A fool’s resolve
Tyrpledge had been unavoidably spenting the past few days inside his minute office, sitting at his desk with piles of reports and inventories stacked in front of him up to his neck. The minutiae of a preparation for complete mobilization were indeed innumerable.
Personnel manifests, rotation forecasts, matériel inventories, requisition forms, count practicals, soldier and officer levies, clothing requests, workshop and mill necessitation orders, movement and guard formations, and forced labor documents were combined into a logistics nightmare.
All of these types of documents had to reviewed and amended if needed. They had to be edited, signed, and forwarded; then signed again and scribed, before sent out in a seemingly never-ending vicious cycle of bureaucracy and stale ministry procedures that were designed to triple check and record everything that went on. The idea behind all that trouble was making sure that nothing seemed to stray in weird and unexplored territory, something that would alarm the various ministry officials and by natural order the Arch-minister himself.
All this paperwork and mind-boggling interdepartmental anarchy had the general sitting wide-eyed at his desk with papers strewn all over his desk; it resembled a carpet of ink and white that made his head dizzy merely by looking at it, much less reading it.
He leaned over and put his elbows on the desk to rest his head on his hands, gently massaging it as if that would make the terrible headache go away. The latest developments had had him thinking about his career in the army in general. He almost wished he could somehow go back in time and fail at pretty much everything so he could get Gomermont’s job for a change.
Instead he leaned again back on his chair, the muscles in his back stiff from constantly sitting, signing documents since early dawn. His wrist hurt like he had been practicing with a sword since the day before. He looked at the plain and unadorned ceiling with eyes out of focus, and seemed to ponder deeply the state of affairs he was in.
The army had been metaphorically, though almost literally at times, handcuffed and thrown around like a useful but dangerous idiot for almost ever since its inception and creation. The hindrances and bureaucratic steps that were constantly arrayed against the army and its people were designed in such a way as to extend the period of time it takes for troops to assemble, equip and move, from days onto weeks.
The concept was thoroughly and widely known as a safety measure against those who might try and achieve power through strength of arms, perhaps even to the degree of being able to change the balance of power within the Ruling Council so as to include the General of the Army.
There had been precedents surely but that had been another time entirely, when the Territories were still young and the people dumbfounded by the then newly emerging order of the world; one common rule for all, under one religion.
There was bound to be some dissidence, some kind of resistance. It was well known that even the earth opposes the river’s flow, but the ending was inevitable. So it came to be that Shan the Traitor only managed to permanently turn the army into a mere lapdog at the beck and call of the Ruling Council, blessed be their exalted souls.
‘And so I’m stuck here,’ he thought, ‘trying to build a machine of war faster than what is conceived possible with almost anything and anyone at my disposal; except from freedom of action and the ability to ask for things and make them happen. How typical.’
Even with the help from the Arch-minister that had indeed expedited some processes, Tyrpledge was experiencing significant delays in most of his petitions and requisitions. Everything had to sift through the gargantuan train of Ministry processes, officials and hearings to disappear in its labyrinth offices, clerk pits and then back up again through the same path, in order to probably but not always most likely, make something useful and tangible in the end.
The more he thought about it the more incredulous it all seemed, but it was manifestly real. Just the other day, he remembered, he had received a notice of an annulled material request for a shipment of chisels required for the maintenance and construction of most of the siege engines. The ministry’s reasoning behind the annulment was mystifying at best: “Said objects are still under examination for safety reasons”.
It seemed the ministry was contemplating whether or not a military coup could put chisels to good use, in preference to the usual swords, scimitars, bows, steamers, slingshots, siege engines and the good old knives it already possessed.
Their lack of trust was crippling. He was given a colossal task that was daily compounded with the burden of the ministry’s schizophrenic tendencies that balanced precariously between gross, outright denial and a maniacal urge to have everything done and ready, armed merely with ink.
The arch-minister had been quite unable to help, since this was pretty much how everything worked in the ministry. Reiterating the jumbling mass of ministry people to adopt new sound practices in a matter of days was just as inconceivable as totally circumventing the antiquated ministry machine in whole. In essence, Tyrpledge was caught between a hammer and an anvil. With nowhere else to go, he knew he would have to endure as the good soldier he was. He could feel the pressure though, and it was rising to a crushing level.
He got up from his office and decided to have a little stroll outside. Maybe some fresh air would invigorate him. As he made to leave his office, his aide-de-camp and various other officers belonging to his immediate staff saluted crisply, most of them with papers and ink in hand, designated to handle some of the bureaucracy whose scale defied that of the legendary behemoths of the sea.
He left orders for his aide-de-camp that he was not to be disturbed or communicated to in any way while he was out having his walk. Anything that might come up it would have to wait for him, and not the other way around.
He might not have a vote on the Council, but he didn’t like being pushed around like a junior officer after 45 years of humble and devoted service. It felt wrong, that was the word that best described his feelings. Plain wrong. He reached for someone else’s mug of fresh uwe and without a nod or excuse just picked it up and went outside in the clear cold air.
