Ships from the West

Six

The Queen's chambers were a shadowed place. Despite the spring warmth of the air outside, there were fires burning in every massive hearth, and the ornate grilles that flanked each window were shut, letting in only a pale, mangled radiance that could barely compete with the blare of the firelight.

The ladies-in-waiting all had an attractive flushed look, and their low-cut gowns afforded an intriguing glimpse of the perspiration that gleamed in the hollows of their collar bones. Corfe tugged at his own tight-fitting collar and dismissed them as they hovered around, curtseying. 'Go on outside and get some air, for God's sake.'

'Sire, we-'

'Go, ladies; I'll square it with your mistress.'

More curtsies, and they whispered out, white hands flap shy;ping fan-like at their faces, long skirts hitched up as though they were tiptoeing through puddles. Corfe watched them go appreciatively, then collected himself.

'It's like a Macassian bath house in here!' he called. 'What new fad is this, lady?'

His wife appeared from the inner bedchamber. She had a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and she leaned on an ivory cane.

'Nothing that need concern a loutish peasant up from the provinces for the day,' she retorted, her voice dry and clear.

Corfe took her in his arms as carefully as though she were made of tinsel, and kissed her wrinkled forehead. It was marble-cold.

'Come now. It's Forialon these two sennights past. There are primroses out along the side of the Kingsway. What's with this skulking in front of a fire?'

Odelia turned away. 'So how was your jaunt up the road of memory? I trust Mirren enjoyed it.' She lowered herself into a well-stuffed chair by the fire, her blue-veined hands resting on top of her cane. As she did, a multi-legged, dark, furred ball skittered down the wall, climbed up her arm and nestled in the crook of her neck with a sound like a great cat's purr. A clutch of eyes shone like berries.

'It would do you good to take a jaunt yourself.'

Odelia smiled. Her hair, once shining gold, had thinned and greyed, and her years sat heavily in the lines and folds of her face. Only her eyes seemed unchanged, green as a shallow sea in sunlight, and bright with life.

'I am old, Corfe. Let me be. You cannot fight time as though it were a contending army. I am old, and powerless. What gifts I possessed went into Mirren. I would have made her a boy if I could, but it was beyond me. The male line of Fantyr has come to an end. Mirren will make someone a grand queen one day, but Torunna must have a king to rule, always. We both know that only too well.'

Corfe strode to a shuttered window and pulled back the heavy grilles, letting in the sun, and a cool breeze from off the Kardian in the east. He stared down at the sea of roofs below, the spires of the Papal Palace down by the square. The tower wherein he stood was two hundred feet high, but still he could catch the cacophony of sellers hawking their wares in the marketplace, the rattle of carts moving over cobbles, the bray shy;ing of mules.

'We made slow going of it for the first few days,' he said lightly. 'It is incredible how quickly nature buries the works of man. The old Western Road has well-nigh disap shy;peared.'

'A very good point. Our job here is to prevent nature bury shy;ing our works after we are gone.'

'We've been over this,' he said wearily.

'And will go over it again. Speaking of burying things, my time on this goodly earth is running out. I have months left, not years-'

'Don't talk like that, Odelia.'

'And you must start to think of marrying again. It's all very well making these pilgrimages to the past, but the future bears looking at also. You need a male heir. Lord God, Corfe, look at the way the world is turning. Another conflict ripens at long last to bloody fruition, one whose climax could make the Merduk Wars look like a skirmish. The battles may have already begun, off Hebrion, or even before Gaderion. When you take to the field, all that is needed is one stray bullet to lose this war. Without you, this kingdom would be lost. Do not let what you have achieved turn to dust on your death.'

'Oh, it's my death now. A fine conversation for a spring morning.'

'You have sired no bastards – I know that – but I almost wish you had. Even an illegitimate male heir would be better than none.'

'Mirren could rule this kingdom as well as any man, given time,' Corfe said heatedly. Again, Odelia smiled.

'Corfe, the soldier-king, the iron general. Whose sun rises and sets on his only daughter. Do not let your love blind you, my dear. Can you see Mirren leading armies?'

He had no reply for that. She was right, of course. But the simple thought of remarrying ripped open the scars of old wounds deep in his soul. Aurungzeb, Sultan of Ostrabar, had two children by – by his queen, and several more by various concubines it was said. Nasir, the only boy, was almost seventeen now, and Corfe had met him several times on state visits to Aurungabar. Black-haired, with sea-grey eyes – and the dark complexion of a Merduk. A son to be proud of. The girl was a couple of years younger, though she remained cloistered away in the manner of Merduk ladies.

