Looking toward Wesleyton, however, brought him no relief at all. Whiskery Ambrose had more men than he did and plainly intended doing nothing with them but trying to hold on to the town he’d taken. Given that defenders, shooting from entrenchments and from behind ramparts, were likely to take fewer losses than attackers, who had to show themselves to come forward, he didn’t like his chances of breaking into the place.
When he sighed, his breath smoked, another sign that autumn was marching toward winter. Quickmarching, too-every day, the sun sped faster across the sky and spent less time above the horizon. The sun god always went north for the winter.
“I have to try to take Wesleyton,” he muttered, and his breath smoked when he did that, too.
He looked around the camp. His men seemed more worried about staying warm than about attacking. He had trouble blaming them. He did wish Whiskery Ambrose wanted to come out and fight. That would have made his own life much easier. Unfortunately…
When he gathered together his wing commanders and leading mages, they seemed no more enthusiastic about attacking than he was. “Sir, the odds against our seizing the town strike me as long,” said Colonel Simon, his chief mage.
Those odds struck James as long, too. Nonetheless, he said, “We have to make the effort. If the southrons stay here in western Franklin, they can stir up endless trouble for King Geoffrey.” All the assembled officers grimaced. They knew only too well that he was right. Serfs were few on the ground in this mountain country, and a great many of the yeoman farmers hereabouts preferred Avram to Geoffrey. A southron army aiding and abetting them was the last thing the already beleaguered north needed. “We have to try,” James repeated.
“Do you really think we can do it?” asked Brigadier Falayette, one of his wing commanders. “Should we risk breaking up this army with an attack unlikely to reach its goal?”
“As I said, taking Wesleyton back is important,” James of Broadpath replied. “Count Thraxton is right about that.” No matter how little else he’s right about. James wished Brigadier Bell were well enough to have come with the army. He never counted the cost before an attack. Sometimes that was unfortunate. It had been unfortunate for him personally-the gods knew that was true. But sometimes an officer like that could lead men to victory where they would never find it otherwise.
“Not wrecking ourselves is important, too,” Brigadier Falayette insisted. “If we need to come to Thraxton’s aid against the southrons, or to return to the Army of Southern Parthenia in a hurry…”
“Suppose we think about how we’re going to beat the southrons,” James said, glowering from under bushy eyebrows at Falayette. “Let’s let them worry about how to lick us.”
“Yes, sir,” the brigadier said. Any other choice of words would have brought more wrath down upon him.
James unfolded a map of Wesleyton and its environs. His plump, stubby forefinger stabbed down at one of the forts warding the eastern side of the town. “Here,” he said. “If we can break in at Fort WiLi, we can roll up the southrons. Brigadier Alexander!”
“Sir?” said the officer in charge of James’ engines.
“Concentrate your engines in front of that fort. Nothing like a good rain of firepots to make the enemy lose his spirit.”
“Yes, sir.” Brigadier Alexander was young and eager. Unlike Brigadier Falayette, he didn’t worry about whether something could be done. He went out and did his best to do it.
But, given the dispositions of James’ men… “Brigadier Falayette!” James waited for the wing commander to nod, then went on, “As your men stand before Fort WiLi, you shall make the assault upon it. As soon as you have gained control, rapidly send soldiers north and south so as to secure as much of the enemy’s line as you can, easing the way for our other forces.”
“Yes, sir,” Falayette said.
James did his ponderous best to hide a sigh. He heard no eagerness there. “Colonel Simon!” he said.
“Sir?” Simon the mage replied.
“As with Brigadier Alexander’s specialty, the attack on the fort will require all that your mages can give,” James said.
“I understand, sir,” Simon said. “You’ll have it.”
“Good.” James wondered how good it was. Brigadier Falayette had a point. Wouldn’t it be better to hang on to what they had now than to throw it away on an attack that held little hope of success? Earl James sighed again, openly this time. Count Thraxton had given the orders, and he had to obey. And retaking Wesleyton would be important-if they could do it.
He gave the order for the attack with more than the usual worries. Brigadier Alexander’s engines pummeled the earthen walls of Fort WiLi. Stones battered them. Firepots sent flame dripping down them and over the battlements to burn the men inside. James of Broadpath wouldn’t have cared to find himself on the receiving end of that bombardment.
And Simon the mage and his wizardly colleagues did all they could to punish the fort and the southrons inside it. Lightning struck from a clear sky. The ground trembled beneath James’ feet, and presumably did more than tremble inside Fort WiLi. Batwinged demons shrieked like damned souls as they swooped down on the defenders.
Against the blonds in the old days, the days of conquest, the sorcerous assault would have been plenty to win the fight by itself. But the southrons knew all the tricks their northern cousins did, even if they weren’t always quite so handy with them. Their lightnings smote James’ men, too. The tremors died away as the southron mages mastered them. And as for the demons, as soon as they manifested themselves in the real world, they were as vulnerable to weaponry as any other real-world creatures. Once the stream of darts from a repeating crossbow knocked three of them from the sky in quick succession, the rest grew much more cautious.
And the southrons had many more engines to turn on James’ men than Brigadier Alexander had to turn on them. One after another of the catapults brought with such labor from Rising Rock went out of action. Alexander’s artificers shrieked as fire engulfed them.
James beckoned for a runner. “Tell Brigadier Falayette to start his footsoldiers moving right this minute. We’re getting hammered harder than we’re hammering.”
“Yes, sir.” The runner dashed off.
Despite the order, the pikemen and the crossbowmen who would follow them did not go forward. Fuming, James of Broadpath dispatched another runner to his reluctant brigadier, this one with more peremptory orders. After a little while, the second runner came back, saying, “Brigadier Falayette’s compliments, sir, but he believes the enemy has strung wires in front of his position. Have we tinsnips or axes to cut them?”
“Tinsnips?” James clapped a hand to his forehead. “Tin snips?” The word might have come from one of the more obscure tongues the blond tribes used. “You tell Brigadier Falayette that if he doesn’t get his men moving this instant-this instant, do you hear me?-we’ll find out if we’ve got a pair of tinsnips big enough to fit on his gods-damned neck.”
With a gulp, the runner fled.
And the pikemen and crossbowmen did go forward-straight into everything the southrons’ still undefeated engines could throw at them, straight into the massed shooting of every crossbowman Whiskery Ambrose could put on the walls of Fort WiLi. They went forward roaring, plainly intending to sweep everything before them.
But, as Brigadier Falayette had said, the southrons did have thin wires strung in front of Fort WiLi. They slowed the attackers so that Whiskery Ambrose’s men and engines could pound them without mercy, and the northerners were able to do little to reply.
“Where’s Simon the mage?” James shouted in fury. When the wizard came before him, he growled, “Why didn’t you clever sons of bitches notice those wires ahead of time?”