He looked casually over the throngs of artisans, laborers and soldiers going about their frantic work. The artisans were terribly busy constructing breakable, portable siege engines, refurbishing and testing the steamers that had fallen in prolonged disuse. Even with the sudden influx of forced skilled and unskilled labor, he could easily discern they had already fallen behind schedule.
In the background to the main staging area of the army, laborers were hard at work ferrying ore from the nearby Ilo and Rohms mines. The mines were working at full capacity non-stop, but the noble families that were allowed to operate the mines were failing to reach the needed production quotas. Already, procrastinators had teamed up with squads of army men that were instructed to gang-press as many people as needed to meet the allottment.
There were less than ten days left before the army was expected to march fully armed with the maximum strength of trained men. There were still thousands of weapons and pieces of armor to be made, which meant more and more ore was required each day.
Forges had been setup right there in the staging area, but artisans were already starting to break down from exhaustion. Work had been issued to forges and workshops around the Territories, and failure to meet the quota assigned to each would be punished by death.
The same went for the grand fields of noble families. It was reported that even the Lords themselves, the heads of the families, were working their own fields; busy to harvest as much grain, wheat and fitlle as possible however premature the season.
The whole of the Territories was living and breathing in preparation of the army - everything else had come to a standstill. Mills had broken down from excessive speed while grinding incessantly, day and night. Rumors of some of them catching on fire trying to meet the demand could not be far from the truth.
Horses and tract animals of all kinds like cows and donke
ys were being taken forcibly from their masters, in most cases the sole animal in their possession to work the lands and make a living with. Huge convoys that stretched from one side of a town to the other were being created by local procrastinator forces and went about the countryside, picking up whatever it was on their ministry-approved lists to fill up cart after cart of supplies and materials for the army.
All of that wealth was congregated and amassed in even larger convoys that stretched as far as the eye could see, filling up the few roads that carts could traverse. Some of them had already started arriving at Pyr and the staging area which was a huge stretch of land to the south of the City, where once the harbor of Urfalli had lain.
The harbor had been made anew and ships from the farther reaches of the Territories would begin arriving in the next couple of days, and like the cart convoys would be laden to the brim with supplies and men, flirting with disaster from being overweight and prone to sinking should they happen upon bad weather.
Procrastinators around the lands with the authority of the ministers rounded up men of all ages that were fit for duty; those who had received military training as militia men in the past, as well as new recruits that could not tell the pointed tip of a spear from a moose’s behind.
It was all happening too fast for comfort, too hastily for any serious preparation to be made; plans could not be laid out and understood properly in so little time. The people under his command, from the high-ranked officers, the colonels and brigadiers, to the lowly green recruit, would not have enough time to prepare and get their bearings, get to know what their purpose, their orders and responsibilities would be. At times, he wondered if he himself really knew.
He hoped that he could put it all together in time; failing to do that would mean his head. He thought about that possibility and curiously enough it did not seem to frighten or trouble him, not in the sense it would most people. Losing his head would be more than unpleasant, but he had a long time ago accepted that it would be asked of him at some point, sooner or later, to give up his life for the glory of the Gods and the Castigator.
It had just never occurred to him that such a time would come rather later in his career, right before he would be about to be rotated to an easier life of teaching young aspiring officers. It definitely had not occurred to him that his death might not come at the hands of an enemy by spear, sword, rock, arrow or fire, but because of failing to meet production quotas.
Perhaps it would more specifically boil down to a lack of chisels. The thought brought a bitter smile to his lips, and he sniggered with a dark sense of amusement.
He wished he could have a smoke then; a nice pipe-blend of uwe, keplis and dark tobacco, but he had given up on the habit a long time ago and now lacked all the assorted paraphernalia, as well as any tobacco to speak of.
He thought that perhaps one of his officers would be so kind as to volunteer a pouch and a pipe. If it came to that, he would order him to do so. Thinking like a brash cadet once more made him grin while he sipped a hearty mouthful of uwe from the cup he had confiscated with authority from one of the desks.
It tasted horribly. Some idiot had let the uwe leaves boil along with the water and the result was a putrid-like green broth fit only for mules and perhaps sailors. He threw away the cup altogether and headed back to his office, his head much more clearer but his mood equally if not more glum than before. He made a mental note to himself to reprimand the one responsible for the awful uwe tea.
Once he entered the planning chamber which was filled with his officers he immediately noticed it was completely silent and everyone inside was firmly standing to attention. He believed he had given orders that with such hectic work going on, discipline should be lax. He couldn’t have everyone standing stiff as a corpse every waking minute, and the shouts of “Aye, sir” were a cacophony his ears and head could do without.
When he gestured them to sit down and go about their work with a simple flick of his hand and they did not comply, only then did he notice the figure standing in a corner of his office. The man happened to turn around and address him at that exact moment:
“Oh, General. I trust you don’t mind. You have a very nice selection of boar teeth. Impressive samples. Quiet the hunter, are you not?”
The Castigator was dressed in simple loose combat clothes, no markings or insignia visible. Only his face and the sigil ring proudly worn identified his person and stature. His tone of voice was conversational, unassuming enough but not overly friendly.