Their mother, too, rarely left the confines of the harem these days. Corfe had not seen her in over sixteen years, but once upon a time, in a different world it seemed, she had been his wife, the love of his life. Yes, that old scar throbbed still. It would heal only when his heart stopped.

'You have a list, no doubt, of eligible successors.'

'Yes. A short one, it must be said. There is a dearth of princesses at present.'

He laughed, throwing his head back like a boy. 'What does the world come to? So who is head of your list? Some pale Hebrian maiden? Or a dark-eyed matron of Astarac?'

'Her name is Aria. She is young, but of excellent lineage, and her father is someone we must needs bind to us with every tie we can at the present time.'

'Abeleyn? Mark?' Corfe was puzzled.

'Aurungzeb, you fool. Aria is his only daughter by his Ramusian-born queen, sister to his heir, and hence a princess of the Royal blood. Marry her, and you bind Torunna and Ostrabar together irrevocably. Sire children on her and-'

'No.'

'What? I haven't finished. You must-'

'I said no. I will not marry this girl.' He turned from the window and his face was bloodless as chalk. 'Find another.'

'I have already put out diplomatic feelers. Her father ap shy;proves the match. Your issue would join the Royal houses of Ostrabar and Torunna for all time – our alliance would be rendered unbreakable.'

'You did this without my permission?'

'I am still Torunna's Queen!' she lashed out, some of the old fire flashing from her marvellous eyes. 'I do not need your permission every time I piss in a pot!'

'You need it for this,' he said softly, and his own eyes were winter-cold, hard as flint.

'What is your objection? The girl is young, admittedly, but then I'm not quite dead yet. She is a rare beauty by all accounts, the very image of her mother, and sweet-natured to boot.'

'By God you're well-informed.'

'I make it my business to be.' Her voice softened. 'Corfe, I'm dying. Let me do this last thing for you, for the kingdom. I know I have not been much of a wife to you these last years-'

He strode from the window and knelt on one knee beside her chair. The skin of her face was gossamer thin under his hand. He felt that she might blow away in the breeze from the windows. 'You've been a wife and more than a wife. You've been a friend and counsellor, and a great queen.'

'Then grant me this last wish. Keep Torunna together.

Marrv this girl. Have a son – a whole clutch of sons. You also are mortal.'

'What about Mirren?'

'She must marry young Nasir.'

He shut his eyes. The old pain burned, deep in his chest. That one he had seen coming. But marry Heria's daughter -his own wife's child? Never.

He rose, his face like stone. 'We will discuss this another time, lady.'

'We are discussing it now.'

‘I think not.' Turning on his heel he left the darkened chamber without a backward glance.

A courtier was waiting for him outside. 'Sire, I've been instructed by Colonel Heyn to tell you that the couriers are in with dispatches from Gaderion.'

'Good. I'll meet them in the Bladehall. My compliments to the colonel, and he is to join me there as soon as he can. The same message to General Formio and the rest of the High Command.' The courtier saluted and fled.

Corfe's personal bodyguard, Felorin, caught up with him in the corridor as he strode along with his boots clinking on the polished stone. Not a word was spoken as the pair made their way through the Queen's wing to the palace proper. There were fewer courtiers than there had been in King Lofantyr's day, and they were clad in sober burgundy. When the King passed them they each saluted as soldiers would. Only the court ladies were as finely plumaged as they had ever been, and they collapsed delicately into curtsies as Corfe blew past. He nodded to them but never slowed his stride for an instant.

They crossed the Audience Hall, their footsteps echoing in its austere emptiness, and the palace passageways and cham shy;bers grew less grand, older-looking. There was more timber and less stone. When the Fimbrians had built the Palace of Torunn it had been the seat of the Imperial Governor, who was also the general of a sizeable army. This area of the complex had originally been part of that army's barracks, but until Corfe came to the throne had been used mainly as a series of storerooms. Corfe had restored it to its original purpose, and housed within it now were living quarters for five hundred men – the Bodyguard of the King. These were volunteers from the army and elsewhere who had passed a rigorous training regimen designed by Corfe himself. Within their ranks served Fimbrians, Torunnans, Cimbric tribesmen, and even a sizeable element of Merduks. In garrison they dressed in sable and scarlet surcoats, the old 'blood and bruises' that John Mogen's men had once worn. In the field they rode heavy warhorses – even the Fimbrians – and were armed with wheel-lock pistols and long sabres. Both they and their steeds were accustomed to wearing three-quarter ar shy;mour, which Torunnan smiths had tempered so finely that it would turn even an arquebus ball. On the breastplate of every man's cuirass was a shallow spherical indentation where this had been put to the test.

