Sentry Peak by Harry Turtledove Page B

were casting counterspells. The next bolt didn’t reach the ground at all. Doubting George nodded again. The southron sorcerers could do the job, if only they remembered they were supposed to.
    And then, when lightning struck behind the stone fences from which Geoffrey’s men fought, George did more than nod. He clapped his hands together. “Go it!” he shouted to the mages in gray. They were too far away to hear him, but he didn’t care. He shouted again: “Make the traitors think the seven hells aren’t half a mile off!”
    His officers knew what wanted doing. They had a better, more certain idea than the mages. That was plain. As soon as the catapult crews could work their stone- and firepot- and dart-throwers again without fear of being crisped from the innocent air above, his company and regimental commanders sent their footsoldiers forward against the stone fences without waiting for orders from him.
    A few of the soldiers fell; neither bombardment nor magecraft had forced all the northerners away from those fences. They were stubborn and brave, sure enough. The war would have ended long since were that not true. Their bravery didn’t help them here, though. Southrons gained the fences and started scrambling over them. Some northerners died where they stood. Some fled. Some came back captive, with upraised hands and glum faces.
    “Lieutenant General George!” a rider called, galloping over from the center. “General Guildenstern’s compliments, and do you need help from the rest of the force?”
    Doubting George shook his head. “Give him my thanks, but I need not a thing. Only a skirmish here, and we’ve won it.”

    Captain Ormerod was not a happy man as he trudged west, back toward Rising Rock. The mages had promised they would do dreadful things to the ragtag and bobtail of gallowsbait from the southern cities and runaway serfs who filled out the ranks of false King Avram’s army. Mages’ promises, though, were all too often written on wind, written on water. What one mage could do, another—or several others—could undo. The southrons didn’t have great mages, but they had a lot of them. Ormerod didn’t think the little delaying action at the stone fences had done enough delaying. It certainly hadn’t done as much as his superiors had hoped.
    And he had more reason for being unhappy than that. His left leg pained him, as it always did these days when he had to march hard. He’d taken a crossbow quarrel right through the meat of his calf in the frigid fight at Reillyburgh. The wound hadn’t mortified, so he supposed he was lucky. But he had two great puckered scars on the leg, and less meat than he’d had before he was hit. Hard marching hurt.
    “Come on, boys,” he called to the footsoldiers in the company he commanded. “Keep it moving. Those southron bastards aren’t chasing us, by the gods. We showed ’em we’ve still got teeth.”
    He put the best face he could on retreat. He’d had practice retreating, more practice than he’d wanted, more practiced than he’d ever thought he would get. Like so many northern nobles, he’d joined King Geoffrey’s levy as soon as war broke out: indeed, Palmetto Province had been the first to reject Avram and proclaim Geoffrey Detina’s rightful king.
    Baron Ormerod wondered what kind of an indigo harvest his wife and the serfs would get from his estate when he wasn’t there to keep an eye on things. Bianca’s letters were all resolutely cheerful, but Bianca herself was resolutely cheerful, too. What all wasn’t she telling him? How many serfs had run off these past few months? How many of the blonds still on the land dogged it instead of working?
    His first lieutenant came up to him, making him think of something besides his estate. “Sir?” the man asked.
    “What is it, Gremio?” Ormerod asked. “By your sour look, something’s gone wrong somewhere.”
    “With this whole campaign, sir,” Gremio burst out. “Truly the gods must hate