The Regiment-A Trilogy

by John Dalmas

  Before he could speak again, an explosion boomed from somewhere inside the government district, startling most of them to their feet. The Minister of War, who'd already risen to give his report, hurried to the balcony door, stepping out to see what he could see. And fell backward into the room and onto the floor, a hole in his forehead. As he fell, they heard the shot that killed him.

  Engwar stared wide-eyed, not angry yet but shocked. His palace had been violated! It could have been himself who lay dead there!

  23

  "Fingas, it's really good to see you getting around so soon. And a relief as well. Would you care to enumerate your injuries?"

  Fingas Kelromak smiled slightly. "Those you can see are a broken hand and cheekbone. The more severe are less visible: cracked ribs, a broken rib, and a punctured lung. They're what kept me in the hospital." His smile turned wry. "Our country has had some remarkable experiences lately."

  Lord Jorn Nufkarm grunted. "Indeed. I suppose you read of them or had them read to you; those you didn't experience personally."

  The War Ministry had been evacuated for major reconstruction; eighty-four had died there, not including raiders. And of course there was the sniper killing of Lord Dorskell, in the cabinet room itself. The ship Pride of Komars, with a cargo of munitions, had been blown up at the dock, surely also by raiders. The explosion had considerably damaged the harbor facilities, with a reported additional 107 dead or missing. While the ordnance depot . . . "I've visited what used to be the Linnos Depot. The hole in the ground is some hundred yards long, and said to be thirty feet deep. I can't vouch for the depth; there's a small lake in the bottom."

  "I understand they caught none of the raiders alive."

  "That's right. There are rumors that two or more escaped from the government district, and I suppose it's possible. As for the escape or death of those responsible for the other disasters—there aren't even rumors."

  Nufkarm pulled a bell rope. "I suppose you've read that they blew up three of the four bridges across the Komar, too."

  Fingas nodded. "They mined the fourth, but something went wrong and only one charge exploded. It's already back in operation."

  A servant entered. "You rang, m'lord?"

  "Yes. Would you bring joma please, Varel. With honey and cream for Lord Fingas." He turned again to his visitor. "My physician insists I lose weight, a great deal of it. Thus I now take my joma innocent of flavorings.

  "As for the problems of war—the greater problems are rather like the injuries to your ribs and lung; they're not readily visible. Nor are they discussed in the papers. They're not as impressive, and Engwar doesn't want them written about. I speak of inflation, fiscal deficits, proposed new taxes—and of course the labor shortage. Which will grow noticeably worse when harvest comes, as you know better than I. And when manpower is short, field crews can become unruly, or at least insubordinate, for only then do they have any power at all. At the very least they don't work as hard as they normally do, and at the exact time they're most needed.

  "And when it's over and the army is disbanded, we'll have one hundred and forty thousand ex-serfs who've gained their freedom by enlisting. There'll be little work for them, of course, and they'll expand and overflow the shantytowns, giving rise to an increase in hooliganism. All because of one man's irrational greed."

  Fingas Kelromak didn't reply, didn't nod, simply held the older man's eyes for a long moment. "And how do our peers view all this?' he asked at last.

  Nufkarm grunted. "Many of them are heedlessly and self-righteously loyal to our good sovereign's ambitions, of course. To be expected. On the other hand, there are people of influence who did not like this war since before it began. More than a few of them, including"—he gestured theatrically—"you and I. But went along with it because there seemed nothing we could do to stop it, and because the war's result seemed a foregone conclusion. And of course because we were afraid of our good king."

  Fingas exhaled audibly through pursed lips. "And what seems to be known of the raiders? I've read that they're supposed to be offworld mercenaries. Does there seem to be anything to that?"

  "I have no doubt of it. A few prisoners were taken, wounded prisoners, in the raids on brigade bases in Smolen. But they didn't survive interrogation." He grimaced. "They're said to be T'swa-like, but white. Very muscular, quite fearless, and extremely crafty. I have no doubt at all that they're from offworld."

  "And the effect on foreign opinion—what's that been? Have you heard? The papers have avoided that, too."