'Where is Comillan today?' Corfe barked to Felorin.

'On the Proving Grounds, with the new batch.'

'And Formio?'

'On his way in from Menin Field.'

'We'll get there first then. Run ahead, Felorin, and set up the Bladehall for a conference. Maps of the Torrin Gap, a clear sand-table and some brandy – you know the drill.'

Felorin gave his monarch a strange look, though his tattoo shy;ing rendered his expression hard to read at the best of times. 'Brandy?'

'Yes, damn it. I could do with one. Now cut along.'

Felorin took off at a run, whereas Corfe's pace slowed. Finally he halted, and propped himself by a windowsill which looked out on the Proving Grounds below where a new set of recruits were being put through their paces. The glass was blurred with age but he was able to make out the man-high wooden posts sunk in the ground, and the lines of sweating men who hacked at them with the arm-killing practice swords whose blunt blades housed a core of lead. They had to strike defined spots at shoulder, waist and knee height on the right and then the left sides of the iron-hard old posts, and keep doing it until their palms blistered and the sweat ran in their eyes and their backs were raw masses of screaming muscle. Over thirty years before, Corfe had stood out there and hacked at those same posts while the drill sergeants had shouted and jeered at him. Some things, at least, did not change.

The Bladehall was new, however. A long, vaulted, church shy;like building, Corfe had had it constructed after the Battle of the Torian Plains ten years before, close to the old Quarter shy;master Stores where he had once found five hundred sets of Merduk armour mouldering and used them to arm his first command. He disliked using the old conference chambers for staff meetings because they were in the palace, and curious courtiers and maids were always in and out. Though Odelia might remind him tartly that the older venue had been good enough for Kaile Ormann himself, Corfe felt a need to break with the past. He also wanted to create somewhere for the officers of the army to come together without the inevitable delays that entering the palace complex entailed. Deep down, he also welcomed any opportunity to get out of the palace himself, even now.

Still a peasant with mud under my nails, after all this time, he thought with sour satisfaction.

Along the walls of the Bladehall were ranged suits of antique armour and weapons, tapestries and paintings depict shy;ing past battles and wars won and lost. And near the massive timber beams that supported the roof were hung the war banners and flags of generations of Torunnan armies. They had been found scattered in storerooms throughout the palace complex after Corfe had become king. Some were tattered and rotting but others, crafted of finest silk and laid aside with more care, were as whole as the day they had waved overhead on a shot-torn field.

Set into the walls were hundreds of scroll pigeonholes, each of which held a map. On the upper galleries there were shelves of books also: manuals, histories, treatises on tactics and strategy. Several sycophantic nobles had begged Corfe to write a general treatise on war years ago, but he had curtly refused. He might be a successful general, but he was no writer – and he would not dictate his clumsy sentences to a scribe so that some inky-fingered parasite might polish them up for public consumption afterwards.

Hung above the lintel of the huge fireplace at one end of the hall was John Mogen's sword, the Answerer. Corfe had carr shy;ied it at the North More, at the King's Battle, and at Armagedir. A gift from the Queen, it had hung there with the firelight playing upon it for a decade now, for Torunna's King had not taken to the field in all that time.

There were large tables ringed with chairs set about the floor of the lower Bladehall, and seated at these were several young men in Torunnan military uniform, trying hard to ignore the two muddy couriers who stood wearily to one side. Corfe encouraged his officers to come in here and read when they were off duty, or to study tactical problems on the long sand-table that stood in one of the side chambers. Attendants were permanently on hand to serve food and drink in the small adjoining refectory, should that be required. In this way, among others, Corfe had tried to encourage the birth of a more truly professional officer class, one based on merit and not on birth or seniority. All officers were equal when they stepped over the threshold of the Bladehall, and even the most junior might speak freely. More importantly, perhaps, the gratuities which army commanders had tradi shy;tionally accepted in return for the granting of commissions had been stamped out. All would-be commanders started as lowly ensigns attached to an infantry tercio, and they sweated it out in the Proving Grounds the same as all other new recruits. Strange to say, once Corfe had instituted this reform, the proportion of gallant young blue-bloods joining the army had plummeted. He smiled at the thought.

