Harry Turtledove - Sentry Peak

“Wherever Thraxton the Braggart is, we have to find him and beat him,” Guildenstern said. Menander nodded at that. He could hardly do anything else. The commanding general went on, “I still do believe he’s running away as fast as he can go.” He raised his voice: “Brigadier Alexander! Brigadier Thom!”

“Sir?” the two division commanders chorused.

“I intend to pursue Thraxton on a broad front, as broad as possible,” General Guildenstern said. “Brigadier Thom, you shall take your men north up roads farther west. Brigadier Alexander, you shall continue on our present route, and hold the center between George and Thom. I’ll come with you, and stay in touch with each wing through messengers and scryers.”

“Yes, sir,” Thom and Alexander said together. Guildenstern nodded. They were subordinate to him. They couldn’t possibly say anything else.

As Captain Ormerod strode along the northern bank of the River of Death, he shook his head in frustration. “This would be miserable country for fighting a battle,” he said.

“Sir, this is miserable country whether we fight a battle here or not.” As usual, Lieutenant Gremio was more exact than he needed to be. That didn’t mean he was altogether wrong, though. The woods, mostly pine with oak and elm and chestnut scattered through them, were thick and hard to navigate. Bushes and brambles grew in riotous profusion under the trees, making things worse yet.

“What’s that?” Ormerod raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t care to have an estate hereabouts?”

After the words were out of his mouth, he wondered if Gremio would take offense. Living in Karlsburg, the lawyer didn’t have-and didn’t seem to want-a proper landed estate. But Gremio just said, “The only thing this country would be good for is burying my enemies. May it bury a lot of them.”

Ormerod peered south, as if expecting to see King Avram’s gray-clad villains bursting out of the trees in division strength or more. All he saw were more woods, identical to those on this side of the river. He said, “I hear Ned of the Forest buried a good many southrons a couple of days ago.”

“The Lion God grant it be so,” Gremio said. “Ned’s no gentleman, but he fights like a round sawblade-there’s no good place to get a grip on him.”

“They say he almost fought Count Thraxton before we pulled out of Rising Rock,” Ormerod remarked.

“He wouldn’t be the first,” Gremio said. “He won’t be the last.” His opinion of Thraxton was not high. Since Ormerod’s wasn’t, either, he nodded.

Before he could say anything, a gong chimed. “The call to worship,” Ormerod said. He raised his voice to a shout: “Come on, men! Time to pay our respects to the Lion God.”

“Time to keep Leonidas the Priest happy,” Lieutenant Gremio said with a sneer. “I wish we were in Dan of Rabbit Hill’s division, so the gods wouldn’t hit us over the head every sixth day.”

“You’re nothing but a citified scoffer,” Ormerod said, to which his first lieutenant nodded emphatic agreement. Ormerod went on, “The gods will recognize you, whether you recognize them or not.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Gremio replied. “And ifsobe I’m wrong, and end up toasting in the seven hells-why, I’ll save you a spot by the fire, Captain.”

“Avert the omen!” Ormerod exclaimed. His fingers twisted in a sign the Detinans had borrowed from their serfs so long before, only a few scholars knew they hadn’t brought it over the Western Ocean with them. Ormerod’s own piety might not have been profound, but it was deep and heartfelt. He’d been a young man when a wave of proselytizing swept through northern Detina twenty years before, and he’d sealed his soul to the gods then.

Colonel Florizel had consecrated himself during that wave of proselytizing, too. “Up!” the regimental commander called. “Up, you Detinans! Let the gods know you care for them, and they’ll be happy to care for you!”

Soldiers in indigo tunics and pantaloons made their way toward the altar Leonidas the Priest had set up in a clearing not far from the River of Death. Baron Ormerod and Earl Florizel accompanied their troopers. So did Lieutenant Gremio; he might be a scoffer, but he didn’t advertise it to the men.

Again and again, the gong rang out. Florizel’s regiment wasn’t the only one assembling in the clearing; several more joined it. Off in the distance, more gongs belled. Leonidas couldn’t be everywhere at once, but he made sure the men he led had every chance to worship.

When the southrons were closer, Ormerod had sometimes heard their gongs calling the faithful to prayer. All Detinans followed the same gods. All Detinans were convinced those gods favored them. Some Detinans would end up disappointed. Not a man usually given to deep thought, Ormerod simply assumed the southrons would prove the disappointed ones.

Florizel poked him in the ribs with an elbow. “Isn’t that a splendid altar?” the regimental commander said. “You couldn’t find better in a proper temple back in Karlsburg, not hardly.”

“No, sir, you surely couldn’t,” Ormerod agreed. The altar, gleaming with gilt, stood on a platform of new-sawn boards so more soldiers could see it. Also gilded were the bars of the cage in which the lion prowled, thrashing his tufted tail back and forth. Even the chain securing the frightened lamb to the altar had been slapped with several coats of gold paint.

Leonidas the Priest prowled the platform as the lion prowled the cage, waiting for the worshipers to gather. His vestments were partly of gold, but more of scarlet, as befitted a hierophant of the Lion God. Ormerod was proud to serve under such a holy man. He would have been prouder still had he reckoned Leonidas a better officer.

At last, the gongs stopped chiming. Leonidas the Priest raised his hands in a gesture of benediction. “We are gathered at the River of Death to fight for the life of our kingdom,” he said. “Death and life are brethren. The Lion God knows as much. So does the lamb, his victim.” He stroked the woolly little animal. It let out a desperate-sounding bleat.

An acolyte in crimson robes somewhat less magnificent than Leonidas’ held a deep red-glazed bowl under the lamb’s neck. Leonidas himself drew a knife from his belt and cut the lamb’s throat. The acolyte caught the spurting blood in the bowl. “It is accomplished!” Leonidas cried.

“It is accomplished!” Ormerod echoed, along with the other soldiers reverencing their god. “Death and life are brethren. Such is the wisdom of the Lion God.”

When the lamb was dead, Leonidas unchained the little carcass, lifted it, and gave it to the lion. With a soft grunt, the great beast began to feed. As the hierophant served the living symbol of his god, the acolyte passed the bowl of blood down to the waiting soldiers.

Ormerod stood near the portable altar. The bowl did not take long to reach him. He dipped the tip of his right index finger into it, then touched that finger to his forehead. “I am washed in the blood of the lamb,” he murmured, and put the finger in his mouth to lick off the blood. “Like the Lion God, I taste victory. So may it always be.”

Ritual accomplished, he passed the bowl-still warm with remembered life-to the soldier nearest him. In the worship of the Lion God, all brave men were equals. Even the southrons who worshiped him were Ormerod’s equals in that way… which didn’t keep him from wishing every one of them dead.

The last trooper who received the bowl brought it back to the acolyte, who, bowing gravely, returned it to Leonidas the Priest. Bowing in return, the hierophant accepted it from him and set it in the lion’s cage. The lion, a veteran of countless such services, walked over and flicked out his tongue, drinking from the bowl.