There was no mention of the refugee problem at this meeting, however, which puzzled Corfe extremely. The camps on the outskirts of the capital were swelling by the day with the despairing survivors of Aekir who had first fled the Holy City itself and had then been moved on from Ormann Dyke in the wake of the battles there. If he were the King, he would be concerned with feeding and housing the hopeless multitudes. It was all very well for them to camp outside the walls by the hundred thousand in winter, but when the weather warmed again there would be the near certainty of disease, that enemy more deadly to an army than any Merduk host.
They were discussing the scattered risings of the nobles in the south of the kingdom again. Apparently Perigraine was giving the disaffected aristocrats surreptitious support, and there were vague tales of Nalbenic galleys landing weapons for the rebels. The risings were localized and isolated as yet, but if they could be welded together by any one leader they would pose a serious threat. Swift and severe action was called for. Some of the officers at the council volunteered to go south and bring back the heads of the rebels on platters and there were many protestations of loyalty to Lofantyr, which the King accepted graciously. Corfe remained silent. He did not like the complacent way the King and his staff regarded the situation at the dyke. They seemed to think that the main effort of the Merduks was past and the danger was over except for some minor skirmishing to come in the spring. But Corfe had been there; he had seen the teeming thousands of the Merduk formations, the massed batteries of their artillery, the living walls of war elephants. He knew that the main assault had yet to come, and it would come in the spring. Five thousand Fimbrians would be a welcome addition to the dyke’s defenders—if they would fight happily alongside their old foes the Torunnans—but they would not be enough. Surely Lofantyr and his advisors realized that?
The talk was wearisome, about people whose names meant nothing to Corfe, towns to the south, far away from the Merduk war. As members of Mogen’s command, Corfe and his comrades had always seen the true danger in the east. The Merduks were the only real foes the west faced. Everything else was a distraction. But it was different here. In Torunn the eastern frontier was only one among a series of other problems and priorities. The knowledge made Corfe impatient. He wanted to get back to the dyke, back to the real battlefields.
“We need an expedition to clamp down on these traitorous bastards in the south, that’s plain,” Colonel Menin rasped. “With your permission, sire, I’d be happy to take a few tercios and teach them some loyalty.”
“Very good of you, I’m sure, Colonel Menin,” Lofantyr said smoothly. “But I need your talents employed here, in the capital. No, I have another officer in mind for the mission.”
The more junior officers about the table eyed each other a little askance, wondering who the lucky man would be.
“Colonel Cear-Inaf, I have decided to give you the command,” the King said briskly.
Corfe was jerked out of his reverie. “What?”
The King paused, and then stated in a harder voice: “I said, Colonel, that I am giving you this command.”
All eyes were on Corfe. He was both astonished and dismayed. A command that would take him south, away from the dyke? He did not want it.
But could not refuse it. This, then, was what the Queen Dowager had been referring to earlier. This was her doing.
Corfe bowed deeply whilst his mind fought free of its turmoil.
“Your majesty is very gracious. I only hope that I can justify your faith in my abilities.”
Lofantyr seemed mollified, but there was something in his regard that Corfe did not like, a covert amusement, perhaps.
“Your troop awaits you in the Northern Marshalling Yard, Colonel. And you shall have an aide, of course. Ensign Ebro will be joining you—”
Corfe found Ebro at his side, bowing stiffly, his face a mask. Clearly, this was not a post he had coveted.
“—And I shall see what I can do about releasing a few more officers to you.”
“My thanks, your majesty. Might I enquire as to my orders?”
“They will be forwarded to you in due course. For now I suggest, Colonel, that you and your new aide acquaint yourselves with your command.”
Another pause. Corfe bowed yet again and turned and left the chamber with Ebro close behind him.
As soon as they were outside, striding along the palace corridors, Corfe reached up and savagely ripped the lace ruff from his throat, flinging it aside.
“Lead me to this Northern Marshalling Yard,” he snapped to his aide. “I’ve never heard of it.”
N O one had, it seemed. They scoured the barracks and armouries in the northern portion of the city, but none of the assorted quartermasters, sergeants and ensigns they spoke to had heard of it. Corfe was beginning to believe that it was all a monstrous joke when a fawning clerk in one of the city arsenals told them that there had been a draft of men brought in only the day before who were bivouacked in one of the city squares close to the northern wall; that might be their goal.
They set off on foot, Corfe’s shiny buckled shoes becoming spattered with the filth of the winter streets. Ebro followed him in dumb misery, picking his way through the puddles and mudslimed cobbles. It began to rain, and his court finery took on a resemblance to the sodden plumage of a brilliant bird. Corfe was grimly satisfied by the transformation.
They emerged at last from the stinking press and crowd of the streets into a wide open space surrounded on all sides by timber-framed buildings. Beyond, the sombre heights of the battlemented city walls loomed like a hillside in the rain-cloud. Corfe wiped water out of his eyes, hardly able to credit what he saw.
“This can’t be it—this cannot be them!” Ebro sputtered. But Corfe was suddenly sure it was, and he realized that the joke was indeed on him.
Torunnan sentries paced the edges of the square with halberds resting on their shoulders. In the shop doorways all around arquebusiers stood yawning, keeping their weapons and powder out of the rain. As Corfe and Ebro appeared, a young ensign with a muddy cloak about his shoulders approached them, saluting as soon as he caught sight of the badge on Corfe’s absurd little breastplate.
“Good day, sir. Might you be Colonel Cear-Inaf, by any chance?”
Corfe’s heart sank. There was no mistake then.
“I am, Ensign. What is this we have here?”
The officer glanced back to the scene in the square. The open space was full of men, five hundred of them, perhaps. They were seated in crowds on the filthy cobbles as though battered down by the chill rain. They were in rags, and collectively they stank to high heaven. There were manacles about every ankle, and their faces were obscured by wild tangles of matted hair.
“Half a thousand galley slaves from the Royal fleet,” the ensign said cheerily. “Tribesmen from the Felimbri, most of them, worshippers of the Horned One. Black-hearted devils, they are. I’d mind your back, sir, when you’re near them. They tried to brain one of my men last night and we had to shoot a couple.”
A dull anger began to rise in Corfe.
“This cannot be right, sir. We must be mistaken. The King must be in jest,” Ebro was protesting.
“I don’t think so,” Corfe murmured. He stared at the packed throng of miserable humanity in the square. Many of them were staring back, glowering at him from under thatches of verminous hair. The men were brawny, well-muscled, as might be expected of galley slaves, but their skin was a sodden white, and many of them were coughing. A few had lain down on their sides, oblivious to the stone cobbles, the pouring rain.