  "I haven't heard, but I expect to have supper with The Archipelago's consul this evening. I may learn something there. Logic says they must be impressed with what Smolen's accomplished, but it's questionable whether that will translate into actual assistance to President Lanks's unfortunate people. Token assistance at most; token assistance covertly delivered. Now if the Smoleni could maintain this sort of activity— But that's scarcely imaginable. These various raids aren't likely to be repeated; they were successful only because they were unexpected, and security, apparently, was terribly lax."

  Varel returned with a tray, set it between the two, and while they waited, poured for them. He left then, and after Fingas had stirred in cream and honey, so did his host.

  "So," Nufkarm went on, "given the circumstances of distance and accessibility, any aid the Smoleni might receive will be ineffective. The rational thing for Engwar to do would be to ignore it."

  Fingas nodded. "And of course, he won't do the rational thing."

  "He might. Cairswin's advice carries weight with him. But he also might send out fleet units to harass foreign shipping, perhaps even search for contraband. Which could result in some form of concerted counteraction."

  Fingas nodded thoughtfully. "So certain persons are worried."

  "But will do nothing."

  "Unless someone else starts it."

  "I hope you're not thinking of it. You've already offended Engwar with your proposed reforms of the serf laws. And Engwar is doubtlessly inclined, just now, to take harsh action against anyone who treads on his toes. With trumped up charges, if need be.

  "And really, Fingas, we need you for better things. You are one person the party might be willing to rally 'round, when the time comes."

  "It might be worth the risk."

  "Umm. Well—" Nufkarm appeared to consider something, then went on. "I have heard a rumor," he said. "One I tend to credit. And if it's true, broad support will surely fail to materialize. It will probably even weaken support from those you'd count on most."

  "And that is?"

  "That Engwar has decided to hire a regiment of T'swa. If he does, everyone will wait to see what happens."

  * * *

  That closed the subject, and they spoke of other things. Eventually they rode Nufkarm's elevator to his roof garden and had lunch there. After lunch, Nufkarm accompanied Fingas to the foyer, and they shook hands.

  "You will keep me informed, I trust," Nufkarm said.

  Fingas raised his eyebrows. "Informed? About what?"

  Nufkarm smiled. "Why, whatever there is, young Kelromak. Whatever you feel I should know about. Or whatever you feel I might help you with."

  The cab Fingas had called for was waiting. He went carefully down the steps, and gingerly entered it, meanwhile thinking of certain possibilities.

  He was also thinking of the "drifter" he'd left behind at his estate.

  24

  General Undsvin Tarsteng entered his new headquarters building, the four-story Hotel Rumaros. One of his arms was in a cast, and he rode in a wheelchair, pushed by a corporal and accompanied by two large and formidable armed guards. As he rolled into the lobby, someone shouted "at ease," and the room went silent. Hands slapped shirt pockets in salute. He acknowledged them collectively with a scowl and a single curt nod. The general was clearly in a vile mood; no one moved, outside his small entourage, until the elevator doors had closed behind him.

  A man was waiting in the recep
tion room to the general's office. He was Captain Gulthar Kro, a rather large man, though not so large as the two guards with the general. His shoulders were conspicuous in their width and thickness; the rest of him seemed almost slim by comparison. His face was scarred as if by assault with a blunt instrument, which in fact it had been several years earlier. He'd risen when the general entered.

  "You asked for me, sir."

  "Damn right!" The general turned. "The rest of you OUT!" They jumped, then started for the door. He added then, more moderately, "Lersett, you stay, damn it! How am I supposed to get around?" The corporal stopped, shaken, and when the two guards had closed the door behind them, Undsvin continued, grim again. "Captain, what, precisely, is your post?"

  Kro alone, among the people who'd met or accompanied the general, seemed at ease with him this morning. "I'm the commander of your personal unit, sir."

  "And isn't one of its central responsibilities to protect my person?!"

  "Yessir."

  "THEN WHERE IN AMBER'S NAME WERE THEY WHEN I NEEDED THEM?"

