you back here later, but for now get some rest.’ The couriers saluted and, gathering up their muddy cloaks, they left for the refectory. Corfe turned to the other occupants of the hall, who had not moved.
‘Brascian, Phelor, Grast.’ These three were standing together. At a table alone stood a dark young officer of medium height. Corfe frowned. ‘Ensign, forgive me, I do not recall your name.’
The youngster stiffened further. ‘Ensign Baraz, your majesty. We have not yet met.’
‘Officers simply call me “sir” in garrison. Are you part of the Ostrabarian Baraz family?’
‘My mother’s brother was Shahr Baraz, the Queen’s bodyguard, and my grandfather was the same Shahr Baraz who took Aurungabar, your— sir. I kept the Baraz name as I was the last male of the line.’
‘It was called Aekir then. I do not know your uncle, but your grandfather was an able general, and a fine man by all accounts.’ Corfe stared closely at Baraz. ‘How is it that you are become an ensign in the Torunnan army?’
‘I volunteered, sir. General Formio inducted me himself, not three months ago.’
When Corfe said nothing Baraz spoke up again. ‘My family has been out of favour at the Ostrabarian court for many years. It is known all over the east that you will take loyal men of any race into your forces. I would like to try for the Bodyguard, sir.’
‘You will have to gain some experience then. Have you completed your Provenance?’
‘Yes, sir. Last week’
‘Then consider yourself attached to the General Staff for the moment. We’re short of interpreters.’ ‘Sir, I would much prefer to be attached to a tercio.’ ‘You’ll follow orders, Ensign.’ The young man seemed to sag minutely. ‘Yes, sir.’ Corfe kept his face grave.
‘Very good. There’s to be a conference of the staff here in a few minutes. You may sit in.’ He nodded to the other three officers who were still ramrod straight. ‘As may you, gentlemen. It will do you good to see the wrangling of the staff, though you will of course say nothing of what you hear to anyone. Clear?’
A chorus of
yes sirs
and a bobbing of heads and hastily smothered grins.
Menin Field was the name given to the new parade grounds which had been flattened out to the north of Torunn. They covered hundreds of acres, and allowed vast formations to be marched and counter-marched without terrain disordering the ranks. At their northern end a tall plinth of solid stone stood dark and sombre: a monument to the war dead of the country. It towered over the drilling troops below like a watchful giant, and it was said that in times of trouble the shadows of past armies would gather about it in the night, ready to serve Torunna again.
General Formio raised his eyes from the courier-borne note to the knot of officers who sat their horses around him.
‘I am wanted by the King; news from the north, it seems. Colonel Melf, you will take over the remainder of the exercise. Gribben’s tercios are still a shambles. They will continue to
drill until they can perform open order on the march without degenerating into a rabble. Gentlemen, carry on.’ He wheeled his horse away to a flurry of salutes.
Formio had years before bowed to necessity, and went mounted now like all other senior officers. He was Corfe’s second-in-command in Torunn, and had been for so long now that people almost forgot he was a foreigner, a Fimbrian no less. He had changed little since the Merduk Wars. His hair had gone grey at the temples and his old wounds ached in the winter, but otherwise he was as hale as he had been before Armagedir, from whose field he had been plucked broken and dying sixteen years before. Queen Odelia had saved his life, and her ladies-in-waiting had nursed him through a series of fevered relapses. But he had survived, and Junith, one of those ladies, had become his wife. He had two sons now, one of whom would be of an age to begin his Provenance in another couple of years. He
‘Brascian, Phelor, Grast.’ These three were standing together. At a table alone stood a dark young officer of medium height. Corfe frowned. ‘Ensign, forgive me, I do not recall your name.’
The youngster stiffened further. ‘Ensign Baraz, your majesty. We have not yet met.’
‘Officers simply call me “sir” in garrison. Are you part of the Ostrabarian Baraz family?’
‘My mother’s brother was Shahr Baraz, the Queen’s bodyguard, and my grandfather was the same Shahr Baraz who took Aurungabar, your— sir. I kept the Baraz name as I was the last male of the line.’
‘It was called Aekir then. I do not know your uncle, but your grandfather was an able general, and a fine man by all accounts.’ Corfe stared closely at Baraz. ‘How is it that you are become an ensign in the Torunnan army?’
‘I volunteered, sir. General Formio inducted me himself, not three months ago.’
When Corfe said nothing Baraz spoke up again. ‘My family has been out of favour at the Ostrabarian court for many years. It is known all over the east that you will take loyal men of any race into your forces. I would like to try for the Bodyguard, sir.’
‘You will have to gain some experience then. Have you completed your Provenance?’
‘Yes, sir. Last week’
‘Then consider yourself attached to the General Staff for the moment. We’re short of interpreters.’ ‘Sir, I would much prefer to be attached to a tercio.’ ‘You’ll follow orders, Ensign.’ The young man seemed to sag minutely. ‘Yes, sir.’ Corfe kept his face grave.
‘Very good. There’s to be a conference of the staff here in a few minutes. You may sit in.’ He nodded to the other three officers who were still ramrod straight. ‘As may you, gentlemen. It will do you good to see the wrangling of the staff, though you will of course say nothing of what you hear to anyone. Clear?’
A chorus of
yes sirs
and a bobbing of heads and hastily smothered grins.
Menin Field was the name given to the new parade grounds which had been flattened out to the north of Torunn. They covered hundreds of acres, and allowed vast formations to be marched and counter-marched without terrain disordering the ranks. At their northern end a tall plinth of solid stone stood dark and sombre: a monument to the war dead of the country. It towered over the drilling troops below like a watchful giant, and it was said that in times of trouble the shadows of past armies would gather about it in the night, ready to serve Torunna again.
General Formio raised his eyes from the courier-borne note to the knot of officers who sat their horses around him.
‘I am wanted by the King; news from the north, it seems. Colonel Melf, you will take over the remainder of the exercise. Gribben’s tercios are still a shambles. They will continue to
drill until they can perform open order on the march without degenerating into a rabble. Gentlemen, carry on.’ He wheeled his horse away to a flurry of salutes.
Formio had years before bowed to necessity, and went mounted now like all other senior officers. He was Corfe’s second-in-command in Torunn, and had been for so long now that people almost forgot he was a foreigner, a Fimbrian no less. He had changed little since the Merduk Wars. His hair had gone grey at the temples and his old wounds ached in the winter, but otherwise he was as hale as he had been before Armagedir, from whose field he had been plucked broken and dying sixteen years before. Queen Odelia had saved his life, and her ladies-in-waiting had nursed him through a series of fevered relapses. But he had survived, and Junith, one of those ladies, had become his wife. He had two sons now, one of whom would be of an age to begin his Provenance in another couple of years. He
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