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, 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 Franklin Thraxton 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 army ruined. 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. “Good,” he rasped in a voice that seemed a ragged parody of the one he’d used only the day before. “We shall drive them out of Peachtree Province. We shall drive them out of Rising Rock. We shall drive them out of Franklin altogether.” He muttered something under his breath that James didn’t quite catch. It sounded like, I shall have my parade, but what was that supposed to mean?

“Give me your orders, sir, and I’ll obey them,” James said.

Thraxton yawned enormously. “For now, I am fordone. Your men cannot do wrong if they press the enemy hard.”

“Yes, sir!” James said enthusiastically. “That’s the sort of order Duke Edward of Arlington might give.”

“Is it?” Thraxton’s voice was cool, uninterested, distant. If being compared to King Geoffrey’s best general pleased him, he concealed it very well. “How nice.”

Cold fish, Earl James thought. Fish on ice, in fact. He shrugged. It still didn’t matter, not after what Thraxton had done. With another salute, James said, “I’ll be getting back to my own headquarters, sir.”

Thraxton’s nod said he would be just as happy not to see James again any time soon. Fighting to hold on to his temper, James left the farmhouse. He’d just returned to his own place when a runner dashed up and cried, “Brigadier Bell is wounded, sir!”

“Oh, gods damn it to the hells!” James of Broadpath exclaimed. “Is he badly hurt?”

To his further dismay, the runner nodded. “A stone from an engine smashed his leg, sir. The chirurgeons say they’re going to have to take it off if he’s to live. He was leading the men forward, sir, when he was hit.”

“I believe that,” James said somberly. “It’s always been Bell’s way-he never did know how to hang back and command from the rear. But oh, by the Thunderer’s lightning bolt, the price he’s paid.” He shook his head. Bell had had that arm ruined earlier in the summer in Duke Edward’s failed invasion of the south, and now a leg lost… He wouldn’t be leading attacks from the front, not any more. Trying to see if anything could be salvaged from misfortune, James asked, “Is the wound below the knee?” A peg leg might let Bell move around fairly well.

But the runner shook his head. “No, sir, it’s up here.” He touched his thigh. “I saw it myself.” James winced and grimaced. That was about as bad as it could be.

Earl James gathered himself. Even if Bell was wounded, the fight had to go on. The southrons had to be whipped. “Is Dan of Rabbit Hill in command up there now?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the runner said. “He sent me back for your orders.”

“Tell him to keep on pressing the enemy hard,” James of Broadpath replied. “That’s also Count Thraxton’s command: I’ve just spoken with him.” The runner nodded. James went on, “Tell him to swing in and finish rolling up Alexander’s wing, and Thom’s. Once we’ve settled them, we’ll deal with Doubting George, and that will be the end of General Guildenstern’s whole army.”

“Yes, sir,” the runner said, and repeated his words back to him. When James nodded, the young man saluted and trotted away.

“Ah, Brigadier Bell,” James said, and kicked at the dirt. Bell was fierce, Bell was bold, Bell was recklessly brave-and Bell was hurt, Bell was ruined, Bell was broken. And the war ground on without him. And, James thought with grim certainty, more than Bell would be ruined by the time it finally ended.