by Paul Kearney
The assembled officers were clad in their court dress, blue for the artillery, black for infantry and deep burgundy for the cavalry. They were an imposing crowd, though an experienced commander might have noted that they were all either very young or very old for their rank. Torunna’s most talented officers were all dead. John Mogen and Sibastion Lejer at Aekir, Pieter Martellus at Ormann Dyke, Martin Menin in the King’s Battle. What remained was the rump of a once great military machine. Torunna had come to the end of the rope. There were no more reserves to call up, and no-one expected the Fimbrians to send another army to their rescue, not after the first one had been decimated to little purpose up on the North More. It was true that the Cimbric tribes were trickling down out of the mountains to join them in ever increasing numbers, but none of the men present in that historic chamber thought much of the military abilities of those savages, for all that they had accomplished under General Cear-Inaf. They were a freakish anomaly, no more. Their presence at the King’s funeral had been in bad taste, it was widely agreed, but the crowds had clamoured to see the famously exotic red horsemen stand guard in rank on scarlet rank as Lofantyr was laid to rest.
The chatter in the chamber was cut short as the general in question entered, and on his arm was the Queen. Odelia seated herself at the head of the long table which occupied the middle of the room and when she had done so the rest of its occupants followed suit, some of them sharing quick, sceptical glances. A woman, at a war council! A few of the more observant men there noted also the way the monarch looked at her most recently promoted general, and decided that palace gossip might be in the right of it after all.
It was General Cear-Inaf who rose to bring the council to order. The Torunnan officers sat dutifully attentive. This man shouldered the burden of the kingdom’s very survival. As importantly, he could make or break the career of any one of them.
“You all know me, or know of me,” Corfe said. “I served under Mogen at Aekir, and fled my post when the city fell. I served at Ormann Dyke also—as did Andruw and Ranafast here. I commanded the forces which fought at the North More, and led the withdrawal after the King’s Battle. Fate has seen fit to make me your commanding officer, and therefore whatever your personal feelings you will obey my orders as though they were the word of God. That is how an army operates. I will always be open to suggestions and ideas from any one of you, and you may ask to see me in person at any time of the day or night. But my word in any military matter is final. Her Majesty has flattered me with her confidence in the running of this war, and I am to have an entirely free hand. But there will be no more arguments about seniority or precedence in the officer class. Promotion will from now on be won through merit alone, not through family connections or length of service. Are there any questions?”
No-one spoke. They had expected as much. A peasant who had risen through the ranks could hardly be expected to respect the values of tradition or social rank.
“Very good. Now, I have received in the last hour a message from Admiral Berza and the fleet, conveyed by dispatch-galley. He informs me that he has located and destroyed two of the Merduk supply dumps on the shores of the Kardian Sea—”
A buzz of talk, quickly stilled as Corfe held up a hand.
“He writes that the Merduk casualties can be measured in the thousands, and he believes he has sent perhaps three or four million of rations up in smoke. However, his own casualties were heavy. Of the marine landing parties less than half survived, and he also lost two of his twenty-three great ships in the landings. At the time of writing, he has put to sea again to engage a Nalbenic fleet which is purportedly sailing north up the Kardian to secure the Merduk lines of communication. I have already sent him a set of orders which basically gives him free rein. Berza is a capable man, and understands the sea better than any of us here. The fleet will therefore not be coming back upriver to the capital for the foreseeable future.”
“But that leaves the line of the river wide open!” Colonel Rusio protested. “The Merduks will be able to cross at any spot they please and outflank us!”
“Correct. But intelligence suggests that the main Merduk field army has fallen back at least forty leagues from Torunn and is busy repairing the Western Road as far east as Aekir itself in order to maintain an alternative line of communication free from the depredations of our ships. I believe the enemy is too busy at present to launch another assault. Andruw—if you please.”
Corfe took his seat and Andruw rose in his turn. He looked a trifle nervous as the eyes of the High Command swivelled upon him, and cleared his throat whilst consulting a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“The main army has withdrawn, yes, but our scouting parties have reported that the Merduks are sending flying columns of a thousand or so up into the north-west, towards the Torrin Gap. They are obviously a reconnaissance-in-force, feeling out a way through the gap to the Torian Plains beyond. Already people fleeing these raids have made their way across the Searil and some have even come as far south as Torunn itself. The Merduk columns are sacking what towns and villages they find as they go and we have unconfirmed reports that they are constructing a fortress or a series of fortresses up there, to use as stageing posts for—for further advances. There may in fact be an entire Merduk army already operating in the north.” Andruw sat down, obviously relieved to have got it out without a stumble.
“Bastards,” someone murmured.
“Well, there is obviously nothing we can do about that at the present,” Colonel Rusio said impatiently. “We have to concentrate our efforts here in the capital. The army needs to be reorganised and refitted before it will be ready for further operations.”
“Agreed,” Corfe said. “But we cannot afford to take too long to do it. What we lack in numbers we must make up in audacity. I do not propose to sit tamely in Torunn whilst the Merduks ravage our country at will. They must be made to pay for every foot of Torunnan ground they try to occupy.”