There was as yet no formal military academy in Torunna, as existed in Fimbir, but it was something Corfe had been mulling over in his mind for several years. Though he was an almost absolute ruler, he still had to bear in mind the views of the important families of the kingdom. They would never dare to take the field against him again, but their opposition to many of his policies had been felt in subtler ways. They would see an academy of war as a means to build up a whole new hierarchy in the kingdom, based not on blood but on military merit. And they would be right.

The young men in the Bladehall ceased their reading. They stood up as Corfe entered and he returned their salutes. The two couriers doffed their helms.

'Your names?'

'Gell and Brinian, sir. Dispatches from-'

'Yes, I know. Give them here.' Corfe was handed two leather cylinders. The same dispatch would be in both. 'Any problems on the road?'

'No, sir. Some wolves near Arboronn, but we outran them.'

'When did you leave Gaderion?'

'Five days ago.'

'Good work, lads. You look all in. Tell the cooks here to give you whatever you want, and change into some fresh clothes. I will need you back here later, but for now get some rest.' The couriers saluted and, gathering up their muddy cloaks, they left for the refectory. Corfe turned to the other occupants of the hall, who had not moved.

'Brascian, Phelor, Grast.' These three were standing to shy;gether. At a table alone stood a dark young officer of medium height. Corfe frowned. 'Ensign, forgive me, I do not recall your name.'

The youngster stiffened further. 'Ensign Baraz, your ma shy;jesty. We have not yet met.'

'Officers simply call me "sir" in garrison. Are you part of the Ostrabarian Baraz family?'

'My mother's brother was Shahr Baraz, the Queen's body shy;guard, and my grandfather was the same Shahr Baraz who took Aurungabar, your- sir. I kept the Baraz name as I was the last male of the line.'

'It was called Aekir then. I do not know your uncle, but your grandfather was an able general, and a fine man by all accounts.' Corfe stared closely at Baraz. 'How is it that you are become an ensign in the Torunnan army?'

'I volunteered, sir. General Formio inducted me himself, not three months ago.'

When Corfe said nothing Baraz spoke up again. 'My family has been out of favour at the Ostrabarian court for many years. It is known all over the east that you will take loyal men of any race into your forces. I would like to try for the Bodyguard, sir.'

'You will have to gain some experience then. Have you completed your Provenance?'

'Yes, sir. Last week’

'Then consider yourself attached to the General Staff for the moment. We're short of interpreters.' 'Sir, I would much prefer to be attached to a tercio.' 'You'll follow orders, Ensign.' The young man seemed to sag minutely. 'Yes, sir.' Corfe kept his face grave.

'Very good. There's to be a conference of the staff here in a few minutes. You may sit in.' He nodded to the other three officers who were still ramrod straight. 'As may you, gentle shy;men. It will do you good to see the wrangling of the staff, though you will of course say nothing of what you hear to anyone. Clear?'

A chorus of yes sirs and a bobbing of heads and hastily smothered grins.

Menin Field was the name given to the new parade grounds which had been flattened out to the north of Torunn. They covered hundreds of acres, and allowed vast formations to be marched and counter-marched without terrain disordering the ranks. At their northern end a tall plinth of solid stone stood dark and sombre: a monument to the war dead of the country. It towered over the drilling troops below like a watchful giant, and it was said that in times of trouble the shadows of past armies would gather about it in the night, ready to serve Torunna again.

General Formio raised his eyes from the courier-borne note to the knot of officers who sat their horses around him.

‘I am wanted by the King; news from the north, it seems. Colonel Melf, you will take over the remainder of the exercise. Gribben's tercios are still a shambles. They will continue to

drill until they can perform open order on the march without degenerating into a rabble. Gentlemen, carry on.' He wheeled his horse away to a flurry of salutes.

