by N. C. Reed
“That seems like a long time, but I'm actually surprised it's that fast, considering that many of them will never have used a bow before,” Memmnon noted.
“It is,” Winnie nodded. “They're doing well.”
“And you, Doctor?” he turned to Stephanie. “How is your project going?”
“Very well,” she replied. “As I suspected, many of the applicants were knowledgeable enough to pass the tests to let them go to the more advanced training. We 'll see the first class graduate before summer's end, and many of those who just enrolled will be working in the area military hospitals as aides before then. By year's end they should be nurses as well. The male nurses we 'll send to the front while the women remain in the hospitals here.”
“I see,” Memmnon nodded. “Excellent work, the both of you,” he complimented. “If we can manage to win this war, the two of you will have been a large part of it,” he told them.
“Don't kid yourself,” Winnie said flatly. “We may contribute, but if we win the war there's only one person you 'll have to thank for it.”
~*~
“Who do I have to thank for this?”
“It was a group effort, my Prince,” Tinker smiled brightly. “A little here, and a little there. This list I'm sure is in no way complete, but considering some of their positions in the Army, I thought it better to give it to you now.”
“Indeed,” Parno perused a list of suspected disgruntled officers. Men who had supported Memmnon and would again if the chance arose, despite the fact that it was now common knowledge that he was a traitor and that his twin had killed the King on his behalf. Standing suddenly, he made his way to the entrance of his wall tent.
“Get Colonel Willard for me,” he ordered the guard, who saluted and hurried away, his place being taken by another of the men stationed around the Marshal's tents.
“What will you do?” Tinker asked, curious.
“Send them to Nasil I suppose and let Brock have a shot at them,” Parno sighed deeply. “Unless we get the opportunity to kill them first.”
“You have become quite bloodthirsty since our first meeting, my Prince,” Tinker raised an eyebrow. “I find that it suits you, somehow.”
“I assume that's a compliment,” Parno snorted just as Karls walked in.
“Why is he complimenting you?” Karls asked.
“He approved my fashion sense,” Parno told him. “Karls, you remember the Tinker, don't you?”
“Indeed,” Karls nodded. “How are you, sir?” he asked the dark-skinned man.
“I am well, Colonel, and trust you are the same?” Tinker smiled.
“I'm passing fair,” Karls nodded. “What's this?” he asked Parno as the Marshal passed him the list.
“Tinker has been working for me a while,” Parno told him quietly. “Rooting out as many of Therron's followers as possible. This is what he's learned so far.”
“Damn,” Karls murmured beneath his breath. “Some of these-”
“Yes,” Parno nodded. “Interesting, no?”
“Interesting yes,” Karls nodded, still reading. “I see five brigade commanders, alone. And two staff officers.”
“Start with them,” Parno ordered. “Take them one at a time, place them in holding. Once they're all rounded up, send them to Nasil, to Brock.”
“You don't want a crack at them first?” Karls looked surprised.
“I very much want a 'crack' at them,” Parno assured him. “Which is why I'm sending them to Nasil. Brock is far better suited for something like this, and he's better at it as well. And I have more than enough to keep me busy as it is. Not to mention that I doubt I'd be able to hold my temper with all of them.”
“True,” Karls nodded absently. “Tonight, or wait for dawn?”
“Tonight, for those you can but if you think it best wait until tomorrow. I leave that up to you.”
~*~
Brigadier Norton Fisk staggered to his tent after another day of the Marshal's ever-be-damned 'training'. Every muscle he had was aching somewhere or somehow.
“I 'll be glad when the real Marshal is back,” he muttered as he stripped off his jacket.
“That might take longer than you think,” a voice said out of the dark and Fisk's hand flashed to his side where his sword would normally hang. He felt strong hands grip each arm, holding him fast.
“Norton Fisk, you are under arrest for suspicion of treason and sedition against his Majesties Tammon and Memmnon McLeod.”
“What!” Fisk managed to look outraged thought what he really was came far closer to stunned.
“Don't bother,” Karls Willard was now visible in the dim glow of a battle lamp. “You've all but convicted yourself you little bastard. Now you can explain your statements and your 'writing' to the IG. If you live that long,” he added absently. “Take him. I 'll have a word with the General. And if he resists, well. . .he's a small fry. Killing him won't matter one way or another.”
The men hauled a still protesting Fisk away while Karls went to speak to General Graham.
~*~
“Fisk?” Graham was pale. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure, sir,” Karls told him gently. “I can't reveal how just yet, as the investigation is still ongoing. Have to depend on your discretion with that last, sir,” he added. “Couldn't be more secret to be honest.”
“No, no,” Graham shook his head. “Of course I 'll say nothing. We can't. . .I mean we simply can't tolerate this, but. . .damn it!” he swore suddenly. “That bastard was on my staff until just before the war! He was promoted at the Marshal's…” he trailed off, eyes narrowing. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered.
“Sir?”
