Stuck In Magic

by Christopher Nuttall

  I tried not to scowl. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.” Rupert met my eyes. “You paid in advance, when you saved my sister.

  But” – he took a breath – “I do have a job offer for you.”

  “It seems I have nowhere else to go,” I said, ruefully. Rupert might let me collect my possessions and walk out without a backward glance, but where could I go? Staying in the city would be a bad idea, yet … how could I travel? Sign up with a merchant’s convoy as a bodyguard? “What do you want from me?”

  Rupert sat, resting his hands on the desk. “I understand you have a … military

  … background?”

  “You could say that,” I said, carefully. “I was a soldier, for a time.”

  Rupert’s hands twisted. He was clearly nervous. “By tradition, each of the high families has to take a turn commanding the Garrison,” he said. “The position is normally determined by lot, because the commander cannot return to the city – he must remain in the Garrison – without special permission. Lord Galley – Harbin’s father – has managed to convince the remainder of the high families that I would make a great commanding officer.”

  I frowned. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Yes,” Rupert said. “For me, at least.”

  I understood. The city’s defence forces were pitiful. Command of the garrison was roughly akin to reassignment to Antarctica, somewhere so far out of the way that it served a convenient dumping ground for officers the military wanted to punish without making it blatantly obvious. Rupert wouldn’t be allowed to return to the city until his term expired, unless the city came under attack.

  Harbin’s father had managed to ensure Rupert would be trapped outside the city, unable to influence events, for at least five years. Bastard. This wouldn’t have happened if he’d taught his son not to rape.

  “For two years, I will be expected to train the next cadre of soldiers,” Rupert continued, mournfully. “And I don’t have the slightest idea where to begin.”

  “And you want me to do it,” I said. I wasn’t adverse to the idea. Command of the troops – real command, if not formal command – might be useful. “Is that what you have in mind?”

  “Yes.” Rupert didn’t try to hide his desperation. “We might be going to war soon too.”

  I blinked. “How so?”

  Rupert waved a hand at the map. “Every year, we get thousands of runaway serfs from Warlord Aldred’s estates. He isn’t happy, as you may have heard. He puts a lot of pressure on the city fathers – the high families – to return them, rather than let them blend into the city’s population and vanish. Your actions yesterday … well, let’s just say they made it harder to give him what he wants.

  We think it’s just a matter of time before he starts cutting our trade routes, banning imports to the city or simply marching on the walls to give us a good thrashing. “

  He grimaced. “And when that happens, the city fathers normally write off the defenders and bend the knee to the warlord.”

  I winced. “Lord Galley expects you to stand and die in defence of the city.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ouch.” I could see the logic. Rupert would either be killed in hopeless battle or turn and flee the battlefield. Either way, his political career would be at an end. It was cold, calculating and completely ruthless. “Why don’t you build a bigger army and give the warlord a thrashing instead?”

  Rupert looked at me as if I’d started speaking in tongues. “The warlords are too strong to resist,” he said. “All we can do is make a stand, get hammered and then accept whatever terms they offer.”

  I studied the map thoughtfully. I wasn’t sure that was true. The warlords might be hell on wheels – more likely, hell on horseback – in the countryside, but taking an entire city was a very difficult task. Fallujah had been an absolute nightmare and we’d had trained soldiers and technology Rupert and Warlord Aldred couldn’t even begin to imagine. The simple fact Warlord Aldred hadn’t brought the city under his direct control argued that he couldn’t. He had to fear the costs of trying to storm the walls. A warlord who lost most of his troops was no longer a warlord. I’d seen that play out in Afghanistan.

  And they have muskets and other new firearms, I mused. I doubted the warlords had embraced the new weapons. God might have made men, as the saying went, but Sam Colt made them equal. A warlord wouldn’t want weapons that would make a serf the equal of a trained knight. I could put a gun in a child’s hand and he could blow away a soldier with years of training. The balance of power might not be as unfavourable as he thinks.

  “If you give in to bullies, I said, you’ll just guarantee more bullying,” I said. Giving Hitler what he’d demanded had just led to more demands. “You need to prepare for a real fight.”

  Rupert raised his eyebrows. “And when they starve the city? Or try to take the walls?”

  “You can keep him back, if you have a proper army,” I said. I had several ideas along those lines, but they’d have to wait until I made a name for myself. “How many men do you have under your command?”

  “The garrison is supposed to have six hundred,” Rupert said. “Two hundred are meant to be under my direct command, once I train them. I won’t assume command of the entire garrison until my processor reaches the end of his term.”

  I blinked. The city had a population of at least four hundred thousand, probably more. Thousands – perhaps tens of thousands – of people lived off the books, hidden away in the grey and black economy that the city fathers pretended didn’t exist. The city should have been able to field a much larger army without too many problems. It wasn’t as if it didn’t have the supplies to equip them, the craftsmen to make weapons … I gritted my teeth as I realised how difficult it was likely to be. The city fathers were unlikely to be able to put together a bigger army. The corruption that pervaded the city would make it impossible.

