“I’m very sorry, sir, but we can’t possibly notice everything,” Simon said.

“Sometimes it seems as if you can’t notice anything,” James said. The colonel gave him an aggrieved look, which he resolutely ignored. “Is there anything you can do to get rid of the gods-damned wires? Conjure up some demons with sharp teeth and a taste for iron, maybe?”

Simon the mage shook his head. “We would need some considerable, time-consuming research, and we have no time to consume, I fear.”

He was all too obviously right about that. Instead of going forward with roars, James’ men were streaming away from the fort outside Wesleyton. They’d made their attack and seen it fail. They were veterans. They knew what that meant: no point in staying close to the enemy and getting hurt to no purpose.

After a while, Whiskery Ambrose sent out a young captain with a white flag. Northern soldiers led him to James of Broadpath. “The general’s compliments, sir,” the youngster said, “and he would be pleased to grant you two hours’ truce to recover your wounded.”

James bowed. “That is very courteous and gentlemanly of General Ambrose, and I accept with many thanks.” They exchanged a few more compliments before the southron captain went back to Fort WiLi.

Now I’ll have to explain to Captain Thraxton how and why I didn’t break into Wesleyton, James thought gloomily. That will be every bit as delightful as going to the dentist.

A scryer came up to him, as if the thought of having to talk to Thraxton were enough to bring the fellow into being. “What now?” James asked.

The scryer looked worried. James felt his own temper, stretched thin by the repulse, fray even further. Had the illustrious Thraxton decided to sack him even in advance of knowing what had happened here? James didn’t intend to disappear peacefully. But then the scryer said, “Sir, the fighting’s started up by Rising Rock.”

XI

Another gray, foggy, misty day. Captain Ormerod was sick of them. “Is this what fall is like in these parts?” he asked, leaning closer to the campfire. “If it is, why in the hells does anyone live here?”

“It really isn’t, sir,” Lieutenant Gremio answered. “I’ve spoken with some men who come from this part of Franklin, and-”

“Looking for evidence, eh?” Ormerod broke in.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” Gremio said. “They tell me they can’t recall seeing such a wretched run of weather. It’s almost as if some mage were holding a blanket of clouds and mist over Rising Rock.”

Ormerod raised an eyebrow. “Do you suppose some mage is? Some southron mage, I mean?”

“I wouldn’t think so, sir,” Gremio said. “Surely Count Thraxton would notice if that were so.”

“Oh, surely.” Ormerod put as much sarcastic venom in that as he could. “Thraxton is just like a god-he notices everything that goes on around him. Haven’t you seen that for yourself?”

“It’s foggy. I can’t see anything much,” Gremio said.

But then Ormerod said, “It is starting to clear out a bit, I suppose.” The more he looked, the more and the farther he could see. If it had been a spell-and he didn’t know about that one way or the other-the wizard who’d been casting it seemed to need it no longer. When he looked up to the top of Sentry Peak, he spied King Geoffrey’s flag, red dragon on gold, floating where his regiment (though Major Thersites would have had something memorable to say had he put it that way in earshot of him) had placed it.

And when he looked east… When he looked east, his jaw dropped and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Lieutenant Gremio was already looking east. Being a barrister, he’d likely had a tongue hinged at both ends since birth. “By the Lion God’s mane,” he said hoarsely, “if that isn’t every stinking southron in the world out there, it might as well be.”

“Oh, gods be praised,” Ormerod said. “I was afraid I was imagining them.”

“And they’re all heading this way,” Gremio added.

“I know,” Ormerod said. That also made him afraid, but in a way different from, and more concrete than, he’d felt before.

Major Thersites saw the advancing enemy, too. “Stand by to repel boarders!” he called, as if the southrons were so many pirates about to swarm onto a fat, rich merchantman. But General Bart’s men advanced with far better discipline than pirates were in the habit of showing.

“Can we hold them back, sir?” Lieutenant Gremio asked, in the voice of a small child looking for reassurance.

But Ormerod had no reassurance even for himself, let alone to give to anyone else. “To the hells with me if I know,” he answered, while Not a chance on earth or under it ran through his mind.

Thersites was right, though: they had to try. Ormerod shouted orders to his men, who found the best cover they could and got ready to fight back. The Franklin River anchored the southern end of their line, the steep slopes of Sentry Peak the northern. Thersites said, “Gods damn it, where’s that louse-ridden Thraxton the Braggart when you really need the son of a bitch? He ought to have a spell ready that’d sweep away these bastards like a blond wench sweeping out your bedroom.”

The more the mist lifted, the more Ormerod saw. The more Ormerod saw, the more he wished he didn’t. “I think Thraxton is liable to be busy somewhere else,” he said unhappily.

From Sentry Peak here in the north to Funnel Hill, the extension of Proselytizers’ Rise in the far southwest, southron troops advanced against the line the Army of Franklin had set up to hold them inside Rising Rock. How many soldiers had General Bart brought into the town? Ormerod didn’t know, not in numbers, but the southrons were sending forth far more men than he’d thought they had.

He couldn’t pay so much attention to the distant vistas of the battlefield as he would have liked. The southrons moving on his part of the line from the east drew closer by the minute. He cursed as he recognized the banners their regimental standard-bearers waved.

“Those are Fighting Joseph’s troopers!” His voice rose to a furious shout. “Those are the sons of bitches we fought when we went west toward Brownsville Ferry. Some of you boys ran away from jackasses on account of you thought they were unicorn-riders. You’re not going to let these bastards shift you now, are you?”

“No!” his men yelled, and he hoped they meant it.

“We haven’t got enough of anything,” Gremio said worriedly. “We haven’t got enough men, we haven’t got enough engines, we haven’t got enough mages. How are we supposed to stop-that?” He pointed toward the gray flood rolling down on them.

“We’ve got to try,” Ormerod said, echoing Thersites. “If you like, Lieutenant, I’ll write you a pass so you can go to the rear.” Gremio bit his lip but shook his head. Ormerod slapped him on the back. “Stout fellow.”

“No, just a fool, ashamed of looking like a coward before my comrades,” Gremio said. “I’d be smarter if I took you up on that, and we both know it.”

“They haven’t killed me yet,” Ormerod told him. “Futter me if I think they can do it this time.”

“I admire your spirit,” Gremio said. “I would admire it even more if I thought Count Thraxton could send us reinforcements from elsewhere on the field.”

“We’ll manage,” Ormerod said; he didn’t think Thraxton the Braggart could send them reinforcements, either. “We have to manage.”

King Geoffrey’s soldiers were doing everything they could. Artificers turned engines away from Rising Rock and toward the east so they would bear on the advancing foe. Stones and firepots began to fly. So did streams of darts from the big repeating crossbows. Southrons in gray started falling.

But the southrons, along with everything else, were bringing their own wheeled engines forward. They started shooting first at the catapults and repeating crossbows that were tormenting them. That spared Ormerod and his fellow footsoldiers for a while, but only for a while. Gremio was right: the southrons had more engines here than did this part of Count Thraxton’s army. Little by little, they battered Thraxton’s engines down to something close to silence, and then turned their attention to his pikemen and crossbowmen.