The King looked intensely annoyed. “I quite understand your fear of sieges, General,” he said. “Your record in such engagements is known to all. However, the strategy of the army and the fleet has already been decided upon. Your comments are noted.”
If it’s decided already, then why are we here? What are we talking about? Corfe wondered furiously. The gibe about sieges had cut deep. He was the only man of the Aekir garrison to have survived, and he had done so by running away, fleeing along the Western Road in company with the rest of the civilian refugees whilst Mogen’s lieutenant, Sibastion Lejer, had led a last, hopeless stand west of the burning city. A senseless gesture. He might have brought eight or nine thousand men intact out of the wreck of Aekir, but he had chosen to die gloriously instead. Corfe did not admire a commander with a death wish. Not when it condemned the men under his command along with himself. Honour! This was war, not some vast tournament where points were awarded for quixotic gestures.
Admiral Berza met his eyes and made a small, hopeless gesture with one brown-skinned hand. So at least Corfe knew he was not alone in his thinking.
“With the addition of the forces which General Cear-Inaf recently brought into the capital,” Fournier was saying, “we have some thirty-five thousand men available for Torunn’s defence, not counting the sailors of the fleet. That is ample for our purposes. The Merduk armies will be broken before our walls. There will be no need to worry about supply bases then. Our main concerns will be the harrying of the defeated enemy, and the possibility of regaining Ormann Dyke. Aekir, I venture to say, sire, may well be lost for ever, but there is a good chance we can win back the land up to the Searil.”
“We quite agree,” the King said. “Now what concerns us today, gentlemen, is the organization of a field army which might be sent out after the Merduks are repulsed from the walls. General Menin.”
The corpulent general preened his magnificent moustache as he spoke. Perspiration gleamed on his bald scalp. “There are a few points which must be cleared up first, sire. The troops General Cear-Inaf commands must be integrated into the army, and that officer must be given a command more fitting his abilities.” Menin did not look down the table. “Adjutant Formio, I assume your men are at our disposal.”
The Fimbrian, dapper and composed in his sable uniform, frowned slightly. “That depends on what exactly you mean.”
“What I mean? What I mean, sir, is that your command is now under the aegis of the Torunnan crown. That is what I mean!”
“I must disagree. My marshal’s final orders were to place the command at the disposal of the officer who . . . came to our assistance. I take my orders from General Cear-Inaf, until I hear differently from my superiors in the electorates.”
Admiral Berza barked with laughter whilst Menin’s face grew purple. “Do you bandy words with me, sir? General Cear-Inaf is subject to the orders of the High Command, and the troops under him will be deployed as the High Command sees fit.”
The Fimbrian was unperturbed. “We will not serve under anyone else,” he said flatly.
The entire table, Corfe included, was taken aback by the statement. In the silence, Morin spoke up. “We tribesmen, also, will fight under no other.” He smiled, happy to have added his mote of discord.
“God’s blood, what is this?” Menin raged. “A God-damned mutiny?”
Old Ranafast, the hawk-faced survivor of the dyke’s garrison, had a predatory grin on his face. “I fear it could well be so, General. You see, I think I may say the same for the remnants of my own comrades. As far as I can make out, this High Command was going to abandon us as a lost cause whilst it sat safe behind these walls. Had it not been for Corfe—acting entirely on his own initiative—I would not be here, nor would five thousand of Martellus’s troops. The men are aware of this. They will not forget it.”
No one spoke. Menin appeared decidedly uneasy, and King Lofantyr was rubbing his chin with one hand, his gaze fixed on the papers before him.
“This . . . devotion is quite touching,” he said at last. “And laudable, to a degree. But it is hardly conducive to good discipline. Soldiers cannot pick and choose their officers, especially in time of war. They must obey orders. Do you not agree, General Cear-Inaf?”
“Yes, of course, sire.” Corfe knew what was coming, and he dreaded it. Lofantyr was not going to back away or smooth things over. The fool was going to assert the authority of the crown, and damn the consequences. His ego was too fragile to allow him to do otherwise.
“Then do as I say, General. Relinquish your command and submit yourself to the orders of your superiors.”
There it was, naked as a blade. No room for compromise or face-saving. Corfe hesitated. He felt there was a fork in the road before him, and what he said next would set him irrevocably on one path or the other. There would be no turning back. Every man in the room was looking at him. They knew also.
“Sire,” he said thickly, “I am your loyal subject—I always have been. I am yours to command.” Lofantyr began to beam. “But I have a responsibility to my men also. They have followed me faithfully, faced fearful odds, and seen their comrades fall around them whilst they did my bidding. Sire, I cannot betray their trust.”