  And they don’t want to encourage the commoners to think of themselves as powerful, I reflected, sourly. That would end with the commoners destroying the high families.

  Rupert looked downcast. I didn’t blame him. He’d been sent out to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Whatever he did, he was fucked. Unless

  …

  “Two hundred men,” I mused. “We can do something with that, if you supply them and let me train them. How much money are you willing to spend?”

  “I have an allowance,” Rupert said. His lips twisted. “I’ve been promised money from the city fathers, but …”

  He shrugged, expressively. I understood. The money would pass through so many hands – dwindling all the while – that, by the time it reached him, it would be much reduced. It wouldn’t be cheap to supply even a small army with everything from plate armour to spears, maces, flails and everything else it might need.

  Even if I concentrated on muskets and other primitive gunpowder weapons instead, it was going to be tricky. And yet, if I could get enough muskets – perhaps even cannons – I could make a real difference.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Rupert said. “I’m going to die.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “We are not going to give Lord Galley the satisfaction of sending you to your death. You’ve already hired someone who knows how to turn a handful of civilians into fighting men. Give me the supplies and let me do my job and I’ll produce something you can be proud of.

  Who knows? If we look tough, we might even deter the warlords from attacking.”

  Rupert looked unconvinced. “Does that work?”

  “Bullies never look for a fair fight,” I told him. “They might lose. No, they pick on people too weak to defend themselves. If that person looks tough, ready to fight, ready to hurt the bully even if they’ll go down themselves, the bully will look for other targets. Look tough and ready to fight and you won’t have to fight.”

  It might not have been convincing, if Rupert hadn’t been desperate. His enemies had done their work well. He nee
ded to win … he needed to listen to me. I doubted there was anyone else who could help him … who would. The city’s defenders couldn’t take care of themselves and the mercenaries simply couldn’t be trusted. I owed him. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

  “Very well,” Rupert said. “What do you need?”

  “For starters, some idea of what you’re prepared to spend, and what we can obtain on short notice,” I said. “And then I need a detailed breakdown of your order of battle and what weapons and supplies are available to the garrison.”

  “You can work with my secretary,” Rupert said. He looked somewhat confused by my choice of words. “He’ll help you with whatever you need.”

  At least he has the sense to get out the way, I thought. I’d have to educate him in war, but that could be done later. Once I proved I knew what I was talking about, he’d listen to my quiet lectures. That’s better than most green LTs manage.

  Rupert stood. “There’s one other thing I have to tell you,” he said. “You know you had a protective charm?”

  “Yeah,” I said, carefully. I hadn’t known, not until Thunder had tried to magic me. “What about it?”

  “My family’s magician took a look while you were sleeping,” Rupert said. “She said it was a very strange charm, very powerful. But it was designed to only work once.”

  He met my eyes. “The charm is gone. Don’t pick a fight with another sorcerer.”

  I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days later, we left the city and rode out to the garrison.

  It was larger than I’d expected, after reading my way through countless military and procurement reports that had the stench of wishful thinking, if not corruption and outright lying. The city’s defenders seemed determined to lie to themselves, let alone everyone else, even as the warlords tightened the screws.

  They could have put up a much better fight, I thought, if they’d made use of the resources at their command. Instead, they’d fired a handful of arrows for the honour of the flag – metaphorically speaking – and then surrendered and bent the knee to the warlords. I couldn’t understand it. Their history of appeasement made Chamberlain look like Winston Churchill.

  The air tasted faintly of sand, hopelessness and despair. I’d had my struggles during basic – we all had – but at least I’d volunteered. The men I had to train – the men I had to train Rupert to lead into battle – had been offered a flat choice between slavery or the army. I had the feeling, reading between the lines, that the soldiers wouldn’t see much of a difference. They were held in poor regard, banned from the city until they served their term … unless their commander chose to employ them as cheap labour. And yet … I told myself, firmly, that I could do it. I could turn them into soldiers.

  General Harris – the old commander – greeted us at the gates. Rupert spoke calmly to him, showing no trace of the fear and despair he’d shown me. I used the time to study General Harris and the honour guard thoughtfully. They were decked out in fancy uniforms that would have shamed a dictator, uniforms that would have made them easy targets in a real war. I could have wiped them out –

  and most of the garrison for good measure – if I’d had a sniper rifle and bad intentions. General Harris reminded me of General Winfield Scott – I’d seen photographs when I’d studied the War between the States – although it was hard to be sure. He looked good-natured, but indolent. His uniform was expertly tailored, but even his tailors couldn’t disguise his paunch. I hoped he’d have the sense to stay well out of the way.

  I said nothing as we were shown into the garrison itself – the interior looked like a weird cross between a barracks and a prison – and directed into the

  training ground. The prospective soldiers were waiting for us. I hoped to God they hadn’t been ordered to stand in lines, because their lines were so ragged it was impossible to tell who was meant to be standing where. My eyes ranged up and down the rows. There were men who looked sullen, ready to cause trouble; there were men who looked hungover, as if they’d been drunk out of their minds when they signed the papers and became soldiers … they wore so many mismatched clothes that I was silently glad I’d had the foresight to order better uniforms.

