Sentry Peak

“Why what, sir?” Doubting George asked.

“Why unicorns thrive better in the north than in our part of the kingdom,” the army commander answered. “Hardly anyone up here is virgin past the age of twelve.”

His second-in-command chuckled, but said, “That’s just superstition, sir.”

“I should hope so,” Guildenstern growled. “If it weren’t, every bloody one of our riders’d go on foot.” He sent Lieutenant General George a baleful stare. Was the seemingly easygoing officer trying to undermine him by pointing out the obvious? When Doubting George muttered something under his breath, Guildenstern’s ears quivered. “What was that?” he asked sharply.

“I said, `The enemy is weak,’ sir.” Doubting George’s voice was bland.

That wasn’t what General Guildenstern thought he’d said. Gods knew it had sounded a lot more like “Unicorn Beak.” Guildenstern’s left hand came up to stroke his nose. It was of generous, even noble, proportions, yes, but no one had presumed to call him by that uncouth nickname since he’d graduated from the officers’ collegium at A

Maybe he’d misheard. Maybe. He tried to make himself believe it.

Asses-unicorns’ humbler cousins-hauled the wagons that kept the army fed and supplied. They also brought forward the stone-throwers and the dart-flingers that made the footsoldier’s life so unpleasant in this war and that sometimes-when the gods chose to smile-made siegecraft move at something faster than a glacial pace.

A company’s worth of men in long gray uniform robes also, to a man, rode asses. General Guildenstern’s lip curled as his eye lit on them. “Why is it,” he demanded of no one in particular, “that we can’t find a wizard-not a single bloody wizard-who knows what to do when he climbs on a unicorn?”

“I don’t much care about that, sir,” Doubting George said. “What I want to know is, why can’t we find a single bloody wizard who knows what to do when he opens a grimoire?”

“Demons take them all,” Guildenstern muttered. That was, of course, part of the problem. Demons had taken a couple of southron wizards in the early days of the war. Down in the south, mages were more used to using sorcery in business than in battle, and military magic was a very different game, as the elegant and arrogant sorcerers who served Grand Duke Geoffrey had proved several times.

“We do need them,” Lieutenant General George said with a sigh. “They are up to holding off some of what the enemy’s wizards throw at us.”

“Some,” Guildenstern granted grudgingly. He kept on glaring over toward the mages, though. As if his gaze had weight, it drew the notice of a couple of them. He would have taken pride in the power of his personality… had he not misliked the way they looked back at him. Like any man of sense, he wore an apotropaic amulet on a chain around his neck. His left hand stroked it, as if reminding it to do its job. Measured against the mages who fought for Geoffrey, most of King Avram’s wizards were less than they might have been. Measured against a man who was a soldier and not himself a mage, they remained intimidating.

Doubting George said, “I wonder what sort of hellsfire Count Thraxton’s cooking up over there in Rising Rock.”

Now General Guildenstern glared at him. “You were the one who said his spells kept going wrong. Have you changed your mind all at once?”

“Oh, no, sir.” His second-in-command shook his head. “I think we’ll lick him right out of his boots.” Yes, he could afford to be confident; he wouldn’t have to explain what had gone wrong if the army failed. “But it’s always interesting to try and figure out what the whoresons on the other side’ll throw at us, don’t you think?”

“Interesting.” It wasn’t the word Guildenstern would have used. Rather to his relief, he was spared having to figure out which word he would have used, for a scout came riding toward him, waving to be noticed. More often than not, Guildenstern would have let the fellow wait. Now he waved back and called, “What’s your news?”

Saluting, the young rider answered, “Sir, some of our pickets have run the traitors out of Whiteside. The little garrison they had there is falling back toward Rising Rock.”

“Splendid.” Guildenstern brought a fist down on his thigh in solid satisfaction. “I’ll spend the night there, then.” The scout saluted again and galloped back off toward the west, no doubt to warn the men who’d taken the hamlet to have ready a lodging suitable for the army commander.

They didn’t do a perfect job. One of Grand Duke Geoffrey’s ba

The i

“Oh!” they exclaimed together, like characters in a comedy. Their names were Lindy and Vetty; Guildenstern wasn’t quite sure which was which. Whichever the younger and prettier one was, she said, “Hadn’t thought about it much, your lordship, sir. I guess it’ll be pretty good-money of our own and all, I mean.”

By his scowl, the i

He wasn’t altogether sure he believed that; he’d never had any great liking for yellow-hairs himself. But he enjoyed throwing it in the i

“Just as I say?” Guildenstern echoed complacently. “Well, of course.”

When the i

“No doubt.” Guildenstern’s voice was dry; there weren’t any more towns between Whiteside and Rising Rock. But he put that out of his mind, for something else was in it: “Send me up the prettier of your girls, the one with the freckles, to warm my bed tonight.”

“With the freckles? That’s Lindy.” The i

“By the gods!” General Guildenstern exploded. “That’s taking things too far, don’t you think?” The i

He wondered if he’d made a mistake. If the girl said no, he would never live it down. But Lindy knocked on his door a few minutes later. As soon as he closed it behind her, she pulled her shift off over her head. Guildenstern enjoyed himself. If she didn’t, she was a reasonably good actress.

Afterwards, she leaned up on one elbow beside him, so that the soft, pink tip of her bare breast poked him in the shoulder. “You trounce our lords,” she said earnestly. “Trounce ’em good, and every blond girl in the kingdom’ll open her legs for you.”

“One more reason to win,” Guildenstern said, and caught her to him again.