Cold fish, Earl James thought. Fish on ice, in fact. He shrugged. It still didn’t matter, not after what Thraxton had done. With another salute, James said, “I’ll be getting back to my own headquarters, sir.”
Thraxton’s nod said he would be just as happy not to see James again any time soon. Fighting to hold on to his temper, James left the farmhouse. He’d just returned to his own place when a runner dashed up and cried, “Brigadier Bell is wounded, sir!”
“Oh, gods damn it to the hells!” James of Broadpath exclaimed. “Is he badly hurt?”
To his further dismay, the runner nodded. “A stone from an engine smashed his leg, sir. The chirurgeons say they’re going to have to take it off if he’s to live. He was leading the men forward, sir, when he was hit.”
“I believe that,” James said somberly. “It’s always been Bell’s way-he never did know how to hang back and command from the rear. But oh, by the Thunderer’s lightning bolt, the price he’s paid.” He shook his head. Bell had had that arm ruined earlier in the summer in Duke Edward’s failed invasion of the south, and now a leg lost… He wouldn’t be leading attacks from the front, not any more. Trying to see if anything could be salvaged from misfortune, James asked, “Is the wound below the knee?” A peg leg might let Bell move around fairly well.
But the runner shook his head. “No, sir, it’s up here.” He touched his thigh. “I saw it myself.” James winced and grimaced. That was about as bad as it could be.
Earl James gathered himself. Even if Bell was wounded, the fight had to go on. The southrons had to be whipped. “Is Dan of Rabbit Hill in command up there now?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the runner said. “He sent me back for your orders.”
“Tell him to keep on pressing the enemy hard,” James of Broadpath replied. “That’s also Count Thraxton’s command: I’ve just spoken with him.” The runner nodded. James went on, “Tell him to swing in and finish rolling up Alexander’s wing, and Thom’s. Once we’ve settled them, we’ll deal with Doubting George, and that will be the end of General Guildenstern’s whole army.”
“Yes, sir,” the runner said, and repeated his words back to him. When James nodded, the young man saluted and trotted away.
“Ah, Brigadier Bell,” James said, and kicked at the dirt. Bell was fierce, Bell was bold, Bell was recklessly brave-and Bell was hurt, Bell was ruined, Bell was broken. And the war ground on without him. And, James thought with grim certainty, more than Bell would be ruined by the time it finally ended.
General Guildenstern had been so very sure of himself when he ordered Brigadier Wood’s men out of their place in the line and over to the right to aid Lieutenant General George. The move had seemed so obvious, so necessary, so right, that the Lion God might have put it into his mind.
And, not a quarter of an hour after Wood’s men left the line, before any replacements could fill the gap, what seemed like every traitor in the world swarmed into it, and now the battle was ruined for fair. “How in the seven hells did they do that?” Guildenstern groaned to anyone who would listen. “They might have known the cursed hole would open up!”
“General, I think they did.” That was Colonel Phineas, so worn and wan as to look like a shadow-a fat shadow, but a shadow nonetheless-of his former self.
Guildenstern rounded on the mage. “What nonsense is that?”
“I told you the northerners had us under sorcerous assault,” Phineas answered. “I told you Thraxton’s wizardry was loose in our army. I think that wizardry was aimed at you, sir, to make you go wrong at just the right time-the right time for the traitors, I mean.”
“You useless, blundering son of a bitch,” Guildenstern growled. “I ought to cut your heart out and put it on the altar for the Lion God to eat. How are we supposed to set this fornicating mess to rights now?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I really have no answer for that,” Phineas said sadly. “I wish I did.”
At the moment, Guildenstern had no answer for it, either. All he could do was watch his army fall to pieces before his eyes. And it was doing exactly that. Crossbowmen and pikemen turned their backs on the foe to flee the faster.
Siege-engine crews harnessed their unicorns to the catapults they served and hauled them away from danger. A few didn’t bother with their engines, but clambered aboard the unicorns themselves so they could get away.
“Brigadier Alexander!” he shouted. “Where in the damnation are you, Brigadier Alexander?”
“Here, sir.” Alexander looked as harried as Guildenstern felt. “Sir, they’ve knifed us right in the belly. A whole division of northerners has broken through here, maybe more. We can’t stop ’em. What in the hells do we do?”
Before Guildenstern could answer, a breathless runner gasped, “Sir, Brigadier Thom says the left is falling to pieces. The traitors are turning in and flanking out his men one brigade after another. He can’t hold, sir, not unless you’ve got reserves to give him. Even then it won’t be easy.”
“I have no reserves,” Guildenstern groaned. “I’ve sent everything I could spare to the right. I was hoping Thom would have men to give me.”
“What shall he do, sir?” the messenger asked.
“Tell him to fight as hard as he can and do his best to stem the tide with what he has,” Guildenstern answered. “That’s what I’m doing here. It’s all I can do.” The runner saluted and ran back toward the west.
No sooner had he gone than another runner hurried up to General Guildenstern and said, “Lieutenant General George’s compliments, sir. He thanks you for Brigadier Wood’s men and asks if you can spare him any more. He’s hard pressed on the right.”
Guildenstern groaned again, groaned and shook his head. “I wish I hadn’t sent him those. Thraxton’s magic made me do it-and now the traitors are pouring through the hole in my line here. I have nothing more to give him.”
“That’s… bad, sir,” the runner said. “I’ll give him your words. We’ll try to hold on there, but I don’t know how long we can do it.” As the other messenger had only moments before, he hurried away.
“Ruined,” Guildenstern muttered. It was the word he’d though to fit to Thraxton the Braggart like a glove. He looked at his own hand. He wore that word now.
He took a swig from his brandy flask, then looked up, escaping his private world of pain for the real disaster building on the battlefield. Roaring northerners in blue were almost in crossbow range of where he stood, though he’d been well back of the line not long before.
Brigadier Alexander saw the same thing. “Sir, we can’t stay here,” he said. “If we do, they’ll overrun us.”
“And so?” Guildenstern said bitterly. Dying on the field was tempting-that way, he wouldn’t have to face the blame bound to come after word of this disaster reached the Black Palace in Georgetown. But he might still be able to salvage something from the defeat, and so he nodded. “Very well, Brigadier. I fear you’re right-it’s the traitors’ day today, and not ours. Where are our unicorns?”
Alexander was already waving to the men holding them. As they came up, the wing commander said, “Maybe we can do something to stop the retreat.”
“Yes. Maybe.” Guildenstern wondered if it would stop this side of Rising Rock. He shrugged as he mounted. Alexander was right. They had to try.
But the farther he went, the more he wondered if anyone or anything could save the army. Oh, here and there men and groups of men still battled bravely to hold back the onrushing northerners. But the army, as an army, had fallen to pieces. In the center and on the left, every regiment fought-or ran away and didn’t fight-on its own. No one was controlling brigades, let alone divisions or wings.