Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

“Er, yes… sir.” Major Alva looked like a man who wanted to leave. Rapidly. After a moment of very obvious thought, he found an excuse: “If I want to be on the next glideway carpet, I’d better get ready. May I be excused, sir?”

“Oh, yes. You’re dismissed,” the commanding general said. Alva had to remember to salute. He hurried out of the headquarters. Doubting George threw back his head and laughed. He’d put the fear of the gods into Alva, or at least done a good job of confusing him, which would serve every bit as well.

Now if I could only assemble an army that easily , he thought. Getting men to come to Ramblerton so they could actually do some fighting got harder by the day. News that General Bell had invaded Franklin should have made men rush together to defend their kingdom. Instead, it had made each little garrison want to stay exactly where it was, so it could defend its own little town or fortress.

If Bell wasn’t altogether a fool-not the most obvious proposition George had ever thought of-he wouldn’t want to fight at every little town and fortress. He’d bypass whatever he could so he could move south into Cloviston and head for the Highlow River, where he could do King Geoffrey some good and embarrass and perhaps even hurt King Avram. That seemed obvious to George. To his subordinates? No.

But Bell couldn’t ignore a big army on his flank-or at least he would be a fool if he did. Maybe he would try to ignore it-Bell was the sort who would try to ignore whatever he could if ignoring it meant he could go after something else. George hoped Bell would ignore southron soldiers on his flank. That would make life easy for him personally, and for King Avram and the south in general.

Meanwhile, he still had an army to build up… if he could, if his own officers, men who were supposed to obey his commands, would let him. They were convinced they knew what was best for them, best for their own little forces. They didn’t think about or didn’t care what was best for the kingdom. If somebody tried to point out what was best for Detina as a whole, they didn’t want to listen.

Colonel Andy came in and saluted. “What did you do to poor little Alva?” George’s adjutant asked.

“Poor little Alva? I doubt that,” Doubting George said. “After the war ends, he can get about as rich as he cares to. What did I do? I sent him up to Poor Richard, to give John the Lister a hand.”

“Oh. That explains the kicked-puppy look I saw on his face,” Andy said. “He has to pack his carpetbag and go somewhere else, and nobody will take care of him while he’s traveling.”

“He’s not all that helpless,” George said. “Gods know I’ve seen mages who were a hells of a lot worse.”

“I know,” Andy said. “But he thinks he’s helpless when he has to deal with the ordinary world, and so he acts that way, which also gives him the chance to annoy everybody around him.”

“My, you’re sour today,” George remarked. “Feel like insulting anyone else while you’re here, or can I have a turn?”

“Go right ahead, sir. You’re the commanding general, after all,” Andy replied. “Rank hath its privileges.”

Doubting George snorted and held his nose. “Rank is mostly just… rank. Look at what dear General Hesmucet left me, if you don’t believe that. Some people had to make bricks without straw. I get to make bricks without clay. There’s good reason most of these odds and sods in Franklin and Cloviston were garrison soldiers. The more I see it, the plainer it is, too: they aren’t worth a counterfeit copper in a real fight.”

“And you blame Hesmucet for that?” Andy asked.

“Of course I do. You don’t expect me to blame myself, do you? Not fornicating likely. Besides, Hesmucet’s marching through Peachtree, and he’s up against nothing but the same kind of odds and sods, except in blue uniforms. He’ll whale the living stuffing out of them, and he’ll be a big hero. Meanwhile, I’m still fighting against a real army. Do you think I’ll let him get away without a few insults flying around his ears? That’s likely the worst opposition he’ll see.”

“You don’t like him very well, do you?”

“He’s a brave soldier. He’s a good general. I wish I were doing what he really is. I’d get to be a famous hero, too. The way things are, I’ve got a hard, ugly job to do, and nobody gets famous taking care of those.” Doubting George sighed. “That doesn’t mean they don’t need doing, though.”

Corporal Rollant looked toward the Trumpeteth River, which lay between John the Lister’s army and safety in Poor Richard. He’d crossed the river coming north, on his way to Summer Mountain. At the ford, it hadn’t come up past his waist. He’d taken off his pantaloons, got the bottom of his shirt wet, and gone on about his business. Things wouldn’t be so easy heading south.

What with all the rain that had fallen, the Trumpeteth came up a lot higher than Rollant’s waist now. It would have been up over his head, even at the ford. It wasn’t quite out of its banks, but it wasn’t far from flooding, either. Any army falling back toward Poor Richard would have to bridge the stream before it could cross.

Normally, that would have been straightforward work for Joseph the Lister’s artificers and mages. Things weren’t normal now. Rollant wondered if things ever were really normal in wartime. When he said that out loud, Smitty snickered. “Of course they’re normal,” he said. “They’re always buggered up.”

“Well, yes,” Rollant said. “But there’s the usual kind of mess, and then there’s this kind of mess.” He scratched his head. “If there’s a usual kind of mess, I suppose things can be normal during the war. But they’re not normal now.”

“Sure as hells aren’t,” Smitty agreed. “Not with the gods-damned traitors trying to sabotage everything we do.”

“They always try to do that,” Rollant said dolefully. “Trouble is, they’re having too much luck at it right now.”

Smitty shook his head. “That isn’t luck. They’re still better wizards than we are, even after all this time.”

“I know,” Rollant said, even more dolefully than before. “They wouldn’t have dropped our latest try at a bridge into the Trumpeteth if they weren’t.”

“And the one before that, and the one before that , don’t forget,” Smitty said. “Something tells me they don’t want us crossing over the Trumpeteth. They’re sure trying like anything to keep us from doing it, anyhow.”

“Lieutenant General Bell’s probably still mad at us for sliding past him at Summer Mountain,” Rollant said.

“I would be, if I wore his shoes-his shoe, I mean,” Smitty said.

“I bet the traitors make that joke every day,” Rollant said.

“I bet you’ve got a big mouth… Corporal,” Smitty said. For a moment, he’d forgotten Rollant outranked him. Ordinary Detinans often had a hells of a time remembering blonds could outrank them. Hastily, Smitty went on, “And I bet General Bell’s probably about ready to spit nails like a repeating crossbow on account of we did get by his bastards. Only goes to show the traitors can screw up a perfectly good position, too. Sort of reassuring, if you know what I mean.”

“We already knew they could be as stupid as we are,” Rollant said. “Remember Proselytizers’ Rise.”

“There is that,” Smitty admitted. “Yes, there is that, by the Lion God’s fangs. They should have slaughtered us.”

Rollant laughed. “You sound like you’re sorry they didn’t.”

“No, they’re the ones who’re sorry they didn’t,” Smitty said. “Only thing I’m sorry for right now is that I’ve got to stand in this miserable, muddy trench.”