“He was in on it,” Graham said firmly. “I promoted him on Prince Therron's recommendation. Practically on his say so, in all honesty. I mean he was deserving enough, don't get me wrong, but if I had been left to my own devices that position would have gone to another man who was a bit better qualified and had more time in service. Prince Therron was quite insistent that Fisk get command of that brigade.”
“Was he now?” Karls asked softly. “How about that?”
“Yeah, how about that,” Graham almost growled. “Now I have to start thinking back to every promotion made with the Marshal's 'blessing'. There's no telling how many snakes I've put into positions to help him.”
“Don't move against them,” Karls told him. “Simply let me know and leave it to me. Anything you do will hurt the morale of your men. This is bad enough as it is. Let’s not make it worse.”
“All right,” Graham was reluctant but understood the need. “I should not have followed so blindly,” he muttered softly. “I should have been more aware.”
“Sir, he was the Lord Marshal,” Karls had a minor bout of sympathy for the man. “You should be able to follow him, trust him, without fail.”
“That doesn't cut it, Colonel,” Graham replied forcefully. “You should know that our job, part of our job, is to maintain order within the Army. That includes ensuring that those above us in rank are not abusing their position, including the Marshal. That's why we have separation of powers, after all,” he semi-lectured. “The King is there for us to appeal to if we have evidence of wrongdoing on the Marshal's part.”
“Did you have evidence, sir?” Karls asked kindly.
“That doesn't mean it wasn't there,” Graham replied, though shaking his head.
“Then there was nothing for you to do, sir,” Karls shrugged. “Prince Therron was very careful to avoid officers who might have opposed his grab for power. The fact that you aren't in on it speaks well of you I would think.”
“What an endorsement,” Graham snorted, then straightened, his bout of self-pity already gone. “Finish what you need to do, Colonel. Should you encounter difficulty with any of my men, you know where to find me. We can't have this. Go and get them. All of them. I hesitate to think what I might do should I see them myself.”
“Good evening to you then General,” Karls bo
wed slightly.
CHAPTER TEN
-
Anyone who ever said there was no work for an army when it wasn't fighting has never served in an army. Any army, anywhere.
Even without the fighting there was plenty to do. In fact, if you cast out all of the combat related work an army performed, be it in the field or in barracks, you would still have a full schedule that left you wondering how they managed to find time to train or fight any enemies.
Horses had to be fed, groomed, exercised, their health seen to. Harness and trace and strap and cinch checked for wear and tear, bridles and bits and all the other rigging that a cavalry man needed to be about his work had to be cleaned, polished, ready to go at a moment of notice.
Latrines had to be dug, filled in, then dug again. Cooking pots cleaned and prepared for the next meals. Animals butchered for that meal or beans soaked to make them soft and clean them for boiling. Grain ground into meal for bread. Water boiled before drinking so that the men didn't die of dysentery from drinking contaminated water, something that was all too possible in a camp this size that had been still this long. That water had to be hauled from the river, or drawn from a well or a creek. There was always more work to do than hands available to do it.
Work was constantly being done to strengthen the fighting positions of the Soulan Army. Barricades hardened, bunkers erected and covered to protect archers and crossbowmen from the enemy's return fire. Artillery placements hardened against enemy artillery strikes. Trenches dug along the front lines, along with stake pits and other traps to snare scouts or attackers either one. Drill conducted to ensure that every man knew his position in battle and could get to it in the quickest time possible, ready for battle.
Atop all of that, the soldiers of the Soulan Army still needed to train. To maintain skills needed in combat. To keep their strength and endurance high enough to meet the threat to their kingdom. There are only so many hours of light in the day and the Soulan Army made it a habit to use every last minute of every one of those hours.
Night time saw soldiers too tired to do anything other than collapse into their blankets and sleep, grateful for the rest. Night time also saw about a quarter of the army standing to on the line itself, a tripwire against a possible night attack or raid. To sound the alarm and hold the line until the rest of the army could form up.
Parno McLeod made his way to one camp or another almost every evening, taking dinner with line troops and talking to them in a way their own officers really couldn't. Checking on their welfare, asking after any family or friends, bringing news of messmates that might be returning soon if he had been asked to check on them.
The soldiers took note of the Marshal making his rounds and nodded approvingly at their young leader. He had proven himself time and again to the rank and file professional soldiers, the backbone of the Soulan Army. These were the men who made things happen, who kept the Soulan Army moving, mounted, trained and ready. They all shared the idea that their liege was a soldier. A soldier's officer at that.
None of them mistook his care, his concern for them as weakness. They had learned all too well that Parno McLeod would not hesitate to order them to their deaths if he had to. But they knew that if he did, he would have no other choice, and that he would likely be right beside them. He had proven that once already at The Gap, and again in the pitched cavalry engagement just two days after he'd arrived.
They accepted his openness in the way it was intended; genuine concern for their well being and how it affected their ability to do their duty. Not personal care and concern. He wasn't their friend, and he didn't try to be, or pretend to be. He was their Marshal. Their commander. And for the first time in a long while, their leader.
Because Parno McLeod led men. And because he led them, men followed. They followed even knowing that they might die. And while they accepted that they might die themselves, the Soulan Army would not die, would not falter, and would not fail. Parno McLeod wouldn't allow it to. Which meant that their deaths would mean something. Would count for something.
