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don't care if you know or not, since I'm going to tell you. And what I'm going
to tell you is, I don't give a good gods-damn. They should have made me a
lieutenant general of the regulars for what I did by the River of Death. They
didn't do it then, and I have a hells of a time caring now."
A column of muddy, disheveled northern prisoners came stumbling by, the hale
helping the wounded along. Grinning soldiers in gray carrying crossbows and
pikes herded the captives toward the south. One of the northerners, spotting
Doubting George called, "By the gods, General, why didn't you go and drop an
anvil on us, too?"
"What's that?" George boomed. "What's that you say? Don't you think I already
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went and did it?" The northerner didn't answer. He just lowered his head and
trudged on into captivity.
Before long, more prisoners followed that first column. This time, one of the
guards called out to
Doubting George: "We're capturing a hells of a lot of their catapults, too,
sir."
"Good. Good. I like to hear that." The commanding general turned back to his
adjutant. "Let's see Baron
Logan the Black come one inch one gods-damned inch, do you hear me? past
Cloviston now. By the
Lion God's claws, I swear I'll clap him in irons if he has the gall to try
it."
"Yes, sir
!" Colonel Andy said enthusiastically. "We don't need anybody but you here in
the east."
"Well, I don't know about that
," Doubting George said. "Having a good many thousands of soldiers who know
what they're doing makes my life a lot easier."
No sooner had those words crossed his lips when a messenger came tearing back
to him, shouting, "Sir!
Sir! The enemy's breaking up and running. What do we do, sir?"
Somehow, being confronted by one of his soldiers who didn't know what he was
supposed to do bothered George not in the least, not when the man brought news
like that. The general commanding answered, "Chase the sons of bitches! Chase
'em hard. Don't slow down for anything. Don't let 'em regroup. Keep pushing
'em till you run the legs right off 'em. Have you got that?"
"Yes, sir. We are to pursue vigorously." Saluting, the messenger dashed back
toward the north.
"Pursue vigorously." The words tasted bad in George's mouth. The man had
squeezed all the juice from
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the order. But he'd got it right, or right enough.
More prisoners came back. Each time a new column stumbled and staggered past,
the guards wore bigger smiles. They understood what was happening, how the
battle was going. "We've got 'em whipped!" one of them shouted to Doubting
George. "They can take provincial prerogative and put it on the pyre, because
it's dead."
Some of the captured northerners still had spirit left. They jeered and hooted
and called out false King
Geoffrey's name. More, though, tramped along with their heads down, glum and
dejected and weary.
One fellow said, "To the hells with provincial prerogative. Fill my belly full
and you can have King
Avram, for all of me."
Doubting George hadn't heard that very often. He hoped he would hear more of
it. Colonel Andy said, "Sir, I really think we've broken them." He sounded as
if he couldn't believe it.
That irritated George. "You don't need to seem so surprised, Colonel. Did you
think this war would go on forever?"
Andy looked startled. "Do you know, sir, I think I almost did."
"Well, by the gods, it won't," George declared. "It is going to end, and we
are going to help end it. We are going to take the Army of Franklin and grind
it to dust. And when we do, what does Geoffrey, that son of a bitch, have left
east of the mountains? Not bloody much, that's what."
Even as he spoke, another stretch of Bell's line, assailed from the front and
both flanks, collapsed into a chaos of men running away as fast as they could
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go or throwing down crossbows and pikes, throwing up their hands, and
surrendering. The northern soldiers had done everything a general could
reasonably ask of his men. They had, very likely, done more than a general
could reasonably ask of his men. In asking a small number of weary, hungry
soldiers to beat more than twice as many well-fed, well-rested, well-
armed ones, though, Lieutenant General Bell had wanted altogether too much.
Now he was or rather, his men were paying the price for his asking that of
them.
Colonel Andy watched that stretch of line go to pieces, too. "This is . . .
this is what victory feels like, isn't it? I don't mean victory in a battle. I
mean . . . victory." He sounded disbelieving, but he said the word.
Doubting George nodded. "That's what I've been telling you, Colonel. That's
what I've been telling anybody who'd listen. Up till now, nobody's much felt
like listening. Not Bart, by the Thunderer's beard.
Some people you've just got to show. We'll, we've shown 'em, all right."
"We have. We really have." Yes, Andy sounded dazed.
Having shown the world, Doubting George wanted to see for himself, too. He
shouted for his unicorn.
When an orderly brought it, he swung up into the saddle and rode north so he
could see it for himself.
"What will you do if an enemy attacks you, sir?" Colonel Andy called after
him.
"What'll I do? I'll kill the bastard," George answered. His adjutant stared.
Doubting George laughed.
Didn't victory make the world seem fine?
* * *
Back when Rollant was a serf, he'd had to harvest rice and indigo on Baron
Ormerod's estate in Palmetto
Province. Every year, the job looked enormous, far too large for the serfs on
the estate to finish in time.
Pitching in to do it only strengthened that feeling. But then, one day, you
realized it was almost done.
Usually, you realized that with something approaching astonishment. Where had
all the work gone?
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Rollant had something of the same feeling now. Where had all the war gone? No
one in his regiment despised the northerners more than he did. No one had
better reason to despise them, though some of the other blonds had reasons
just as good. But, however much he loathed the traitors, he'd always known
them as men who fought hard. Had anyone anywhere ever fought better for a
worse cause? He didn't think so.
Yesterday, Bell's men had gone right on fighting hard. Yes, the southrons had
driven them back, but they hadn't had an easy time of it. The Army of Franklin
had retreated to this second ridge line in good order, and they'd seemed ready
enough to offer battle again today.
And the northerners had even fought hard in the early hours of the morning,
though they'd had footsoldiers coming at them from the south while Hard-Riding
Jimmy's unicorn-riders pressed them from the north. Before too long, though,
they seemed to realize they simply did not have the men to hold off all their
foes. Here, being unable to hold off all their foes meant about the same thing
as being unable to hold off any of those foes. They seemed to realize that,
too. The Army of Franklin's battle was lost, lost irretrievably.
Once Bell's men figured that out, once it sank in, they did something Rollant
had never seen them do before: they went to pieces. Rollant had northerners
surrender to him without even complaining about yielding to a blond. Others,
instead of taking a shot they were all too likely to make at a
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standard-bearer, threw away their crossbows and ran.
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