After tramping on for a few more paces, he remarked, “You know, when I saw I was fighting my old baron back there, I wanted to kill him for trying to bind me to the land my whole life long.”

“Don’t blame you a bit,” Sergeant Joram said, and Smitty nodded. Perhaps because he’d fought alongside them, they understood he craved liberty as much as they did.

He went on, “But the funny thing is, he wanted to kill me just as much, because I’d had the nerve to run away from his estate.”

“Not so funny if you’re on the wrong end of the bastard’s sword,” Joram said.

“I found that out,” Rollant answered. “If we ever get some time back in camp, Sergeant, will you teach me swordstrokes? I know we’re supposed to be a crossbow company, but this is the second time in a couple of weeks that we’ve come to close quarters with the traitors.”

“I’ll show you what I can,” Joram said, “but you’d better not think a few lessons will let you stand up against somebody who’s been putting in an hour’s practice every day since he got as tall as his sword.”

“That sounds fair enough,” Rollant said. “Still, the more I know, the better the chance I’ve got of going home to my wife after this miserable war’s finally over.”

Up ahead, Lieutenant Griff called, “Third company, rally to me!” His voice was high and thin. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Rollant was convinced he’d bought his commission-he didn’t see how Griff could have got it any other way. “To me!” the new company commander called again.

To him Rollant and Smitty and Sergeant Joram went. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” Joram said. “I don’t think the traitors are pursuing us any more.”

“I believe you’re right, Sergeant,” Griff answered. “But what are they doing here? What are they doing here in such numbers? By the gods, they’re supposed to be running, not sneaking back to bushwhack us. That’s not what our officers said they’d do.” He sounded furious. He sounded doubly furious, in fact: furious at the northerners for handling the company roughly, and as furious at them for turning up in an unexpected place.

Gently, Sergeant Joram said, “Sir, maybe you’ll have noticed that things don’t always turn out just the way the people with the fancy uniforms think they will.” He might have been explaining the facts of life to a youngster who was at least as likely to find them appalling as interesting.

Lieutenant Griff certainly looked appalled. He said, “But they wouldn’t be wearing those fancy uniforms if they didn’t know what was going on.”

“There’s a pile of difference between wouldn’t and shouldn’t, Smitty said. “Sir.”

Rollant added, “Besides, sir, there are plenty of fellows in fancy uniforms on the other side, too.”

“Keep your mouth shut, soldier,” Griff snapped. He hadn’t complained when Joram tried to correct him, or even when Smitty did. Of course, they were both of Detinan blood, as he was. Rollant was only a blond.

I’m good enough to die for my kingdom, but not to speak up for it, he thought. The first few times such things had happened to him, he’d been both angry and humiliated. He still was, but only to a degree. All he could do to keep them from happening so often was to show, over and over if need be, that he knew what he was doing and knew what he was talking about. Lieutenant Griff hadn’t seen that yet, but maybe he would one of these days.

Or maybe he never would. Some southron Detinans, like most of their northern counterparts, refused to believe blonds could be anything more than beasts of burden that chanced to walk on two legs.

“We’d better get back to the encampment,” Griff said. Rollant couldn’t argue with him about that.

At the encampment, Griff hurried off to report to his superiors. Rollant hoped the news would soon get to someone with the wit to see what it meant. He had his own opinions about which general officers in the army owned such wit and which carried their headquarters in their hindquarters, as a wag had put it.

Hagen, the runaway serf he’d brought back to the company, said, “Where are the rest of you?”

“Where in the seven hells do you think?” Rollant answered irritably. “We ran into the traitors-more of ’em than we expected-and some of us stopped bolts. That’s part of what war’s about, worse luck.”

“Where is Captain Cephas?” That was Corliss, Hagen’s wife.

“He got shot,” Rollant said. As Joram had, he put his hand to the right side of his chest. “I didn’t see it happen, but I hear it’s not so good.”

“Oh, no,” Corliss said softly, turning pale. Then she started to sob. Rollant stared at her. So did Hagen. Cephas had let the two serfs and their children stay with the company as laborers. Was that enough to set Corliss crying so? Maybe. But maybe not, too. What else had Cephas done for-or with-Corliss in particular?

Rollant didn’t know. Hagen looked as if he didn’t know, either, and as if he was wondering the same thing. It wasn’t Rollant’s worry. At the moment, he was very glad it wasn’t his worry, too.

“Gods damn it to the hells, maybe the stinking traitors haven’t all scurried north to Stamboul.” General Guildenstern admitted even so much with the greatest reluctance.

“I’m afraid you may be right, sir,” Brigadier Alexander agreed.

“Of course I’m right,” Guildenstern snarled. He rarely doubted himself, even, perhaps, when he should have. “Bugger Thraxton the Braggart’s arse with a red-hot poker, why isn’t he behaving the way he’s supposed to? Does the stinking son of a whore think he can beat me?” He paused in his tirade to pour more brandy down his throat, then resumed: “If he thinks he can beat me, I’ll kick his scrawny backside so hard, he’ll end up in Marthasville whether he wants to or not.” He gulped from the flask again, only to discover he’d drunk it dry. That set off a fresh barrage of foul language.

His division commander said, “It certainly is surprising that he would dare to try conclusions with you.”

“Surprising? It’s bloody idiotic, that’s what it is,” Guildenstern thundered. “I’ve seen beers with better heads on ’em than Thraxton’s got, if he’s enough of a moron to want to join battle with us when our army outnumbers his close to two to one.”

Brigadier Alexander coughed a couple of times, the coughs of a man who’s just had an uncomfortable thought. “Our whole army outnumbers his close to two to one, yes, sir. But his is larger than any of our three separate forces. If he were to concentrate against one of them…”

“That’s why I sent Doubting George out by his lonesome, you nincompoop,” Guildenstern said. He shook his flask. It was empty, and he remained thirsty. That he couldn’t do anything about his thirst at the moment only made him more irritable. Ignoring Alexander’s wounded look, he went on, “I wanted to lure Thraxton into trying to hit him, so the rest of us could land on the traitors like a ton of bricks and get rid of them once for all.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that, sir,” the division commander said carefully. “But with Lieutenant General George well east of us and with Brigadier Thom so far off to the west, Thraxton might be able to, to hurt one of our wings before the others could come to its rescue.”

Thraxton might be able to smash one of our wings. That was what Alexander had intended to say. You can’t fool me, Guildenstern thought. I know what you meant, you mealy-mouthed son of a bitch. Even with brandy (not enough brandy, gods damn it) coursing through him, Guildenstern had no trouble seeing through his subordinate’s deceptions.

But had he somehow failed to see through one of Thraxton the Braggart’s deceptions? The trouble was, Brigadier Alexander, however mealy-mouthed he might be, had a point. If Thraxton was lingering in southern Peachtree Province, he might indeed handle one of King Avram’s isolated forces very roughly before the other divisions could get to it.