by Alex Janaway
CHAPTER TWO
Captain Jon Forge, officer commanding of the 1st Company, 7th Mounted Infantry pushed aside the curtain that led into one on the smaller segregated areas that made up the Regimental Command Tent. Inside he found a small cluttered space that was filled mainly by a field table, and two canvas chairs. He dumped himself heavily on one and placed his leather gauntlets and a dented helmet on the floor. The helmet was a simple affair, a round bowl-like hat with a nosepiece and a skirting of chain mail around the back and sides. He put his feet up on the table and cast an indifferent eye over the mess and piles of papers. Most were reports, demands, requisition orders and the occasional map; all the usual crap found on a staff officer’s desk. He grunted approval at spying a half drunken brass mug of coffee resting on a pile of now very soggy reports. He reached over and started to sip the lukewarm brew. After making a face he scratched his chin absentmindedly, picked up the mug and looked at his reflection.
John Forge was a well-built man of medium height. He wore the standard-issue uniform of black boots, black trousers and a padded leather jerkin. He liked black; you knew where you were with it, plus it left the locals in no doubt who they were dealing with. Years of wielding a weapon had given him a strong body and a fair few scars to boot. He had brown close-cropped hair and a full beard that saw the occasional grey hair beginning to make an appearance. While he did not feel the need to impose dress or fashion codes on his men, his personal view was that short meant that you didn't have to wash it and a full beard meant you couldn't be mistaken for a young recruit or a foppish aristocrat. His brown eyes were capable of showing both anger and humour in equal measures. His smile was ready and benefited from having most of his own teeth. A rare feature in the army and it was a blessing that he still had trouble believing. These days however his visage was usually given over to brooding annoyance. He had spent most of his adult life in the Army, having joined up at the age of sixteen. It wasn't as if he had much of an option. It was either that or spend the rest of his days living in the poor quarter of Ashkent City. The Army fed him, after a fashion. Watered him, with something akin to water. And clothed him, but not in anything particularly comfortable. It had also recognised some quality in him suited to the job of war and had allowed him to make something of himself. Albeit this usually meant being responsible for a pile of corpses on some far flung, fly-infested battlefield. For which, at the age of forty, he found himself as a company commander. Not too bad. Not too good either. His friends had often told him that if he just tried to toe the line once in a while, he might even get major one day. Trouble was he wasn't very good at politics. He always felt there was no place for it in an organisation whose main job was the enforcement of politics by other means, when the politicians messed up and some executive action was required. Talking about things just got in the way of the fighting and usually meant his guys getting dead. Still he had a nice little nest egg saved up and he planned at some point, when he could find the time, to retire and make useful things. Like axes.
The flap was pulled open behind him and Major Dav Jenkins stepped through. Jenkins was a contemporary of Forge's. They had risen and fought through the ranks together. Dav was one of the few men who Forge could actually call his friend. Though physically similar, Dav had shoulder length blond hair and a closely cropped goatee beard. He possessed a steady mind, a quick smile and a flair for organisation, which was why he had become the Regimental second-in-command. Rumour had it that he was in line for a brigade job, an aide to McKracken himself. Forge wouldn't be surprised at all. But he wouldn't ask. It didn't matter to him what Jenkins was doing, he could still beat him at an arm-wrestle any time. Something that Dav was eternally frustrated about.
Jenkins flopped into the other chair and Forge, studied his friend. The years had treated them differently, mainly because Forge refused outright to be moved from his current job. Always been too stubborn for my own good. Whereas Jenkins was more than happy to be out of the front line more often than not these days, and Forge had to concede that that was probably where he belonged. He was very good at it. Still, Jenkins did what he could to keep the flack off his friend and, Forge also conceded, that friend was not known for his skills in tact and diplomacy. Jenkins raised an eyebrow when he noticed his coffee in Forge's hands. Forge in turn proffered it back to Jenkins.
"No thanks, Jon. The Gods only know what shite is living in your mouth these days," said Jenkins in mock disgust. Forge sniffed and had another sip. "So what brings you to the rotten heart of the regiment then?” asked Jenkins.
Forge put the mug back and stared at his friend.
“When are we going home?”
Jenkins shrugged his shoulders and put his hands in the air.
“You know the McKracken. He doesn’t like to outstay his welcome. Wants us out pretty soon, never likes the idea of becoming a police force. Too messy.”
Jenkins locked his hands behind his head and leaned back.