  They might not be BDUs, but they’d be better than nothing.

  My eyes narrowed, suddenly, as I spotted Horst and Fallows in the front row.

  The two guardsmen – former guardsmen, I guessed – gave me hostile looks. I cursed under my breath as I realised Captain Alder, deprived of the chance to sell me into slavery, had punished Horst and Fallows instead. That was an unexpected complication. The two guards probably felt personally betrayed.

  They hadn’t been ordered to keep an eye on me, but …

  I met their eyes and sent a hand-signal, one they’d taught me. Wait.

  Rupert shot me a pleading look. I sighed and stepped forward, raising my voice.

  “I am Sergeant Elliot,” I said, in my best parade ground manner. I’d already given up trying to explain Richardson. Local naming conventions were just too different. “Some of you are here because you volunteered. Some of you are here because you weren’t given a choice. I don’t care why you joined, nor do I care who or what you were before. All that matters, to me, is that it is my job to prepare you for military service. You have my word, which you will come to trust, that I will treat you all the same.”

  I was dimly aware of Rupert backing off as I leaned forward. “Are there any of you, right here, right now, who thinks he can take me in a fight? Now is your chance. Who’s first?”

  My eyes swept the row of men. I didn’t have any real support structure, not here. I didn’t have senior officers who’d back me or MPs who’d enforce my orders … I wanted, I needed to establish dominance as quickly as possible. They had to understand that I knew what I was talking about, that trying to fight or resist would just make matters worse. Some of them, I was grimly sure, would be irredeemable. And yet, I wasn’t allowed to kick them out.

  A overbuilt man lumbered out of the crowd and came at me. His muscles were impressive, but he telegraphed his punch. I stepped to one side, then stuck out a foot. He tripped and hit the ground. The crowd snickered as he pushed himself to his feet, his face darkening with anger, and came at me again. I avoided his next three punches, then twisted, threw him to the ground and pressed my fingers into his throat. He struggled for a moment, then lay still.

  “Good,” I said. I helped him to his feet, patted him on the back and sent him back to the crowd. “Anyone else?”

  Two more men came at me. I handled them both, with slightly more trouble in the case of one who looked like a cutpurse. He’d clearly seen some action on the streets. I knocked him down, helped him up and sent him back to the line, then waited to see if anyone else would try. I wanted them to know they’d had their chance to take me in a straight fight. It was the only way to be sure they would listen to me.

  “Good,” I said, when no one moved. “If you follow orders, I’ll make men out of you. If not …”

  I let the words hang in the air for a long moment, then led them on a run around the compound. It was curiously hard. I’d kept myself fit, over the last few weeks, but there was something about the garrison that trapped the heat. I made a mental note to ensure better facilities as we ran through the gates, around the walls and back inside again. The older soldiers stared at us in disbelief.

  None of them had gone through anything similar. I guessed the warlords trained their soldiers better. It was the only reason they could dominate the much larger city.

  And weapons training can make the difference between freedom and slavery, I thought. They wouldn’t want just anyone to have military training.

  I led them into the barracks and looked around. They were in better condition than I’d expected. Rupert had promised he’d have them cleaned and readied for the recruits and he’d kept his word. The showers looked rough and ready, but they’d do. I’d been posted to worse pl
aces in Iraq. A large pile of clothing –

  I’d had makeshift uniforms prepared by local seamstresses – waited for us. I motioned for the men to choose their uniforms, then get changed. It was astonishing no one had thought of tailoring uniforms to match the local environment. Their muskets and flintlocks might not be able to hit the broad side of a barn – they relied on massed fire, not accuracy – but their archers were pretty damn good. I’d cautioned Rupert to make sure he wore something that didn’t stand out on the battlefield.

  “Choose a bunk, one each,” I ordered. “This will be your home for the next few weeks.”

  I watched them change and inspect the facilities, all the while issuing orders and brief explanations. Hygiene came first. Each barrack would have a rota for cleaning the showers, washing out the makeshift toilets and sweeping the floors.

  The men themselves would be expected to shower at least once a day, keeping themselves as clean as possible. It wouldn’t be that clean – water was in short supply – but it would be a great deal better than anything they’d had before. I wasn’t an expert in so many things – I wished I’d spent time as a Drill Instructor, instead of just being a raw recruit – but I knew the basics. The remainder I’d rediscover along the way.

  “Don’t dawdle,” I said, as we marched back onto the training ground.

  “Everything has to be done at a run.”

  I felt sweat prickling my back as I put them through their paces. The whole concept of basic training was to make sure everyone picked up the basics and learned to speak a common language. It was both easier and harder here, easier because there was no universal training system and yet harder because I was making it up from my own experience. I’d never realised just how hard the instructors had worked, when I was in basic. They’d probably have called it karma. I didn’t have anyone ready or able to back me up either. Rupert had long since vanished.