Harry Turtledove - War Of The Provinces 1 - Sentry Peak

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Sentry Peak

THE STRANGEST CIVIL WAR

NOVEL YOU EVER READ!

When Avram became King of Detina, he declared he intended to liberate the blond

serfs from their ties to the land. The northern provinces, where most of the serfs lived,

would not accept his lordship. The hot north was a land of broad estates, whose noble

overlords took the serfs’ labor and gave back next to nothing. Those provinces left

Detina, choosing Avram’s cousin, Grand Duke Geoffrey, as their king in his place.

Avram said he had inherited all of the kingdom, not just a part. He refused to let

Geoffrey rule the north without a challenge. And the southron provinces, full of

merchants and smallholders stood solidly behind him. So he sent armies clad in gray

against the north. Geoffrey raised his own army, and arrayed his men in blue made from

the indigo much raised on northern estates to distinguish them from the southrons.

Avram held the larger part of the kingdom, and the wealthier part, too. But Geoffrey’s

men were bolder soldiers. And the north, taken all in all, had better wizards than the

southrons did. The war raged for almost three years, until Avram’s General named

Guildenstern and his great lieutenant, Doubting George, moved against the northern army

under Count Thraxton the Braggart and his commander of unicorn-riders, Ned of the

Forest, which held the town of Rising Rock, close by Sentry Peak. . . .

Cover art by Carol Heyer

]Hardcover

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

First printing, September 2000

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 0-671-57887-1

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

http://www.baen.com

Typeset by Windhaven Press

Auburn, NH

Electronic version by WebWrights

http://www.webwrights.com

BAEN BOOKS by HARRY TURTLEDOVE

The Fox novels:

Wisdom of the Fox

Tale of the Fox

Sentry Peak

The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

Thessalonica

Alternate Generals (editor)

Down in the Bottomlands

(with L. Sprague de Camp)

Contents

Sentry Peak

PROLOGUE

III

VII

VIII

XII

PROLOGUE

Now it came to pass when Avram succeeded his father Buchan as King of Detina

that those in the north would not accept his lordship, anointing his cousin, Grand Duke

Geoffrey, as king in their lands. For Avram had declared even before old King Buchan

died that he purposed freeing the serfs of Detina. The subtropic north was a land of broad

estates, the nobles there taking the fruit of the labor of their fair-haired tenant farmers

while returning unto the said serfs but a pittance. By contrast, merchants and

smallholders filled the south: men who stood foursquare behind Avram.

Declaring he had inherited the whole of Detina from King Buchan, Avram would

not suffer Geoffrey to rule unchallenged in the north, and sent armies dressed all in gray

against him. Geoffrey, in his turn, raised hosts of his own, arraying them in blue made

from the indigo much raised on northern estates that they might thus be distinguished

from the southron men. Now Avram had the larger portion of the kingdom, and the

wealthier, but Geoffrey's men were the bolder soldiers and, taken all in all, the better

mages. And so the war raged for nigh unto three years, until Avram's general named

Guildenstern moved against the northern army under Thraxton the Braggart, which held

the town of Rising Rock close by Sentry Peak. . . .

Sweat streamed down General Guildenstern's face. Hating the hot, muggy summer

weather of the north, he took off his broad-brimmed gray hat and fanned himself with it.

The unexpected motion spooked his unicorn, which sidestepped beneath him. "The gods

curse you, you miserable creature," he growled, and fought the animal back under

control. It took a little while; he knew he was something less than the best rider in King

Avram's army. But I hold the highest rank. The warmth of the thought was far more

pleasant than the warmth of the weather.

Beside him, Lieutenant General George shed his hat, too, and wiped his wet

forehead with the sleeve of his gray tunic. His unicorn stayed quiet under him.

Guildenstern noted that with a stab of resentment, as if it were a reproof of the way he

handled his own mount. He saw slights everywhere, whether they were there or not. His

thick, dark eyebrows came down and together in a fearsome scowl.

Lieutenant General George squinted into the westering sun, which glinted off the

silver streaks in his black beard. "Do you know, sir," he said, "now that we've forded the

river, I don't see how in the seven hells old Thraxton's going to keep us from running him

out of Rising Rock."

Now Guildenstern's eyebrows leaped upward in astonishment. His second-in-

command was most often known as Doubting George, sometimes even to his face. He

worried about everything. "That's . . . good to hear," Guildenstern said cautiously. If

Doubting George thought Thraxton the Braggart couldn't hold Rising Rock, he was very

likely right.

And if by some mischance the army didn't take Rising Rock even after Doubting

George thought the town ought to fall, who would get the blame? Guildenstern knew the

answer to that only too well. He would, no one else. Not his second-in-command,

certainly.

He reached for the flask of brandy he wore on his belt next to his sword. He took a

long swig. Peaches and fire ran down his throat. "Gods, that's good," he rasped—another

warmth obviously superior to the local weather.

"Nothing better," Lieutenant General George agreed, though he didn't carry a flask

in the field. He nodded to himself. "We're coming at Rising Rock from three directions at

once, and we outnumber Thraxton about eight to five. If he doesn't fall back, he won't

have much to brag about once we're through with him."

