“Going to pull a rabbit out of a hat, Corfe?” Andruw asked lightly.
“Something like that.”
They saluted and left him. Corfe dismounted, hobbled and unsaddled his horse and let it graze. Then he sat on a mossy boulder and watched the northern horizon, where the Merduk host was lighting up a Torunnan sky. One single year, and the deaths of untold thousands. He had begun it as a junior officer, obscure but happy. And he had ended it commander of Torunna’s last army, his heart as black and empty as a withered apple. All in that one year.
F ORMIO held a lantern over the map and the assembled officers kept down its corners with the toes of their boots. They crowded around the circle of light as though straining to warm themselves at a fire. Corfe pointed out features with a broken stick.
“We are here, and the enemy is… there, or thereabouts. You’ve seen the light of their camp for yourselves. I reckon they’re less than half a day’s march away. They number a hundred and twenty-five thousand, one fifth of them cavalry. The Merduk khedive, Shahr Johor, is going to send this cavalry out on a flank march to the north, to come in on our left flank when we’ve engaged the main body, and roll us up. Hammer and anvil—simple, but effective. His cavalry consist of Ferinai, horse-archers, and mounted infantry who’ve been taken out of the Minhraib and armed with horse-pistols. The Ferinai are the core of the force. If we cripple them, the rest will crumble. They number only some eight thousand, for they lost a third of their men in the King’s Battle, attacking Aras and Formio.”
“And I suppose you can tell us what they’re going to have for breakfast in the morning,” Andruw said with a raised eye-brow. “General, we seem remarkably well-informed as to the enemy’s composition and intentions.”
“That is because I have managed to get hold of a copy of their battle-plan, Colonel,” Corfe said with a smile.
That raised a ripple of astonishment amongst the assembled officers. “Sir,” Aras began, “how—?”
Corfe held up a hand. “It’s enough that we possess it. Don’t trouble yourselves about how we came by it. I intend to detach the commands of Colonel Cear-Adurhal and Adjutant Formio to deal with this flank march. Attached to them will be Ranafast’s arquebusiers. This combined force will be under the overall command of Colonel Cear-Adurhal. It should be able to see the enemy cavalry off.”
“Of course. It’ll only be outnumbered three to one,” someone muttered.
“The Ferinai will be in the van. Andruw, if you can cripple them, the rest will fold too. I have it on good authority that the Minhraib—over a third of the Merduk army—have no stomach for this fight. The Sultan will be keeping them in reserve to the rear. There’s a good chance they’ll remain skulking there if they see things going badly.
“This is the line of the main body’s advance.” He traced it out on the map with his stick. “As you can see, they’re using the Western Road. What I intend to do is to take our own regulars up and, if we can, pitch into them whilst they’re still in march column; that way we’ll deal with them piecemeal.”
“Where do you think we’ll contact them?” Rusio asked.
“About here, at this crossroads.” Corfe peered more closely at the map. “Roughly where this little hamlet lies. Armagedir.”
“That’s an old name. It means Journey’s End in Old Normannnic,” said Andrew.
Corfe straightened. “Andruw, Formio and Ranafast—your task will be to rout the Merduk cavalry and then come in on the enemy flank, much as they were intending to do with us. On the success or failure of that manoevre the fate of the battle will hinge. Gentlemen, I can’t emphasise enough that we must rely on speed. There can be no foul-ups, no delays. What we lack in numbers, we must make up for in… in—”
“Alacrity?” Aras suggested.
“Aye. That’s the word. When we attack, we must follow up every enemy retreat, and give them no chance to re-form. If they manage to bring their numbers to bear, then they’ll swamp us. Those of you who were at Berrona will remember how we pitched into them while they were still struggling to get their boots on. We must do the same here. We cannot allow them a moment to take stock. This fact must be instilled all the way down the chain of command. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a collective murmur of assent.
“Good. I don’t have to point out to you that we have little in the way of reserves—”
“As usual,” someone said, and there was a rustle of laughter. Corfe smiled.
“That’s right. The line must not break. If it does, then it’s all over—for us, for your families, for our country. There will be no second chance.”
The faces grew sober again as this sank in. Corfe studied them all. Andruw, Formio, Ranafast, Rusio, Aras, Morin, Ebro and a dozen others. How many fewer would there be after this battle, which he meant to make the last? For once, he felt the burden of their lives and deaths heavy on his conscience. He was sure of one thing though: they were not fighting so that after the war lords in gilt carriages could dictate the running of their country. If they accomplished this feat, if they saved Torunna, then there would be many things that needed changing in this country. And they would have earned the right to make those changes.
“Very well, gentlemen. Reveille is two hours before dawn. Andruw, Formio and Ranafast: you know your orders. General Rusio, in the morning the main body will shake out straight into battle-line, and advance in that fashion. Mounted pickets out in front.”
Rusio nodded. Like the others, he was white-faced and determined. “When do you reckon we’ll run into them, sir?”
Corfe studied the map again. In his mind’s eye he saw the armies on the march, on a collision course. Like two shortsighted titans bent on violence.
“I reckon we’ll hit them just before noon,” he said.
Rusio nodded. “I wish you joy of the encounter, sir.”
“Thank you. Gentlemen, you know speech-making isn’t my bent. I don’t have to inspire you with rhetoric or inflame your spirits. We’re professionals at the end of the day, and we have a job ahead of us that cannot be shirked. Now go to your commands. I want your junior officers briefed, and then you can get some sleep. Good luck to all of you.”
“May God be with us,” someone said. Then they saluted him and filed away one by one. At last only Andruw remained. There was none of the accustomed levity on his face.
“You’re giving me the army, Corfe. Our army.”
“I know. They’re the best we’ve got, and they’ve been given the hardest job.”
Andruw shook his head. “It should be you leading them then. Where are you going to be? Stuck in the main body with the other footslogging regulars? Baby-sitting Rusio?”
“I need to keep an eye on him. He’s capable, but he’s got no imagination.”
“I’m not up to it, Corfe.”
“Yes, you are. You’re the best man I have.”
They faced each other squarely, without speaking. Then Andruw put out his hand. Corfe clasped it firmly. In the next instant they were embracing like brothers.
“You take care out there tomorrow,” Corfe said roughly.
“Look for me in the afternoon. I’ll be coming out of the west, yelling like a cat with its tail afire.” Then Andruw punched him playfully on the stomach and turned away. Corfe watched him retreating into the night, until he had disappeared into the fire and shadows of the sleeping army. He never saw Andruw alive again.
H E did the rounds of the camp that night, as he always did, having quiet words with the sentries, nodding to those soldiers who were lying staring at the stars, unable to sleep. Sharing gulps of wine with them, or old jokes. Once even a song.