Makri scowls. “But I - ”
“Enough, Ensign Makri.” Lisutaris holds up her hand again. “I’ve no time to discuss it further. I have to talk to three ambassadors in five minutes and you’re coming with me. Captain Thraxas, meet me at my command centre in one hour. Don’t be late.”
“I still don’t like this 'staying sober' business.”
“And you’ll both address me as Commander,” says Lisutaris. “You’re in the army now.”
The Head of the Sorcerers Guild sweeps out of the room, accompanied by a rather unhappy looking Makri. I exit swiftly myself. There’s a tavern not far from here. Best get a few beers inside me while I still have the chance.
Chapter Two
North of the capital, east of the river, the Samsarinan plain stretches out for thirty miles or so before the land starts to rise towards the hilly region that separate Samsarina from Simnia. Mostly it’s farmland, but for the moment much of it has been requisitioned by the King as a base. The military encampment is growing every day. The Samsarinan army is gathered in full force, and troops have been arriving from the smaller states in the south, like Hadassa and Namaste. There are a few more battalions from further west, though less than expected. That’s a common problem. Preparations have gone fairly smoothly, but every allied army that’s arrived has been smaller than hoped for. That includes the Elves. They’ve been making their way up from the Southern Isles in their long ships, but most islands are sending less than last time.
King Gardos of Samsarina can’t wait much longer for late arrivals. Soon we’ll be heading north-east to join up with the Simnian army, then on to meet the Niojans. Moving such vast forces, and keeping them supplied, presents many problems. The major western nations are used to it, however. Much of the logistical support is still in place from the last time we repelled an Orcish invasion, less than twenty years ago.
In the space between the long lines of military tents and the city walls, in a grove of trees now festooned with messages pinned onto boards, there’s a gathering point for refugees, recruits, and all the displaced persons made homeless by the war. Mercenaries and northern barbarians arrive to join up with the army. Others search for lost relatives, or just a place to stay for a while. In amongst the confused mass of people there’s a large, square tent over which flies a Turanian flag. Sitting at a table in front of the tent is an official from the remnants of the Turanian civil service, an ex-palace employee. He’s keeping records of all survivors who’ve made it this far. The entire population of Turai is either dead or homeless, and refugees have been straggling into Samsarina all through the winter. Men of military age are assigned to the surviving Turanian regiments, and the others are housed as best as can be arranged.
I’ve known the Turanian official for a long time. His name’s Dasinius. He was a senior scribe at the Imperial Palace back when I was employed there as an official investigator. We never liked each other. That doesn’t seem to matter much any more. With our city taken by the Orcs, old feuds have lost their importance. As I approach, he shakes his head wearily. He knows why I’m here. Every day I’ve checked to see if there might be any sign of Gurd, or Tanrose, my old friends from the Avenging Axe. I don’t have any particular hope of finding them alive. I was lucky to escape from the sack of Turai and there’s no reason to be optimistic about anyone else’s survival. Even so, I haven’t given up hope. Gurd is a tough man. He wouldn’t lay down his life easily. If he did manage to escape, it’s not impossible that he’d end up here. Simnia is closer to the borders of Turai but Turanians have never got on well with Simnians. They’d be more likely to head for Samsarina, even if it mean a longer march through the winter landscape.
Finding no sign of my old friends, I head inside the city walls and get myself outside of two tankards of beer. Good beer, I have to say. With plenty of fine farmland, the Samsarinans know how to grow high-quality hops and barley. I consider taking a third, but control myself. Probably I shouldn’t drink too much when I’m about to start my official duties with Lisutaris. Not on the same day she warned me about drinking too much anyway.
I make my way to her military headquarters, meanwhile musing on my unexpected promotion to Captain. I’ve been a soldier and a mercenary many times, but never an officer. The highest I rank I ever achieved was corporal in a phalanx, responsible for keeping my row of men in line. Despite my fighting experience, commanders never thought it appropriate to promote me further. Mostly down to class prejudice, I’d say. The blinkered aristocrats who get to be generals are rarely able to appreciate the finer qualities of a strong working man like myself.
“If they’d made me a General we probably wouldn’t be in this mess right now. Maybe I’ll get some respect now I’m a Captain.”
It’s odd that Makri is now also in the military, with the rank of Ensign. Not an especially high rank, but prestigious in her case because she’s the personal bodyguard of the War Leader. That’s too important a position for anyone to dismiss lightly. For the first time in her life, Makri has a position which demands respect, even from people who are suspicious of her. It should make her life easier, though I don’t expect it will re-assure everyone. Since she won the sword-fighting contest, I’ve heard whispers that she owes her fighting skill to some dread Orcish sorcery. It’s rumoured she can talk to dragons, and called one down to help her win the contest. All nonsense of course, though understandable in a way. Her incredible fighting prowess is difficult for people to understand in any normal terms.
I call in at one of the many supply depots set up around the city walls to pick up my military uniform. I hand over the signed authorisation from Lisutaris. The standard grey military tunic they give me has a flash of colour on the collar, a small rainbow with a sword laid over it.
“What’s that?”
“Badge of the Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment,” says the supply sergeant.
I’m frowning as I take the garment. Being a Captain is all very well, but in truth I’m not that keen on being in the Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment. Most of their work involves protecting sorcerers on the battlefield. It’s not so bad, I suppose, but it’s not ideal. People have been known to mock the SAR for not being proper soldiers. People like me, for instance. I don’t want to spend all my time shepherding hapless sorcerers around the place. It’s not as if every sorcerer is a big asset in wartime. A powerful magic-user like Lisutaris is invaluable of course, when there are dragons pouring out of the sky, but I’ve seen young sorcerers arrive on the battlefield full of themselves one minute, before turning tail the next as they realise they’re not up to the task.
I walk on, through the city gate, and along the road that leads to Lisutaris’s headquarters. The road is busy with supply wagons, messengers and government officials. Such is the bustle that I’m surprised, on presenting myself at the mansion, to be shown straight in. With so much going on I’d have expected to wait. Waiting a long time for anything is standard in wartime.
A Samsarinan corporal leads me along a corridor and up a broad flight of stairs. He does address me as Captain, noting the rank on my sleeve, but I’m not certain he’s as respectful as he should be. I’m shown into a waiting room and am once again surprised to be summoned right away. A young female sorcerer leads me through to a room where Lisutaris and Makri are standing in front of a large map, studying it intently. Lisutaris is draped in a plain grey cloak with the rainbow motif of the sorcerers guild embroidered discretely on each shoulder. Other than that, I can’t see any indication of her rank. Makri is wearing armour which looks suspiciously like the light Orcish armour she wore back in Turai, skilfully wrought from chainmail and leather. I’ve no idea where she might have obtained it from. One might have thought it would be more tactful not to wear Orcish armour, given the circumstances, but Makri isn’t known for her tact.