  "Two of 'em were in the corridor outside your office door. They ran to the head of the stairs when they heard the shootin' below, and got killed there. Of the rest, a third was trainin' by your orders, and—"

  "And the other two thirds were drunk!" The general shouted this too, but it lacked the fire of his earlier outburst.

  "No, sir. Not more than one third was drunk: the ones that had passes to be off base. They knaw better'n to take liberties with me."

  Undsvin's lips drew in, leaving a slit. "Captain, your unit is a disgrace."

  "Sir, they're your unit, not mine."

  The corporal behind the wheelchair blanched at the impertinence, but Kro went on. "You had 'em recruited from stockades and jails. You wanted the toughest sons of bitches you could get. Then you asked me to tame 'em for you. I done the best I could with what you gave me." He might have added that if the general thought he could get someone better, he should try. But he didn't; Kro had integrity, not insanity.

  Undsvin Tarsteng examined him long. He'd put out word that he needed someone self-disciplined and extremely tough, someone who could command respect from and control the toughest, most undisciplined men. He'd had half a dozen prospects brought to his attention, and Kro had ended up with the job. Undsvin had no doubt the man had a hidden history, an interesting one, but all he knew of him was that he'd made sergeant first class within a year of enlistment. Which was truly remarkable even then, when the army was beginning to expand rapidly.

  When Undsvin spoke again, it was calmly and quietly. "I haven't paid much attention to their training. What are they good for? What can they do?"

  Kro's expression didn't change. "They're strong and they're tough; that's what you picked 'em for. But most of 'em got no judgment 'cept what I beat into 'em. They're mean; they'd rather cut a man up than kill 'im, and rather kill 'im than talk to 'im. You dint have that in mind, but it's what you got.

  "Physically I've got 'em hard and kept 'em that way. They hate long runs, but they don't mind speed work. I run 'em hard down one side of the track, and let 'em walk the rest of it to rest, then make 'em do it some more. They can run down just about anyone you want, up to a quarter mile; then they're used up. They'll lift weights all I tell 'em to, 'cause they like to be strong, and they beat the heavy bags bloody. I got to replace a busted leather bag near every day. And they love to rassle each other. They'd rather beat one another bloody, but I've forbid it; I'm the only one supposed to beat on 'em. And they've been happier since I had posts set in their exercise yard. They thraw knives at 'em by the hour. They don't knife each other though. You prob'ly remember I flogged one of 'em to death for that. The lesson took.

  "Before the war, when we were at Long Ridge, I took 'em in the woods and tried teachin' 'em to track and sneak. Most of 'em dint learn to track much at all, but they learnt sneakin' pretty smart. Plus they did good at just about all their infantry trainin', includin' drill. They hated drill, but I told 'em when they learned it good enough, I wunt make 'em do it no more.

  "Most of 'em I wouldn't trust around the corner; they're like to do anything they think they can get away with. Those what're different, more reliable, are the ones I made squad leaders and platoon leaders."

  He shrugged. "And that's it."

  Undsvin regarded the fingernails on his good hand, then glanced back at the man behind his wheelchair. "Corporal," he said, "wait outside the door." When the man was gone, he turned to Kro again.

  "Captain, these raids have humiliated me, and more to the point, they've humiliated the king. To make matters worse, the military situation dictates a withdrawal to the Eel River. At this point in the war, such a withdrawal does the enemy no good, and it greatly reduces his opportunities to harass us. But the appearance is of a victory for him, and a loss for us.

  "So I want to hurt him. Punish him. Remind him of reality." The general looked quizzically at Gulthar Kro. "Surely your men are as tough as the mercenaries the Smoleni have hired. What might they do to accomplish that?"

  Kro read Undsvin Tarsteng's face, his eyes, his attitude: the general truly wanted something of him, but didn't really expect anything. "My men are at least as tough," Kro answered, and believed it. "But from what I heard, those mercs have a hundred times more discipline. They have to, to do what they did. My men only cooperate when you tell 'em just what to do, and you watch 'em. And if they figure you might beat 'em up or flog 'em for screwin' off. There's no way they could bring off the sort of things the mercs done.