Formio had years before bowed to necessity, and went mounted now like all other senior officers. He was Corfe's second-in-command in Torunn, and had been for so long now that people almost forgot he was a foreigner, a Fimbrian no less. He had changed little since the Merduk Wars. His hair had gone grey at the temples and his old wounds ached in the winter, but otherwise he was as hale as he had been before Armagedir, from whose field he had been plucked broken and dying sixteen years before. Queen Odelia had saved his life, and her ladies-in-waiting had nursed him through a series of fevered relapses. But he had survived, and Junith, one of those ladies, had become his wife. He had two sons now, one of whom would be of an age to begin his Provenance in another couple of years. He was not unique: almost all the Fimbrians who had survived Armagedir had taken Torunnan wives.

Of the circle of officers and friends which had surrounded the King in those days only he and Aras now remained, and Aras was up in the north holding Gaderion and the Torrin Gap against the Himerians. But there were fresh faces in the army now, a whole host of them. An entirely new generation of officers and soldiers had filled the ranks. They had been youngsters when Aekir had fallen, and the savage struggle to overcome the hosts of Aurungzeb was a childhood story, or something to be read in a book or celebrated in song. In the subsequent years the Merduks had become Torunna's allies. They worshipped the same God, and the same man as his messenger. Ahrimuz or Ramusio, it was all one. There were Merduk bishops in the Macrobian Church, and Torunnan clerics prayed in the temple of Pir-Sar in Aurungabar, which had once been the cathedral of Carcasson. And in the very Bodyguard of King Corfe himself, Merduks served with hon shy;our.

But the years of near-peace had bred other legacies. The Torunnan army had been a formidable force back in King Lofantyr's day; now it was widely held to be invincible.

Formio was not so sure. A certain amount of complacency had crept through the ranks in recent years. And more im shy;portantly, the number of veterans left in those ranks was dwindling fast. He had no doubts about his own countrymen – war ran in their blood. And the tribesmen who made up the bulk of the Cathedrallers viewed war as a normal way of life. But the Torunnans were different. Fully three quarters of those now enrolled in the army had never experienced the reality of combat.

It had been ten years since the Himerians had sent an army into the Torrin Gap. There had been no effort at diplomacy, no warning. It was obvious to the world that the regime which was headed by one pontiff could never recognise or treat with the regime which protected another.

The enemy had advanced tentatively, feeling their way eastwards. Corfe had moved with breakneck speed, a forced march out of Torunn that left a tenth of the army by the side of the road, exhausted. He had not paused, but had launched into the enemy with the Cathedrallers and the Orphans alone, and had thrown them back over the Torian Plains with huge loss. Formio remembered the wreckage of the Knights Mili shy;tant as they counter-charged his lines of pikes with suicidal courage but little tactical insight. The big horses, disem shy;bowelled and screaming. Their riders pinned by the weight of their armour, trampled to a bloody mire as the Cathedral shy;lers rode over them to finish the job. The Battle of the Torian Plains seemed to have given the Himerian leadership pause for thought. It was said that the mage Bardolin had been present in person, though it had never been confirmed.

Not once since then had there been a general engagement. The enemy had built outposts of stone and timber and turf and had advanced them as far into the foothills as he dared, but he had not cared to risk another full-scale battle. The Thurian Line, as this system of fortifications had come to be known, now marked the border between Torunna and the Second Empire.

Ten years, and another turnover of faces. The men of the Torunnan army were as well trained as a professional like

King Corfe could make them, but they were essentially unblooded.

This was about to change.

In the Bladehall the fires had been lit and the map-table was dominated by a representation of Barossa, the land bounded by the Searil and Torrin rivers to east and west, and by the Thurians in the north. Blue and red counters were dotted about the map like gambling tokens. In some respects, Formio thought grimly, that is what they were.

'How are they shaping up, General?' Corfe asked the Fimb-rian. He held an empty brandy glass in one fist and a crumpled dispatch in the other. Surrounding him were a cluster of other officers, several of whom looked as though they had yet to start shaving.

'They're good, but only on a parade ground. Take them out in the rough and their formations go all to pieces. They need more field manoeuvres.'

Corfe nodded. 'They will get them soon enough. Gentle shy;men, we have dispatches just in from Aras in the north. The Sea of Tor is now largely clear of ice, and Himerian transports are as thick upon it as flies on jam. The enemy is massively reinforcing his outposts in the gap. At least two other armies are marching down from Tarber and Finnmark. They began crossing the Tourbering river on the fifteenth.'

'Any idea about numbers, sir?' a squat, brutal-looking officer asked.

