Jen’s audacity in trying
to circumvent the Garda’s true purpose behind the ‘living off the
land’ exercise which had been to train them how to cope with
hunger, want and lack of sleep while carrying out their duties.
“It was a
memorable day,” Hilla managed to get out with a rueful laugh.
* * * * *
The Largan
Kalavdr, Largan
of Larg stood facing the three Kohortangan, the commanders of the
great Larg army which was gathering in the staging area some one
hundred miles south of the Kingdom of Murdoch.
He looked at
the oldest of the three, a mean-visaged individual called Zuvavdr,
whose mealy muzzle was beginning to show his age with the odd white
hair appearing amongst his whiskers and said, “you will lead your
kohorts north to the chain of islands that leads to the northern
continent. Keep to our side of the border (he spat out this last
word as he referred to the hated human country that shared the
southern continent with the Larg). Do not cross under pain of death
but be seen.”
“I hear and
obey.”
Kalavdr turned
to the second Kohortangan.
“You will lead
your kohorts north on the other side of Murdoch. Like Zuvavdr you
will not cross the river and enter their land, but you must be seen
so that your movements are reported back to the man they call Lord
Marshall. You will be told when you can cross into the land they
call theirs and when the killings can begin.”
“I hear and
obey,” he intoned, executing a deep bow, his muzzle touching the
ground, his claws emerging and retracting in time with each
syllable.
Kalavdr turned
to the third Kohortangan.
“You and your
kohorts will remain here, with me.” The Kohortangan looked
alarmed.
Kalavdr
chuckled, “divide and conquer. Do not panic Avdr, your kohorts will
get their chance to kill. They have stolen what is ours,” he added
in a thunderous voice, “it is time to take it back.”
He stared round
all three in turn. “Leave,” he commanded.
The three
genuflected and left, backing away with care, one huge paw after
another, six eyes gleaming at the thought of the killings to
come.
The Larg were
going to fulfil their long awaited destiny. This was the campaign
to end all campaigns, the end of their centuries of obscurity and
of being forced to share their continent with the hated humans of
Murdoch.
Murdoch’s
destruction would only be the beginning. Before the year was out,
Larg would be the supreme rulers on the planet.
* * * * *
The
Prince-Duke
“I’m telling
you,” declared Xavier, “our Duchies are in no danger from the
Larg.”
“How do you
know this?” asked a suspicious Duke Raoul van Buren.
“You have my
word.”
“That’s not
good enough,” Raoul van Buren retorted, “before I secede my Duchy
from the protection of the regiments and the Kingdom I need more
than your word.”
“I agree with
Raoul,” said the Duke of Smith, David by name. He was nodding in a
wise fashion. “Gods Xavier, I’m with you on this but I have to be
sure.”
“The Lord
Marshall wouldn’t be intending to take the regiments up into
Brentwood if he didn’t think so,” said Duke Pierre Cocteau.
“He might, if
there was the need,” retorted Raoul van Buren.
“He’s a
Duchesne,” insisted Pierre Cocteau, “blood calls to blood.”
Xavier sighed.
He had known the rebel dukes would ask for more definite
assurances.
“All right,” he
said. “All right, all right. I’ll tell you but it goes no further.
I have talked to the Largan. He has assured me that his kohorts
will not attack the southerly duchies. He is only interested in the
north, in the Lind. He is most upset that the route to the northern
continent over the Island Chain is blocked. He wants the lands
where the Duchy of Graham stands and the eastern tip of Duchesne to
revert to him and his. He will uphold the treaty made in the first
years between Largdom and Murdoch if these lands are ceded
back.”
“You believe him?”
to circumvent the Garda’s true purpose behind the ‘living off the
land’ exercise which had been to train them how to cope with
hunger, want and lack of sleep while carrying out their duties.
“It was a
memorable day,” Hilla managed to get out with a rueful laugh.
* * * * *
The Largan
Kalavdr, Largan
of Larg stood facing the three Kohortangan, the commanders of the
great Larg army which was gathering in the staging area some one
hundred miles south of the Kingdom of Murdoch.
He looked at
the oldest of the three, a mean-visaged individual called Zuvavdr,
whose mealy muzzle was beginning to show his age with the odd white
hair appearing amongst his whiskers and said, “you will lead your
kohorts north to the chain of islands that leads to the northern
continent. Keep to our side of the border (he spat out this last
word as he referred to the hated human country that shared the
southern continent with the Larg). Do not cross under pain of death
but be seen.”
“I hear and
obey.”
Kalavdr turned
to the second Kohortangan.
“You will lead
your kohorts north on the other side of Murdoch. Like Zuvavdr you
will not cross the river and enter their land, but you must be seen
so that your movements are reported back to the man they call Lord
Marshall. You will be told when you can cross into the land they
call theirs and when the killings can begin.”
“I hear and
obey,” he intoned, executing a deep bow, his muzzle touching the
ground, his claws emerging and retracting in time with each
syllable.
Kalavdr turned
to the third Kohortangan.
“You and your
kohorts will remain here, with me.” The Kohortangan looked
alarmed.
Kalavdr
chuckled, “divide and conquer. Do not panic Avdr, your kohorts will
get their chance to kill. They have stolen what is ours,” he added
in a thunderous voice, “it is time to take it back.”
He stared round
all three in turn. “Leave,” he commanded.
The three
genuflected and left, backing away with care, one huge paw after
another, six eyes gleaming at the thought of the killings to
come.
The Larg were
going to fulfil their long awaited destiny. This was the campaign
to end all campaigns, the end of their centuries of obscurity and
of being forced to share their continent with the hated humans of
Murdoch.
Murdoch’s
destruction would only be the beginning. Before the year was out,
Larg would be the supreme rulers on the planet.
* * * * *
The
Prince-Duke
“I’m telling
you,” declared Xavier, “our Duchies are in no danger from the
Larg.”
“How do you
know this?” asked a suspicious Duke Raoul van Buren.
“You have my
word.”
“That’s not
good enough,” Raoul van Buren retorted, “before I secede my Duchy
from the protection of the regiments and the Kingdom I need more
than your word.”
“I agree with
Raoul,” said the Duke of Smith, David by name. He was nodding in a
wise fashion. “Gods Xavier, I’m with you on this but I have to be
sure.”
“The Lord
Marshall wouldn’t be intending to take the regiments up into
Brentwood if he didn’t think so,” said Duke Pierre Cocteau.
“He might, if
there was the need,” retorted Raoul van Buren.
“He’s a
Duchesne,” insisted Pierre Cocteau, “blood calls to blood.”
Xavier sighed.
He had known the rebel dukes would ask for more definite
assurances.
“All right,” he
said. “All right, all right. I’ll tell you but it goes no further.
I have talked to the Largan. He has assured me that his kohorts
will not attack the southerly duchies. He is only interested in the
north, in the Lind. He is most upset that the route to the northern
continent over the Island Chain is blocked. He wants the lands
where the Duchy of Graham stands and the eastern tip of Duchesne to
revert to him and his. He will uphold the treaty made in the first
years between Largdom and Murdoch if these lands are ceded
back.”
“You believe him?”