The Iron Wars (23 page)

Men were sitting down both sides of the table, the King at its head. To Lofantyr’s right was General Menin, commander of the Torunn garrison and the senior officer present. To his left was Colonel Aras, pleased and self-important at being seated so close to the King. Further down the table was white-haired Passifal, the Quartermaster-General, and a quartet of others whom Corfe had been introduced to at the start of the meeting. The man in sober civilian clothing was Count Fournier of Marn, head of Torunn’s city council. He looked like a clerk, a lover of quills and parchment and footnotes. He was rumoured to be the Torunnan spy-master, with a secret treasury to finance the comings and goings of his faceless subordinates. Opposite him were two more robust specimens: Colonel Rusio, commander of the artillery, and Colonel Willem, head of cavalry. Their military titles were largely traditional. In fact they were Menin’s second- and third-in-commands. Both were iron-grey, middle-aged men with sixty years in the army between them, and court rumour had it that both were as outraged as the King at the upstart from Aekir’s sudden promotion over their heads.

Seated to their left was a big, grey-bearded man dressed in oil-cured leather whose face was deeply tanned despite the season, his eyes mere blue glitters under lids which seemed perpetually half closed against a phantom gale. This was Berza, admiral of His Majesty’s fleet. He was not a native Torunnan, having been born in Gabrion, that cradle of seafarers, but he had been twenty years in the Torunnan service and only a slightly odd accent betrayed his origins.

Corfe sat at the bottom of the table, flanked by Andruw—a colonel now, promoted on Corfe’s own authority—the Fimbrian commander Formio, and Ranafast, once leader of Ormann Dyke’s mounted arm. Marsch, whom Corfe had also promoted, should have been present, but he had begged off. There were too many things to do, and he had never been much of a one for talking. Besides, he had added, he served Corfe, not the King of Torunna. In his place sat Morin, obviously fascinated by this glimpse into the military politicking of Torunna. The tribesman had insisted on wearing his chainmail hauberk to the meeting, though he had been prevailed upon to leave his weapons behind. Clearly, he still distrusted all Torunnans, save for his general.

Two hours they had been here, listening to report after report, speculation piled upon speculation. They had heard lists of troops, equipment, horses, details of billeting, minor infractions of discipline, loss of weapons. And they had been saying nothing of any real use, Corfe thought. What was more, hardly a word had been said about the attempt on his life the previous night. The King had uttered some vague banalities about “that unfortunate incident,” and there had been mutters around the table condemning the Merduks for resorting to such treacheries, but no discussion about palace security, or even speculation as to how the assassin had penetrated the palace. Clearly, it was not a subject the King wanted aired.

But now, finally, they were getting to more relevant matters. The deployment of the Merduk forces. Corfe’s flagging interest waxed again.

“Intelligence suggests,” Fournier was droning on, his voice as dry as his appearance suggested, “that the two main Merduk armies are in the process of combining. They are somewhere in this area”—he used a wooden pointer to indicate a position on the map some ten leagues north-east of the capital—“and their total strength is estimated at one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand men. This, gentlemen, is after leaving one substantial detachment at the dyke, and another down on the coast to guard their supply base. Nalbenic transports are ferrying stores across the Kardian, building up a sizeable supply dump there—exactly where, we are not yet sure. They are provisioning for a siege, obviously. I would guess that within a week, perhaps two, we will have their van encamped within sight of the walls.”

“Let them encamp all they like,” General Menin growled. “They can’t encircle the city, not so long as we control the river. And Berza here can see off any river-borne assault.”

“What of our fleet, Admiral?” Lofantyr asked the sea-dog. “What is its condition?”

Berza had a voice as deep as a wine cask, coarsened to a bass burr by years of shouting orders over the wind. “At present, sire, the great ships are at anchor along the city wharves, taking on powder and shot. I have a squadron of lightly armed caravels down at the mouth of the Torrin, to warn us lest the Nalbeni try to fight their way upriver. Work on the two booms is almost complete. When they are ready, it will be virtually impossible for any vessel to force the passage of the Torrin.”

“Excellent, Admiral.”