'The Finnmarkan and Tarberan forces total at least forty thousand men. Added to the troops already in position, and I believe we could well be talking in the region of seventy thousand.'

There was a murmur of dismay. Aras had less than half that in Gaderion.

'It will take them at least four or five days to cross the river. Aras sent out a flying column last month which burned the bridges, and the Tourbering is in full spate with the meltwater from the mountains.'

'But once they're across,' the squat officer pointed out,

'they'll make good time across the plains south of there. Any word on composition, sir?'

'Very little, Comillan. Local intelligence is poor. We do know that King Skarp-Hedin is present in person, as is Prince Adalbard of Tarber. The northern principalities have historically been weak in cavalry. Their backbone is heavy infantry.'

'Gallowglasses,' someone said, and Corfe nodded.

'Old-fashioned, but still effective, even against horse. And their skirmishers continue to use javelins. Good troops for rough ground, but not of much account in the open. My guess is that the Himerians will send out a screen of the light northern troops before probing with their heavies.'

They all stared at the map and its counters. Now the red blocks laid square across the inked line of the Tourbering river had a distinctively menacing air. Similar blocks were set in a line north-east of the Sea of Tor. Opposing them all was the single blue square of Aras's command.

'If that's their plan, then it buys us some time,' Formio said, breaking the silence. 'The northerners will be almost two weeks marching across the Torian Plains.'

'Yes,' Corfe agreed. 'Enough time for us to reinforce Aras. I plan to transport many of our own troops upon the Torrin, which will save time, and wear and tear on the horses.'

'This is it then, Corfe?' Formio asked. 'The general mobilisa shy;tion?'

Corfe met his friend's eye. 'This is it, Formio. All roads, it seems, lead to the gap. They may try and sneak a few columns through the southern foothills, but the Cimbriani will help take care of those. And Admiral Berza is liaising with the Nalbeni in the Kardian to protect that southern flank.'

'Bad terrain,' Comillan said. His black eyes were hooded and he tugged at the ends of his heavy moustache reflectively. "Those foothills up around Gaderion are pretty broken. The cavalry will be next to useless, unless we remount them on goats.'

1 know’ Corfe told him. 'They've pushed their outposts right up to the mountains, so we've little room to manoeuvre unless we abandon Gaderion and fall back to the plains below. And that, gentlemen, will not happen.'

'So we're on the defensive, then?' a voice asked. The senior officers turned. It was Ensign Baraz. His fellow subalterns stared at him in shock for a second and then stood wooden and insensible. One moved slightly on the balls of his feet, as though he would like to be physically disassociated from his colleague's temerity.

'Who in hell-?' Comillan began angrily, but Corfe held up a hand.

'Is that your conclusion, Ensign?'

The young man flushed. 'Our forces have been brought up thinking of the offensive, sir. It's how they are trained and equipped.'

'And yet their greatest victories have been defensive ones.' 'The strategic defensive, sir, but always the tactical offens shy;ive.'

Corfe smiled. 'Excellent. Gentlemen, our young friend has hit the nail on the head. We are fighting to defend Torunna, as we once fought to defend it from his forefathers – but we did not win that war by sitting tight behind stone walls. We must keep the enemy off-balance at all times, so that he can never muster his strength sufficiently to land a killer blow. To do that, we must attack.'

'Where, sir?' Comillan asked. 'His outposts are well sited. The Thurian Line could soak up an assault of many thousands.'

'His outposts should be assaulted if possible, and in some force. But that is not where I intend the heaviest blow to fall.' Corfe bent his head. 'Where could we do the most damage, eh? Think.'

The assembled officers were silent. Corfe met Formio's eyes. The two of them had already discussed this in private, and had violently disagreed, but the Fimbrian was not going to say a word.

'Charibon,' Ensign Baraz said at last. 'You're going to make for Charibon.'

A collective hiss of indrawn breath. 'Don't be absurd, boy,' Comillan snapped, his black eyes flashing. 'Sir-'

'The boy is right, Comillan.'

The commander of the Bodyguard was shocked speechless. 'It can't be done,' someone said.

'Why not?' Corfe asked softly. 'Don't be shy now, gentle shy;men. List me the reasons.'

'First of all,' Comillan said, 'the Thurian Line is too strong to be quickly overrun. We would take immense casualties in a general assault, and a battering by artillery would give the enemy enough time to bring up masses of reinforcements, or even build a second line behind the first. And the terrain. As was said earlier, our shock troops need mobility to be most effective. You cannot throw cavalry, or even pikemen, at solid walls, or over broken ground.'

