“Your liege lord?” Smitty said. “Did you shoot him?”

“I sure did,” Rollant answered. “I just wish I could’ve done it ten years ago.” He paused. “No. All his Detinan friends would’ve caught me and burned me alive. Not now, though.”

“No, not now,” Smitty agreed. “Now we’ve just got to keep chasing all these traitor sons of bitches as far as we can.”

More northerners kept coming forward to try to stem the retreat. They couldn’t do it, but their rear-guard action finally did let the bulk of Thraxton’s army break free of its pursuers and make its escape: the same role Doubting George’s wing had played in the fight by the River of Death. By the time the sun set, most of the traitors were several miles ahead of General Bart’s army, moving in the only direction open to them-up toward Peachtree Province.

Rollant and Smitty sprawled by a fire. Some of the soldiers ran up a tent for Captain Cephas, who’d kept up well but looked even more worn than most of his men. As Rollant was too tired even to get up and see what Hagen the blond had thrown into the stewpot, Cephas had to be truly weary. But when Rollant remarked on that, Smitty shook his head. “He wasn’t too worn out to keep Corliss from sneaking in there,” he said.

“What?” Rollant sat up, though every joint ached. “I didn’t see that.”

“Things happen whether you see them or not,” Smitty said with a superior sniff.

“I know,” Rollant answered. “Bad things are liable to happen on account of this.” He glanced over at Hagen. As long as the escaped serf was busy dishing out supper, he might not have time to worry about where his wife had gone. For everyone’s sake, Rollant hoped he wouldn’t.

When Captain Cephas didn’t emerge from the tent, Lieutenant Griff ordered sentries out. “We have to stay alert,” he said. “The traitors might counterattack.” Rollant didn’t believe it-the northerners were beaten men tonight-but he recognized the possibility. He also let out a long sigh of relief when Sergeant Joram didn’t call his name. Making the most of the opportunity, he wrapped himself in his blanket and fell asleep.

He wouldn’t have been surprised had Joram shaken him awake in the middle of the night to take someone’s place on sentry-go. Getting jerked from sleep by a woman’s shriek, though, took him back to the bad days on Baron Ormerod’s estate, when Ormerod had enjoyed himself among the blond girls as he pleased.

For a moment, Rollant lay frozen. Back on the estate, he hadn’t dared interfere. Few blonds did, and they all paid. But he wasn’t on the estate, wasn’t a serf, any more. A man’s cry-no, two men’s cries-rang out with the woman’s. Rollant knew exactly where he was then, and feared he knew exactly what had happened. A cry of dismay on his own lips, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward Captain Cephas’ tent.

Hagen burst out through the tent flap. He held a butcher knife, but hardly seemed to know it. He took a couple of stumbling steps, then fell on his face. Captain Cephas’ sword stuck out of his back.

Cephas himself came out a moment later. “I got him,” he said, and then something else, but the blood pouring from his mouth kept Rollant from understanding what. Cephas’ left hand was clasped to his undershirt, the only garment he was wearing. He swayed, said one more clear word-‘Corliss’-and crumpled as Hagen had before him.

“Oh, by the gods,” Smitty said from behind Rollant, and set a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like you were right.”

“I wish I’d been wrong,” Rollant said. “Is she still in the tent?”

Smitty went inside before anyone else could. Rollant heard him gulp. “She’s in here,” he said, and his voice wobbled. “Hagen almost took her head off with that knife.” He came out in a hurry, bent over, and was noisily sick. He might-he surely had-seen worse in battle. But you expected such things in battle. Here, after the victory was won…

“It takes the edge off,” Rollant said. “It does more than that, in fact.” He gulped, too, though he hadn’t gone into the tent. What was outside was bad enough.

Smitty spat, swigged from his canteen, and spat again. “It does for us,” he said. “But if you think the generals will care, you’re daft.” Rollant thought that over. Reluctantly, he nodded.

General Bart folded his right hand into a fist and smote his left palm, as much of a gesture of excitement as he ever allowed himself. The sun rose on as complete a triumph as the southron cause had seen in some time. He nodded to Doubting George, who was also just emerging from his pavilion. “Good morning, Lieutenant General. Now that we’ve whipped the northerners, let’s see if we can run the legs off them and break their whole army to pieces.”

“I wouldn’t mind that at all,” George said. “When General Guildenstern forced Thraxton the Braggart out of Rising Rock, he let him retreat, because he was sure Thraxton would run all the way up to Marthasville. He found out differently by the River of Death.”

“Well, that’s two lessons for us,” Bart said.

“Two?” Doubting George asked.

“Yes, two,” Bart replied. “The first is, pursue vigorously. The second is, keep your eyes open while you’re doing it.” He watched George consider that and nod. He would have been disappointed had the other officer done anything else. And he said what needed saying: “Congratulations to you and your men. They were the ones who cracked the Braggart’s position and let us win our victory.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” George grinned wryly. “I would take more credit for it if I’d actually given the order that sent my men up the slope of Proselytizers’ Rise, but thank you all the same. I do take no little pride in what my men accomplished, no matter who gave that order.”

“If anyone did,” Bart said. “Whoever he was, he’s proved remarkably shy about coming forward and taking the credit for it.” He hesitated, then went on, “Not to take anything away from whoever it was, or from you, or from your undoubtedly brave men, but Colonel Phineas gives me to understand that part of the credit for our victory and the traitors’ defeat also goes to Count Thraxton for making a hash of a spell at just the wrong time.”

“Yes, my mages told me the same thing,” Lieutenant General George replied. “We hoped it would happen in the heat of battle, and it did.”

“Give Thraxton the chance to make a mistake or make a man dislike him and he will take it more often than not,” Bart said. He turned to a blond servant hurrying up with a tray. “Yes? What is it?”

“Your breakfast, sir.” The servant sounded surprised he needed to ask. “Just what you said you wanted-a cup of strong tea, no milk, no honey, and a cucumber sliced in vinegar.”

“Perfect,” Bart said. He dipped his head to Doubting George. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course, sir,” George said. “What an… interesting breakfast.”

“I eat it almost every day,” Bart said. “I’m not a man of fancy tastes. I do as I do, and I am willing to let the men under me do as they do, provided they also do as I require when the time for that comes on the battlefield.”

“You’d better be careful, sir,” George said gravely. “Such judiciousness will get you into trouble.” Only when he smiled could Bart be sure he was joking.

An aide said, “Lieutenant General Hesmucet is here, sir. Now that the traitors have left Funnel Hill, his men have occupied it.”

“Good; that’s very good.” Bart resigned himself to eating breakfast in front of his subordinates. Doubting George said nothing at all to the aide. But Bart didn’t need to be a mage to know what he was thinking. His men, who didn’t have a reputation for boldness, had taken Proselytizers’ Rise, while Hesmucet’s soldiers, who did, had spent two fruitless days assailing Funnel Hill, and hadn’t seized it till after the northerners withdrew.