“What do we do now, sir?” Thom asked.

“Pull the pieces together as best we can,” Guildenstern replied. “Then we either find somewhere hereabouts to make a stand against the traitors or, that failing, we fall back on Rising Rock. I don’t see what other choices we’ve got. If you have a better notion, I’d be glad to hear it.”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir. Wish I did, sir.” Thom pointed east. “What’s happening over at Doubting George’s end of the line?”

“Nothing good,” Guildenstern said. “I got a request for more men from him just as things were going to the seven hells around here.”

“If he gives way, too, I don’t know how this army is going to make it back to Rising Rock,” Thom said.

“We will,” Guildenstern said. “We have to.” But he didn’t know how they would do it, either. He shouted, “Rally!” to the soldiers all around him. They gave him a cheer, those who still wore hats waved them-and they went right on retreating.

“They’ve given everything they have to give, these past couple of days,” Brigadier Thom said. “I don’t think we’ll get any more, not today, not when-” He broke off, not quite soon enough.

Not when you made a hash of the battle. That was what he’d started to say, that or something close enough to it to make no difference. He didn’t care that Thraxton the Braggart’s sorcery had made Guildenstern blunder. All he cared about was what had happened. If that was an omen for Guildenstern’s career, it wasn’t a good one.

Behind Guildenstern, the northerners kept roaring out their triumph. Around him and ahead of him, the men from his own army tramped back toward the southeast. They might fight to try to save their own lives. They weren’t going to fight to try to save the army.

“My gods!” Guildenstern exclaimed when he and Alexander and Thom rode into a little town. “This is Rossburgh! They’ve driven us back a good five miles.”

Some few of his men had formed a line in front of Rossburgh, but General Guildenstern didn’t think it would hold, not if Thraxton’s army hit it hard-and they would, before long. He was only too glumly certain of that.

“General Guildenstern!” somebody called.

Automatically, Guildenstern waved. “Here I am.”

As the officer who’d recognized him rode toward him on the crowded, narrow, dusty streets of Rossburgh, Brigadier Thom and Brigadier Alexander let out soft exclamations of dismay. “By the Lion God, that’s Brigadier Negley,” Thom said.

And so it was. “What’s he doing here?” Guildenstern demanded, as if either Thom or Alexander could have told him that. Guildenstern pointed to Negley. “Why aren’t you with Lieutenant General George?”

“I wish I were, sir, but my soldiers got swept away, along with what looks like everything else farther west,” Negley answered, which held an unpleasant amount of truth. He went on, “I could have retreated up onto Merkle’s Hill, but I went with them instead, to try to get them to rally.” He grimaced and waved his hand. “You see how much luck I had.”

“What of Doubting George?” Guildenstern asked. “You say he was still making a stand on Merkle’s Hill? Do you think he can hold?” He found himself tensing as he waited for Negley’s reply.

The brigadier of volunteers-the ex-horticulturalist-shrugged. “Sir, I hope he can, but I have no great faith in it. With the rest of the army broken, the traitors will surely rain their hardest blows on him now.”

He made altogether too much sense. Guildenstern sighed. “The gods damn Thraxton the Braggart to the seven hells for what he’s done to this kingdom today. What can we do now?”

“I see only one thing, sir,” Brigadier Negley said. “We have to do all we can to hold Rising Rock. Without it, Thraxton cannot be said to have truly gained anything from this campaign, despite our piteous overthrow.”

Guildenstern looked from one of his brigadiers to the next. “Does anyone think we can hold this side of Rising Rock?” They eyed one another and then, one by one, shook their heads. Guildenstern didn’t think so, either. He’d hoped his brigadiers would convince him he was wrong. No such luck. He sighed and scowled and cursed. None of that did any good at all. Having done it, he said, “Do you think we have any choice, then, but retreating to Rising Rock and doing our best to hold off the traitors there?”

Again, the three brigadiers looked at one another. Again, they shook their heads. Brigadier Negley said, “Getting our hands on Rising Rock was the main reason we took on this campaign. If we can hold it, we’ve still accomplished a good deal.”

“That’s true, by the gods,” Guildenstern said. It made him feel, if not good, then better than he had. He shouted for a trumpeter. After a while, one came up and saluted. “Sound retreat,” Guildenstern told him. “We’re going back to Rising Rock.” As the mournful notes rang out, he and Brigadiers Negley, Alexander, and Thom turned their unicorns to the southeast and rode off, leaving the field in the hands of Thraxton the Braggart and the northerners.

“Can we hold on, sir?” Colonel Andy asked Doubting George. George’s aide-de-camp was not a man to give in to panic, but, with the way things looked on Merkle’s Hill, George could hardly blame him for worrying.

George was worried himself, though doing his best not to show it. “We’ve got to hold on, Colonel,” he answered. “If we don’t, where in the seven hells are we going to run to?”

Andy gave him a reproachful look. “That’s not funny, sir.”

“No, I don’t think so, either,” Lieutenant General George said. “I wish I did, but I bloody well don’t.” He peered west, toward the disaster that had engulfed the rest of General Guildenstern’s army. “If we fold up now, I don’t think any of this force will survive.”

“What happened over there, sir?” his aide-de-camp asked.

“Nothing good,” Doubting George answered. “All I know is, Albertus the so-called Great and the rest of my so-called mages all started bawling like branded unicorn colts a couple of hours ago, and then the traitors started pouring men through a great big fat hole in our line. It would almost make a suspicious man wonder if there was a connection.”

“Thraxton the Braggart’s magic did us in again,” Colonel Andy said mournfully.

“Yes, I think Thraxton’s magic did us in, too,” George agreed. “I wouldn’t say `again,’ though. This is the first time that sad-faced bastard managed to aim it at us and not at his own men.”

“An honor I could do without,” Andy said, which made George smile in spite of the lost battle from which he could only try to save what he might.

Before he could say anything, a runner came up from the west. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t deliver your message to Brigadier Negley,” the fellow said. “Most of his division joined the retreat to the south, and he went with it.”

“Too bad,” Doubting George said. “Oh, too bad! We needed him in place. There’s nothing left linking us to the rest of the army now.”

“Sir, from what I could see, the rest of the army is scooting back toward Rising Rock as fast as it can go,” the runner said. By the way he kept shifting from foot to foot, he either needed to squat behind a tree or else he too wanted to scoot back toward Rising Rock as fast as he could go.

“We can’t scoot yet, son,” Lieutenant General George said. “As long as we hold on here, we shield the retreat for the rest of the army. And the traitors haven’t licked us yet, have they?”

“N-no, sir,” the runner answered, though he sounded anything but convinced. George was also anything but convinced, but not about to admit that to anyone, even himself.

He said, “Go on up to Brigadier Brannan, there at the crest of the hill, and tell him what you just told me about Negley. Tell him he may need to swing some of his engines around to the west, because we’re liable to get attacked from that direction.”