“But sire,” Berza went on, “I must put it to you again that the booms, whilst admirable for defence, curtail our own offensive movements. The Merduks cannot sail upriver, but equally the fleet cannot sail down to the sea. My ships will be little more than floating batteries once the city is besieged.”

“And as such they will make a valuable contribution to Torunn’s defences,” the King said crisply. “Their broadsides will command the approaches to the walls, doubling our fire-power.”

Berza subsided, but he seemed discontented.

Corfe could remain silent no longer. “Sire, with respect, would it not be better to keep our fleet free to manoeuvre? Count Fournier says the enemy is building a large supply dump on the coast. What if the fleet were to sally out and destroy it? The Merduks would have no choice but to retreat in order to preserve their lines of communication. We might throw them clear back to the Searil, and Torunn would be spared a siege.”

The King looked intensely annoyed. “I quite understand your fear of sieges, General,” he said. “Your
record
in such engagements is known to all. However, the strategy of the army and the fleet has already been decided upon. Your comments are noted.”

If it’s decided already, then why are we here? What are we talking about? Corfe wondered furiously. The gibe about sieges had cut deep. He was the only man of the Aekir garrison to have survived, and he had done so by running away, fleeing along the Western Road in company with the rest of the civilian refugees whilst Mogen’s lieutenant, Sibastion Lejer, had led a last, hopeless stand west of the burning city. A senseless gesture. He might have brought eight or nine thousand men intact out of the wreck of Aekir, but he had chosen to die gloriously instead. Corfe did not admire a commander with a death wish. Not when it condemned the men under his command along with himself.
Honour
! This was war, not some vast tournament where points were awarded for quixotic gestures.

Admiral Berza met his eyes and made a small, hopeless gesture with one brown-skinned hand. So at least Corfe knew he was not alone in his thinking.

“With the addition of the forces which General Cear-Inaf recently brought into the capital,” Fournier was saying, “we have some thirty-five thousand men available for Torunn’s defence, not counting the sailors of the fleet. That is ample for our purposes. The Merduk armies will be broken before our walls. There will be no need to worry about supply bases then. Our main concerns will be the harrying of the defeated enemy, and the possibility of regaining Ormann Dyke. Aekir, I venture to say, sire, may well be lost for ever, but there is a good chance we can win back the land up to the Searil.”

“We quite agree,” the King said. “Now what concerns us today, gentlemen, is the organization of a field army which might be sent out after the Merduks are repulsed from the walls. General Menin.”

The corpulent general preened his magnificent moustache as he spoke. Perspiration gleamed on his bald scalp. “There are a few points which must be cleared up first, sire. The troops General Cear-Inaf commands must be integrated into the army, and that officer must be given a command more fitting his abilities.” Menin did not look down the table. “Adjutant Formio, I assume your men are at our disposal.”

The Fimbrian, dapper and composed in his sable uniform, frowned slightly. “That depends on what exactly you mean.”

“What I mean? What I mean, sir, is that your command is now under the aegis of the Torunnan crown. That is what I mean!”

“I must disagree. My marshal’s final orders were to place the command at the disposal of the officer who… came to our assistance. I take my orders from General Cear-Inaf, until I hear differently from my superiors in the electorates.”

Admiral Berza barked with laughter whilst Menin’s face grew purple. “Do you bandy words with me, sir? General Cear-Inaf is subject to the orders of the High Command, and the troops under him will be deployed as the High Command sees fit.”

The Fimbrian was unperturbed. “We will not serve under anyone else,” he said flatly.

The entire table, Corfe included, was taken aback by the statement. In the silence, Morin spoke up. “We tribesmen, also, will fight under no other.” He smiled, happy to have added his mote of discord.

“God’s blood, what is this?” Menin raged. “A God-damned mutiny?”

Old Ranafast, the hawk-faced survivor of the dyke’s garrison, had a predatory grin on his face. “I fear it could well be so, General. You see, I think I may say the same for the remnants of my own comrades. As far as I can make out, this High Command was going to abandon us as a lost cause whilst it sat safe behind these walls. Had it not been for Corfe—acting entirely on his own initiative—I would not be here, nor would five thousand of Martellus’s troops. The men are aware of this. They will not forget it.”

