Harry Turtledove - Sentry Peak

“All right, sir,” the scryer said. This time, James let him go.

Earl James soon discovered why the men who’d created the Peachtree Glideway had come in with the low bid: they’d done as little as they possibly could to make it worth traveling on. Their spells left a good deal to be desired. The whole glideway was sluggish; in the poorly maintained parts, the carpets barely moved at all. Watching the Peachtree Province farms and estates crawl past, James wondered if he would get stranded halfway to Marthasville. That captain’s head will roll if I do , he thought.

One of the directing mage’s assistants strode from one officers’ carpet to the next and spoke reassuringly: “We’re having just a little trouble with the sorcery on this stretch of the glideway, but it’s nothing to worry about. Pretty soon we’ll be going along sweet as you please.”

“We’d bloody well better be,” James said. The placating smile on the face of the directing mage’s assistant never wavered. Maybe that meant he believed what he was saying. James of Broadpath hoped so. The other alternative was that he was lying and had no shame whatever.

Before long, the carpets did begin to move more briskly along the glideway. That didn’t mean they ever got going as fast as those on the journey from the Army of Southern Parthenia’s encampment up to Julia had gone. James drummed his fingers on his knee, as if wishing could make the carpets speed up. Magecraft, unfortunately, didn’t work like that.

Brisk movement or not, the glideway carpets didn’t get into Marthasville till after nightfall. James scowled at the officer waiting on the pier to greet him. “All right, what are you going to tell me’s gone wrong?” he growled.

“Why, nothing, sir,” the fellow answered. “I’m here to guide you to the carpets to take your army south, that’s all.”

“That’s what the chap in Julia said.” James raised a bristling eyebrow. “Then he found me half the carpets I needed.”

“On my honor, your Excellency, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that here,” the officer said. The captain back in Julia had promised no such thing. James suspected he hadn’t because he had no honor.

This fellow kept his word, too. All the glideway carpets James’ army needed-and more besides-waited on the southbound glideway path. James called for a scryer. “Be so good as to let Count Thraxton know we’ve arrived in Marthasville with something close to three quarters of our force,” he said. “The rest is about a day and a half behind, back in Julia. Ask him whether he wants me to go down to Fa Layette straightaway, or whether he would sooner have me wait till everyone’s with me.”

“Yes, sir,” the scryer said, and hurried away to do what needed doing with his crystal. A couple of minutes later, he returned. “Count Thraxton’s compliments, your Excellency, and he says you may use your own judgment. I am also to inform you that he’s trying to bring General Guildenstern to battle between Rising Rock and Fa Layette.”

“He’s doing what?” Earl James demanded. “Did you hear that right? He’s trying to bring the southrons to battle now, before I can get there with my reinforcements?” Has he-?” He broke off. Has he lost his mind? was what he’d started to say. He couldn’t very well ask that of a scryer, no matter how loudly and vehemently he was thinking it.

The scryer nodded vigorously. “Sir, the sorcerous link was very clear. I have told you exactly what Count Thraxton’s scryer told me.”

“All right,” James said. It wasn’t all right, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He plucked at his bushy beard. “In that case, we’d better press ahead with the men we have here and let Brigadier Bell bring up the rest as fast as he can. Tell Count Thraxton’s man we shall hurry on toward him, and tell Brigadier Bell to wring as much speed from the Peachtree Glideway as he can. I don’t care if he has to start shooting people to do it-we’re going to need him.”

“Yes, sir.” Off the scryer went again. James of Broadpath sighed. He’d heard Thraxton was difficult, but he’d never dreamt the eastern general could make himself so difficult so fast.

“Smite them!” Count Thraxton told the messenger. “You tell Leonidas the Priest he is to smite them!

He is not to delay, he is not to dawdle, he is to smite the foe in front of him with all the strength he commands. If he will only smite them, victory shall assuredly be ours. Tell him that. Tell him that in exactly those words.”

“Yes, your Excellency.” The messenger’s lips moved silently as he went over Thraxton’s order. Like most in his service, he had a well-trained memory. After a moment, he nodded to himself and hurried away.

“He is not to delay even an instant,” Count Thraxton called after him. The messenger nodded to show he’d heard and slammed the door on the way out.

Thraxton’s lips moved silently, as the messenger’s had. He wasn’t committing anything to memory. On the contrary: he was cursing Leonidas the Priest. A terrible thing, to curse a hierophant of the Lion God , he thought. Very likely a useless thing as well: the god is bound to protect his votary. But what a pity if he is. And what must I do to make Leonidas move?

His long, pale hands folded into long, furious fists. He’d done everything he knew how to do this side of riding up to the front from Fa Layette and kicking Leonidas the Priest in his holy backside. He’d blistered the ears of Leonidas’ scryer. The scryer, presumably, had blistered Leonidas’ ears. But Leonidas, instead of going forth to fall on the foe, had stayed in camp.

“Why am I afflicted by blundering bunglers?” Thraxton howled; his own inner anguish was too great to let him keep silent. Others looked down their noses at him for losing battles. He looked down his nose at the subordinates who would not give him victory even when it lay in the cupped palms of his hands.

And it did. As sure as the sun would rise in the east tomorrow, it did. His deep-set eyes swung toward the map. His shaggy eyebrows came down and together in a fearsome, anguished scowl that furrowed his forehead as if it were crossed by the gullies seaming the eastern plains.

“We have them,” he whispered. “We need only reach out, and we have them.”

The map plainly showed it. General Guildenstern had split up his army to pursue the one Thraxton commanded. When massed, Thraxton’s forces were greater than any one part of the southron host. He could fall on one enemy column, destroy it, and then turn on the next, and then on the third.

He could . He didn’t even need James of Broadpath’s men to do it. The southrons still didn’t believe he’d stayed so far south in Peachtree Province. They’d been sure he would scuttle up to Stamboul, or even to Marthasville. He’d laid his trap. They’d stumbled into it. And now…

And now his own generals were letting him down. He didn’t know what he had to do to make Leonidas the Priest go forward against Guildenstern’s invaders. Baron Dan of Rabbit Hill had a reputation as a splendid soldier, but he didn’t seem inclined to assail the southrons, either. And, as luck would have it, his men were posted farther than Leonidas’ from the foe.

Maybe I should order Ned of the Forest forward against the enemy , Thraxton thought. But then he shook his head. Not unless I find no other way . For one thing, he reckoned Ned better at harassing the southrons than at actually hurting them. And, for another, Count Thraxton was not inclined to give the baseborn commander of unicorn-riders the chance to win real glory for himself.