Captain-of-squadron Vahrohnos Bralos of Vohyültönpolis just shook his head, washed down a mouthful of spicy, salty crisp bread and said, “My lord Thoheeks, that is a sorry tale, but if you would hear it, then I’ll tell it.”
Bralos’ first, informal meeting with Grand Strahteegos Pahvlos was upon the occasion of the party welcoming the new captain vahrohnos to the brotherhood of the army’s higher officers, the traditional festivities having been organized by Senior Captain of Cavalry Portos and Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos, who had but just received word of his own civil promotion to thoheeks in his northern homeland of Karaleenos.
After brief congratulations, the old man had chatted for some two hours with others, then sought out Bralos again, seating himself beside him and splashing a little watered wine into his goblet from a convenient ewer.
“It is my understanding, Vahrohnos,” he had said, “that you began your career with this army as a junior lieutenant of the foot-guards, distinguished yourself in battle at least twice, were commended for that and other services by both Senior Captain Portos and Thoheeks Grahvos. After you had purchased a lieutenancy and troop command in the lancers, you were mentioned in Portos’ dispatches from the field of the Battle of Kahlkopolis, too. Yes, you own, have earned, the high regard of some exceedingly important men, both in the army and in the civil sphere. Your new overlord, in fact, Thoheeks Klaios, seems to regard you almost as a family member rather than as just a noble vassal.”
“My lord Grand Strahteegos knows far more of me and my life than I would have dreamed,” said Bralos, wondering even as he spoke to just what purpose the senior officer had searched out these facts.
Taking his goblet stem between his sinewy fingers and rolling it absently, the Grand Strahteegos had smiled and said, “The more that a commander knows of his men and, most especially, of his officers, the better; remember that, Captain Bralos. But that which I have not yet learned of you is this, my good captain: we both know that your younger son’s patrimony was barely sufficient to buy your first, junior-lieutenant rank, and you just might’ve been able to have won enough gambling to have secured the troop-lieutenancy in the lancers. But when we are come to discuss baronies and squadron captaincies, we are speaking of really large sums, far and away more gold than any officer-mess gamblers ever saw in one place at one time. So just how did you come by so much hard gold in a land stripped so bare as ours?”
It was in Bralos’ mind, just then, to tell the prying old man that his personal finances were none of his business, but such an answer would not be politic, not to so high-ranking a man, so he used the reply on which he and Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos had long ago agreed. Smiling, he said, “Loot, my lord. The worth of some gems I took during a campaign before you came to command us.”
Old Pahvlos threw back his balding head and laughed, then reached and grasped Bralos’ forearm, squeezing it warmly, cordially. “Young man, you will go very far in this or in any other army. We two will discuss this matter and that of your career with Council’s army at some other time and place, but for now”—he raised his voice and, shoving back his chair, stood up—“my good Captain Vahrohnos, I must bid you and this company a fond good night, for old bones require more frequent rest than do younger bones.”
Bralos had done very well by his squadron, so that soon he had no slightest trouble filling the ranks, and indeed, was obliged to maintain a waiting list for would-be troopers and first-rate sergeants. At the suggestions of Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos and Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos, he raised both the asking-price and the other requirements for ensigns, sublieutenants, troop-lieutenants, senior lieutenant and sub-captain, after first buying back the ranks of those few men who did not or could not work with or under him, and even so, hardly the day passed but that he found himself approached by top-notch officers or one time officers or wellborn young men, all clearly eager to lay their credentials and money before him.
Of course, lieutenants and captains of units losing personnel to the Wolf Squadron grumbled and groused that he was pampering his unit, turning them into overfed, underworked, elegantly dressed, indulged show troops, unfit for anything save parades; but even as these few envious officers spoke, they knew well the falsity of their words of accusation, for Wolf Squadron was performing yeoman service in the seemingly endless round of campaigns into which Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos the Warlike had plunged the army. Elegant as was the appearance of the officers and other ranks of Wolf Squadron when they were seen on occasions of formality, in the field they all fought with the ferocity of their totem beast, a lean winter wolf.
Provided with the quantities of golden Zenos which kept coming, through Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos, from the north, Bralos found himself able to see to it that all ranks of his command possessed the necessities in quality as well as in quantity, plus not a few luxuries to compensate them for hard, faithful service.
He had taken over his newly purchased squadron at the end of a cold, wet autumn, and after a detailed inspection of the weapons and equipment of the four hundred-odd officers and men, he had set up in his own mind a list of priorities, cleared them with Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos, gone to Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos for a weight of gold, then betaken himself to the collection of buildings at the base of the hills on which sat the fast-growing city of Mehseepolis and sought out certain suppliers of military paraphernalia.
He had had to settle initially for plain, but thick and warm, blanket-cloaks for the most of his squadron, but with the promise in writing that immediately the requisite numbers of dense wolf-pelts were become available, they would be added to trim the hoods without additional charge; however, he had seen all of the cloaks bleached out, then dyed a uniform soft grey, with the same color being applied to the twenty-three-score horse-blankets he bought at the same time from the same family of dealers. This same family were able to also lead him to both a leatherworker and a specialty smith who contracted to undertake a joint project to produce knee-high boots with wrought-iron splints and elbow-high gauntlets sewn with iron or steel rings for all the squadron.
The smith—a heavyset man with wavy brown hair and curly beard, an exceptionally hairy body and the largest, thickest moustache that Bralos could ever recall having seen set under a big and raptorial nose— had served his guests cups of a powerful cider and questioned them at length in relatively good Ehleenokos spoken with an unusual accent. Finally, shoving aside the sheaf of sketches he had made and the notes he had taken in a script that was not Ehleen or Merikan, either, though bearing more resemblance to the former than to the latter, he took a swallow of the cider, then spoke.
“My lord Captain Vahrohnos, what if your trooper be sword-gashed between elbow and shoulder, what then?”
Bralos sighed. “Then, Master Haigh, with luck, he’ll be crippled, only. I can see where you’re going, but be you apprised that it is traditional that lancers’ armor be only helmet and light breastplate. And those who command this army insist upon almost-slavish adherence to tradition, alas.”