Harry Turtledove - Sentry Peak

He turned to Brigadier Alexander, who commanded one of the two divisions in the part of the army Guildenstern still led personally. “I say we have them on the run,” he announced.

“Hope you’re right, sir,” Alexander answered with a smile. His face usually wore one; he had a bright, easygoing disposition.

His smile was enough to make General Guildenstern give one back-which meant it was sunny indeed. Expansiveness perhaps fueled by brandy, Guildenstern said, “No wonder you’re a brigadier-your family’s given King Avram a brigade’s worth of men.”

“Oh, not quite, General.” Alexander chuckled at the commanding general’s quip, even if he’d surely heard the like before.

“How many kinsfolk of yours have come out of Highlow Province, anyhow?” Guildenstern asked with genuine curiosity.

“Seventeen in all, sir, if you count my father,” Alexander said proudly. “They wouldn’t let him come north with us-said he was too old. But when John the Hunter led his unicorns south of the Highlow River to stir things up in our part of the kingdom last year, Father went out against him. They killed him in one of the little fights down there, the bastards.” For a moment, his smile faded. But then it returned, though tinged with sorrow. “Not many of them got back over the river, and Geoffrey hasn’t tried anything like that since.”

“Seventeen.” Even Guildenstern hadn’t thought it was quite so many. “Not all brothers, surely-or your father was an even mightier man than I would have reckoned. Mightily beloved of the Sweet One, anyhow.” He extended his middle finger in the gesture sacred to the goddess.

“Well, she did smile on him, General-there are ten of us sprung from his loins,” Alexander answered. “The rest are close cousins. My brother Niel is one of your colonels of foot, and Cousin Moody leads one of your cavalry regiments. If Geoffrey wants to win this war, he’ll have to lick every one of us, and I don’t suppose he’s got enough men to do it.”

“I like that.” Guildenstern took another swig of brandy. After the spirits seared their way down to his belly, he liked it even better. And he put it to his own purpose: “No wonder Thraxton’s probably scurrying back toward Marthasville right this minute.”

“No wonder at all,” Brigadier Alexander said agreeably. “After the way you flanked the Braggart out of Rising Rock, what else could he do?”

“Not a thing. Not a single, solitary thing, by the gods.” General Guildenstern smiled again. Yes, he liked the way Alexander thought.

“No wonder about what, sir?” asked Brigadier Thom, Guildenstern’s other division commander.

“No wonder Thraxton the Braggart’s on the run,” Guildenstern replied. He gave Thom a wary look. The brigadier’s father, Count Jordan of Cloviston, had done everything he could to keep Detina a single kingdom. Count Jordan had done a great deal to keep Cloviston loyal to King Avram, too, but the divisions in the realm also split his own family, for Thom’s older brother, George the Bibber, had served as a brigadier under Geoffrey till cashiered for drunkenness. Even now, Guildenstern wondered about Thom’s loyalty.

But the dark, shaggy-bearded officer nodded without hesitation. “No wonder at all,” he said. “We’ve got him where we want him, sure as sure.”

“Well said. By the gods, Brigadier, well said!” Guildenstern boomed. He leaned over to clap Thom on the shoulder. He almost leaned too far, far enough to fall off his unicorn. Only a quick shift of weight saved him from that ignominious tumble. Having righted himself, he did his best to pretend nothing had happened. “Sure as sure, as you put it so well, Count Thraxton must ingloriously flee, or else see himself ground like wheat between the millstones of our victorious army.”

“A pretty figure, General,” Thom said, “and one we shall make true.” If he would sooner have been serving under Thraxton the Braggart, he did conceal it well. Of course, from everything Guildenstern knew about his immediate foe, even a man who might sooner serve King Geoffrey than King Avram was apt to have second thoughts about serving under Thraxton.

As General Guildenstern had during the advance on Rising Rock, he admired the concentrated might of the army he led. Crossbowmen, pikemen, unicorns cavalry, dart- and stone- and firepot-throwers, mages… He sighed, wishing mages were less necessary. But if the northerners had them-and they did-he needs must have them, too, and so he did.

On paced his unicorn. On marched the army. Rising Rock vanished in the distance behind him, obscured by bends in the road, by forest, and by the red dust boots and hooves and wheels raised. He sighed again. He would sooner have stayed back there sporting with that yellow-haired wench. She’d fit him very well, in every sense of the word. Well, no help for it-and there would be other women ahead.

He was musing thus when a courier shouting, “General Guildenstern! General Guildenstern!” rode toward him, fighting his way south against the northbound stream of soldiers in gray.

“Here!” Guildenstern called, and he waved for good measure. Both call and wave were probably needless: a swarm of banners and gold dragons marked his place in the line of march. But he didn’t care to seem to be doing nothing.

The courier brought his unicorn up alongside Guildenstern’s and saluted. “Sir, I’m Captain Menander, one of Lieutenant General George’s guardsmen. You need to know, sir, that we had a sharp little run-in with Ned of the Forest’s troopers late yesterday afternoon.”

“ Did you?” Guildenstern said, and Menander the guardsman nodded. “Whereabouts was this?” Guildenstern asked. “How far had Doubting George got before they jumped you?”

He didn’t notice he’d used George’s disparaging nickname till too late. Captain Menander was in no position to take offense. The courier answered, “Sir, our vanguard had got within perhaps six miles of the River of Death.”

“Had it?” Guildenstern said-George was wasting no time in moving north. “And what precisely happened?”

Menander looked disgusted. “If you want to know the truth, sir, Ned suckered us. I hate to say it, but it’s true.”

Guildenstern wasn’t altogether sorry to learn of Doubting George’s discomfiture-not even close. But showing that too openly wouldn’t do. He said, “Ned of the Forest has managed to sucker more commanders more often than we’d like to admit. How did he do it to George?”

“He felled some trees to block the road and shot at our vanguard,” Captain Menander answered. “Then, when we brought up more men to deal with his skulkers, he showed some of what he had hiding in the woods. We sent up still more men-and his whole force showed itself, gave us a black eye, and then ran away.”

“His whole force, you say? Are you sure of that?” Guildenstern asked.

Menander the guardsman nodded. “Sure as can be, sir. I was up there at the edge of the fighting. As a matter of fact, it seemed like Ned had twice as many men as we thought he could. They handled us pretty roughly.” He took off his hat and looked at it. So did General Guildenstern. Up near the crown, it had two small, neat holes through it. Captain Menander said, “A couple of inches lower, sir, and somebody else would be giving you this report.”

“I see.” Guildenstern nodded. He plucked at his beard as he thought. “I wonder if Thraxton left Ned of the Forest behind to harass our advance while he retreats with the rest of his army.”

Captain Menander didn’t answer. Guildenstern would have been affronted had he done so. Judging strategy wasn’t a captain’s place. King Avram gave me that job , Guildenstern thought.