“Why?” James of Broadpath shrugged. “I’ll tell you why. Because when he told me what to do, he looked like the pictures you see of the conqueror priests from the old days, the ones who led the armies that smashed up the blonds’ kingdoms here in the north. You could almost hear the gods talking through him.”
Brigadier Bell made a sign with the fingers of his right hand. Most Detinans would have used the left, but his left arm hung limp and useless. “Here’s hoping you’re right, sir,” he said, which was what the gesture meant in words.
To the south of them, the racket of battle picked up as the sun climbed a little higher above the horizon. James said, “I am still allowed to fight, you see: along with our men from Parthenia, I’ve taken command of the ones Baron Dan of Rabbit Hill was leading.”
“Dan’s a good man,” Bell said.
“I know he is. I feel bad about horning in on him like this. But-” James’ broad shoulders slid up and down again. “Thraxton wanted me in charge of one of his wings, and this was how he went about it when I got here. So I’ve got his men fighting, and most of the soldiers from the Army of Southern Parthenia waiting in reserve for when Thraxton gives me the word. I’m going to put you in charge of them now that you’re here.”
“What if the word never comes?” Brigadier Bell demanded.
“Sooner or later, I’ll throw you in without it,” James allowed. “But I’m not going to do that right away. Thraxton’s incanting for all he’s worth, and he’s my superior. I’ve got to give him his chance.”
“All right, sir,” Bell said stiffly. By his tone, it wasn’t all right, or even close to all right. By his tone, in fact, King Geoffrey would hear about it if things went wrong. Brigadier Bell was in good odor down in Nonesuch, probably in better odor than Earl James was himself: Geoffrey thought well of straightforward, hard-charging officers, no doubt because he’d been one himself.
“Just remember,” James murmured, “that his Majesty thinks the world of Count Thraxton.”
“I understand that.” Surprise sparked in Bell’s eyes. “How did you know what was in my mind, sir?”
“I didn’t need to read the entrails of a sacrifice to figure it out,” James of Broadpath answered. Brigadier Bell shook his leonine head, plainly still bewildered. James had all he could do not to laugh in Bell’s face. He was no straightforward hard charger; he had a nasty, devious mind, and enjoyed using it. He sometimes thought that in itself went a long way toward explaining why King Geoffrey preferred certain other soldiers to him.
He shrugged. He couldn’t help that. He was as the gods had made him. If King Geoffrey didn’t fully appreciate him, then he didn’t, that was all.
No complications, no deviousness in Brigadier Bell. There he stood in front of James, every inch of him but his dead left arm quivering with eagerness to get into the fight. “Why did we come here from Parthenia, if we’re just going to wait in the wings?” he demanded.
“Our time will come,” James said.
“When?” It wasn’t a word-it was a howl of frustration from Bell.
“When Count Thraxton gives the order,” James repeated. “If you don’t care for that, I suggest you take it up with the count. He can do something about it, and I can’t.”
He watched Brigadier Bell weigh that. Bell was a man of impetuous, headlong courage, but even he hesitated to break in on Count Thraxton while Thraxton was at his magics. That was one of the few bits of wisdom James had ever seen him show.
James said, “Perhaps you should-” but a messenger came trotting up before he could finish telling Bell to go soak his head. He nodded to the messenger. “Yes? What is it?”
Saluting, the messenger said, “Count Thraxton’s compliments, sir, and you are to strike the center with all your strength as soon as may be. The time, he says, is now.”
“There, you see?” James said to Bell. Returning the messenger’s salute, he replied, “You may tell Count Thraxton we shall obey him in every particular.” The messenger hurried away. James gave his attention back to Bell. ” `As soon as may be,’ he said. He’s had some trouble getting his own officers to move fast. Let’s show him how the Army of Southern Parthenia executes orders.”
“Right you are, sir. And now, if you will excuse me…” Bell didn’t wait for an answer. He dashed off, shouting to the men he would lead into the fray. He didn’t know what lay in front of him, and he didn’t much worry about it, either. Whatever it was, he would hit it hard and hope it fell over.
Division commanders could have worse traits. A great many division commanders did have worse traits. Once pointed in the right direction, Brigadier Bell got the most from the men he led.
Unlike Count Thraxton’s commanders, Bell wasted no time. Not a quarter of an hour after he got the order, he had his men moving forward, all of them roaring with eagerness to close with the southrons at last.
And, not a quarter of an hour after Brigadier Bell sent his men into the battle, a messenger sprinted back to James of Broadpath. The young soldier in blue was almost bursting with excitement. “General James, sir!” he shouted. “There’s nobody in front of us, nobody at all. We’re rolling up the stinking southrons like a bolt of cheap cloth.”
“By the gods,” Earl James said softly. He turned away from the runner.
“What are you doing, sir?” the youngster asked.
“I am saluting Count Thraxton,” James answered. He meant it literally, and gave a salute as crisp as he ever had at the military collegium in Annasville. He’d almost called the commander of the Army of Franklin Thraxton the Braggart. He shook his head. That wasn’t right, not this time. If Thraxton had managed to magic away a big chunk of Guildenstern’s army, to get it out of the way so this attack could go in unhindered, he’d earned the right to brag.
“Orders, sir?” the runner asked.
“Turn in on the southrons once you’ve accomplished the breakthrough,” James said. “Don’t let them rally. We want General Guildenstern’s army ruined. Make sure you use that word to Brigadier Bell.”
“Yes, sir,” the runner said. “Ruined. Sir, I really think they are.” He saluted, too-not Count Thraxton, but James-and hurried away.
“Ruined,” James repeated, liking the sound of the word. He strode toward Count Thraxton’s headquarters. He’d heard any number of uncomplimentary things about Thraxton before coming east. His meeting with Thraxton the night before hadn’t left a good taste in his mouth. But if Thraxton’s magecraft had done this, the officer’s less than sterling personality didn’t matter. In battle, victory mattered, nothing else.
When he reached the farmhouse, he was shocked to see Thraxton. The commander of the Army of Franklin might have aged five years since the previous night. He looked stooped and exhausted and so thin that a strong breeze could have blown him away. But the air was calm, and Thraxton had created the breeze that would blow the southrons away from the River of Death.
“Your Grace, we’ve broken them,” James of Broadpath said, and saluted again. “The men are swarming into the gap your sorcery made for them.”
No matter how worn Count Thraxton was, triumph blazed in his deep-set eyes. “Good,” he rasped in a voice that seemed a ragged parody of the one he’d used only the day before. “We shall drive them out of Peachtree Province. We shall drive them out of Rising Rock. We shall drive them out of Franklin altogether.” He muttered something under his breath that James didn’t quite catch. It sounded like, I shall have my parade, but what was that supposed to mean?
“Give me your orders, sir, and I’ll obey them,” James said.
Thraxton yawned enormously. “For now, I am fordone. Your men cannot do wrong if they press the enemy hard.”
“Yes, sir!” James said enthusiastically. “That’s the sort of order Duke Edward of Arlington might give.”
“Is it?” Thraxton’s voice was cool, uninterested, distant. If being compared to King Geoffrey’s best general pleased him, he concealed it very well. “How nice.”