. Guildenstern’s was loudest and most profane. “No wonder the gods-damned son of a bitch had the bastards to hit us with,” he said once the stream of curses had died to a trickle. “Well, we’ll whip ’em any which way.”
He got up, jammed his hat down low on his head so the wide brim helped shield his eyes from the light-which seemed uncommonly bright and fierce this morning-and went outside. Sure enough, the din of combat had begun again, not far to the north of the widow’s house. His own men were yelling King Avram’s name and cheering, while the traitors roared like lions.
Colonel Phineas hurried up to him. “Sir, the northerners are seeking to work some large and desperate sorcery,” the mage said.
“Are they?” Guildenstern said, and the wizard nodded. With a shrug, Guildenstern went on, “Well, it’s your job to see they don’t do it. Why else are you here, by the gods, if not for that?”
Phineas saluted. “We shall do everything in our power, sir.”
Guildenstern shook his head. That reminded him he had a headache. He couldn’t figure out why. Maybe a slug of brandy will help, he thought, and tried one. He wasn’t so sure about the headache, but the brandy made him feel better. He shook his head again. It still hurt, but not so much. “Ahh. No, Colonel. I don’t want you to do everything in your power.” He put a mocking whine in the last four words. “I want you to bloody well stop them. Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir.” The unhappy-looking mage saluted again. “We’ll do our best, sir. But the northerners seem to be pressing this with all their strength.”
“All the more reason for you to stop them, wouldn’t you say?” Guildenstern demanded. “What are they up to, anyway? Are they probing us again?” He spoke the word with heavy-handed irony.
Phineas’ jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. I think this is something else. It is something unusual, whatever it is. And it has the stamp of Count Thraxton all over it.”
“All the more reason to stop it, then, wouldn’t you say?” Guildenstern asked.
“All the more reason to, yes, sir,” Colonel Phineas agreed. “But stopping Thraxton the Braggart is not so easy as stopping an ordinary man.”