"Count Thraxton is a sorcerer of no small power." Guildenstern knew every officer

within earshot was listening for all he was worth. He didn't want any of his subordinates

thinking the attack on Rising Rock would prove a walkover, just in case it turned out not

to be.

"Oh, no doubt," Doubting George said. "But we gain on the northerners in wizardry,

so we do, and the Braggart's spells have already gone awry a time or two in this war. I

wouldn't fall over dead with surprise if it happened again."

Was he really as guileless as he seemed? Could anyone really be that guileless? Or

is he laying traps beneath my feet? Guildenstern wondered. Had he been Doubting

George's second-in-command, that was what he would have done. He took another swig

of brandy. He trusted what he carried in his flask. That was more than he could say of the

men who served under him.

But I'm advancing, he thought. As long as I'm advancing, as long as I drive the

traitors before me, no one can cast me down.

A haze of dust hovered over his army, as it did over any army marching on roads

that had never been corduroyed. Because of the red-tinged dust, Guildenstern couldn't see

quite so far as he might have liked, but he could see far enough. The ordinary soldiers

weren't out to betray him. He was . . . pretty sure of that.

Regiments of crossbowmen made up the biggest part of the army. Save that they

wore King Avram's gray, many of them hardly looked like soldiers at all. They looked

like what they were: butchers and bakers and chandeliermakers, tailors and toilers and

fullers and boilers, grocers and farmers, woodsmen and goodsmen. Not for nothing did

false King Geoffrey and the rest of the northern bluebloods sneer at King Avram's

backers as a rabble of shopkeepers in arms. Shopkeepers in arms they were. A rabble? In

the first year of the war, perhaps they had been. No more. They'd never lacked for

courage. Now they had discipline as well. The crossbow was an easy weapon to learn,

and could slay at long range. That they were here, deep in the Province of Franklin whose

lord had declared for Geoffrey, spoke for itself.

A fair number of the heads under those identical gray hats were blond, not dark.

Serfs—former serfs, rather—had been free to bear arms or take on any other citizen's

duties in most of the southron provinces for a couple of generations. That accounted for

some of the blonds in the ranks. Others had fled from their northern overlords. Avram's

orders were to ask no questions of such men, but to turn them into soldiers if they said

they wanted to fight.

Even through the dust the marching army raised, the sun sparkled off serried ranks

of steel spearheads. Archers were hideously vulnerable if cavalry—or even footsoldiers

with pikes and mailshirts—got in among them. Posting pikemen of one's own in front of

them forestalled such disasters.

General Guildenstern's smile turned as amiable as it ever did when he surveyed the

spearmen. Far fewer blonds served among them. They were real soldiers—professionals,

not conscripts or zealots. If you told a man who carried a pike to do something, he went

out and did it. He didn't ask why, or argue if he didn't care for the answer.

The sun also gleamed from the iron-shod horns of the unicorn cavalry. Guildenstern

sighed. The riders he commanded were far better at their trade than they had been in the

early days of Geoffrey's attempted usurpation. They still had trouble matching their

northern foes, for whom riding unicorns was a way of life, not a trade.

And, of course, unicorns bred best in the north. "I wonder why," General

Guildenstern murmured.

"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 Annasville.

He'd hoped it was years forgotten.

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 banners—red dragon on

gold—still floated above Whiteside when General Guildenstern rode in as the sun was

setting. At his snarled order, troopers hastily replaced it with Detina's proper ensign—

gold dragon on red. The general doffed his hat to the kingdom's banner before

dismounting and striding into the village's best, and only, inn.

The innkeeper served up a decent roast capon and a tolerable bottle of white wine.

He'd likely favored Geoffrey over Avram, but did a fair job of hiding it. By their blond

hair and blue eyes, both the serving wenches who brought Guildenstern his supper were

serfs, or rather had been till his army entered Whiteside. The wine—and, no doubt, the

brandy he'd put away before—left the general feeling expansive. Beaming at the

wenches, he asked them, "And how do you like your freedom?"

"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 innkeeper didn't think it would be so good. Now he'd have to pay

them wages instead of hiring them from whichever local noble controlled their families.

"Freedom," Guildenstern said, quoting King Avram, "is worth the price."

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 innkeeper's face and watching the

fellow have to paste on a smile and pretend he agreed. "Just as you say, General," he

replied, as if each word tasted bad.

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

When the innkeeper took him up to his bedchamber over the dining hall, he found it

a rough match for the supper he'd had: not splendid, but good enough. "Won't find

anything finer this side of Rising Rock," the innkeeper said.

"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 innkeeper's smile went from deferential to

rather nasty. "Can't just send her up, now can I, sir? Not if she's free, I should say. She'll

have to decide all by herself if she wants to come up here."

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SentryPeakTHESTRANGESTCIVILWARNOVELYOUEVERREAD!WhenAvrambecameKingofDetina,hedeclaredheintendedtoliberatetheblondserfsfromtheirtiestotheland.Thenorthernprovinces,wheremostoftheserfslived,wouldnotaccepthislordship.Thehotnorthwasalandofbroadestates,whosenobleoverlordstooktheserfs’laborandgavebacknextt...

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