No one spoke. Menin appeared decidedly uneasy, and King Lofantyr was rubbing his chin with one hand, his gaze fixed on the papers before him.

“This… devotion is quite touching,” he said at last. “And laudable, to a degree. But it is hardly conducive to good discipline. Soldiers cannot pick and choose their officers, especially in time of war. They must obey orders. Do you not agree, General Cear-Inaf?”

“Yes, of course, sire.” Corfe knew what was coming, and he dreaded it. Lofantyr was not going to back away or smooth things over. The fool was going to assert the authority of the crown, and damn the consequences. His ego was too fragile to allow him to do otherwise.

“Then do as I say, General. Relinquish your command and submit yourself to the orders of your superiors.”

There it was, naked as a blade. No room for compromise or face-saving. Corfe hesitated. He felt there was a fork in the road before him, and what he said next would set him irrevocably on one path or the other. There would be no turning back. Every man in the room was looking at him. They knew also.

“Sire,” he said thickly, “I am your loyal subject—I always have been. I am yours to command.” Lofantyr began to beam. “But I have a responsibility to my men also. They have followed me faithfully, faced fearful odds, and seen their comrades fall around them whilst they did my bidding. Sire, I cannot betray their trust.”

“Obey my orders,” Lofantyr whispered. His face had gone pale as bone.

“No.”

Audible gasps around the table. Old Passifal, who had helped Corfe equip his men when no one else would, covered his face with his hands. Andruw, Formio and Morin were as rigid as statues, but Andruw’s foot was tap-tap-tapping under the table as though it did not belong to him.

“
No
? You dare to say that word to your
King
?” Lofantyr seemed torn between outrage and something akin to puzzlement. “General, do you understand me aright? Do you comprehend what I am saying?”

“I do, sire. And I cannot comply.”

“General Menin, explain to Cear-Inaf the meaning of the words ‘duty’ and ‘fealty,’ if you will.” The King’s voice was shaking. Menin looked as though he would rather have been left out of it. The colour was leaking from his cheeks.

“General, you have been given a direct order by your King,” he said, his gruff voice almost soft. “Come now. Remember your duty.”

His duty
.

Duty had robbed him of his wife, his home, anything he had ever valued—even his honour. In return, he had been given the ability to inspire men, and lead them to victory. More than that: he had earned their trust. And he would not give that up. He would die first, because there was nothing else left for him in life.

“They are my men,” he said. “And by God, no one but me will command them.” And as he spoke, he realized that he had uttered a kind of inalienable truth. Something he would never compromise to the least degree.

“You are hereby stripped of your rank,” the King said in a strangled voice. His eyes gleamed with outrage and a wild kind of triumph. “We formally expel you from the ranks of our officers. As a private soldier, you will be placed under arrest for high treason and await court martial at our pleasure.”

Corfe made no answer. He could not speak.

“I think not,” a voice said. The King spluttered.

“What? Who—?”

Andruw grinned madly. “Arrest him, sire, and you must arrest us all. The men won’t stand for it, and I won’t be able to answer for their actions.”

“You pitiful barbarian rabble!” Lofantyr shouted, outraged. “We’ll slap them in irons and send them back to the galleys whence they came!”

“If you do, you will have two thousand Fimbrians storming this palace within the hour,” Formio said calmly.

The men at the King’s end of the table were stunned. “I—I don’t believe you,” Lofantyr managed.

“My race has never been known for idle boasting, my lord King. You have my word on it.”

“By God,” the King hissed, “I’ll have your heads on pikes before the day is out, you treacherous dogs. Guards!
Guards
!”

Admiral Berza leaned across his neighbour and grasped the King’s wrist. “Sire,” he said earnestly, “do not do this thing.”

The doors of the chamber burst open and a dozen Torunnan troopers rushed in, swords drawn.

“Arrest these men!” the King screamed, tugging his hand free of Berza’s grip and gesturing wildly with it.

The guards paused. Around the table were the highest ranking officers and officials in the kingdom. They were all silent. At last General Menin said: “Return to your posts. The King is taken poorly.” And when they stood, unsure, he barked like a parade-ground sergeant-major. “
Obey my orders, damn it!”