abandoned without a battle, and despite the detachment he affected the knowledge shook him to the core. If the dyke fell, what hope was there for Torunn itself?
He was called in at last, and found himself in a high-ceilinged room built entirely of stone but for black beams as thick as his waist criss-crossing near the roof. A fire burned in a deep brazier and there was a long table covered with maps and papers, and so many quills that it seemed a flock of birds had just been startled into flight from there. A group of men stood or sat around the table, some smoking pipes. They stared at him as he entered.
He saluted, acutely conscious of his wretched appearance and the mud that was falling from his boots to clod the floor.
One man, whom Corfe recognized as Martellus, stood up, throwing aside a quill as though it were a dart.
The troops called him “the Lion,” not without reason. He had a mane and beard of shaggy black hair shot through with grey and russet tints, and his eyebrows shadowed his cavernous sockets. He was a huge man, but surprisingly slim-waisted—quite unlike the barrel-chested firebrand that had been John Mogen. He had been Mogen’s lieutenant for ten years and had a reputation for cold-blooded severity. There were also barrack rumours that he was a wizard of sorts. His pale eyes regarded Corfe unblinkingly.
“We are told you were at Aekir,” he said, and his voice was as deep as the splash of a coin at a well’s bottom. “Is this so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were one of Mogen’s command?”
“I was.”
“Why did you not join Lejer in his rearguard?”
Corfe’s heart hammered as the officers watched him intently, some with their pipes halfway to their mouths. They were Torunnans like himself, the much-vaunted warrior race. It had been the Torunnans who had first thrown off the Fimbrian yoke, Torunnans who had beaten back the first of the Merduk invasions. That tradition seemed to hang heavy in the room now, along with the unfamiliar taste of defeat. Mogen had been their best, and they knew it. The garrison of Aekir had been widely recognized as the finest army in the world. No one had ever contemplated its defeat—especially these men, the generals of the last fortress of the west. But none of them had been at Aekir: how could they know?
“There was no time. After the eastern bastion fell—after Mogen died—there was a rout. My men were all dead. I got cut off . . .” His voice trailed away. He remembered the flames, the panic of the mobs, the falling buildings. He remembered his wife’s face.
Martellus continued to stare at him.
“I’d had enough of the killing,” he said, his words grating out unwillingly. “I wanted to look for my wife. When I failed to find her it was too late to join Lejer. I got caught up in the crowd. I—” He hesitated, then went on, his gaze never leaving Martellus’s cold eyes: “I fled with the rest into the countryside.”
“You deserted,” someone said, and there was a murmur round the table.
“Maybe I did,” Corfe said, surprising himself with his calmness. “Aekir was burning. There was nothing left in the city to fight for. Nothing I cared about. Yes, I deserted. I ran away. Do with me what you will. I am tired, and have come a long way.”
One man thumped the table angrily at this, but Martellus held up a hand then stood with his hands behind his back, the red light from the brazier making his face seem more than ever like that of a feline predator.
“Easy, gentlemen. We did not bring this man here to judge him, but to gain information. What is your name, Ensign?”
“Corfe. Corfe Cear-Inaf. My father served under Mogen also.”
“Inaf, yes. I know the name. Well, Corfe, I have to tell you that you are the first Torunnan soldier we have seen who came out of Aekir alive. The best field army of the Five Monarchies is no more. You may be its last survivor.”
Corfe gaped, unable to believe it. “There have been no more? None?”
“Not one. The Merduks took many hundreds prisoner after Lejer’s last battle, that much we know. They are destined for crucifixion in the east. No others have got this far.”
Corfe bowed his head. He was alive, then, when every other Torunnan who had fought under Mogen was dead or captured. The shame of it made his face burn. Small wonder the men around the table seemed so hostile. In all the thousands of men who had been part of that army, only Corfe had fled and saved his own skin. The knowledge staggered him.
“Take a seat,” Martellus said, not unkindly. “You look as though you need it.”
He fumbled for a chair and sat down, his head in his hands. “What do you want of me?” he whispered.
“As I said, information. I want to know the composition of the Merduk army. I want to know how badly Mogen’s men damaged it before the end. And I want to know why Aekir fell.”
Corfe looked up. “Are you going to stay here, to fight the Merduk again?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t seem that way to me.”
The men at the table stirred at his words. Martellus glared at them to silence them, then nodded. “Some of the garrison have been transferred west, to Torunn. Thus we are short-handed.”
“How many? On whose orders?”
“On the orders of King Lofantyr himself. Twelve thousand will be left here for the defence of the dyke, no more.”
“Then the dyke will fall.”
“I do not intend to let it fall, Ensign.”
“You have refugees crawling all over the fortress. If the Merduks chanced upon this place it would not last an hour.”
“There has been confusion, what with the transfers to the west. It is coming under control.” Martellus appeared faintly irritated. “Our scouts inform us that the Merduk main body is still in Aekir, though they have light troops out skirmishing a scant league away from here. We have time and to spare; it will be weeks yet ere the main enemy body begins to move. My orders are to get as many of Aekir’s refugees away to the west as possible before cutting the bridges. Now, tell me. What is the enemy strength?”
Corfe hesitated. “Since the siege, they may be left with some hundred and fifty thousand.”
The officers glanced at one another. Such an army had never been seen before, never imagined.
“How many did they have before the siege began?” one asked harshly.
“A quarter of a million, maybe. We cut them down like straw, but they kept coming. I know that many were also sent back to guard the supply routes over the mountains, but the first snows will be in the passes of the Thurians now. I cannot see how they will keep supplied through the winter.”
“I can,” Martellus said. “Duke Comorin of Kardikia says they are building boats by the hundred on the Ostian river. That will be their new supply route, and it will remain open through the winter. Their advance will continue.”
Martellus bent over the table and examined a map of the land between the Searil and the Ostian rivers.
“Show me the line of their advance,” he said to Corfe.
Corfe got up, but then something occurred to him. “Has Macrobius been seen yet, or his body found?”
“The High Pontiff? Why, no. He died in Aekir.”
“Are you sure? Did anyone see him killed?”
“His palace burned, and just about every priest who was in the city was put to the sword. I have it from civilians and clerics who were there. I do not think the Merduks could have overlooked someone of his eminence.”
“But Mogen had him locked in a storeroom in the palace to stop him fleeing the city.”
Martellus stared, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“It was a rumour in the city just before its fall. The Knights Militant almost left Mogen’s command over it. Would you know the High Pontiff if you saw him?”
Martellus became exasperated. “I suppose so. I have supped at the same table as him a few
