But, given the dispositions of James’ men… “Brigadier Falayette!” James waited for the wing commander to nod, then went on, “As your men stand before Fort WiLi, you shall make the assault upon it. As soon as you have gained control, rapidly send soldiers north and south so as to secure as much of the enemy’s line as you can, easing the way for our other forces.”
“Yes, sir,” Falayette said.
James did his ponderous best to hide a sigh. He heard no eagerness there. “Colonel Simon!” he said.
“Sir?” Simon the mage replied.
“As with Brigadier Alexander’s specialty, the attack on the fort will require all that your mages can give,” James said.
“I understand, sir,” Simon said. “You’ll have it.”
“Good.” James wondered how good it was. Brigadier Falayette had a point. Wouldn’t it be better to hang on to what they had now than to throw it away on an attack that held little hope of success? Earl James sighed again, openly this time. Count Thraxton had given the orders, and he had to obey. And retaking Wesleyton would be important-if they could do it.
He gave the order for the attack with more than the usual worries. Brigadier Alexander’s engines pummeled the earthen walls of Fort WiLi. Stones battered them. Firepots sent flame dripping down them and over the battlements to burn the men inside. James of Broadpath wouldn’t have cared to find himself on the receiving end of that bombardment.
And Simon the mage and his wizardly colleagues did all they could to punish the fort and the southrons inside it. Lightning struck from a clear sky. The ground trembled beneath James’ feet, and presumably did more than tremble inside Fort WiLi. Batwinged demons shrieked like damned souls as they swooped down on the defenders.
Against the blonds in the old days, the days of conquest, the sorcerous assault would have been plenty to win the fight by itself. But the southrons knew all the tricks their northern cousins did, even if they weren’t always quite so handy with them. Their lightnings smote James’ men, too. The tremors died away as the southron mages mastered them. And as for the demons, as soon as they manifested themselves in the real world, they were as vulnerable to weaponry as any other real-world creatures. Once the stream of darts from a repeating crossbow knocked three of them from the sky in quick succession, the rest grew much more cautious.
And the southrons had many more engines to turn on James’ men than Brigadier Alexander had to turn on them. One after another of the catapults brought with such labor from Rising Rock went out of action. Alexander’s artificers shrieked as fire engulfed them.
James beckoned for a runner. “Tell Brigadier Falayette to start his footsoldiers moving right this minute. We’re getting hammered harder than we’re hammering.”
“Yes, sir.” The runner dashed off.
Despite the order, the pikemen and the crossbowmen who would follow them did not go forward. Fuming, James of Broadpath dispatched another runner to his reluctant brigadier, this one with more peremptory orders. After a little while, the second runner came back, saying, “Brigadier Falayette’s compliments, sir, but he believes the enemy has strung wires in front of his position. Have we tinsnips or axes to cut them?”
“Tinsnips?” James clapped a hand to his forehead. “Tin snips?” The word might have come from one of the more obscure tongues the blond tribes used. “You tell Brigadier Falayette that if he doesn’t get his men moving this instant-this instant, do you hear me?-we’ll find out if we’ve got a pair of tinsnips big enough to fit on his gods-damned neck.”
With a gulp, the runner fled.
And the pikemen and crossbowmen did go forward-straight into everything the southrons’ still undefeated engines could throw at them, straight into the massed shooting of every crossbowman Whiskery Ambrose could put on the walls of Fort WiLi. They went forward roaring, plainly intending to sweep everything before them.
But, as Brigadier Falayette had said, the southrons did have thin wires strung in front of Fort WiLi. They slowed the attackers so that Whiskery Ambrose’s men and engines could pound them without mercy, and the northerners were able to do little to reply.
“Where’s Simon the mage?” James shouted in fury. When the wizard came before him, he growled, “Why didn’t you clever sons of bitches notice those wires ahead of time?”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but we can’t possibly notice everything,” Simon said.
“Sometimes it seems as if you can’t notice anything,” James said. The colonel gave him an aggrieved look, which he resolutely ignored. “Is there anything you can do to get rid of the gods-damned wires? Conjure up some demons with sharp teeth and a taste for iron, maybe?”
Simon the mage shook his head. “We would need some considerable, time-consuming research, and we have no time to consume, I fear.”
He was all too obviously right about that. Instead of going forward with roars, James’ men were streaming away from the fort outside Wesleyton. They’d made their attack and seen it fail. They were veterans. They knew what that meant: no point in staying close to the enemy and getting hurt to no purpose.
After a while, Whiskery Ambrose sent out a young captain with a white flag. Northern soldiers led him to James of Broadpath. “The general’s compliments, sir,” the youngster said, “and he would be pleased to grant you two hours’ truce to recover your wounded.”
James bowed. “That is very courteous and gentlemanly of General Ambrose, and I accept with many thanks.” They exchanged a few more compliments before the southron captain went back to Fort WiLi.
Now I’ll have to explain to Captain Thraxton how and why I didn’t break into Wesleyton, James thought gloomily. That will be every bit as delightful as going to the dentist.
A scryer came up to him, as if the thought of having to talk to Thraxton were enough to bring the fellow into being. “What now?” James asked.
The scryer looked worried. James felt his own temper, stretched thin by the repulse, fray even further. Had the illustrious Thraxton decided to sack him even in advance of knowing what had happened here? James didn’t intend to disappear peacefully. But then the scryer said, “Sir, the fighting’s started up by Rising Rock.”
XI
Another gray, foggy, misty day. Captain Ormerod was sick of them. “Is this what fall is like in these parts?” he asked, leaning closer to the campfire. “If it is, why in the hells does anyone live here?”
“It really isn’t, sir,” Lieutenant Gremio answered. “I’ve spoken with some men who come from this part of Franklin, and-”
“Looking for evidence, eh?” Ormerod broke in.
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” Gremio said. “They tell me they can’t recall seeing such a wretched run of weather. It’s almost as if some mage were holding a blanket of clouds and mist over Rising Rock.”
Ormerod raised an eyebrow. “Do you suppose some mage is? Some southron mage, I mean?”
“I wouldn’t think so, sir,” Gremio said. “Surely Count Thraxton would notice if that were so.”
“Oh, surely.” Ormerod put as much sarcastic venom in that as he could. “Thraxton is just like a god-he notices everything that goes on around him. Haven’t you seen that for yourself?”
“It’s foggy. I can’t see anything much,” Gremio said.
But then Ormerod said, “It is starting to clear out a bit, I suppose.” The more he looked, the more and the farther he could see. If it had been a spell-and he didn’t know about that one way or the other-the wizard who’d been casting it seemed to need it no longer. When he looked up to the top of Sentry Peak, he spied King Geoffrey’s flag, red dragon on gold, floating where his regiment (though Major Thersites would have had something memorable to say had he put it that way in earshot of him) had placed it.
And when he looked east… When he looked east, his jaw dropped and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Lieutenant Gremio was already looking east. Being a barrister, he’d likely had a tongue hinged at both ends since birth. “By the Lion God’s mane,” he said hoarsely, “if that isn’t every stinking southron in the world out there, it might as well be.”