“He’s a man of no breeding,” Andy said. “A tanner’s son. And he drinks.”

“And General Guildenstern doesn’t?” Doubting George said. His aide-de-camp spluttered, but didn’t say anything. Andy couldn’t very well say anything, not to that. George went on, “Bart’s a solid soldier. You know it, I know it, King Avram knows it, and the northerners know it, too-to their cost. And if we can make serfs into soldiers, we can make a tanner’s son a general. We already have, as a matter of fact.”

“The northerners don’t,” Colonel Andy said.

“No?” George chuckled. “They talk about nobility, but look what they do.” He pointed to the right of his line. “Those are Ned of the Forest’s troopers taking bites out of us over there. Do you think Ned got his command on account of his blue blood?”

“Ned got his command on account of he’s a son of a bitch,” Andy answered.

“Well, that’s true enough,” George said. “But he’s a gods-damned good fighting man, too, no matter what else he is. And so is General Bart. The difference is, General Bart’s our son of a bitch.”

He broke off to look around again and see how his men were doing. The short answer was, not very well. The traitors had bent their line back into what looked like a unicornshoe on the slopes of Merkle’s Hill. If they could bend the line back on itself, if they could get around it or break through it… If they could do any of those things, then talk about who might take over command of this army would prove meaningless, for there would be no army left to command.

General George peered west. He wished he knew how the fight was going for the rest of Guildenstern’s army. Odds were it wasn’t going any too well, or the commanding general would have sent him reinforcements. He could use them, but maybe Guildenstern couldn’t afford to send anyone his way. That didn’t seem good.

And then George stopped worrying about the bigger picture and started using the sword that was supposed to be a ceremonial weapon. As had happened farther northwest, Thraxton’s troopers broke through the line in front of him. The men he commanded had to fall back or die. And he had to fight or die or end up ignominiously captured.

The thought of living off Thraxton the Braggart’s hospitality, of enduring the traitor lord’s society, was plenty to make Doubting George fight like a madman. Crossbow quarrels whistled past him. He didn’t worry about those; he couldn’t do anything about them, anyhow. The roaring northerner in front of him was a different matter. The fellow swung his shortsword as if he were carving meat. “Geoffrey!” he shouted. “Geoffrey and freedom!”

“King Avram!” George yelled back, as if his gray tunic and pantaloons weren’t enough to announce which king he served. “King Avram and one Detina!”

“To the seven hells with King Avram!” the northerner bawled. He slashed again. He was strong as a bull; George felt the blow all the way up his arm and into his shoulder. But strength was all he had going for him. He would never make a real swordsman, not without long training. And he would never get the chance to have such training. Doubting George, like most nobles, had begun swordplay while still a boy. Unlike most nobles, he’d had his skills refined by the tough, unforgiving swordmasters at Annasville while training to become an officer in Detinan service.

He sidestepped a third slash and thrust for the northerner’s throat. The force of the fellow’s own stroke had bent him half double; he had no chance of getting his own blade up in time. Blood spurted when George’s point punched through the soft, vulnerable flesh under his neck. The northerner gobbled something, but blood filled his mouth, too, and made the words meaningless. He stumbled, staggered, fell. He wouldn’t get up again.

Another one of Thraxton’s men, though, had Colonel Andy in trouble, attacking so furiously that the aide-de-camp couldn’t do much against him. George drove his own sword into the blue-clad man’s back. The fellow shrieked and threw up his hands, whereupon Andy ran him through.

“That wasn’t even slightly sporting, sir,” Andy said as the two of them went up the slope of Merkle’s Hill.

“You’re right. It wasn’t,” George replied. “Now ask me if I care. I meant to kill the son of a bitch, and I cursed well did.”

They fell in with more of their own men, and then got behind a hasty breastwork of felled trees. Crossbowmen worked a slaughter on Geoffrey’s soldiers trying to drive them back. Soldiers who could shoot from cover always had an edge on those who fought in the open. And Brigadier Brannan’s engines pounded the northerners, too.

“Hold ’em, boys!” Doubting George shouted. “The River of Death isn’t far from here. Up to us to be the rock in it, not to let the traitors by.”

The men in gray cheered. Colonel Andy set a hand on George’s arm. “Sir, you’re the rock in the River of Death.”

“Me? Nonsense,” George said. “Can’t do a thing without good soldiers.” The men cheered again. He waved his hat. “Let’s beat ’em back!” he yelled. “We can do it!”

Ned of the Forest scowled at the slopes of Merkle’s Hill. “Damn me to the seven hells if they’re making it easy for us,” he said.

“It’d be nice if they would, eh?” Colonel Biffle said. “How’s your arm, Lord Ned?”

“Not too bad,” Ned answered. After gulping Biffle’s spirits, he’d hardly thought about the wound, so he supposed they’d done their job. “We could use some magecraft to help finish off those southron bastards.”

“Don’t look at me, sir,” Biffle said. “Only magic I know is how to make some of the gals friendly, and I don’t think that’ll do us much good here. In fact, if you want to get right down to it, it’s not even magic, not rightly, anyhow.” He looked smug.

“I wasn’t expecting it from you, Biff,” Ned said. “But where’s Thraxton the Braggart? Back when we were still in Rising Rock, he bragged me as big a brag as you’d ever want to hear about how he would lick Guildenstern’s army, lick him out of Rising Rock, lick him clean out of Franklin. He’s supposed to be such an all-fired wonderful he-witch, why isn’t he doing anything?”

Colonel Biffle shrugged. “I expect he’ll get to it in his own time.”

“I expect you’re right.” Ned of the Forest growled something under his breath. “That’s how Thraxton goes about things-in his own sweet time, I mean. He’d better get around to doing ’em when they need doing. We’ll all be better off.”

“I don’t know how you can make a man move when he’s not inclined to,” Biffle said.

“I do, by the gods. You build such a hot fire underneath his backside, he can’t do anything but move.” Ned kicked at the dirt in frustration. “I did it with Leonidas. But he’s the high and mighty Count Thraxton, don’t you know.” He did his best to affect an aristocratic accent, but couldn’t get rid of his back-country rasp. “So we’ll just have to do our best, on account of Thraxton’s backside’s so far away, it’s gods-damned near fireproof. But he’d better do something, or he’ll answer to me.” He held his saber in his left hand. The blade twitched hungrily. He pointed ahead with it. “What’s the name of the high ground the southrons are holding?”

“That’s Merkle’s Hill, Lord Ned,” Colonel Biffle answered.

“We’ve got to get through it or around it some kind of way,” Ned said. “You reckon we can put enough of a scare on their general to make him turn around and skedaddle?” His grin was impudent. “You put a scare on the general, you’ve got your fight won, and it don’t hardly matter what his soldiers do.”

But Biffle said, “Those are Doubting George’s troopers.”

Ned of the Forest cursed, the heat of battle still in him. “We can lick him. We can fool him, the way we did when he was coming up from Rising Rock toward the River of Death. But I don’t reckon we can frighten him out of his pantaloons.”