“Hear, hear,” one of the younger officers said, and subsided quickly when his seniors turned cold eyes upon him.
“So,” Corfe said heavily, “what I propose is that we send north a flying column of our own. My command suffered less severely than the main body of the army in the recent battle, plus I have just received an influx of new recruits. I intend to take it and clear northern Torunna of at least some of these raiders, then sweep back down towards the capital. It will be an intelligence-gathering operation as much as anything else. We need hard information on the enemy strength and dispositions in the north-west. Thus far we have been relying too heavily on the tales of refugees and couriers.”
“I hope, General, that you are not impugning the professionalism of my officers,” Count Fournier, head of Torunnan Military Intelligence, snapped.
“Not at all, Count. But they cannot work miracles, and besides, I still need most of them where they are—keeping an eye on the Merduk main body. A larger scale of operation is needed to clean up the north-west. My command will be able to brush aside most resistance up there and reassure the remaining population that we have not abandoned them. That has to be worth doing.”
“A bold plan,” Colonel Rusio drawled. “When do you intend to move, General? And who will be left in command here in the capital?”
“I shall ride out within the week. And you, Colonel, will be left in charge while I am away. The Queen has graciously approved my recommendation that you be promoted to general.” Here, Corfe took up a sealed scroll which had been lying unobtrusively before him, and tossed it to the new general in question.
“Congratulations, Rusio.”
Rusio’s face was a picture of astonishment. “I have no words to express—that is to say . . . Your Majesty, you have my undying gratitude.”
“Do not thank us,” Odelia said crisply. “General Cear-Inaf has stated that you merit such a promotion and so we approved it. Make sure you fulfil our faith in you, General.”
“Majesty, I—I will do all in my power to do so.”
Up and down the table, older officers such as Willem watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, and while several officers leaned over in their seats to shake Rusio’s hand, others merely looked thoughtful.
“Your job, Rusio,” Corfe went on, “is to get the main body of the army back in fighting trim. I expect to be away a month or so. By the time I get back I want it ready to march forth again.”
Rusio merely nodded. He was clutching his commission as though he were afraid it might suddenly be wrenched away from him. His lifetime’s ambition realised in a moment. The prospect seemed to have left him dazed.
“A month is not long to march an army up to the Thurians and back again, General,” Count Fournier said. “It must be all of fifty leagues each way.”
“Closer to seventy-five,” Corfe retorted. “But we will not have to walk all the way. Colonel Passifal.”
The Quartermaster General nodded. “There are a score of heavy grain lighters tied up at the wharves. Each of them could hold eight or nine hundred men with ease. With the wind coming off the sea, as it does for weeks at this time of year, they’ll be able to make a fair pace upstream, despite the current. And they are equipped with heavy sweeps for when the wind fails. I have spoken to their crews: they usually make an average of four knots up the Torrin at this time of year. General Cear-Inaf’s command could be up amongst the foothills in the space of five or six days.”
“How very ingenious,” Count Fournier murmured. “And if the Merduks assault us whilst the General and the cream of our army is off on his river outing? What then?”
Corfe stared at the thin, sharp-bearded nobleman, and smiled. “Then there will have been a failure of intelligence, my dear Count. Your agents keep sending back despatches insisting that the Merduks are even more disorganised than we are at present. Do you distrust the judgement of your own men?”
Fournier shrugged. “I raise hypotheses, that’s all, General. In war one must prepare for the unexpected.”
“I quite agree. I shall remain in close contact with what transpires here in the capital, never fear. If the enemy assaults Torunn in my absence, Rusio will hold them at bay before the walls and I will pitch into their rear as soon as I can bring my command back south. Does that hypothesis satisfy you?”
Fournier inclined his head slightly but made no reply.
There were no further objections to Corfe’s plan, but the meeting dragged on for another hour as the High Command wrestled with the logistic details of feeding a large army in a city already swollen with refugees. When at last they adjourned the Queen kept her seat and ordered Corfe to do likewise. The last of the remaining officers left and Odelia sat watching her young general with her chin resting on one palm whilst he rose and began pacing the spacious chamber helplessly.
“It was a good move,” she told Corfe. “And it was necessary. You have taken the wind out of their sails.”
“It was a political move,” Corfe snarled. “I never thought I’d see the day I handed over an army to a man I distrust merely to gain his loyalty—loyalty which should be freely given, in a time like this.”
“You never thought you’d see the day when you’d be in a position to hand out armies,” she shot back. “At this level, Corfe, the politics of command are as important as any charge into battle. Rusio was a figurehead for the discontented. Now you have brought him into your camp, and defused their intrigues—for a while at least.”
“Will he be that grateful, then?”
“I know Rusio. He’s been marking time in the Torunn garrison for twenty years. Today you handed him his heart’s desire on a plate. If you fall, he will fall too—he knows that. And besides, he is not such a pitiful creature as you suppose. Yes, he will be grateful, and loyal too, I think.”
“I just hope he has the ability.”
“Who else is there? He’s the best of a mediocre lot. Now rest your mind over it. The thing is done, and done well.”
