Sentry Peak by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page A

men. Mosquitoes had no minds, not to speak of. They didn’t care who he was. They probably bit Thraxton with just as much abandon. Or maybe not , Ned thought scornfully. Why should they like sour wine any more than people do? That made him want to laugh and curse at the same time.
    The moon, low in the east, came out from behind a pale, puffy cloud and spilled ghostly light over the fields. Forests remained black and impenetrable, even close by the road. Maybe night demons really did den in them. If so, none came forth to try conclusions with Ned. Confident in his own strength, he rode on.
    Ahead in the distance, lights twinkled like fireflies: the campfires of Guildenstern’s army, King Avram’s army, the army of invaders. “Why can’t they just leave us alone?” Ned muttered under his breath. “We weren’t doing them any harm. We weren’t about to do them any harm.”
    But the southrons were pushing close to Rising Rock, close to driving King Geoffrey’s men out of Franklin altogether. To force them back, to make sure Geoffrey’s kingdom stayed a kingdom, someone would have to strike them a blow. Ned of the Forest shook his head in frustrated fury. Count Thraxton wasn’t going to do it. Count Thraxton was going to tuck his tail between his legs and skedaddle up into Peachtree Province.
    “And he’s a great general? He’s a great mage?” Ned of the Forest shook his head again, this time dismissing the idea out of hand. Thraxton bragged a fine brag, but the proof of those lay in living up to them. Had Thraxton done that even once, the southrons could never have come so far.
    Ned rode through open woods toward the campfires. The fires lay even closer to Rising Rock than he’d thought they would. He shook his fist at them. He’d grown rich and important hunting down runaway serfs and hauling them back to their liege lords. If Avram broke the feudal bonds that held serfs to their lords’ estates, how would he stay rich? He would he stay important? He saw no way—and so he fought.
    He was musing thus—dark thoughts in dark night—when a sudden sharp challenge rang out from ahead: “Halt! Who comes?”
    “A friend,” Ned answered, reining in in surprise. He usually came and went as he chose, with no one the wiser. Maybe his dark mood had let his protection falter—or maybe the nervous sentry had a mage close by. Putting an officer’s snap in his voice, Ned asked, “What regiment is this?”
    “Twenty-seventh, of the third division.” That came at once, followed a couple of heartbeats later by a grudging, “Sir.”
    It told Ned what he needed to know. The southrons, merchants and bookkeepers in their very souls, numbered their regiments. King Geoffrey’s were known by their commanders’ names. The “friend” ahead was an enemy. Ned said, “I am going to ride on down a little ways and find a better crossing for the stream ahead.”
    He steered his unicorn into deeper shadows, and then away. The southron sentry didn’t shoot. As Ned headed back to his own encampment, he cursed under his breath. He’d found out what he needed to know, but he didn’t much care for it.

II

    “ C ome on, boys,” General George boomed. “You’ll never catch up with the traitors if you don’t move faster than that .”
    “Why didn’t you turn traitor, the way Duke Edward did?” one of the crossbowmen in gray returned. “You’re from Parthenia, just like him. And if you were fighting on the other side, whoever’d be leading us now wouldn’t march us so stinking hard.”
    “Oh, I doubt that,” George said, and all the soldiers who heard him laughed. He knew they called him Doubting George. He didn’t mind. They could have called him plenty worse—one brigadier in King Avram’s army was known, though not to his face, as Old Bowels. George went on, “Any officer worth his pantaloons would push you hard now, because we’re going to run Count Thraxton clean out of this province.”
    “You don’t think