by Alex Janaway
CHAPTER FOUR
Two days after his meeting with Jenkins, Forge rode back into the Company lines. He was dog-tired and piss wet through. He had travelled hard and had only caught a few hours sleep each night. It was now a short time after dawn and that meant that he was officially having a bad day. The gate guard rose to attention and acknowledged his captain with the adopted greeting of “Another glorious day in the corps, Sir.”
Forge nodded and replied, “And a crappier one you won’t find.” Whilst there were many who felt Forge’s men were far too glib in the face of their officers, he wasn’t bothered. Frankly he and his boys had been through enough to afford a fair degree of informality within the company. He noticed the guard’s left arm had been bound with a bandage. He didn’t ask. He wanted to sit down before the bad news came.
The camp itself was arranged in an orderly fashion. Rectangular in shape, oriented north-south, with an open area in the middle that doubled up as the parade square and training ground. The longer sides were made up of accommodation tents for the men. The southerly line housed the commissary and stables. The north comprised the officers' and sergeants’ tents and the planning tent. All to standard Ashkent doctrine. A ditch and earthworks bound the camp, with a wooden palisade following the earthwork circuit. The local troops had laughed as the Company had sweated their balls off to get it all built within a day. The lads themselves didn’t rise to the bait. It was obvious which poor saps would get taken out first when a surprise attack ripped into their undefended, poorly sited encampment one hundred yards away from the Ashkent troops. And then guess which sorry bastards would be knocking at the gate to be let in before they got a spear up their collective arses?
Forge steered his horse to the stables, while around him the normal business of the camp continued. A mounted infantry company was trained to be self sufficient in the field. Often it would operate as an independent force, be it on a roving border patrol or manning a remote fort. The men were taught to maintain their own equipment and keep their weapons sharp. Each man was also charged with caring for his own steed. It was pounded into them from the start of their careers that one day, more often than not, that big and smelly, bad tempered lump of sweat and sinew would save their lives. Those that failed to take it in usually didn’t last long or at least were missing a body part for their mistakes. This self-reliance led to a very capable and independent-minded soldier. Forge liked that. It meant you had men you could trust to get the job done by hook or by crook.
He reached the stables and slowly dismounted. He took the time to stretch out and relieve his cramped and, loathe as he was to admit it, aging muscles. He then winced involuntarily and bent down to rub his left knee. It was aching again.
“How’s it holding up, boss?” asked Sergeant Mac as he walked over to Forge. In his hand he held a mug of steaming coffee. He passed it to Forge, who nodded his thanks.
“Same as usual. Bloody pain in the ass.” It had been three years ago when his old mount had been hit by a Goblin arrow during the Great Pacification campaigns in the west. He had been thrown from the horse and had landed badly. The result being that something had gone inside his knee and which had left his leg permanently weakened. Whilst it functioned on a day-by-day basis, it had a habit of giving way under him. The doctor had said there was nothing he could do and that unless Forge was willing to see a private medical mage, then he ought to think about echeloning himself into a less physically demanding military job. Forge had responded with his usual candour and had told the doctor he could “get fucked” if he thought either choice had any merit. He couldn’t decide if he hated magic users or paperwork more. They both baffled him equally. He sipped the coffee. It was bitter but hot. He wondered if they had any honey anywhere. He started the process of unsaddling his horse. Sergeant Mac leaned against a post and started to pick at some dirt under his nails. Forge dumped the saddle onto the ground, fished out a stiff brush and began grooming. He eyed Sergeant Mac. “Go on then. What happened?”
“Ambush.”
“How so?” Forge asked almost not believing what he was hearing. He stopped grooming and stared hard at the old soldier.
“It was the lad, Sir. Took us straight into a wood in the middle of the night. I couldn’t talk him out of it. Did what I could do minimise the damage. The Lieutenant ended up getting the pommel of a knife to the back of his head, found him slumped over his horse a little ways out of the trees. He was lucky, could’ve been the business end that did for him.”
Forge shook his head in disgust. “Where is he now?”
Sergeant Mac tilted his head towards the officer’s quarters. “Resting up on his cot. Concussed. Feeling sorry for himself.”
Forge nodded. “I’ll make him feel sorry for himself in a while”. He turned back to his mount and carried on grooming. “So that that means I almost lost both my subalterns in six months. That’ll please Regiment. Don’t mind Locke. Silly shite. Pity about young Hasam though, he might’ve been ok.”
