“Whom do you suppose Bart is sending against us?” Alexander asked.

“Maybe Hesmucet. I hope not-he knows what he’s doing-but maybe.” James stroked his beard. “Or maybe Fighting Joseph. The one thing you always want to do with Fighting Joseph is get him the devils out of your hair.” Count Thraxton must think the same of me, went through James’ mind. Ah, if only I’d had the rank to send him off to Wesleyton. I’d have managed Proselytizers’ Rise better. I could hardly have managed it worse.

“Yes, Fighting Joseph,” Alexander agreed. “That makes good sense to me.”

“Bart has always been a sensible fellow,” James said. “And now, if we’re going to be sensible ourselves, we had better get moving, eh?”

He felt better in the saddle, riding away from Wesleyton on his robust unicorn. The fragment of his force that he left behind was smaller than Whiskery Ambrose’s-how could it be otherwise, when his whole force was smaller than the southron general’s? The fragment he brought with him was bound to be smaller than the enemy detachment moving from Rising Rock against him. Whiskery Ambrose’s inertia warded the part he left behind. The ground would, he hoped, do the same for the part he brought with him.

Ground was supposed to protect Count Thraxton, too, he thought, and wished he hadn’t. His men were cheerful, at least till it started to rain-and rain, he hoped, would make things even harder for the enemy than it did for him.

“Stinking southrons can’t whip us,” one of his men said. “We’re the Army of Southern Parthenia, by all the gods, and there ain’t nobody in the whole wide world can whip us.”

“That’s right,” James of Broadpath said. And so it might be, as long as the men believed it.

He didn’t believe it himself. The southrons made good soldiers. They’d beaten the Army of Southern Parthenia down at Essoville just a few months before, beaten it badly enough to make Duke Edward fall back into Parthenia and stay there. The soldier who’d been boasting had probably fought at Essoville, and shrugged off the defeat as one of those things. The north probably did have better generals-some of them, anyway. Of course, we also have Thraxton, James thought. He makes up for a lot.

Brigadier Falayette rode up to him. “Sir,” he said, saluting, “I don’t think we can make a successful resistance against the southrons, not if they oppose us with even a halfway intelligent plan of attack.”

“For one thing, there’s no guarantee they will,” James replied. “For another, Brigadier, have you got any better ideas? You don’t seem to want to carry out attacks and you don’t seem to want to make a defense, either. What do you have in mind? Shall we surrender?”

“I didn’t mean that, sir,” Falayette said stiffly.

“What the hells did you mean, then?” James of Broadpath demanded. “Did you mean you’re sick of the war and you want to go home? By the gods, Brigadier, I’m sick of the war and I want to go home, too. But if you want to leave as badly as that, I can arrange it. I can dismiss you from King Geoffrey’s service and gods-damned well send you home. Is that what you’ve got in mind?”

“No, sir,” Brigadier Falayette replied, reddening. “I was merely pointing out the difficulties inherent in our position.”

“I’m painfully aware of them myself, thank you,” James said. “Whining about them doesn’t help. Trying to do something about them possibly may.”

He waited to see if Falayette had any real suggestions to make. The brigadier tugged on his unicorn’s reins, jerking the animal’s head around, and rode off. He was talking to himself under his breath. Perhaps fortunately, James couldn’t make out what he was saying. Had he been able to, he might have had his friends speak to Falayette’s friends, assuming the gloomy brigadier had any.

When they got to the pass Lieutenant General James hoped to defend, his own spirits rose, though he wouldn’t have testified as to those of Brigadier Falayette. He summoned Brigadier Alexander and said, “Site your engines where they will bear to best advantage on the enemy.”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander said enthusiastically. “I hope the southrons do try to gore their way through. We’ll make them pay, and pay plenty.”

“That’s the idea.” James gave orders to cut down trees and move stones for field fortifications. The men worked steadily, plainly understanding what they needed to do and why they needed to do it. They did sometimes grumble about the rations they got, but James would have been surprised if they hadn’t. Soldiers who had to stay in the field once the roads got muddy had to make do with short commons more often than not.

The southrons approached the pass two days later. By then, James of Broadpath had learned from prisoners that Fighting Joseph did command them. He wondered if Joseph would throw the whole southron force at his fieldworks. But the southron commander had apparently learned caution at Viziersville, if he’d learned nothing else. He tapped at the position in front of him, decided it was solid, and then settled down to figure out what to do next.

James of Broadpath didn’t have time on his side. When Fighting Joseph was careless with a column of supply wagons, James sent out his unicorn-riders, captured the wagons, and brought them back to his own camp. He led a happier force after that. The northerners had done without luxuries such as tea and sugar for a long time, as southron ships held most goods from overseas away from their ports.

Fighting Joseph tapped at his defenses again a couple of days later, and again failed to break through. He tried once more, harder, the day after that, and did some real damage before deciding he wasn’t going to penetrate James’ line. James was more relieved than not when he gave up not long before sunset; one more hard push might have been enough to do the job.

Brigadier Falayette thought so. “If he strikes us again, sir, we are ruined-ruined, I tell you!” he cried, striking a melodramatic pose.

But he’d been crying ruin and striking melodramatic poses ever since James’ detachment moved out from Rising Rock toward Wesleyton, so all James said was, “Oh, quit your carping.” He turned to Brigadier Alexander, whom he trusted to take a more sensible view of things. “What do you think?” he asked the officer in charge of his engines.

To his dismay, Alexander replied, “I fear my colleague may well be right, sir. If he comes at us with resolution tomorrow, we could find ourselves in some difficulty.”

“Well, we’ll just have to get ready to receive him in the morning as best we can,” James of Broadpath said-hardly the ringing, inspirational battle cry he’d hoped to give. He rode along the line to encourage his men. All he succeeded in doing was discouraging himself. The soldiers seemed only too well aware that another attack might be too much for them to handle.

But instead of throwing in another attack the next morning, Fighting Joseph turned his own force around and marched off to the northeast, the direction from which he’d come. “Gods be praised!” Brigadier Alexander exclaimed. “He must have got orders to rejoin General Bart, which means we’re safe for the time being.”

“So it does,” James of Broadpath agreed. He granted himself the luxury of a sigh of relief, but then unhappily added, “I fear we cannot say the same for the Army of Franklin, however.”

The Army of Franklin had encamped in and around the miserable little town of Borders, near the southeasternmost corner of Peachtree Province. There Count Thraxton labored valiantly to put the blame for the defeat-the disaster-at Sentry Peak and Proselytizers’ Rise on anyone, on everyone, but himself.

King Geoffrey’s long, stern face peered at him from out of a crystal ball. Geoffrey, Thraxton knew, was his friend. Nevertheless, the king sounded as stern as he looked when he said, “I expected rather better from you, your Grace; I truly did.”