General Guildenstern had been so very sure of himself when he ordered Brigadier Wood’s men out of their place in the line and over to the right to aid Lieutenant General George. The move had seemed so obvious, so necessary, so right, that the Lion God might have put it into his mind.

And, not a quarter of an hour after Wood’s men left the line, before any replacements could fill the gap, what seemed like every traitor in the world swarmed into it, and now the battle was ruined for fair. “How in the seven hells did they do that?” Guildenstern groaned to anyone who would listen. “They might have known the cursed hole would open up!”

“General, I think they did.” That was Colonel Phineas, so worn and wan as to look like a shadow-a fat shadow, but a shadow nonetheless-of his former self.

Guildenstern rounded on the mage. “What nonsense is that?”

“I told you the northerners had us under sorcerous assault,” Phineas answered. “I told you Thraxton’s wizardry was loose in our army. I think that wizardry was aimed at you, sir, to make you go wrong at just the right time-the right time for the traitors, I mean.”

“You useless, blundering son of a bitch,” Guildenstern growled. “I ought to cut your heart out and put it on the altar for the Lion God to eat. How are we supposed to set this fornicating mess to rights now?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I really have no answer for that,” Phineas said sadly. “I wish I did.”

At the moment, Guildenstern had no answer for it, either. All he could do was watch his army fall to pieces before his eyes. And it was doing exactly that. Crossbowmen and pikemen turned their backs on the foe to flee the faster.

Siege-engine crews harnessed their unicorns to the catapults they served and hauled them away from danger. A few didn’t bother with their engines, but clambered aboard the unicorns themselves so they could get away.

“Brigadier Alexander!” he shouted. “Where in the damnation are you, Brigadier Alexander?”

“Here, sir.” Alexander looked as harried as Guildenstern felt. “Sir, they’ve knifed us right in the belly. A whole division of northerners has broken through here, maybe more. We can’t stop ’em. What in the hells do we do?”

Before Guildenstern could answer, a breathless runner gasped, “Sir, Brigadier Thom says the left is falling to pieces. The traitors are turning in and flanking out his men one brigade after another. He can’t hold, sir, not unless you’ve got reserves to give him. Even then it won’t be easy.”

“I have no reserves,” Guildenstern groaned. “I’ve sent everything I could spare to the right. I was hoping Thom would have men to give me.”

“What shall he do, sir?” the messenger asked.

“Tell him to fight as hard as he can and do his best to stem the tide with what he has,” Guildenstern answered. “That’s what I’m doing here. It’s all I can do.” The runner saluted and ran back toward the west.

No sooner had he gone than another runner hurried up to General Guildenstern and said, “Lieutenant General George’s compliments, sir. He thanks you for Brigadier Wood’s men and asks if you can spare him any more. He’s hard pressed on the right.”

Guildenstern groaned again, groaned and shook his head. “I wish I hadn’t sent him those. Thraxton’s magic made me do it-and now the traitors are pouring through the hole in my line here. I have nothing more to give him.”

“That’s… bad, sir,” the runner said. “I’ll give him your words. We’ll try to hold on there, but I don’t know how long we can do it.” As the other messenger had only moments before, he hurried away.

“Ruined,” Guildenstern muttered. It was the word he’d though to fit to Thraxton the Braggart like a glove. He looked at his own hand. He wore that word now.

He took a swig from his brandy flask, then looked up, escaping his private world of pain for the real disaster building on the battlefield. Roaring northerners in blue were almost in crossbow range of where he stood, though he’d been well back of the line not long before.

Brigadier Alexander saw the same thing. “Sir, we can’t stay here,” he said. “If we do, they’ll overrun us.”

“And so?” Guildenstern said bitterly. Dying on the field was tempting-that way, he wouldn’t have to face the blame bound to come after word of this disaster reached the Black Palace in Georgetown. But he might still be able to salvage something from the defeat, and so he nodded. “Very well, Brigadier. I fear you’re right-it’s the traitors’ day today, and not ours. Where are our unicorns?”

Alexander was already waving to the men holding them. As they came up, the wing commander said, “Maybe we can do something to stop the retreat.”

“Yes. Maybe.” Guildenstern wondered if it would stop this side of Rising Rock. He shrugged as he mounted. Alexander was right. They had to try.

But the farther he went, the more he wondered if anyone or anything could save the army. Oh, here and there men and groups of men still battled bravely to hold back the onrushing northerners. But the army, as an army, had fallen to pieces. In the center and on the left, every regiment fought-or ran away and didn’t fight-on its own. No one was controlling brigades, let alone divisions or wings.

General Guildenstern shouted and cursed and waved his sword. “Rally, boys!” he cried, again and again. “Rally! We can lick these sons of bitches!”

Men around him cheered and waved their gray hats. Here and there, a few of them would rally, for a little while. As soon as he rode out of earshot and tried to encourage other soldiers, they would resume their retreat. He might as well have been trying to hold back the waters of the Franklin River. The army kept slipping through his fingers.

“We are ruined,” he said to General Alexander. “Ruined, I tell you. Do you hear me? Ruined!”

Had Alexander been a proper courtier, he would have reassured Guildenstern and tried to make him believe everything would turn out all right. In the midst of the present disaster, that would have taken some doing, but he would have tried. He was just a soldier, though, and all he said was, “Yes, sir.”

Baron Guildenstern? Count Guildenstern? Duke Guildenstern, who’d ended the traitors’ rebellion? All that had seemed possible. Now he had to hope he wouldn’t end up Colonel Guildenstern, or perhaps even Sergeant Guildenstern.

Brigadier Alexander pointed over to the west. “Look, sir,” he said. “There’s Brigadier Thom.”

“Wonderful,” Guildenstern said sourly. “Now I know everything’s gone to the devils.”

Alexander waved. The first thing Brigadier Thom did on seeing him was grab for his sword. Then he must have realized Alexander and Guildenstern weren’t enemies, for he waved back and rode his unicorn toward them. A look of stunned astonishment was on his face. “By the Lion God’s claws, what happened, sir?” he asked Guildenstern.

While the general commanding wrestled with that question, Brigadier Alexander answered, “Thraxton the Braggart’s magecraft broke through our sorcerers’ screen and fuddled General Guildenstern’s wits for a moment. He pulled some men out of the line to send them on to Doubting George, and the gods-cursed traitors swarmed into the gap.”

“Didn’t they just!” Thom exclaimed.

Guildenstern wondered how well that explanation would sit with King Avram. It was, as best he could piece things together, the absolute truth. Colonel Phineas would testify to it. The failure hadn’t been his fault; Thraxton’s spell had left him less than himself, ripe to make a mistake at the worst possible time.

All true. So what? Guildenstern wondered. In the war against King Geoffrey and the northerners who followed him, the only thing that really mattered to Avram was whether the battle was won or lost. This one was lost, lost beyond hope of repair. And who had been in command when it was lost? Guildenstern knew the answer to that. King Avram would know it, too.