“Tried to tell him, Sir.”
“I know. What about the men. Who did we lose?”
“Horst. Took an arrow through the face. Everyone else made it out.”
“Another one of the old hands.” Forge stopped. Dammit, Mac, but you should have tried harder to stop him. “Shouldn’t happen. Not like this,” he said quietly. Then to Sergeant Mac. “Has he buried, the rites observed?”
“Yes, Sir. As always, come the Hells or high water.”
“Good.” Forge ran his hands over his horse’s flank, his mind unfocused.
Sergeant Mac coughed and asked “Good trip? Get the result you wanted?”
Forge straightened up and continued with his work, running the brush vigorously backwards and down. “Major Jenkins said he would do what he could. Guess that is the best I can ask for. I know he’ll try for us.”
“That’ll do then, boss. We had some new arrivals over at the main camp last night. You might be interested in looking at them. Also, Duke Burns sends his compliments.”
“I bet he does,” interrupted Forge.
“And he will see you at your earliest convenience,” said Sergeant Mac with a sour faced grin.
Forge sighed and placed a feed bag over the horse’s muzzle. “Strictly speaking my earliest convenience would be when the Hells freeze over. But that would probably upset our great leader. Know what he wants? “
Sergeant Mac shrugged his shoulders. “All I know is we have gained some new additions to our happy community.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, looks like slaves from the far south. The Gods know what they are doing here, or how he got them past our borders.”
Forge was genuinely surprised at that. Although many states still practiced forms of slavery, Ashkent had forbidden it many years ago. Anyone trying to move them through Ashkent territory, by land or sea, would find themselves stripped of their cargo, and, more often than not, their transport. Traders would have to take long diversions around Ashkent and this proved to be a costly endeavour in itself.
“Burn’s probably planning a new palace for himself or something,” Forge stretched once more. He gulped down the now lukewarm coffee and gave his beard a good, hard scratch. “Right, let’s go see the fat shit.”
Burns, being aristocracy, had sided with De Salust during the interregnum. When it looked like the wind was changing, he had re-established links, via his trading interests in Cauker, with the official government. When Shifter had invaded, he had denounced this move as a clear insult to the sovereignty of Graves's territory. Forge did wonder about that at times. Being on De Salust’s side and bearing in mind the agreement to cede territory for aid. Burns might well have been concerned for his own holdings. De Salust would have had to offer Burns a big payoff. His move away from the aristocratic party may well have been due to the discernable lack of an acceptable agreement. The captain had surmised that whilst Burns was now nominally on
the same side as Ashkent and the new administration, it was clear that he was a shifty bugger and McKracken had wanted to ensure his continued loyalty by the presence of the Ashkent mounted infantry. This was cold comfort considering the winnowing of that force on an almost constant basis.
Forge was left to wait for ten minutes in the outer entrance to what could only be described as a mobile mansion in tent form. The Duke’s home was a huge pavilion that had sleeping quarters, his own kitchens and a suite of offices, as well as a large reception area. When he was finally summonsed, it was to the Duke’s war room. Forge entered and stood to attention. That was the nearest he was prepared to go towards the usual formalities of rank. He felt he couldn’t be responsible for his words if he opened his mouth or indeed his actions if he attempted a salute. He was very certain that his hand might just move automatically to his knife and place it right between Burn’s eyes if he gave it half a chance.
Forge regarded the Duke with ill-disguised contempt. Not that the man ever noticed such things. The Duke was pouring over a map that Forge did not immediately recognize as their area of operations. The man winced as the corset he wore dug into the soft folds of flesh that threatened to spill over at any moment. It was even worse when he had to bend over. He had some special armour made that allowed a certain give in tender or tight areas. Besides it was not as if he would ever be expected to fight in it. The whole effect was rather spoilt by his chubby, whiskered face. Forge often thought of him as an aged cherub gone to seed. That was when he was in a charitable mood. Usually he just thought of him as an overweight, incompetent, conniving, greasy, untrustworthy, devious bastard. He was probably into little boys as well.
Being aristocracy, Burns had sided with the insurgency during the interregnum. When it looked like the wind was changing, he had re-established links, via his trading interests in Cauker, with the official government. When Shifter invaded, he had denounced this as a clear insult to the sovereignty of Grave’s territory. It was a strange move but probably Burn’s hadn’t liked what Shifter had asked for in return for their aide. Most likely they had wanted him to cede some of his own lands. It was clear he was an untrustworthy bugger and the reason why, even though McKracken had accepted his declaration of allegiance and troops, the general had wanted Forge and his men round to keep the Duke honest.