'Correct. But forget about the Thurian Line for a moment. Let us talk about Charibon itself. What problems does it pose?'

'A large garrison, sir?' one of the ensigns ventured.

'Yes. But don't forget that most of the troops about the monastery-city will be drawn eastwards to assault Gaderion. Charibon is largely unwalled. What defences it has were built in the second century, before gunpowder. As fortresses go, it is very weak, and could be taken without a large siege train.'

'But to get to it you would have to force the passage of the Thurian Line anyway,' Colonel Heyd of the cuirassiers pointed out. 'And to do that, Charibon's held armies would have to be destroyed. We have not the men for it.'

'I had not finished, Heyd. Charibon's man-made defences may be weak, but her natural ones are formidable. Look here.' Corfe bent over the map on the table. 'To the east and north she is shielded by the Sea of Tor. To the south-east, the Cimbrics. Only to the west and north are there easy ap shy;proaches for an attacking army, and even then the northern approach is crossed by the line of the Saeroth river. Charibon does not need walls. It is guarded by geography. On the other hand, if the city were suddenly attacked, with its forces heavily engaged to the east in the Torrin Gap, then the enemy would have an almost impossible time recalling them to her defence. The problems bedevilling an attacker would sud shy;denly be working against the defender. The only swift way to recall them would be to transport them back across the Sea of Tor in ships. And ships can be burnt'

'All well and good, sir,' Comillan said, clearly exasperated, 'if our troops could fly. But they can't. There are no passes in the Cimbrics that I know of. How else do you suggest we transport them?'

'What if there were another way to get to Charibon, bypass shy;ing the Thurian Line?'

Dawning wonder on all their faces save Formio's.

'Is there such a way, sir?' Comillan asked harshly.

'There may be. There may be. The point is, gentlemen, that we cannot afford a war of attrition. We are outnumbered, and as Ensign Baraz pointed out, on the defensive. I do not want to go hacking at the tail of the snake -I intend to cut off its head. If we destroy the Himerian Triumvirate, this continent-wide empire of theirs will fall apart.'

He straightened up from the map and stared at them all intently. 'I intend to lead an army across the Cimbrics, to assault Charibon from the rear.'

No one spoke. Formio stared at the map, at the line of the Cimbrics drawn in heavy black ink. They were the highest peaks in the world, it was said, and even in spring the snow on them lay yards deep.

'At the same time,' Corfe went on calmly, 'Aras will assault the Thurian Line. He will press the assault with enough vigour to persuade the enemy that it is a genuine attempt to break through to the plains beyond, but what he will actually be doing is drawing off troops from the defence of the monastery-city. A third operation will be a raid on the docks at the eastern end of the Sea of Tor. The enemy transport fleet must be destroyed. That done, and we have him like a bull straddling a gate.'

'But first the Cimbrics must be crossed,' Formio said.

'Yes. And of that I shall say no more at present. But make no mistake, gentlemen, we must win this war quickly. The first battles have already begun. I have communications from the west to the effect that the fleet of the Grand Alliance is about to go into action. A Fimbrian embassy has been reported at ,

Charibon. It is likely that Himerian troops have been granted passage through Fimbria to attack Hebrion, and we know they are massing on the borders of eastern Astarac. We are not alone in this war, but we are the only kingdom with the necessary forces to win it.'

Formio continued to stare at his king and friend. He drew close. 'No retreat, Corfe,' he said in a pleading murmur. 'If you fail in front of Charibon, there is no retreat.'

'What of the Fimbrians?' Heyd, the square, straight-lipped officer who was commander of the Torunnan cuirassiers asked.

'They are the great unknown quantity in this equation. Clearly, they favour the Empire for the moment, but only because they consider our armies to be the greater threat. I believe they think they can manage Aruan – consider how easy it would be for them to send a host eastwards to sack Charibon. If we are considering it, you may be sure they have. No, they want the Empire to break us down, along with the other members of the Alliance, and then they will strike, thinking to rebuild their ancient hegemony out of the ruins of a war-torn continent. They are mistaken. Once the true scale of this war becomes apparent, I am hoping they will think again.'

'And if they don't?' Formio asked, looking his king in the eye.

'Then we'll have to beat them as well.'