Tyrpledge bowed deeply by reflex, and though at first he was utterly surprised and about to lose his words like the Procrastinator Militant almost had a few days ago, he managed a constrained and somewhat witty answer:
“Naturalist, your Reverence. I study animals, not hunt them down. I believe there are more than enough people for the job.”
The Castigator turned to face him, and quietly stepped outside his office. Following a brief silence, he said:
“I was told you had left strict orders not to disturbed by anyone, under any circumstances. Your aide-de-camps was quite adamant, though somewhat hesitant. I understand I can be hard to deal with at times.”
The Castigator shot a mystifying look at the general’s aide-de-camps, a young Major who was perspiring visibly but remained otherwise at stiff attention, unflinching at the Castigator’s remark.
Tyrpledge resumed from his bow and said with a casual attitude that sounded strange in the presence of the Castigator:
“Had to clear my head, that’s all.”
The Castigator nodded in acknowledgement, and gestured outside with one gloved hand.
“Let’s have a walk then.”
The general nodded, bowed, and went for the door himself. The Castigator walked outside and Tyrpledge followed close behind, careful to observe protocol and keep the proper distance.
The Castigator was keeping his hands tied behind his back, surveying the landscape. It seemed as if he was enjoying the cold wisps of air sweeping in from the south, almost craning his neck in what seemed like an effort to smell the sea breeze.
After a small period of time spent taking in the scenery as if he were nothing but a visiting tourist the Castigator spoke, turning to address the general face to face. His hair was slightly ruffled by the gusts of air that were quite common this time of year in Urfalli and were good for ship-running as well as working the mills. He said to Tyrpledge:
“Tell me General. Skip the formalities please, and tell me what you really think about all this. This campaign. It’s put a lot of strain on you and your people, hasn’t it? And you’d have to be a gibbering idiot like the Procrastinator Militant not to question my motives for such an operation. Who wouldn’t want to know what he’s going up against, isn’t that true? Please, Tyrpledge. Be unpleasant if you have to be honest. I do not consider myself a man easily taken by petty flattery, and neither should you.”
Tyrpledge felt a bit surprised, perhaps even shocked from such a straightforward manner. It was strange enough when the Arch-minister came to him and extended somewhat of a professional courtesy towards him. It was more than strange that the Castigator himself of all people, would be so direct in his approach. It probably meant things were about to get all too serious pretty soon. His voice was straight and professional, perhaps a bit sullen when he replied:
“True enough, sire. I’m blindly preparing for any scenario and contingency I can think of, working everyone to near-exhaustion to have as much as possible ready within the allotted time. If I may say so, the extend of the mobilization you have requested is simply overwhelming. There may be a possibility that we will not be ready in time, sire. Not completely, not fully. I can guarantee a bare minimum of a well-equipped, well-trained and disciplined fighting force, but I cannot do the same for the full weight of our armies. We are still receiving conscripts and draftees from the villages and towns, people that have only worked with shovel, pickax and hoe. We need more time, sire. Or we will not be able to field o
ur maximum numbers.”
The Castigator absorbed what was in essence a verbal report from the General, and said to him:
“That is all very well, General. You’ve worked nothing short of a small miracle, as far as I can tell. But you still haven’t answered what concerns me most. Don’t you want to know why we are going into the Widelands?”
The Castigator’s voice had a rough edge, a hint of menace, and perhaps even anger in it.
“That would be a very helpful piece of information, sire. It would be crucial in designing a proper campaign with objectives and time schedules to capture and follow. But if I may be less circumspect sire, I cannot for the life of me fathom what we will be doing in the middle of what is practically no-man’s land.”
Constrained exasperation showed in Tyrpledge’s voice, but he remained otherwise calm, professional.
The Castigator let off what could be considered an unseemly laugh, and continued:
“So, it does feel strange, doesn’t it? No matter. There might be a change of plan.”
The General furrowed his brow before asking, his mustache seeming to somehow follow the motion:
“Change of plan, sire?”
The Castigator came a step closer and looked Tyrpledge in the eyes coolly but sharply, as if he wanted the General to feel he was being threatened physically, right then and there. He asked him then, his words coming out with slow deliberation and heavy thickness:
“Where does your allegiance lie, General?”
The General did not flinch and replied with ease and confidence:
“The Castigator, the Pantheon, the Law, the people. Sire.”
The Castigator smiled and turned to leave towards his escorts who were discreetly waiting at the entrance to the planning chamber, having appeared at some indeterminate point. As he walked away from the general, he raised the tone of his voice to be heard clearly:
“Remember that well, General. I might need you before long.”
Breaking point
“At such a point in time, knowing all that has transpired and has been revealed to me, I cannot honestly say I clearly know where my allegiances lie. I can only hope that a clear mind and perhaps some sort of sign will push me over to make the right decision. What passes for right though these days, is making less and less sense.”
Lord Ursempyre Remis, Letters, Vol. IV p.221
Forge of Stones Page 25