“We aren’t the only ones muttering, I’ll have you know,” Dan of Rabbit Hill told James. “Some few-some more than a few-of the brigadiers under us are circulating a petition amongst themselves, expressing their lack of confidence in the Braggart.”
“Are they?” James said, and Dan and Leonidas both solemnly nodded. James shook his head in slow wonder. “We are spending as much of our substance fighting amongst ourselves as we are against the gods-damned southrons, and we have less to spare than they do.”
“True. Every word of it true-and every bit of it Thraxton the Braggart’s fault,” Baron Dan said. “And yet we beat the foe at the River of Death. We could have won a bigger victory, and we could have won another victory afterwards. But did we?” His dismissive wave proclaimed what Thraxton’s Army of Franklin had done-and what it had failed to do.
“We didn’t.” Leonidas the Priest stated the obvious. “I shall pray once more to the Lion God to look more kindly upon us-after I protest my dismissal. If you will excuse me, your Excellency…” He pushed past James of Broadpath and into the scryers’ tent.
“I still have that to attend to myself.” Dan of Rabbit Hill also bowed to James. “I hope to have the chance to discuss these things with you at greater length when we both have more leisure and when we both find ourselves in a better temper… if such happy days should ever come.”
“May it be so,” James said. “We shall have a great deal to discuss in those happy days-of that I am certain.”
“Indeed.” Ducking past him, Dan followed Leonidas into the tent.
“A great deal to discuss,” James repeated, this time to himself. Everything had gone just as he’d hoped it would. His men had let Thraxton win a smashing victory against General Guildenstern, a smashing victory that turned out not to be quite smashing enough.
He looked south and east toward Rising Rock. Driving the southrons out of the city now wouldn’t be easy, wouldn’t be cheap, and might well prove beyond the power of Thraxton’s army. Besieging them would have been easier had Thraxton thrown a proper line around the place when he had the chance. Which left… James cursed. He had no idea what it left.
Riding for all they were worth, the southrons hurried off toward the southwest, where Whiskery Ambrose still held Wesleyton. Had they been on dogs instead of unicorns, their mounts would have had their tails between their legs. Ned of the Forest whooped to see them flee before him. If he’d had even a few regiments of footsoldiers to go with his riders, he might have taken Wesleyton back from the southrons.
Captain Watson’s little collection of siege engines had, as usual, kept right up with the rest of Ned’s riders. Watson sent a last couple of firepots after the retreating southron riders. One burst between a couple of unicorns and drenched both them and the men aboard them with flames. Ned whooped again. “Good shooting, by the gods!” he shouted. “Real good shooting.”
Watson waved to him. “Thank you, Lord Ned.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Ned was ready, even eager, to give praise where it was due. And Watson, even though he couldn’t raise a proper crop of whiskers yet, was as praiseworthy a soldier as Ned had found. “Those fellows won’t be bothering us again any time soon.”
A scryer rode toward him, calling, “Lord Ned! We’ve got orders from Count Thraxton, sir!”
“Do we?” Ned rumbled; orders from Thraxton the Braggart were the last thing he wanted right this minute. But, with the scryer’s having made that public, he couldn’t very well ignore them-not unless they’re really stupid, he thought. With a sigh, he said, “And what does the count want with us?”
“Sir, we’re ordered back to the rest of the army, north and west of Rising Rock,” the scryer told him. That wasn’t so bad; he’d been intending to rejoin the main force soon anyhow. Then the scryer lowered his voice and went on, “Some powerful strange things are going on back there right now, if half of what the fellow who sent the order to me said alongside of it is true.”
“Is that a fact?” Ned said, and the scryer solemnly nodded. The cavalry commander asked the next question: “What kind of strange things?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly know, sir-not exactly,” the scryer said. Ned glared. When he asked a question like that, he expected a proper answer. Flushing under swarthy skin, the scryer did his best: “From what he says, everybody who’s in command of anything is screaming bloody murder at everybody else.”
“Is that a fact?” Ned of the Forest repeated. The scryer gave him a nervous nod. Ned forgot the man in front of him. He plucked at his chin beard, thinking hard. At last, he said, “So I’m not the only one who reckons we should ought to have done more to get the southrons out of Rising Rock, eh?”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir, not for sure I don’t,” the scryer said. “I’m just telling you what I heard from the fellow back there.”
“All right.” Ned let him off the hook. Turning to the trumpeters who always accompanied him, he said, “Blow recall.”
The unicorn-riders reined in in some surprise; Ned of the Forest wasn’t in the habit of breaking off pursuit so soon. They’d whipped Whiskery Ambrose’s men, but they hadn’t crushed them. Colonel Biffle asked, “What’s up, sir?”
“Thraxton wants us back close to home,” Ned told him. “And, from what the scryer says, there’s some kind of foofaraw back at the camp. Maybe it’s just as well he ordered us back. I want to find out what’s going on.”
“He’d better not try messing with you, Lord Ned,” Colonel Biffle said.
Ned of the Forest hadn’t thought of that. His hands closed hard on the reins. “You’re right, Biff. He’d better not try that. He’d be one of the sorriest men ever born if he did.”
But he did his best to stay cheerful as he rode back toward the Army of Franklin’s encampment outside Rising Rock. Maybe Thraxton was finally deciding to try to get between the southrons and their supply base over in Ramblerton. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him to do that.
But if that was the reason he wanted the unicorn-riders back, why were all the high officers screaming at one another?
He brought his men into Thraxton’s encampment a little before sunset. He’d hardly dismounted before excited footsoldiers started passing gossip to his riders, gossip that quickly reached him: Leonidas the Priest and Dan of Rabbit Hill sacked, James of Broadpath screaming to Nonesuch, and every sort of story under the sun about Count Thraxton. Even Ned, who was inclined to believe almost anything of his commander, found the rumors swirling through the encampment hard to swallow.
And then a runner came up to him and said, “Sir, you are requested and required to report to Count Thraxton’s headquarters immediately upon your arrival.”
“Oh, I am, am I?” Ned said. “Why didn’t Thraxton order me to come in to him before I got back?” The runner just stared in confusion. Ned sighed. “Never mind, sonny boy. Lead me to him. I’ll follow you.”
He hadn’t bothered finding out where Count Thraxton now made his headquarters. It wasn’t anywhere he much wanted to go. Thraxton proved to be inhabiting a farmhouse near Proselytizers’ Rise: a prosperous farmhouse, by its colonnaded front. He doesn’t do so bad for himself, Ned thought, no matter what he does to the poor army.
Maybe it would just be business. By the gods, I hope it’ll just be business. Ned made his face a gambler’s blank as he strode into the parlor. He drew himself up straight and saluted Count Thraxton. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”