‘Oh, bloody hell, Tunny. Why don’t you introduce yourselves to the corporal?’
‘Klige.’ Chubby-faced, with a big sty that had closed one eye and his strapping on the wrong way round.
‘Previous profession, Klige?’ asked Forest.
‘Was going to be a weaver, sir. But I hadn’t been ’prenticed more than a month before my master sold me out to the recruiter.’
Tunny gave a further grimace. The replacements they were getting lately were an insult to the bottom of the barrel.
‘Worth.’ The next was gaunt and bony with an ill-looking grey sheen to his skin. ‘I was in the militia and they disbanded the company, so we all got drafted.’
‘Lederlingen.’ A tall, rangy specimen with big hands and a worried look. ‘I was a cobbler.’ He offered no further detail on the mechanics of his entry into the King’s Own and Tunny’s head was hurting too much for him to pry. The man was here now, unfortunately for everyone involved.
‘Yolk.’ A short lad with a lot of freckles, dwarfed by his pack. He glanced guiltily about. ‘They called me a thief but I never done it. Judge said it was this or five year in prison.’
‘I rather think we may all come to regret that choice,’ grunted Tunny, though probably as a thief he was the only one with transferrable skills. ‘Why’s your name Yolk?’
‘Er … don’t know. Was my father’s name … I guess.’
‘Think you’re the best part of the egg, do you, Yolk?’
‘Well …’ He looked doubtfully at his neighbours. ‘Not really.’
Tunny squinted up at him. ‘I’ll be watching you, boy.’ Yolk’s bottom lip almost trembled at the injustice.
‘You lads stick close to Corporal Tunny here. He’ll keep you out of danger.’ Forest had a smile that was tough to define. ‘If there was ever a soldier for staying clear of danger, it’s Corporal Tunny. Just don’t play cards with him!’ he shouted over his shoulder as he made off through the shambles of ill-kempt canvas that was their camp.
Tunny took a deep breath, and stood. The recruits snapped to ill-coordinated attention. Or three of them did. Yolk followed up a moment later. Tunny waved them down. ‘For pity’s sake don’t salute. I might be sick on you.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I’m not sir, I’m Corporal Tunny.’
‘Sorry, Corporal Tunny.’
‘Now look. I don’t want you here and you don’t want to be here—’
‘I want to be here,’ said Lederlingen.
‘You do?’
‘Volunteered.’ A trace of pride in his voice.
‘Vol … un … teered?’ Tunny wrestled with the word as if it belonged to a foreign language. ‘So they do exist. Just make damn sure you don’t volunteer me for anything while you’re here. Anyway …’ He drew the lads into a conspiratorial huddle with a crooked finger. ‘You boys have landed right on your feet. I’ve done all kind of jobs in his Majesty’s army and this right here,’ and he pointed an affectionate finger at the standard of the First, rolled up safe under his hammock in its canvas cover, ‘this is a sweet detail. Now I may be in charge, that’s true. But I want you lads to think of me as, let’s say … your kindly uncle. Anything you need. Anything extra. Anything to make this army life of ours worth living.’ He leaned in closer and gave the suggestive eyebrows. ‘Anything. You can come to me.’ Lederlingen held up a hesitant finger. ‘Yes?’
‘We’re cavalrymen, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, trooper, we are.’
‘Shouldn’t we have horses?’
‘That’s an excellent question and a keen grasp of tactics. Due to an administrative error, our horses are currently with the Fifth, attached to Mitterick’s division, which, as a regiment of infantry, is not in a position to make best use of them. I’m told they’ll be catching up with us any day, though they’ve been telling me that a while. For the time being we are a regiment of … horseless horse.’
‘Foot?’ offered Yolk.
‘You might say that, except we still …’ and Tunny tapped his skull, ‘think like cavalry. Other than horses, which is a deficiency common to every man in the unit, is there anything else you need?’
Klige was next to lift his arm. ‘Well, sir, Corporal Tunny, that is … I’d really like something to eat.’
Tunny grinned. ‘Well, that’s definitely extra.’
‘Don’t we get food?’ asked Yolk, horrified.
‘Of course his Majesty provides his loyal soldiers with rations, Yolk, of course he does. But nothing anyone would actually want to eat. You get sick of eating things you don’t want to eat, well, you come to me.’
‘At a price, I suppose.’ Lederlingen, sour of face.
‘A reasonable price. Union coin, Northern coin, Styrian coin, Gurkish coin. Any kind of coin, in fact. But if you’re short of currency I’m prepared to consider all manner of things in trade. Arms salvaged from dead Northmen, for example, are popular at present. Or perhaps we can work on the basis of favours. Everyone has something to trade, and we can always come to some—’
‘Corporal?’ An odd, high, strained voice, almost like a woman’s, but it wasn’t a woman who stood behind Tunny when he turned, to his great disappointment if not surprise. It was a very large man, black uniform mud-spotted from hard riding, colonel’s markings at the sleeves, long and short steels of a businesslike design at his belt. His hair was shaved to stubble, dusted with grey at the ears and close to bald on top. Heavy-browed, broad-nosed and slab-jawed like a prizefighter, dark eyes fixed on Tunny. Perhaps it was his notable lack of neck, or the way the big knuckles stuck white from his clenched fists, or that his uniform looked as if it was stretched tight over rock, but even standing still he gave the impression of fearsome strength.
Tunny could salute with the very best when it seemed a wise idea, and now he snapped to vibrating attention. ‘Sir! Corporal Tunny, sir, standard-bearer of his Majesty’s First Regiment!’
‘General Jalenhorm’s headquarters?’ The newcomer’s eyes flicked over the recruits, as if daring them to laugh at his piping voice.
Tunny knew when to laugh, and now was not the moment. He pointed across the rubbish and tent-strewn meadow towards the farmhouse, smudges of smoke rising from the chimney and staining the bright sky. ‘You’ll find the general just there, sir! In the house, sir! Probably still in bed, sir!’
The officer nodded once then strode off, head down, in a way that suggested he’d simply walk through anything and anyone in his way.
‘Who was that?’ muttered one of the lads.
‘I believe that …’ Tunny let it hang in the air for a moment, ‘was Bremer dan Gorst.’
‘The one who fenced with the king?’
‘That’s right, and was his bodyguard until that mess in Sipani. Still has the king’s ear, some say.’ Not a good thing, that such a notable personage should be here. Never stand near anyone notable.
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure. But I hear he’s a hell of a fighter.’ And Tunny gave his front teeth a worried sucking.
‘Ain’t that a good thing in a soldier?’ asked Yolk.
‘Bloody hell, no! Take it from me, who’s lived through more than one melee, wars are hard enough work without people fighting in the middle of ’em.’ Gorst stalked into the front yard of the house, pulling something from his jacket. A folded paper. An order, by the look of it. He saluted the guards and went in. Tunny rubbed at his rebelling stomach. Something didn’t feel right, and not just last night’s wine.
‘Sir?’