“Hello, boys.” The company commander was thin and pale, but he was on his feet. “It’s good to be up and moving-a bit, anyhow. I hear I missed a little something.”
“Yes, sir,” Rollant said. “Awfully good to see you again, sir. From what they were saying about your wound…” His voice trailed off.
Cephas’ hand went to the right side of his ribcage. “I’ve still got bandages under my tunic,” he said. “But I can walk, and I think I’ll be able to fight before too long.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “I was lucky. The wound didn’t fester at all. And they threw me off my cot because so many soldiers hurt worse than I am started coming in.”
“How’s Lieutenant Benj?” Smitty asked. Benj had been wounded in the same skirmish as Captain Cephas.
Cephas’ face clouded. “He didn’t seem so bad when we first got hurt, but the fever took him.” He shrugged, then winced. He didn’t seem ready to swing a sword any time soon. “It’s as the gods will. That’s all I can say about it.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Captain,” Smitty said with a sly smile. “I expect Corliss will take good care of you now that you’re back.”
Rollant wanted to stick an elbow in Smitty’s ribs, but didn’t quite dare, not where Cephas could see him do it. He hadn’t brought Hagen and Corliss and their children back to the camp so the escaped serf’s wife could become the captain’s leman. On the other hand, Cephas hadn’t forced her, as northern nobles were in the habit of doing when blond girls took their fancy. That also made Rollant stay his hand, or rather, his elbow.
Cephas smiled, too. “I’m glad she and Hagen came back safe from the fight. I’ll be glad to see her; I wouldn’t say any different.”
I’ll bet you wouldn’t, Rollant thought. Other soldiers crowded forward to greet Captain Cephas. Even Lieutenant Griff had a grin on his face, though he would lose command of the company when Cephas was well enough to take it back. Rollant looked around for Hagen and Corliss. He didn’t see either one of them. Just as well, probably, went through his mind. Corliss might be glad to see Cephas again. He didn’t think Hagen would.
Count Thraxton had never felt so tired in his life. He wasn’t a young man any more, and the struggle against the southrons’ wizards to reach the mind, such as it was, of General Guildenstern had taken more out of him than he’d dreamt it could. But he’d done it, and Guildenstern’s army had streamed back out of Peachtree Province in headlong retreat.
And now, after Thraxton had won the greatest victory of his career, his own junior commanders were nagging him. “Sir, we have to pursue harder,” Baron Dan of Rabbit Hill said the morning after the fight by the River of Death. “The sooner we can throw a line around Rising Rock, the sooner we can drive the southrons out of the city or force them to surrender to us.”
“Baron, I think you are worrying overmuch,” Thraxton answered. “After the beating we gave them, with their army in such disarray, how can they possibly hope to stay in Rising Rock?”
“I don’t know how, sir,” Dan of Rabbit Hill answered. “I do know I don’t want to give them any possible excuse.”
“Any possible excuse to do what?” That was Earl James of Broadpath, whose blocky form kept almost as much light from Thraxton’s farmhouse headquarters when he stood in the doorway as the door itself would have done.
“Any possible excuse for the southrons to stay in Rising Rock,” Dan replied before Count Thraxton could speak.
“Oh.” James of Broadpath nodded. “Well, I should hope not, by the gods. We ought to run those sons of bitches out of there-eh, my lord Count?”
“My opinion,” Thraxton said coldly, “as I was explaining to Baron Dan here, is that Avram’s ragtag and bobtail will abandon Rising Rock of their own accord, and thus there is no reason for us to stage a hard pursuit.”
James frowned. “In the Army of Southern Parthenia, there’s always a reason to stage a hard pursuit. Duke Edward says-”
“I don’t care what the hallowed Duke Edward says,” Thraxton broke in-nothing could have been more surely calculated to infuriate him. “What I know is the present state of this army. Are you aware, your Excellency, that in the fighting of the past two days we have had one man in four killed or wounded? One man in four, your Excellency! How can I pursue after that?”
He thought he’d startled James of Broadpath with his vehemence, for James took a step back: away from the doorway, which made the inside of the farmhouse much less gloomy. But James wasn’t giving way to him, as he thought James should have done-James was stepping aside so someone else could come into the farmhouse.
When Count Thraxton saw Leonidas the Priest, he snapped, “And what in the seven hells do you want?”
In wounded tones, the hierophant replied, “I just came to ask, sir, when to order my troopers forward for the pursuit.”
“Why the demon should that make any difference to you?” Thraxton demanded. “When I told you to order them forward for the battle, you paid me no heed. Will it be different now?”
Leonidas drew himself up to his full height, which was still several inches less than Count Thraxton’s. “Your Grace, I am affronted,” he said.
“Bloody idiot,” Thraxton muttered, not quite far enough under his breath. Leonidas stiffened even further. Thraxton hadn’t thought he could.
“Sir, I didn’t come to Peachtree Province to quarrel with you,” James of Broadpath said, trying-too late-to sound like the voice of sweet reason. “I came here to whip the southrons. We’re off to a good start. Now we’ve got to finish the job.”
“That’s right,” Baron Dan agreed. He’d fought in the Army of Southern Parthenia, too. Of course he and James will take each other’s side, Thraxton thought resentfully.
Aloud, he said, “The job shall be finished. We shall, in due course, advance upon and make a demonstration against Rising Rock, and the southrons will abandon the city to us.” And I shall have my parade through the town. The people will cheer me. The people will love me. They should have all along, but they will now.
Sadly, Earl James of Broadpath shook his head. “Your Grace, you started this campaign to drive General Guildenstern out of Rising Rock, and all you managed to do was drive him back into it. Is that worth losing one man in four from your army-and from my division, too, I might add? And the chirurgeons still don’t know whether Brigadier Bell is going to pull through after they cut the leg off him.”
From under his bushy brows, Count Thraxton glared at James. “Who is in command here, your Excellency?” he asked, his voice as frigid as a southron blizzard. “Whose magics won this victory?”
“You are, sir,” James said. “I’ve never denied it. And your magics won the day. Without them, Guildenstern wouldn’t have torn a hole in his ranks. But I tell you this, sir: a good general can win a victory. It takes a great general to know what to do with it once he’s got it.”
That only made Thraxton more coldly furious. Before he could say anything more, though, a courier came in. “What do you want?” Thraxton snapped, aiming his wrath at the luckless fellow instead of at James of Broadpath.
“Sir, I’ve got a message here from Ned of the Forest for Leonidas the Priest,” the courier answered.
“Let me see that,” Leonidas said, and took it from him. The hierophant of the Lion God perched gold-framed spectacles on his nose before reading the despatch. When he did, he read it aloud: ” `Sir: Have been on the point of Proselytizers’ Rise. Can see Rising Rock and everything around. The enemy’s glideway carpets are leaving, going around the point of Sentry Peak. The prisoners captured report two pontoons thrown across for the purpose of retreating. I think they are evacuating as hard as they can go. They are cutting down timber to obstruct our passing. I think we ought to press forward as rapidly as possible. Respectfully amp;c., Ned of the Forest. Please forward to Count Thraxton.’ ” He looked up from the paper. “There you are, your Grace. You may consider it forwarded.” He chuckled wheezily at what he reckoned his wit.