“In the name of the gods, what happened?” he demanded.
“We were beaten,” one of the wizards replied in a hollow voice. His eyes were wide and staring, as if he’d seen things men were not meant to see. “The southrons beat us at sorcery. What is the the world coming to, when such a disaster can come to pass?”
“I don’t know.” William was also troubled; if soldiers hadn’t beaten back King Avram’s armies, and if magic also looked like failing, what remained for the north? Not much. The words tolled like mourning bells inside Roast-Beef William’s mind. He asked, “What do we do now? What can we do now?”
“Sir, I don’t know,” the mage said. “I haven’t any idea. All I know is, I want to go to bed and sleep for a year. If you’ll excuse me, sir…” He staggered off, not really caring whether William excused him or not.
William knew he should have gone to see Bell again, to plan the next move for the Army of Franklin. He knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He might have been someone hesitating to enter a sickroom that held a loved one who would die soon-such images kept cropping up in his mind. Duty called, yes, but sometimes even duty did no good. What could he say now that hadn’t already been said? Bell knew what shape the army was in. Would he choose to let it perish? Even if he didn’t, how could he hope to save Marthasville?
As far as William could see, none of those questions had answers he cared to contemplate. What do we do? What can we do? Wait for the death, burn the body, and then try to pick up the pieces. That was all he saw ahead.
Two days later, the only thing that had changed was that the southrons were several miles closer to drawing their ring around Marthasville. Roast-Beef William had trouble caring even about that. He was sunk in such gloom when Major Zibeon came to his headquarters and said, “Lieutenant General Bell requests your presence at once, sir.”
“He does, eh?” Roast-Beef William eyed Bell’s aide-de-camp with more than a little curiosity. “What does he need me for in such a tearing hurry?”
“I couldn’t presume to say, sir,” Zibeon replied.
“No?” William doubted that (and, doubting, wished Doubting George had chosen Geoffrey over Avram). Any aide-de-camp worth his boots had a pretty good idea of what his principal was thinking. “Well, I’ll come and find out.”
“Thanks,” Zibeon said, as if Roast-Beef William were doing him a favor rather than obeying an order. William scratched his head. Bell’s dour aide-de-camp rarely wasted politeness on anyone but the commanding general, and sometimes not on him. But Zibeon went on, “Ride with me, if you care to, sir.”
“I don’t mind if I do.” Roast-Beef William gave Zibeon a quizzical look. “Are you feeling all right?”
“No,” Zibeon said, and said not another word till they got to Bell’s headquarters. Then he unbent enough to add, “You’ll see.”
What Roast-Beef William saw was that Lieutenant General Bell was smiling. He wondered how much laudanum Bell had had. He would have thought that enough to make Bell happy would also have been enough to stop Bell’s heart. But the commanding general said, “Good day, William. I am convinced we finally have the southrons where we want them.”
“Sir?” Roast-Beef William said in real astonishment.
Bell nodded. “Just so. They think to trap us here. By the gods, I shan’t allow it. We shall break out from this prison in which they seek to contain us and then strike with all our strength at the glideway line-the single glideway line-that keeps them fed and supplied. What can they do when they start to starve? Run back to Franklin with their tails between their legs, that’s what.”
“That is… a most ambitious plan, sir,” William said at last.
“But it will work!” Bell said. “Claws of the Lion God, it will work. If we can hit them one good lick…”
Slowly, Roast-Beef William nodded. Bell wasn’t thinking about abandoning Marthasville. He was thinking about attacking the enemy. As long as he thought about the attack, the abandonment wouldn’t bother him. Under other circumstances, that would have horrified Roast-Beef William. As things were, it left him more pleased than otherwise. If the Army of Franklin didn’t get out of Marthasville, before long it wouldn’t be able to get out of Marthasville.
And so, with another nod, William said, “I think you have a good plan there, sir. We should commence without delay.”
“See to it, then,” Bell said-he wasn’t, and never would be, any sort of military administrator. “Draft the necessary orders for my signature.”
“Yes, sir,” William said resignedly. I should have expected this, he thought. “I suppose you’ll want to destroy whatever supplies we can’t take with us.”
“Indeed,” Bell said, which meant he hadn’t thought of that for himself. “Take care of all the details. That’s why I rely on you.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you so much, sir.” But then Roast-Beef William shook his head. Don’t put his back up. He’s doing what needs doing. If too much of the work falls on your shoulders, then it does, that’s all.
“We’re going to make Hesmucet wish he never came so far up into Peachtree Province,” Bell declared. “He’ll rue the day-see if he doesn’t.”
And the general commanding had some chance of being right. William could see as much, see it very clearly. The odds were still long, but they were better than they would be if the Army of Franklin stayed here in Marthasville and waited for doom to fall on it. “Give me pen and paper, sir,” Roast-Beef William said. “I’ll get to work on those orders right now.”
Lieutenant General Bell laughed. “That’s the man I knew I had. The gods-damned southrons will be sorry yet.”
“Here’s hoping you’re right, sir,” William said. “Where’s that paper? I want to make sure this is done the way it ought to be.”
Gremio touched a torch to a pile of crates. As they began to burn, he said, “I wonder what’s in these.”
“Wait a while and see what they smell like,” Sergeant Thisbe suggested.
“No time,” Gremio said. “We’ve got a lot more burning to do. And do you know what else? It’s more fun than I thought it would be.”
“Fun? I don’t know about that,” Thisbe said. “What I do know is, we’ve got to do this, or else the southrons will march into Marthasville and use everything we couldn’t take with us.”
“Me, I’m just glad we’re getting out of Marthasville,” Captain Gremio said. “I thought we’d stay penned up here till the southrons took us.” He paused to set another fire.
“Sounds like Lieutenant General Bell’s got himself another idea.” Thisbe started a new fire, too. He looked at the incendiary madness all around, as Gremio was doing. “Between the southrons and us, there won’t be a whole lot of Marthasville left after all this is done.”
“Good,” Gremio said, which made the sergeant send him a startled look. He explained: “Better we don’t leave Hesmucet anything much to get his hands on.”
“Something to that, sir, I suppose,” Thisbe said, “but it’s hard, it’s mighty hard, on the people who live here.”
To the seven hells with the people who live here, Gremio thought callously. He couldn’t see that the folk of Peachtree Province or Satrap Brown had done anywhere near enough to help the Army of Franklin defend this vital town. But he didn’t say that out loud; he’d seen that Sergeant Thisbe was more inclined to give people the benefit of the doubt than he was himself unless he was paid to do so.
“Come on, you men!” Colonel Florizel boomed to the regiment as a whole. “If we’re going to deny the enemy these goods, let’s not shillyshally around. Let’s make a fire the foe will remember to the end of his days.”