would be emplaced there.
Sappers had erected a pavilion against the Housecarls’ headquarters car, and set up a battlefield-consultant beneath the canvas. Wan red light leaked from the entrance slit. Ahasz pushed between the curtains of cloth, reflected sourly that the scarlet-jacketed officers were made indistinct in the crimson lighting, and stepped forward to the battlefield-consultant. Its table-top glass displayed a map of the environs, but no new intelligence had been added.
Leaning forward, hands flat on the glass, he looked up at his officers—Housecarls lieutenant-colonels and regimental-majors; captains of his household troops. For one brief moment, a black shroud seemed to settle over the faces gazing back at him, causing features to blanch and ossify, shadows to gather beneath noses and eyes. He blinked. And it was gone, the bloody light back once again.
He took in their expressions of martial eagerness, not the least blunted by the earlier carnage, and was momentarily offended by it. Some of these, he told himself, would die within the next few days. Yet they clearly felt they were invulnerable, immortal. They were driven as much by a desire for glory as by loyalty to the duke and his cause.
Cannons were indiscriminate killers, but in combat the enemy was personal. An ineffable belief in their prowess with a sword was all the armour these men and women required. They knew themselves to be skilled—amongst the best, even. Yes, the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls enjoyed a reputation as a fearsome fighting force. It was also large: twelve full-strength battalions. Ahasz knew the reputation to be historical—the Housecarls had not fought a real battle in over four hundred years. The size, he suspected, was more a result of the regiment’s duty to protect Shuto, its proximity to the Imperial Court, than of its reputation.
“Gentlemen, ladies,” Ahasz said, slowly, a little tiredly. “You know the situation. We had not anticipated such fierce resistance. Or so many defenders.” The thought reminded him. He paused, peered through the red gloom, scanning each officer’s face. “Narry?” demanded. “Where are you, man?”
A tall lieutenant-colonel with a long face, and pendulous lips hidden beneath a moustache in need of trimming, raised a hand and smiled inanely.
“You’re Narry?” The duke stared at the Housecarl. His likeness prompted a surge of anger—the foolish features, the tremulous mouth. The man looked a buffoon. Ahasz welcomed the fury: he could not win this battle with officers such as Narry under his command. The sooner the others realised that, the better for all. “Tell me, Narry,” Ahasz said, striving for a conversational tone, “where is the battalion of Cuirassiers which was stationed in the garrison?”
“I don’t know, your grace.” The lieutenant-colonel shrugged. “They were sent on manoeuvres earlier today.”
“And the Palace Artillery? Where might they be?”
Narry blinked, recognising that the answer was obvious. “They were sent on manoeuvres too.” He gave a nervous cough. “But they’re in the Palace now.”
“So—” Ahasz stopped and reined in his temper. “So, might we suppose the Cuirassiers are with them? In the Palace?”
Another shrug. “A reasonable assumption, your grace.”
“You—” The duke slammed a hand down on the battlefield-consultant. “I should have you hung, Narry,” he growled. “Instead, you will redeem yourself:
“At first light, you will take a pair of your companies and rush the entrance to the Palace. Try and keep as many of your men alive as possible. I need to know how sharp are the Artillery, and what it will take to pull the knights out of the mountain.”
“But your grace!” protested Narry, straightening in surprise, “My men will be wiped out!”
“Indeed they will.” Ahasz’s voice hardened. “And solely because you were too damned idiotish to mark the removal of the Artillery and the Cuirassiers
Sappers had erected a pavilion against the Housecarls’ headquarters car, and set up a battlefield-consultant beneath the canvas. Wan red light leaked from the entrance slit. Ahasz pushed between the curtains of cloth, reflected sourly that the scarlet-jacketed officers were made indistinct in the crimson lighting, and stepped forward to the battlefield-consultant. Its table-top glass displayed a map of the environs, but no new intelligence had been added.
Leaning forward, hands flat on the glass, he looked up at his officers—Housecarls lieutenant-colonels and regimental-majors; captains of his household troops. For one brief moment, a black shroud seemed to settle over the faces gazing back at him, causing features to blanch and ossify, shadows to gather beneath noses and eyes. He blinked. And it was gone, the bloody light back once again.
He took in their expressions of martial eagerness, not the least blunted by the earlier carnage, and was momentarily offended by it. Some of these, he told himself, would die within the next few days. Yet they clearly felt they were invulnerable, immortal. They were driven as much by a desire for glory as by loyalty to the duke and his cause.
Cannons were indiscriminate killers, but in combat the enemy was personal. An ineffable belief in their prowess with a sword was all the armour these men and women required. They knew themselves to be skilled—amongst the best, even. Yes, the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls enjoyed a reputation as a fearsome fighting force. It was also large: twelve full-strength battalions. Ahasz knew the reputation to be historical—the Housecarls had not fought a real battle in over four hundred years. The size, he suspected, was more a result of the regiment’s duty to protect Shuto, its proximity to the Imperial Court, than of its reputation.
“Gentlemen, ladies,” Ahasz said, slowly, a little tiredly. “You know the situation. We had not anticipated such fierce resistance. Or so many defenders.” The thought reminded him. He paused, peered through the red gloom, scanning each officer’s face. “Narry?” demanded. “Where are you, man?”
A tall lieutenant-colonel with a long face, and pendulous lips hidden beneath a moustache in need of trimming, raised a hand and smiled inanely.
“You’re Narry?” The duke stared at the Housecarl. His likeness prompted a surge of anger—the foolish features, the tremulous mouth. The man looked a buffoon. Ahasz welcomed the fury: he could not win this battle with officers such as Narry under his command. The sooner the others realised that, the better for all. “Tell me, Narry,” Ahasz said, striving for a conversational tone, “where is the battalion of Cuirassiers which was stationed in the garrison?”
“I don’t know, your grace.” The lieutenant-colonel shrugged. “They were sent on manoeuvres earlier today.”
“And the Palace Artillery? Where might they be?”
Narry blinked, recognising that the answer was obvious. “They were sent on manoeuvres too.” He gave a nervous cough. “But they’re in the Palace now.”
“So—” Ahasz stopped and reined in his temper. “So, might we suppose the Cuirassiers are with them? In the Palace?”
Another shrug. “A reasonable assumption, your grace.”
“You—” The duke slammed a hand down on the battlefield-consultant. “I should have you hung, Narry,” he growled. “Instead, you will redeem yourself:
“At first light, you will take a pair of your companies and rush the entrance to the Palace. Try and keep as many of your men alive as possible. I need to know how sharp are the Artillery, and what it will take to pull the knights out of the mountain.”
“But your grace!” protested Narry, straightening in surprise, “My men will be wiped out!”
“Indeed they will.” Ahasz’s voice hardened. “And solely because you were too damned idiotish to mark the removal of the Artillery and the Cuirassiers
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