“They can’t hit anybody,” Smitty said, as obvious a lie as Rollant had ever heard.
Before he could answer, the sun seemed to dim for a moment, though no cloud was near. A breath of cold air went straight down the back of his neck. Under his cap, all his butter-yellow hair tried to stand on end. He’d had those feelings before, back in his serf hut on Baron Ormerod’s estate. “Magecraft,” he whispered, putting all a serf’s dread into the word. “That’s strong magecraft.”
Other voices, not all of them belonging to blonds, said the same thing or things that meant the same. The spell hovered over Proselytizers’ Rise like a great bird of prey. Rollant shuddered, shivered, shook. I must have been crazy to join King Avram’s army, to go up against what the traitor lords can throw. Crazy? Worse than that. I must have been stupid.
And the spell, after hovering for a few unbearable heartbeats, struck home. And the traitors atop the Rise howled like beaten dogs and fled, throwing away their weapons to run the faster.
Rollant stared up at the crest in delighted disbelief. That wasn’t, that couldn’t be, a bluff. That was real panic, and he knew exactly what had caused it. “Either our mages got a spell just right, or theirs botched one,” he said as he scrambled forward.
“Bet on theirs botching one,” Smitty said beside him. “Thraxton the Braggart’s done it before.”
“I know he has,” Rollant answered. “It only goes to show that, every now and again, the gods do make sure there’s some justice down here below.”
“Maybe,” Smitty said. “And maybe it just goes to show old Thraxton can’t count past ten without taking off his shoes.”
“Believe what you want to believe,” Rollant said. “I’ll put my faith in the gods. And I’ll put my faith in getting to the top of the Rise before you do.”
“That’s what you think.” Smitty made for the crestline as if propelled from a catapult. Rollant did his best to keep up, but found himself outdistanced. Smitty waited, grinning, at the crest of the Rise. He gave Rollant a hand and pulled him upright. Somehow, it wasn’t a race Rollant minded losing, especially when Smitty pointed west. “Will you look at those sons of bitches run? If they keep going like that, they won’t stop till they get to the ocean.”
“Good.” Rollant brought up his crossbow to his shoulder and sent a bolt after the fleeing traitors.
More and more southrons, all of them whooping with the joy of men who unexpectedly find victory in place of disaster, came up onto the top of Proselytizers’ Rise. And more and more of their officers, seeing Thraxton’s men abandoning what had been the strongest of positions and running for their lives, shouted things like, “After them! Don’t let them get away!”
Though still panting from the climb up the side of the Rise, Rollant was willing-Rollant, in fact, was eager-to go after the men who wanted to keep blonds bound to their land. And plenty of Detinans in the southrons’ army went with him. Maybe they didn’t care so much about serfdom, but they knew a won battle when they saw one, and they wanted to get as much as they could from this one.
“River of Death!” some of them shouted. “This pays you bastards back for the River of Death!”
The traitors who’d been on the crest of Proselytizers’ Rise kept right on retreating in spite of the jeers from the southrons. Maybe, as Smitty said, they really would run till they came to the Western Ocean. When Thraxton’s spells went wrong, they went spectacularly wrong. Rollant was glad this one hadn’t gone right, or he would have been running back toward Rising Rock. But some northern soldiers finally formed lines to oppose the southrons. They were, Rollant realized, the men whom Fighting Joseph had forced away from Sentry Peak the day before.
“See how thin they are, boys?” Captain Cephas called. “A couple of good volleys and they’ll melt like ice in the springtime.”
Rollant hadn’t seen much in the way of ice before fleeing down to New Eborac; snow rarely fell near Karlsburg. But he was all for making the traitors melt away. That big, burly son of a bitch waving a sword, for instance. Gods damn me if that doesn’t look like Baron Ormerod, he thought as he took aim with his crossbow. Looks just the way Ormerod did when he almost put a hole in me. Thinking thus, he aimed with extra care. He squeezed the trigger. The crossbow kicked his shoulder.
And the traitor dropped his sword, clutched his chest with both hands, and sagged to the ground. Rollant yowled in triumph. Whether it was Ormerod or not, he’d killed his man.
And Cephas had the right of it. There weren’t enough northerners to stand up to the men facing them. After a couple of volleys, the company commander and other officers yelled, “Charge!” Charge the southrons did-and the traitors broke before them.
As Rollant loped past the man he’d slain, he looked down at him and whooped. “By all the gods, it is Ormerod!” he shouted, and kicked at the corpse. He missed, but he didn’t care. “Tell me blonds can’t fight, gods damn you.” He hoped devils were doing horrible things to the baron’s spirit down in one of those seven hells the Detinans talked about.
“Your liege lord?” Smitty said. “Did you shoot him?”
“I sure did,” Rollant answered. “I just wish I could’ve done it ten years ago.” He paused. “No. All his Detinan friends would’ve caught me and burned me alive. Not now, though.”
“No, not now,” Smitty agreed. “Now we’ve just got to keep chasing all these traitor sons of bitches as far as we can.”
More northerners kept coming forward to try to stem the retreat. They couldn’t do it, but their rear-guard action finally did let the bulk of Thraxton’s army break free of its pursuers and make its escape: the same role Doubting George’s wing had played in the fight by the River of Death. By the time the sun set, most of the traitors were several miles ahead of General Bart’s army, moving in the only direction open to them-up toward Peachtree Province.
Rollant and Smitty sprawled by a fire. Some of the soldiers ran up a tent for Captain Cephas, who’d kept up well but looked even more worn than most of his men. As Rollant was too tired even to get up and see what Hagen the blond had thrown into the stewpot, Cephas had to be truly weary. But when Rollant remarked on that, Smitty shook his head. “He wasn’t too worn out to keep Corliss from sneaking in there,” he said.
“What?” Rollant sat up, though every joint ached. “I didn’t see that.”
“Things happen whether you see them or not,” Smitty said with a superior sniff.
“I know,” Rollant answered. “Bad things are liable to happen on account of this.” He glanced over at Hagen. As long as the escaped serf was busy dishing out supper, he might not have time to worry about where his wife had gone. For everyone’s sake, Rollant hoped he wouldn’t.
When Captain Cephas didn’t emerge from the tent, Lieutenant Griff ordered sentries out. “We have to stay alert,” he said. “The traitors might counterattack.” Rollant didn’t believe it-the northerners were beaten men tonight-but he recognized the possibility. He also let out a long sigh of relief when Sergeant Joram didn’t call his name. Making the most of the opportunity, he wrapped himself in his blanket and fell asleep.
He wouldn’t have been surprised had Joram shaken him awake in the middle of the night to take someone’s place on sentry-go. Getting jerked from sleep by a woman’s shriek, though, took him back to the bad days on Baron Ormerod’s estate, when Ormerod had enjoyed himself among the blond girls as he pleased.
For a moment, Rollant lay frozen. Back on the estate, he hadn’t dared interfere. Few blonds did, and they all paid. But he wasn’t on the estate, wasn’t a serf, any more. A man’s cry-no, two men’s cries-rang out with the woman’s. Rollant knew exactly where he was then, and feared he knew exactly what had happened. A cry of dismay on his own lips, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward Captain Cephas’ tent.