She rose with her skirts whispering around her, the tall lace ruff making her face into that of a doll—were it not for the magnificent green eyes which flashed therein. She took his arm, halted his restless pacing.
“You should rest more, let subordinates do some of the running for a change. You are no longer an ensign, nor yet a colonel. And you are exhausted.”
He stared at her out of sunken eyes. “I can’t. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
She kissed him on the lips, and for a moment he yielded and bent into her embrace. But then the febrile restlessness took him again and he broke away.
“God’s blood, Corfe!” she snapped, exasperated. “You can’t save the world all by yourself!”
“I can try, by God.”
They glared at one another with the tension crackling in the air between them, until both broke into smiles in the same instant. They had shared memories now, intimacies known only to each other. It made things both easier and harder.
“We are quite a team, you and I,” the Queen said. “Given half a chance I think we might have conquered the world together.”
“As it is I’ll be happy if we can survive.”
“Yes. Survival. Corfe, listen to me. Torunna is at the end of its strength—you know that as well as or better than I. The people have buried a king and crowned a queen in the same week—the first queen ever to rule alone in our history. We are swamped with the survivors of Aekir and a third of the realm lies under the boot of the invader whilst the capital itself is in the front line.”
Corfe held her eyes, frowning. “So?”
She turned away and began pacing the room much as he had done, her hands clasped before her, rings flashing as her fingers twisted them.
“So hear me out and do not speak until I am finished.
“My son was a weak man, Corfe. Not a bad man, but weak. He did not have the necessary qualities to rule well—not many men do. This kingdom needs a strong hand. I have the ability—we both know it—to give Torunna that strong hand. But I am a woman, and so every step I take is uphill. The only reason I am tolerated on the throne is because there are no other alternatives present. The cream of Torunna’s nobility died in the King’s Battle around their monarch. In any case, Torunnans have never set as much store upon bloodlines as have the Hebrionese, say. But Count Fournier is quite capable of dreaming up some scheme to take power out of my hands and invest it in some form of committee.”
Unable to help himself, Corfe interrupted. “That son of a bitch? He’d have to get through the entire army to do it.”
Odelia smiled with genuine pleasure, but shook her head. “The army would have no say in the matter. But I am taking the long road to my destination. Corfe, Torunna needs a king—that is the long and the short of it.
“I want you to marry me and take the throne.”
Thunderstruck, he sank down on to a chair. There was a long pause during which the Queen appeared increasingly irritated.
“Don’t look at me as if I’d just grown an extra head! Think about it rationally!”
He found his voice at last. “That’s ridiculous.”
She clawed the air, eyes blazing furiously. “Open up your blasted mind, Corfe. Forget about your fears and prejudices. I know how humble your origins are, and I care not a whit. You have the ability to be a great king—more importantly, a great warleader. You could pull the country through this war—”
“I can’t be a king. Great God, lady, I even feel uncomfortable in shoes!”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Then decree that everyone must wear boots or go barefoot! Put the petty rubbish out of your mind for a moment, and think about what you could accomplish.”
“No—no. I am no diplomat. I could not negotiate treaties or—or dance angels on the head of a pin—”
“But you would have a wife who could.” And here her voice was soft, her face grave as a mourner’s. “I would be there, Corfe, to handle the court niceties and the damn protocol. And you—you would have the army wholly your own.”
“N
o, I don’t understand. We are already there, aren’t we? I have the army, you have the throne. Why change things?”
She leaned close. “Because it could be that others will change them for us. You may have won over Rusio today, but you pushed the rest of them further into a corner. And that is when men are at their most dangerous. Corfe, there is no legal precedent in this kingdom for a queen to rule alone, and thus no legal basis.”
“There is no law forbidding it, is there?” he asked stubbornly.
“I don’t know—no one does for sure. I have clerks rifling through the court archives as we speak, hoping to turn something up. The death of the King has shocked all the office-seekers for the moment—they glimpsed the cliff upon which this kingdom teeters. But sooner or later the shock will wear off, and my position will be challenged. And if they manage to curb my powers even slightly, there is a good chance they will be able to take the army away from you.”
“So there it is.”
“So there it is. You see now the sense of what I am suggesting? As King you would be untouchable.”
He jumped to his feet, stalked across the room with his mind in a maelstrom. Himself a king—absurd, utterly absurd. He would be a laughing-stock. Torunna would be the joke of the world. It was impossible. He reeled away from even the contemplation of it.
And marriage to this woman. Oddly, that disturbed him more than the idea of the crown. He turned and looked at her, to find that she was standing before the fire staring into the flames as though waiting for something. The firelight made her seem younger, though she was old enough to be Corfe’s mother. That old.
“Would it be so terrible to be married to me?” she asked quietly, and the prescience of her question made Corfe start. She was a witch, after all. Could she read minds as well as everything else?
“Not so terrible,” he lied.
“It would be a marriage of convenience,” she said, her voice growing hard. “You would no longer have to come to my bed. I am beyond child-bearing age so there would be no question of an heir. I do not ask you for love, Corfe. That is a thing for the poets. We are talking about a route to power, nothing more.” And she turned her back on him and leaned her hands on the mantel as a man might.