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it if things went wrong. Brigadier Bell was in good odor down in Nonesuch,
probably in better odor than Earl James was himself: Geoffrey thought well of
straightforward, hard-charging officers, no doubt because he'd been one
himself.
"Just remember," James murmured, "that his Majesty thinks the world of Count
Thraxton."
"I understand that." Surprise sparked in Bell's eyes. "How did you know what
was in my mind, sir?"
"I didn't need to read the entrails of a sacrifice to figure it out," James
of Broadpath answered. Brigadier Bell shook his leonine head, plainly still
bewildered. James had all he could do not to laugh in Bell's face. He was no
straightforward hard charger; he had a nasty, devious mind, and enjoyed using
it. He sometimes thought that in itself went a long way toward explaining why
King Geoffrey preferred certain other soldiers to him.
He shrugged. He couldn't help that. He was as the gods had made him. If King
Geoffrey didn't fully appreciate him, then he didn't, that was all.
No complications, no deviousness in Brigadier Bell. There he stood in front
of James, every inch of him but his dead left arm quivering with eagerness to
get into the fight. "Why did we come here from Parthenia, if we're just going
to wait in the wings?" he demanded.
"Our time will come," James said.
"When?" It wasn't a word it was a howl of frustration from Bell.
"When Count Thraxton gives the order," James repeated. "If you don't care for
that, I suggest you take it up with the count. He can do something about it,
and I can't."
He watched Brigadier Bell weigh that. Bell was a man of impetuous, headlong
courage, but even he hesitated to break in on Count Thraxton while Thraxton
was at his magics. That was one of the few bits of wisdom James had ever seen
him show.
James said, "Perhaps you should " but a messenger came trotting up before he
could finish telling Bell to go soak his head. He nodded to the messenger.
"Yes? What is it?"
Saluting, the messenger said, "Count Thraxton's compliments, sir, and you are
to strike the center with all your strength as soon as may be. The time, he
says, is now."
"There, you see?" James said to Bell. Returning the messenger's salute, he
replied, "You may tell Count Thraxton we shall obey him in every particular."
The messenger hurried away. James gave his attention back to Bell. " `As soon
as may be,' he said. He's had some trouble getting his own officers to move
fast. Let's show him how the Army of Southern Parthenia executes orders."
"Right you are, sir. And now, if you will excuse me . . ." Bell didn't wait
for an answer. He dashed off, shouting to the men he would lead into the fray.
He didn't know what lay in front of him, and he didn't much worry about it,
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either. Whatever it was, he would hit it hard and hope it fell over.
Division commanders could have worse traits. A great many division commanders
did have worse traits. Once pointed in the right direction, Brigadier Bell got
the most from the men he led.
Unlike Count Thraxton's commanders, Bell wasted no time. Not a quarter of an
hour after he got the order, he had his men moving forward, all of them
roaring with eagerness to close with the southrons at last.
And, not a quarter of an hour after Brigadier Bell sent his men into the
battle, a messenger sprinted back to James of Broadpath. The young soldier in
blue was almost bursting with excitement. "General James, sir!" he shouted.
"There's nobody in front of us, nobody at all. We're rolling up the stinking
southrons like a bolt of cheap cloth."
"By the gods," Earl James said softly. He turned away from the runner.
"What are you doing, sir?" the youngster asked.
"I am saluting Count Thraxton," James answered. He meant it literally, and
gave a salute as crisp as he ever had at the military collegium in Annasville.
He'd almost called the commander of the Army of FranklinThraxton the Braggart
. He shook his head. That wasn't right, not this time. If Thraxton had managed
to magic away a big chunk of Guildenstern's army, to get it out of the way so
this attack could go in unhindered, he'd earned the right to brag.
"Orders, sir?" the runner asked.
"Turn in on the southrons once you've accomplished the breakthrough," James
said. "Don't let them rally. We want General Guildenstern's armyruined . Make
sure you use that word to Brigadier Bell."
"Yes, sir," the runner said. "Ruined. Sir, I really think they are." He
saluted, too not Count Thraxton, but James and hurried away.
"Ruined," James repeated, liking the sound of the word. He strode toward
Count Thraxton's headquarters. He'd heard any number of uncomplimentary things
about Thraxton before coming east. His meeting with Thraxton the night before
hadn't left a good taste in his mouth. But if Thraxton's magecraft had done
this, the officer's less than sterling personality didn't matter. In battle,
victory mattered, nothing else.
When he reached the farmhouse, he was shocked to see Thraxton. The commander
of the Army of Franklin might have aged five years since the previous night.
He looked stooped and exhausted and so thin that a strong breeze could have
blown him away. But the air was calm, and Thraxton had created the breeze that
would blow the southrons away from the River of Death.
"Your Grace, we've broken them," James of Broadpath said, and saluted again.
"The men are swarming into the gap your sorcery made for them."
No matter how worn Count Thraxton was, triumph blazed in his deep-set eyes.
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