Sometimes that made all the difference.
Sometimes it was all the difference.
As the days wore on, these same professional soldiers, even as they watched their young Marshal make his rounds, kept a wary eye to the north of their lines where their enemy laid waiting, resting, licking wounds. The longer the enemy waited, the more likelihood that when they did move it would be a concerted and concentrated effort against them, which increased the possibility of their being overrun. The Nor didn't take prisoners and no one had any illusions about falling into the hands of the Tribal Warriors serving the Empire. Instant death was preferable to a drawn out torturous one.
Yet there was nothing else that could be done. The Soulan Army was too weak to drive the invader out, mustering just enough men to keep them at bay, at least for now. But the Nor wouldn't wait forever. Their General couldn't wait forever. The Imperial Army was eating their weight in food every week and they had no food to steal here in Soulan, which meant that food was coming from the Empire. At this rate there would be hungry bellies in the north come winter, just as there would likely be in the south. The men took a strange sense of pride in that by merely being where they were, it was possible that they might inflict upon the Imperial Army the same fate that the Imperial Army was inflicting upon them.
In the meantime, they could only do what soldiers the world over had learned to do as patiently as possible.
Wait.
~*~
The waiting was not one sided. While the southern soldiers worked and waited, so did their counterparts across the way. Imperial soldiers performed pretty much the same tasks as the Royal soldiers did, though their training was not quite so stringent as the southern army was. Still, the same chores had to be performed every day with reference to latrines, meals, water, cleaning and the like. And Imperial officers were careful to keep their men busy. While southern officers sought to take their soldier's minds from the overwhelming odds against them, their northern opposites were trying to get the thoughts of their own men off of two staggering defeats at the hands of the vastly outnumbered southern army.
Such defeats were bad for an army on a number of levels. First of course was the sheer losses. The casualty count from the two battles was worse than the rest of the war so far combined. Far worse. Their losses in men, horses and material had been staggering.
Aside from such material considerations were the effect of having had your ass handed to you regardless of the odds. In the space of two days, albeit spread over several weeks, the Imperial Army had been rocked onto its heels, and that had an effect on morale. No army in history had ever absorbed such losses and remained upbeat.
Another effect was that of the men's confidence in their leaders. Too many such defeats and the men would begin to wonder if their commanders were losing their edge. Soldiers who lacked trust and confidence in their leaders would not give that extra 'something' that often made the difference between victory and defeat on the field of battle. Soldiers who might otherwise have simply leaped into battle, following blindly on the belief that their commander knew something they did not, would now hesitate wondering if their orders were the right ones to be given.
They wouldn't refuse, of course. But they didn't have to refuse to negatively affect the battle. All they had to do was hesitate. Even a minute of waiting could change the outcome on part of the battlefield, which could affect the outcome on another part and so on, until a domino effect cascaded across the field resulting in the loss of the battle.
Twice now the Imperial Army had been thrashed. Just like wheat in a field falling to a scythe, the men referred to their defeat as having been thrashed. It wasn't good for an army to think of itself in such terms, so the officers were working to make them think of something else. Anything else.
Or nothing at all except how tired they were and how much they looked forward to a nice night's sleep once their duties were over. Mind numbing work t
hat left a man too exhausted to think left him too unable to think about how handily the army had been 'thrashed'.
It never lasted of course. Guard details had to be stood and the lines manned. And when a man was on the line, or worse alone or in pairs on a distant picket post (a post where the only objective was to live long enough to sound a warning to others before being run through with a Soulan lance), then remembrance of where they were and who they faced came roaring back to them, undoing all the hard work their officers had put in. Or had the men put in, to be more accurate. In an army the size of the northern force, men would stand to about once a week on average. Which meant that just about the time they had forgotten, even if for a bit, what had happened before, their turn at the line or the picket outposts would remind them firmly just how bad things were.
Then the process would begin again the next day. Such was army life in camp during wartime.
~*~
Lieutenant General Gerald Wilson looked down at the body and fought to hide his elation. It was difficult, but he had to do it lest he be considered guilty in some way.
The body of Brigadier Charles Daly lay at odd angles on the floor of the bedroom in the small house he had 'appropriated' for his quarters. The graves of the former occupants, a woman and three small children, were in the back yard. Wilson managed to keep his tone business like and calm as he looked at his Provost.
“Any notion how this happened or who did it?” he demanded.
“Not as yet, sir,” the man shook his head. “The thing is, his aide had left him last night at fifteen of ten, heading for his own quarters. The escort saw the Brigadier then, through the doorway, before he told them he was retiring for the evening. The escort guard detail changed at midnight, no sign of trouble or problems reported. Detail changed again at six this morning, again as usual. Off going detail reported a quiet night with no disruptions and no one calling on the Brigadier. When he hadn't appeared by eight for breakfast, half-an-hour past normal, his aide entered and found him here. They sent for me at once, and other than to check and see if the Brigadier was deceased, the aide retreated from the building and touched nothing.”