From his position Forge had a reasonable view of the map the Duke was working on. It took a few moments to register that he was looking at an area some four days’ travel to the north east. It was mostly forest country with the only notable feature being the River Rooke. In olden times this river had been the natural border between Graves and Shifter but the latter, in the days before Graves had got its act together, had long held the land to the west of the flow. The Rooke served as a natural demarcation of the farthermost border of Graves and the wild lands beyond before curving away into Shifter further to the south and east. He understood the north-eastern territory was home to no-one other than hunters, fur traders and a couple of frontier settlements. Whilst Shifter claimed ownership, in reality it cared little for the few inhabitants of that region and was happy enough to let the fur trade govern itself.
“I have a new assignment for you and your men, Captain,” said Burns looking up. Since first they had met Forge spied his goatee had acquired several more grey hairs, as had his rapidly retreating hair. Burns fixed the captain with a hard stare, expecting him to say something. Forge simply nodded his head. Burn’s scowled but continued. “Four days to the northeast is on old fort. Don’t know what its name is. Probably never had one. What it did used to do was provide protection to what was once a well-established trade route between Graves and the lands beyond. The fort itself is of no importance. What is, is the remains the bridge that used to span that river. Soon this war will be over and it is high time that Graves was given the opportunity to rebuild and expand its shattered economy. I want you to rebuild that bridge.”
Forge was surprised. “My men aren’t engineers, Duke. Nor are they to be used for private ventures.”
“Perhaps not, Captain, but neither are they very effective at rooting out the few Shifter irregulars that plague this region.”
Right, thought Forge. Very soon, I am going to lose my temper. Damn you Dav. Get me out of here or I swear I’ll kill this man and anyone who tries to stop me.
“Anyway, I have made arrangements,” the Duke continued, seemingly not caring about the effect his last comment had made. “Your men are to provide protection to the workforce that I am providing. Out of my own pocket I might add. Whilst the war continues you are soldiers serving Graves against the threat of Shifter. I do this for the greater good of my country, Captain.”
Yeah and I’ll be shitting pineapples for my breakfast, mused Forge.
“You can take your whole command,” continued Burns. “Don’t bother to leave anyone behind.”
“And what about these irregulars still at large?” asked Forge.
“Oh, I’m sure we can handle them. Besides I would have thought you would be jumping at the chance to head off for some peace and quiet. After all, that is what you went to ask your superiors for, wasn’t it?” Burns smiled.
Forge hid his reaction. How the hell did he know that? It became obvious when another, who emerged from a side entrance into the war room, joined the two men. The new arrival was a tall willowy man wrapped in a thick robe of red, gold and black. A long red beard flowed in a haphazard fashion from a thin and pinched face. Dark eyes, a curious absence of eyelashes and a ponytail of more of the red hair combined to make an interesting, if disturbing portrait.
“Ah, right,” muttered Forge.
The new arrival was the Duke’s personal mage, Portal. A magic-user whose talents, or so it seemed to Forge, lay more in political subterfuge and intelligence gathering than any arts of enchantment. The Captain had never actually seen him wield any sorcery as such. But then he expected it was all cauldrons and bats’ shit and things like that with Portal. Forge preferred the more in-your-face stuff that you might find with Ashkent’s battle mages. Fireballs, plagues of killer frogs, that sort of thing. And what was it with all this one-name crap and looking sinister? He was pretty sure that the use of magic didn’t require you to become a twat. Sometimes the stereotype got very boring. But hey, what do I know, I mostly just hit things. Still it explained why Burns had rumbled him. He stared back at the Duke with his best “don’t give a shit face”.
“Portal will be going with you as my representative. Whilst you are responsible for all matters regarding security, he will be the final arbiter on the project and its conduct.”
And he’ll be able to keep a nice beady eye on us as well. “So who is the workforce?” Forge asked.
“You’ll find them outside in a compound. Apparently they are quite skilled. They ought to be. I paid enough money for them. However, I expect them to be quite insolent. Feel free to apply the lash whenever necessary.”
Ah, so those slaves then, thought Forge
“Don’t let them die till the job is done. That bridge must get built first.”
“When do we leave?” asked Forge.
