Harry Turtledove - Sentry Peak

The southrons wasted no time in bringing more men north to deal with the dismounted troopers who harassed them from behind the fallen trees. Ned nodded again. It was a smart piece of work. Had those men behind the trees been the only ones who were bothering them, they would have driven off King Geoffrey’s soldiers in short order.

Ned filled his lungs and shouted one word: “Six!” Instantly, his officers and sergeants took up the cry. Every sixth soldier hidden among the trees stepped out into the open and started shooting at the southrons. Ned stepped out into the open himself. He would not order his men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. He was a good shot with a crossbow, although he preferred the saber at closer quarters.

With crossbow quarrels suddenly smiting them from the flank as well as the front, the southrons yowled in dismay. They went down one after another. Some few of them, with more courage than sense, tried to charge Ned’s men. The charge withered like a garden in a drought. Some of the southrons drew their swords, but nobody got close enough to use one.

Again, of course, Ned’s men couldn’t slay everybody. More of the soldiers in gray ran back toward the south. “Shouldn’t we chase ’em, Lord Ned?” one of Ned of the Forest’s men asked-one who didn’t get the point. “They’ll bring all of Guildenstern’s soldiers down on our heads.”

“No, not all of ’em,” Ned said. “They’ll bring back enough to deal with what they see-and a bit more besides, in case some little thing goes wrong. So let the gods-damned sons of bitches run.” Sure enough, the heat of battle also heated his language. “They’re doing just what I reckoned they would.”

This time, he heard unicorns and footsoldiers coming before he spied them. The pounding of hooves, the drumroll of marching feet, soaked into his body through the soles of his own feet as well as through his ears. And when the southrons came into sight, he nodded to himself once more. They’d sent plenty to overwhelm what he was showing-and that he might not be showing everything never once crossed their minds.

A great shout rose from the enemies in gray when they saw Ned and his men still in line of battle out in the open, waiting for them. The unicorn-riders outdistanced the crossbowmen and pikemen who advanced with them. Ned’s crossbowmen, waiting there away from the cover of the trees, were the sort of target cavalrymen dreamt about.

Lances and sabers and iron-shod unicorn horns gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. “Bide your time, boys,” Ned said. The onrushing unicorns thundered nearer. Here and there, Ned’s men began to shoot in spite of orders. Then he shouted, “ Now!” and all his men, both those in the open and the far larger number concealed under the trees, shot a volley at the unicorn-riders that broke their charge as if it had run headlong into a stone wall. Unicorns tumbled. Men pitched off them. Unhurt beasts fell over wounded ones. Ned’s men kept right on shooting; thanks to those pack animals, they had bolts to spare.

Cries of “Magecraft! Black magecraft!” rose from the southrons. Ned of the Forest threw back his head and laughed out loud. And General Guildenstern’s footsoldiers, seeing that the unicorns had failed but not seeing why, kept coming forward till they too took a couple of volleys from his massed dismounted force of riders.

“We’ll lick ’em all!” one of his troopers cried.

But he shook his head. “Next time, they’ll bring up enough to deal with the lot of us,” he said. “The idea is, not to stick around here to get dealt with. Back in the woods, boys. Back to the unicorns. We’ll be gone, and we’ll hit ’em again somewheres else pretty soon-doing what we want, not what they want us to.” He clapped his hands together. “That’s what this here war’s all about, ain’t it?”

“Forward!” General Guildenstern cried grandly. Horns blaring, drums thumping, the part of the army he hadn’t given to Doubting George marched out of Rising Rock, heading north toward the border with Peachtree Province. Guildenstern wished the army-or at least he-could have stayed longer. One of the blond serving girls-a serf no longer, of course, but still a servant-at the hotel had served him as delightfully as he’d ever imagined a woman doing. He sighed, then loosed another shout: “Forward! Duty calls!” He wasn’t just telling his men. He was reminding himself, too.

Having reminded himself, he used his knees and the reins to urge his unicorn forward. Its every step took him farther from the blond girl. He wished he hadn’t reminded himself of that. To keep from thinking about it, he loosed the brandy flask he wore next to his sword and swigged from it. Maybe the peaches from which the potent stuff was brewed had come from the province toward which he advanced. That was some consolation for leaving the wench behind. Some, yes. Enough?

Probably plenty of willing blond wenches up in Peachtree Province , he thought. That notion, possibly sparked by the brandy he’d poured down, went further toward consoling him for leaving Rising Rock.

And they’ll all fall at my feet-or into my bed-once I smash up Thraxton the Braggart’s army once for all. I can do it. I will do it. Once I get clear of these woods, I’ll outflank him again and again, the same way I flanked him out of Rising Rock, out ofFranklin altogether. He can flee or he can fight. If he flees, I throw more wood on King Geoffrey’s pyre with every mile of land I take back for King Avram. If he fights, I crush him . Guildenstern nodded and took another nip from his flask. The sun shone down brightly, as if on him alone. The breeze smelled sweet, at least to him. Victory made a better perfume than flowers or spice.

Let me crush Thraxton , Guildenstern thought. Let my scryers send word to King Avram that Marthasville is his again, that the gold dragon, the true dragon, has driven out the red. What will that mean? Earl Guildenstern? Count Guildenstern? Even Duke Guildenstern, by the gods? Duke Guildenstern. I like the sound of that .

He came from a family of merchants and artisans. No one except a couple of worthless cousins had ever gone hungry. Some of his kin enjoyed more wealth than most nobles. He’d never lacked for anything in all his days-anything except respectability. He shook his head. That was the wrong word. In the bustling south, merchants and artisans were perfectly respectable. He’d lacked… prominence.

He nodded. That fit. Becoming an officer had given him some of what he wanted. Becoming a noble would give him the rest.

“Duke Guildenstern,” he murmured, and nodded again. It had a fine ring to it.

Doubting George, now, Doubting George was already a baron over in Parthenia, though King Geoffrey-Geoffrey the traitor-had seized his estate when he stayed loyal to King Avram, just as Avram had declared Duke Edward of Arlington’s lands forfeit to the crown when Edward chose Geoffrey over him. Guildenstern was sure George scorned him because his blood wasn’t higher. Let me settle Thraxton, and it will be. Let me rescue George, in fact, and it will be .

His second-in-command had stuck close to the western flank of Sentry Peak. General Guildenstern- I outrank Doubting George, no matter how blue his blood is -moved his slightly larger force north along roads farther west still. If Count Thraxton was rash enough to have lingered in the neighborhood, Guildenstern and George would smash him between them.

But Guildenstern didn’t really believe Thraxton had done any such thing. No matter what Doubting George thought, he remained convinced Thraxton had hightailed it for Stamboul. If anything, George’s belief that the enemy might be closer made him sure Thraxton wasn’t.