The Two of Swords: Part 6 by K. J. Parker Page A

see through it.
    A bump and a jostle; agony like he’d never known before. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he roared, then noticed that one of the men carrying him had been shot; the arrow was through his elbow and into his flank, pinning his arm to his body. The man’s face was screwed up tight; he hadn’t said a word, and he was still keeping step. At least the man hadn’t apologised for jostling him; he wasn’t sure he could’ve handled that.
    They were climbing now, so they must be on the narrow path. He remembered he was a general. “Stop,” he said. They lowered him a little so he could stand, but didn’t let go, which was just as well. “Help me round.” The view below him came into focus, and he superimposed a chessboard. Then he looked round for someone to give orders to. There was a sergeant, face vaguely familiar; his name was, what, for crying out loud?
    “Sergeant,” he said. “Sergeant Lonous. Take ten men, hold this point. Don’t let them through. Got that?”
    The sergeant nodded. Maybe he wasn’t bright enough to realise he’d just been condemned to death, but Senza doubted that. Just a nod. “Right,” Senza said. “Onwards.” It was his pet phrase. The men liked it, did impressions:
onwards
, and an exaggerated flick of the head, like a nervous horse.
    A hundred and fifty yards up the path; had he remembered right, or just imagined it? No, there it was: no more than a goat track, for particularly small, agile goats. “Fifty men,” Senza said, hoping very much that he still had fifty men, “down that track. You’ll go out of sight over the rise, then come back on this track thirty yards below where we left Lonous and his lads. By the time you get there, there should be a whole bunch of bastards. Take it nice and quiet, they won’t see you coming. Then back up here along the main path, quick as you like.”
    They hurried off and were soon out of sight. Onwards. If Forza was leading the pursuit personally, they were all dead, naturally. But chances were that Forza would be back down below, comforting his wife or wiping out the main army. In which case, it wasn’t over yet. “Get a move on, lads,” he said. “We haven’t got all day.”
    On the top of the Hammerhead he let them stop and get their breath while he looked down at the main action below. As he expected; Forza’s men were right into his centre, tearing it apart, while the cavalry were sweeping round to take the Sixteenth and Twenty-Fifth in rear. Senza grinned. Forza definitely wasn’t down there attending to business. “Come on,” he said, “chop-chop.”
    It took rather longer than he’d have liked for them to reach the other path, the one that went straight down the east face of the Hammerhead. He glanced at it and knew there was no way he’d get down that, so he called over Sergeant Velsa, who he’d known for years. “Listen very carefully,” he said, and told him exactly what had to be done. Then he added, “Tell Colonel Pauga we’re running a bit late – my fault – so he’ll need to get a wiggle on. He’s got to get the auxiliary archers in place before Forza’s lot smash through the centre. That’s very important.” He paused. It was a lot for anyone to remember. “Got that?”
    “Sir.” The fate of the world hung on Sergeant Velsa’s memory, but Senza didn’t tell him that. “Good man,” he said, “off you go.” Then he gestured for his porters to let him sit down. His backside hit the heather and he squealed like a pig. For a moment he couldn’t see for the blur. Then his vision cleared and he got his breath back. He looked round for someone. “That man I brought in,” he said. “Is he all right?”
    They looked at him; someone shook his head. Oh.
    “Take me a bit closer to the edge,” he said. “I want to watch this.”
    Never watch a battle from an elevated position, General Moisa had told him once; you start getting delusions of godhead. Fair enough;