General Bart met Hesmucet at the eastern outskirts of Rising Rock. “Good to see you,” Bart said, a broad smile on his face. “Now we have the old team back again.”
Hesmucet clasped his superior’s hand. “Good to be here, sir. We’ve always whipped the traitors when we fought them together. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t do it again.”
“I hope you’re right.” Bart eyed the long columns of men in gray tunics and pantaloons tramping into Rising Rock. “Now that you’re here, now that Thraxton can’t starve us out of this place any more, we’re going to give it a try, anyhow.”
“We’ve beaten Thraxton before. We can beat the son of a bitch again,” Hesmucet said. Bart frowned slightly: not so much a turning down of the mouth as a vertical line between his eyebrows. He was as hard-driving a general as any, but he had little taste for harsh language.
But he was also willing to make allowances for Hesmucet he wouldn’t have for most officers. “I think our chances are good,” he said. “Doubting George could have held Rising Rock against Thraxton the Braggart by himself, provided only that Thraxton didn’t cut off his victuals altogether. We’ve got his army-he has command over what was Guildenstern’s whole force-and the divisions Fighting Joseph brought from the west (if Duke Edward sent James of Broadpath here, we could afford to bring men east, too), and now you’re here as well. When we hit, we’ll hit hard.”
“That’s what the whole business of war is all about, sir,” Hesmucet said.
“I am glad you’re here, by the gods,” Bart said. “When it comes to matters of fighting, we think alike, you and I. There’s no one better than Lieutenant General George for receiving a blow from the enemy, but he’s slower than I wish he were when it comes to striking. And as for Fighting Joseph…”
Voice dry, Hesmucet said, “I don’t expect King Avram is brokenhearted at having an excuse to send Fighting Joseph out here to the east, a long way away from Georgetown and the Black Palace.”
“I don’t expect you’re wrong.” Bart’s voice was dry, too. “I don’t suppose he could have tried a usurpation after losing at Viziersville this past spring, but I don’t suppose he was very comfortable to have around just the same.”
“No doubt that’s so, sir.” Hesmucet leaned forward in the saddle. “Will he give you trouble?”
“He may,” Bart answered. “He thinks of glory for himself first and everything else afterwards. He always has; it’s the way the gods made him. He will try to seize as much independent command as he possibly can-that’s the way the gods made him, too. But he will also fight hard. I know that. He didn’t get his nickname for nothing. I don’t mind him getting some of what he wants, so long as he gives me what I want.”
Hesmucet chuckled. “Well, sir, if any man can keep asses and unicorns in harness together, you’re the one.” He snapped his fingers. “And speaking of which, did you hear about the asses breveted as unicorns?”
“I did indeed,” Bart said. “By all accounts, they deserve their brevets a good deal more than some two-legged officers who’ve got them.”
“I thought the very same thing,” Hesmucet said. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Come into the city now,” Bart urged. “I’ll show you the enemy’s dispositions north and west of here, and we can start planning how best to strike them.”
“Nothing I’d like better, sir,” Hesmucet said. “Is it true that Ned of the Forest isn’t leading the traitors’ unicorn-riders any more? I heard that, and I believed it because I wanted it so much, but is it so?”
Bart nodded. “It is. Thraxton, you know, will quarrel with anyone.”
“That he will,” Hesmucet said. “I’m not sorry he quarreled with Ned. I don’t know where Ned’s gone-”
“Off toward the Great River, I hear, while you were coming this way,” Bart told him.
“Is that a fact?” Hesmucet said. “Well, our unicorn-riders over there can try to get rid of him. I don’t think we’ll ever have peace in Franklin or Cloviston till Ned of the Forest is dead. But to the hells with me if I’m sorry we won’t be facing him here. He’d make bringing supplies into Rising Rock a much tougher job than it is now, and you can’t tell me any different.”
“Nobody ever could tell you any different about anything,” Bart said. “That’s one of the things that makes you a good soldier.”
“I don’t know about that, sir.” Hesmucet plucked at his beard as he pondered. “I have my doubts, in fact. You have to keep your eye on the enemy every minute, or else he’ll make you sorry.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Bart said. “Of course you keep your eye on the enemy. But you do what you want to do; you don’t do what he wants you to do. You always try to make him dance to your tune.” He laughed. “I try to do the same, the only difference being that I can’t recognize my tune even if a band starts playing it right in front of my face.”
“Ah.” Hesmucet ignored the feeble joke, whose like he’d heard before, to bring his wit to bear on the essence of what Bart said. “I think you’re right. That’s the way you’ve run your campaigns-I know that for a fact.”
“All but once, when Ned got into my rear as I was coming north along the Great River,” Bart said. “Ned fights the same way, and when he hits a supply line, it stays hit, by the gods. I had to pull back. It was that or starve.”
“But you went north again later, after Ned rode off somewhere else,” Hesmucet said. “Ned left. You stayed. And you won: King Avram holds every inch of the Great River these days, and what Geoffrey wanted to be his realm is torn in half.”
“If you keep moving forward, if you make the foe respond to you, good things are pretty likely to happen,” Bart said. “And if you keep your army together. General Guildenstern is a brave officer-no one ever said differently-but he split his in three pieces, and he’s lucky worse didn’t happen to it. I make plenty of mistakes, but I won’t make that one.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would, sir,” Hesmucet said. “You haven’t made many mistakes, not that I’ve seen.” From many men, that would have been flattery. He made it a simple statement of fact, and wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t believed it.
“Thank you kindly,” Bart told him. “Now would you care to ride into Rising Rock with me?”
“I would indeed,” Hesmucet said, and into the town they rode without the least concern for whose rank was higher than whose.
Count Thraxton was not a happy man. Count Thraxton rarely was a happy man, but he found even more reasons for gloom than usual when he peered east from Proselytizers’ Rise toward Rising Rock. Oh, on the surface things looked good enough. King Geoffrey had sustained him in his command. He’d got rid of the officers who’d libeled him to the king. Everyone who led men under him was either loyal to him or knew how to keep his mouth shut in public.
And yet… He knew the grumbling went on. He didn’t need any great skill in magecraft to understand that. His officer corps might be cowed, but it was not satisfied. The only thing that would satisfy his officers was marching into Rising Rock. And how was he supposed to manage that?
You should have done it after we beat the southrons by the River of Death. He could still hear his officers bleating like so many sheep. He looked up into the heavens, toward the mystical mountain beyond the sky where the gods lived. “You tell me, Thunderer; you tell me, Lion God: how was I supposed to make my army move fast when the enemy had just shot one man in four?” he said. A sentry gave him a curious look. His glare sent the man back to dutiful impassivity in a hurry. If it hadn’t, Thraxton would have done a great deal more than just glare.