  "What they mawt could do, though, is assassinate Lanks and Belser, like the mercs tried to kill you and the king. Mawt be they could kill the merc commander, too."

  Undsvin stared, and a slow smile formed on his face. "Remarkable, Captain! That's exactly what I had in mind, right down to the mercenary commander! You impress me! Now, tell me how you might carry out this intention."

  25

  Fingas Kelromak was almost always glad to get back from the capital. For one thing, his estate was home, and for another, his wife seldom went with him to Linnasteth. And of course, things invariably had come up which wanted his personal attention. Things he could actually do something about.

  The evening he got home was invariably given to being a husband and father; he was not to be approached with any matters of the farm, except perhaps a screaming emergency. He did have a note placed on Chenly's desk though, to see him in the morning, in his office.

  Chenly was there when Fingas walked in after breakfast. "Good morning, your lordship."

  Fingas's face was still discolored, and his left hand still in a cast. The face in particular held Chenly's eyes, and his own showed dismay.

  Fingas smiled wryly. "Rather colorful, isn't it."

  "I read about what happened, in the paper, but . . ."

  "Well. I was one of the lucky ones. I wanted to ask you how our—guest is. The drifter you found beside the road. Does he remember anything yet?"

  "Seemingly not, sir."

  "What did Ammekor say about him?"

  "The knee was pretty badly sprained. That seemed to be all of that. Also his shoulder was separated, the collarbone torn partly loose from the shoulder blade. And he said a knock on the head like his was could lose a man his memory. But that it should come back to him sooner or later; probably sooner. That's how he put it, sir."

  "And how is his recovery coming?"

  "He uses both hands now, and helps around the workshop, but nothing heavy yet. As for the knee—I had him show it to me yesterday; I assumed you'd ask. It's still swollen a bit, and he limps, but he walks on it."

  "Um. I suppose someone's cleaned up the broken tree by now."

  "Oh, yes, sir."

  "Did they, ah, find anything there?"

  "Sir?"

  "Like a pistol that might go with that magazine you found in his rucksack."

  Chenly shook his head. "Not that I know of, sir. And I'm sure they'd have told me if they had."


  "I want you to take me there this morning, Chenly. We'll go in your utility vehicle."

  "Yes, sir. I'll call camp and tell them I'll look at the slow-bear damage with them tomorrow."

  "Good. I'll see you at the front entrance at—" He glanced at his watch. "At 8:20. Just the two of us."

  * * *

  The lightning-shattered snag was conspicuous beside the ditch. They searched the grass and weeds thoroughly, and with the broken treetop gone, found something Winn Urkwal had missed: a thick roll of plastic tape, suitable for all kinds of things. For example, mending tool handles until they could be replaced. But the cardboard spool had the name of a Smoleni manufacturer printed on it, and the color was Smoleni army green. And it could also be used to tape blocks of explosive together.

  Fingas looked long at it, lip between his teeth, then handed it to Chenly. Chenly examined it, then looked worriedly at his employer, saying nothing.

  "Let's go back," said Fingas. "I need to speak with the man, see how he explains this. Say nothing about it to anyone. Nothing at all to anyone at all."

  The forester nodded. They got into the utility vehicle and started back down the road. "Chenly," Fingas said, "there are things we need to talk about, you and I, and we need to be completely frank." He paused. "Tell me what you think of this war we're in."

  * * *

  Varky Graymar's remaining limp was feigned. The examination by Fingas's physician had been superficial—it hadn't seemed to warrant anything more. The actual degree of healing would have surprised him; Ka-Shok meditation had very definite medical applications.

  His pack still held most of the 30 dronas cash, and over the last several days he'd stashed hard crackers filched from the table, and candy and dried fruit purchased from the estate commissary. On Sixday evening, most of the bachelors would ride in a crew bus to a dance in the nearby town. Others would visit friends. If he wasn't in his bunk when they got back, no one would pay much attention.