“But you know that already, Jon. What’s going on?”
"You know bloody well what it is!” shouted Forge and tapped his finger on the desk. “I'm stuck out there on a bloody limb. No other units supporting us and I have to curtsey to a bloody stuck-up bastard."
"You mean Duke Burns?" asked Jenkins with a hint of a smile.
"Bloody right I do, you sarcastic shit."
The 1st Company had been sent to the northern most border point between Shifter and Graves. As most of the action had been to the south it was considered a quiet area. The local lord, Duke Burns, a conniving arse of a man if ever there was one, had insisted that his own household troops and levies could contain the "slight Shifter annoyances" without help. McKracken, astute in the ways of statecraft and bullshit, felt otherwise and had decided to send a small unit of troops north just to make sure a lid was kept on things. The Regimental Commander of the 7th felt that Forge and his boys could sort out any trouble. Sadly the Duke was a big player in Graves and so as not to insult him, the Ashkent forces were to be directly under the command of the Duke. This was a moot point for Forge. Jenkins, a more political animal, had a feeling the Captain and Duke might come to blows and had warned Forge to be careful. But orders were orders.
"Well, I got your messages, Jon, but I didn't think it warranted a trip in person."
"That's where your wrong, mate," said Forge angrily. "That arsehole has been using us to do all of the patrolling. His guys just laze around the place looking pretty and telling jokes. My guys are the ones getting the crap. Shifter won't come out and play fair so we have to go play cat and mouse. The Duke won't give us back up so instead I lose men. And that..." Jon paused for effect, "is going to bloody stop."
"Jon, I know you hate to lose guys but we are in a war you know. And some of the Shifter boys can be pretty handy. You just got to fight dirtier."
"Like I don't? My hands are tied up there and you know it. Burns does not give me free rein. I can only go where and when he says. McKracken has got this one wrong. The Duke is an evil bastard. He knows what he is doing. He’s grinding us down. We can't take much more." There was a note of exhaustion in his voice that made Jenkins sit up and listen. He had never heard this before from Forge. This was new and that worried him. Forge had always been the solid one. Did his job; did it any way he pleased to get it done and the consequences be damned. Let the results speak for themselves. He guessed it was just the onset of middle age. They were both turning into cantankerous warhorses who would get set out to pasture in a couple of years. The Gods alone knew how Forge was able to keep producing the goods out in the field, especially with his leg playing up more and more. He himself was finding life in Regimental Headquarters much less physically demanding. His spreading belly attested to that. He softened his tone.
"Jon, it’s the political game. It gets in the way of the fighting. I know that given a free rein, within two days you could've cleaned out the northern borderlands and broken their will to
fight. But we need Burns. He acts as a stabilising force in both the Merchant's Council and the aristocratic class. Got his fingers in too many pies. If we don't keep him happy, let him think he is the big time commander, life gets stickier for the rest of us. Gods, half the population views us an army of occupation. You wouldn't think there had been a civil war or an invasion by Shifter at all. We just have to bear with it for a bit longer. It’s..."
"We lost Corporal Coates last week." Forge interrupted.
"Oh, shit."
"He was ordered by Burns to enter an old farmhouse near the border. I was still at camp. Hit in the face by a booby trap crossbow. Burns and his men did nothing." Forge spoke in a soft voice that barely concealed his anger. Corporal Coates had been a friend of theirs from the old days. Never possessed of an intellect or a sufficient capacity for tactical decisions, he was nevertheless a loyal soldier with whom they had shared bad times and good.
"Jon, I'm sorry."
"That is why it has so stop, Dav. People like Coates shouldn't die like that. Not by a faceless assassin. He should have been in his bed at rest, dreaming of the good times, or with his sword in hand and spitting in the eye of the enemy. Not like that."
"Look, Jon." Jenkins said determinedly. "I'm gonna have a word with the boss. Get you out of there. Hells, there isn't gonna be an invasion from up there anyway. We've pretty much finished off Shifter. They don’t want to play anymore. I'll pull you and your boys back. Sod Burns, I'll make sure he's spun a line, make him think he's won the bloody war single-handed. Just give me a couple of days. I promise."
Forge sighed and nodded "Thank you. And you know how I hate saying that."
"That's how I know you mean it," said Jenkins grinning. "Now, how’s that young pup Locke doing?"
Forge grunted. "He's arrogant, selfish and bloody stupid. Perfect staff officer."
Jenkins laughed.