“Obey my orders,” Lofantyr whispered. His face had gone pale as bone.
“No.”
Audible gasps around the table. Old Passifal, who had helped Corfe equip his men when no one else would, covered his face with his hands. Andruw, Formio and Morin were as rigid as statues, but Andruw’s foot was tap-tap-tapping under the table as though it did not belong to him.
“No? You dare to say that word to your King?” Lofantyr seemed torn between outrage and something akin to puzzlement. “General, do you understand me aright? Do you comprehend what I am saying?”
“I do, sire. And I cannot comply.”
“General Menin, explain to Cear-Inaf the meaning of the words ‘duty’ and ‘fealty,’ if you will.” The King’s voice was shaking. Menin looked as though he would rather have been left out of it. The colour was leaking from his cheeks.
“General, you have been given a direct order by your King,” he said, his gruff voice almost soft. “Come now. Remember your duty.”
His duty.
Duty had robbed him of his wife, his home, anything he had ever valued—even his honour. In return, he had been given the ability to inspire men, and lead them to victory. More than that: he had earned their trust. And he would not give that up. He would die first, because there was nothing else left for him in life.
“They are my men,” he said. “And by God, no one but me will command them.” And as he spoke, he realized that he had uttered a kind of inalienable truth. Something he would never compromise to the least degree.
“You are hereby stripped of your rank,” the King said in a strangled voice. His eyes gleamed with outrage and a wild kind of triumph. “We formally expel you from the ranks of our officers. As a private soldier, you will be placed under arrest for high treason and await court martial at our pleasure.”
Corfe made no answer. He could not speak.
“I think not,” a voice said. The King spluttered.
“What? Who—?”
Andruw grinned madly. “Arrest him, sire, and you must arrest us all. The men won’t stand for it, and I won’t be able to answer for their actions.”
“You pitiful barbarian rabble!” Lofantyr shouted, outraged. “We’ll slap them in irons and send them back to the galleys whence they came!”
“If you do, you will have two thousand Fimbrians storming this palace within the hour,” Formio said calmly.
The men at the King’s end of the table were stunned. “I—I don’t believe you,” Lofantyr managed.
“My race has never been known for idle boasting, my lord King. You have my word on it.”
“By God,” the King hissed, “I’ll have your heads on pikes before the day is out, you treacherous dogs. Guards! Guards!”
Admiral Berza leaned across his neighbour and grasped the King’s wrist. “Sire,” he said earnestly, “do not do this thing.”
The doors of the chamber burst open and a dozen Torunnan troopers rushed in, swords drawn.
“Arrest these men!” the King screamed, tugging his hand free of Berza’s grip and gesturing wildly with it.
The guards paused. Around the table were the highest ranking officers and officials in the kingdom. They were all silent. At last General Menin said: “Return to your posts. The King is taken poorly.” And when they stood, unsure, he barked like a parade-ground sergeant-major. “Obey my orders, damn it!”
They left. The doors closed.
“Sweet blood of the Blessed Saint!” the King exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “A conspiracy!”
“Shut up and sit down!” Menin yelled in the same voice. He might have been addressing a wayward recruit. Beside him, Colonel Aras was aghast, though the others present seemed more embarrassed than anything else.
Lofantyr sat down. He looked as though he might burst into tears.
“Forgive me, sire,” Menin said in a lower voice. His once ruddy face was the colour of parchment, as if he was realizing what he had just done. “This has gone quite far enough. I do not want the rank-and-file privy to our . . . disagreements. I am thinking of your dignity, the standing of the crown itself, and the good of the army. We cannot precipitate a war amongst ourselves, not at this time.” Sweat set his bald pate gleaming. “I am sure General Cear-Inaf will agree.” He looked at Corfe, and his eyes were pleading.
“I agree, yes,” Corfe said. His heart was thumping as though he were in the midst of battle. “Men say things in the heat of the moment which they would never otherwise contemplate. I must apologize, sire, for both myself and my officers.”
There was a long unbearable silence. The King’s breathing steadied. He cleared his throat. “Your apologies are accepted.” He sounded as hoarse as a crow. “We are unwell, and will retire. General Menin, you will conduct the meeting in our absence.”
He rose, and staggered like a drunken man. They all stood, and bowed as he wove his way to the door.
“Guards!” Menin called. “See the King to his chamber, and fetch the Royal physician to him. He is—he is unwell.”
The door closed, and they resumed their seats. None of them could meet one another’s eyes. They were like children who have caught their father in adultery.
“Thank you, General,” Corfe said finally.
Menin glared at his subordinate. “What else was I to do? Condone a civil war? The lad is young, unsure of himself. And we shamed him.”