“I expect you ready to move at dawn the day after tomorrow. That bridge must be ready in ten days.”
“Why the rush? It’s not as if there is any trade traffic yet.”
“It is not for you to question Graves policy.” Forge noted that Burns had suddenly gotten a lot redder in the face. “You will proceed to the site and you will see the bridge built. The war will soon be over and we must seize the opportunities that present themselves. Now prepare your men, Captain.”
Forge nodded and turned to leave. “I’ll meet you on the trail tomorrow Captain,” said Portal. Forge could sense, if not see, the sarcastic smile Portal was wearing.
“I’m looking forward to it already,” he said and walked out.
Forge’s next port of call was to see Locke. En route he mused over the forthc
oming bridge build and did some sums. If Burns wanted this bridge built in ten days time and they wouldn’t reach it till the evening of day five maybe morning of the sixth, then that didn’t leave them much time to construct the thing. He could hardly expect the workforce to be that keen and he’d be buggered if he would get his men involved. In fact, he could see no reason to have the thing done in ten days time anyway. Sod it, the more time away from the duke the better. Forge would see if he couldn’t stretch this little trip away for a few days’ extra. He reached Locke’s tent, pulled back the flap and entered. Locke was lying on his cot with his eyes closed. A bandage was wrapped around his head and his complexion was pale, but he seemed to be breathing deeply and soundly. Forge took a moment to survey the tent. Untidy - in itself not a problem. The Gods knew he wasn’t the most the domestic of individuals and the older he got the less he cared about it. What caused him concern were the details; armour was left in a pile to one side of the cot, weapons were tossed carelessly onto a canvas table. Locke’s sword was not even sheathed. It lay balanced on top of its scabbard. And it looked like it hadn’t been oiled in a while. He inspected the armour. Spots of rust were starting to form on the mail. It showed a sloppy approach to soldiering. That pissed Forge off. These were the tools of the trade. If you were any kind of professional you took care of your kit. It kept you alive. He returned to the end of the cot, folded his arms and kicked Locke’s left foot.
Locke’s eyes flew open, he took a couple of moments to gather his wits and register who was standing in front of him. He levered himself up.
“Sir?”
“Did you come in her unconscious?” asked Forge.
“Sir?”
“I said did you walk in here or were you carried in? Because if you weren’t then I want a good reason why your kit is in such shit state,” demanded Forge.
“Well, I... uh... I walked in, Sir, but I was pretty groggy. The doc patched me up and said I should get some rest,” stuttered Locke.
“You damn well get some rest when you have finished stowing your kit!” roared Forge, being giving free reign to his anger. “You ain’t some piss-ant recruit who still ain’t learned to wipe their own arse. You are an officer! An officer in my company and you will set the standards that I demand. You hear me, Locke?”
If it were possible, Locke’s face appeared to have grown paler.
“Yes, Sir!” he responded.
“I lost another good man because of you, Locke. And you almost got yerself killed in the process. Right now I would be a hell of a lot happier if the two of you could have traded places.” He jabbed his finger towards Locke. “A crap officer I can live without. A good soldier I can’t.”
Forge noted that a look of anger and affront passed across Locke’s face. He also noted that there was little resembling shame in Locke’s demeanour.
“Now get your shit together, Lieutenant. Mistakes get made but I won’t accept stupid ones. We are heading out day after tomorrow and I am expecting you to start behaving like an officer of Ashkent. I need to know I can trust you to do the damn job. Do you hear me?”
Locke stiffed and snapped off a soldierly “Yes, Sir!”
The attempt was somewhat lessened by the fact Locke was still propping himself up.
Forge nodded. “And sort your equipment out,” he ordered before turning and stalking out of the tent.
Locke watched the Captain go and let out a long breath. He noted his arms had begun to shake. Not because they were tired. They were shaking with rage. “Bastard!” spat Locke out loud. How dare he? That man had shouted so loudly that every soldier in the camp would have heard. He had deliberately humiliated him. How was he to command any respect with the men after that tirade? Ever since he had arrived he had been mocked and mistreated by Forge and his bloody cronies. Locke would remember this. He may only be a lieutenant now but he still had friends in high places back at home. He’d find a way to make Forge pay for the way he treated him. He turned to look at the pile of armour. He ought to make a start cleaning it. Just to play Forge’s game. The movement made his head spin. Perhaps he’d just give it another couple of hours. He gently lowered himself back onto the cot and groaned.
