“A grand tercio, plus supporting artisans. Five thousand fighting men.”
A series of whispers swept the chamber.
“They will be a great help, of course,” Menin said, but the doubt was audible in his voice.
“Fimbrians on the march again across Normannia,” someone muttered. “Who’d have thought it?”
“Does Martellus know yet, sire?” another officer asked.
“Couriers went off to the dyke yesterday,” King Lofantyr told them. “I am sure that Martellus will be glad of five thousand reinforcements, no matter where they are from. Marshal Barbius and his command are travelling light. They intend to be at the Searil river in six weeks, if all goes well. Plenty of time for his men to settle in before the beginning of the next campaigning season.”
Lofantyr turned aside so that an older man in the livery of a court official could whisper in his ear. He was holding a sheaf of papers.
“We have commanded General Martellus to send out winter scouting patrols to ascertain the state of readiness of the Merduks at all times. At the moment it seems they are secure in their winter camps, and have even detached sizable bodies of men eastwards to improve their supply lines. The elephants and cavalry, also, have been billeted further east where they will be nearer to the supply depots on the Ostian river. There is no reason to fear a winter assault.”
Corfe recognized the papers in the court official’s hands; they were the dispatches he had brought from the dyke.
“What of the Pontifical bull demanding Martellus’s removal, sire?” Menin asked gruffly.
“We will ignore it. We do not recognize the imposter Himerius as Pontiff. Macrobius, rightful head of the Church, resides here in Torunn; you have all seen him. Edicts from Charibon will be ignored.”
“Then what of the south, sire?” an officer with a general’s sash about his middle, but who looked to be in his seventies, asked.
“Ah—these reports we’ve been getting of insurrections in the coastal cities to the south of the kingdom,” Lofantyr said airily. “They are of little account. Ambitious nobles such as the Duke of Rone and the Landgrave of Staed have seen fit to recognize Himerius as Pontiff and our Royal self as a heretic. They will be dealt with.”
The talk went on. Military talk, hard-edged and assured. Councils of war loved to talk, John Mogen had once said. But they hated to fight. Most of the conversations seemed to Corfe to be less about tactics and strategy and more about the winning of personal advantage, the catching of the King’s eye.
He had forgotten how different the Torunnan military of the capital and the home fiefs was from the field armies which defended the frontiers. The difference depressed him. These did not seem to him to be the same kind of men with whom he had fought at Aekir and Ormann Dyke. They were not of the calibre of John Mogen’s command. But perhaps that was just an impression; he had not mixed much with the rank and file of the capital. And besides, he lashed himself, he was not such a great one to judge. He had deserted his regiment in the final stages of Aekir’s agony, and while his comrades had fought and died in a heroic rearguard action on the Western Road, he had been slinking away in the midst of the civilian refugees. He must never forget that.
There was no mention of the refugee problem at this meeting, however, which puzzled Corfe extremely. The camps on the outskirts of the capital were swelling by the day with the despairing survivors of Aekir who had first fled the Holy City itself and had then been moved on from Ormann Dyke in the wake of the battles there. If he were the King, he would be concerned with feeding and housing the hopeless multitudes. It was all very well for them to camp outside the walls by the hundred thousand in winter, but when the weather warmed again there would be the near certainty of disease, that enemy more deadly to an army than any Merduk host.
They were discussing the scattered risings of the nobles in the south of the kingdom again. Apparently Perigraine was giving the disaffected aristocrats surreptitious support, and there were vague tales of Nalbenic galleys landing weapons for the rebels. The risings were localized and isolated as yet, but if they could be welded together by any one leader they would pose a serious threat. Swift and severe action was called for. Some of the officers at the council volunteered to go south and bring back the heads of the rebels on platters and there were many protestations of loyalty to Lofantyr, which the King accepted graciously. Corfe remained silent. He did not like the complacent way the King and his staff regarded the situation at the dyke. They seemed to think that the main effort of the Merduks was past and the danger was over except for some minor skirmishing to come in the spring. But Corfe had been there; he had seen the teeming thousands of the Merduk formations, the massed batteries of their artillery, the living walls of war elephants. He knew that the main assault had yet to come, and it would come in the spring. Five thousand Fimbrians would be a welcome addition to the dyke’s defenders—if they would fight happily alongside their old foes the Torunnans—but they would not be enough. Surely Lofantyr and his advisors realized that?
The talk was wearisome, about people whose names meant nothing to Corfe, towns to the south, far away from the Merduk war. As members of Mogen’s command, Corfe and his comrades had always seen the true danger in the east. The Merduks were the only real foes the west faced. Everything else was a distraction. But it was different here. In Torunn the eastern frontier was only one among a series of other problems and priorities. The knowledge made Corfe impatient. He wanted to get back to the dyke, back to the real battlefields.
“We need an expedition to clamp down on these traitorous bastards in the south, that’s plain,” Colonel Menin rasped. “With your permission, sire, I’d be happy to take a few tercios and teach them some loyalty.”
“Very good of you, I’m sure, Colonel Menin,” Lofantyr said smoothly. “But I need your talents employed here, in the capital. No, I have another officer in mind for the mission.”
The more junior officers about the table eyed each other a little askance, wondering who the lucky man would be.
“Colonel Cear-Inaf, I have decided to give you the command,” the King said briskly.
Corfe was jerked out of his reverie. “What?”
The King paused, and then stated in a harder voice: “I said, Colonel, that I am giving you this command.”
All eyes were on Corfe. He was both astonished and dismayed. A command that would take him south, away from the dyke? He did not want it.
But could not refuse it. This, then, was what the Queen Dowager had been referring to earlier. This was her doing.
Corfe bowed deeply whilst his mind fought free of its turmoil.
“Your majesty is very gracious. I only hope that I can justify your faith in my abilities.”
Lofantyr seemed mollified, but there was something in his regard that Corfe did not like, a covert amusement, perhaps.
“Your troop awaits you in the Northern Marshalling Yard, Colonel. And you shall have an aide, of course. Ensign Ebro will be joining you—”
Corfe found Ebro at his side, bowing stiffly, his face a mask. Clearly, this was not a post he had coveted.
“—And I shall see what I can do about releasing a few more officers to you.”
“My thanks, your majesty. Might I enquire as to my orders?”
“They will be forwarded to you in due course. For now I suggest, Colonel, that you and your new aide acquaint yourselves with your command.”
Another pause. Corfe bowed yet again and turned and left the chamber with Ebro close behind him.
As soon as they were outside, striding along the palace corridors, Corfe reached up and savagely ripped the lace ruff from his throat, flinging it aside.
“Lead me to this Northern Marshalling Yard,” he snapped to his aide. “I’ve never heard of it.”
N O one had, it seemed. They scoured the barracks and armouries in the northern portion of the city, but none of the assorted quartermasters, sergeants and ensigns they spoke to had heard of it. Corfe was beginning to believe that it was all a monstrous joke when a fawning clerk in one of the city arsenals told them that there had been a draft of men brought in only the day before who were bivouacked in one of the city squares close to the northern wall; that might be their goal.
They set off on foot, Corfe’s shiny buckled shoes becoming spattered with the filth of the winter streets. Ebro followed him in dumb misery, picking his way through the puddles and mudslimed cobbles. It began to rain, and his court finery took on a resemblance to the sodden plumage of a brilliant bird. Corfe was grimly satisfied by the transformation.
They emerged at last from the stinking press and crowd of the streets into a wide open space surrounded on all sides by timber-framed buildings. Beyond, the sombre heights of the battlemented city walls loomed like a
