How would they fight together? There was a strong bond between them, Corfe knew. It came from the North More battle, when they had faced annihilation together. And they collectively despised the garrison soldiers of Torunn, most of whom had never fought in a single pitched battle. But they were certainly a disparate bunch. Wild mountain tribesmen, Fimbrian professionals and Torunnan veterans. They had had a chance to recover from their ordeal at the North More, and were rested, refitted and their morale was superb. If things went well, they would hardly need to fire a shot in the forthcoming contest. Corfe hoped it would be so, much though he would have liked to wield this new instrument of his in battle.
“Snow’s starting again,” Andruw noted gloomily. “God’s teeth, will this winter never end? Bloody unnatural time of the year to be campaigning.”
“Let’s join the column,” Corfe said, and the three riders cantered down the slope, kicking up a cloud of snow which the wind bore away like smoke behind them.
The army marched a mere six miles that first day, the endless procession of men halting and starting again, the wagons getting stuck in the mud that lay beneath the snow, the heavy guns losing wheels, mules going lame. Corfe’s men finally halted for the night three hours after the head of the column had pitched their tents. As far as the eye could see, the wink of campfires stretched over the hills and lit the sky from afar. It was good to be in the field again. Things were always simpler here.
Or so he thought. While he was at the horse-lines with Marsch and Morin inspecting some lamed mounts, a courier brought him a message from the High Command. There was to be a strategy meeting that evening in the Royal tent, and his presence was required.
Resigned, he made his way through the vast firelit camp. Everywhere, men sat around their campfires heating their rations and drying their boots. A few flurries of snow had fallen during the day and it was getting colder. The mud was starting to harden underfoot, and the snow crunched.
The King’s tent was a massive leather affair with half a dozen shivering sentries posted about it, their armour beginning to glister with frost. On his own authority, Corfe ordered them to build themselves a fire.
Inside the tent three braziers were glowing merrily. The King was there, dressed plainly in the leather gambeson that soldiers wore under their armour. With him were Count Fournier, General Menin, Colonels Aras and Rusio and seven or eight more junior officers whom Corfe did not recognize. Colonel Willem had been left in command of the five thousand or so men who remained in the capital.
“Ah, so we are all here. At last,” the King said as Corfe came in. Lofantyr looked as though he had not slept in a week. There were grey hollows under his eyes and new lines of strain about his mouth. “Very well, Fournier, proceed.” The King sat himself down in a canvas camp chair. Everyone else had to stand.
Fournier, rather ridiculous in antique half-armour that had not a scratch on it, cleared his throat and toyed unceasingly with a wooden pointer.
“Our scouts have just returned, sire, and they report that the enemy is in three camps. The largest is some four leagues to the north-west. They estimate there are some eighty to ninety thousand men within it. It is not fortified, and they have horse herds picketed around its perimeter and patrols of light cavalry as well as the regular sentries.” Fournier cleared his throat again. “The second camp is a league to the east of the first. The scouts estimate that it holds some fifty thousand, including Ferinai heavy cavalry and many arquebusiers. It is fortified with a ditch and palisade. The third is farther yet to the north, perhaps another league from the first two. Within it are the elephants, many more cavalry and the main baggage train. It is believed that the Sultan himself is in this third camp, and his-his harem. Another forty or fifty thousand.”
“Why does he split up his army so?” someone muttered.
“Flexibility,” Corfe said. “If one camp is attacked, the attacker will find columns from the other two on his flanks.”
Menin frowned at Corfe. “The general idea was that we would attack their main camp and remain immune to assaults from the other two. But we had not bargained for the camps being so close together. Suddenly this campaign looks a lot riskier than it did.”
“You can still do it, if the assault is swift and powerful enough. To rouse the men of a large encampment, get them into battle-line and then march them a league will take at least two to three hours. In that time, given a little luck, we could cripple the Minhraib contingent of the Merduk army-the bulk of its troops. We would then be in a position to deal with the other two armies as they came up, or we could withdraw. In any case, it would be wise to detach strong formations to the flanks, in case we’re still heavily engaged when the Merduk reinforcements come up.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Menin said. “My thought exactly…” He trailed off, appearing old and apprehensive.
“Ninety thousand men in that first camp,” someone said dubiously. “That’s three times our strength. Who says they’ll be an easy target?”
“Their camp is unfortified,” Corfe pointed out. “They’ll be keeping warm in their tents. Plus, they are nothing more than the peasant levy of Ostrabar, conscripts without firearms. So long as we retain the element of surprise, they should not prove too much trouble.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” the King said. He looked with obvious dislike at his youngest general. “You seem to have an answer for everything, General Cear-Inaf. I see we no longer have need of strategy conferences. All we do is consult you.”
A series of titters throughout the tent. Corfe was impassive. He merely bowed to his monarch. “My apologies, sire, if I overstep my station. I worry only about the good of the army.”
“Of course.” The King stood up. “Gentlemen, regard this plan here. Fournier, will you oblige us, please?”
The count unrolled a page of parchment with a pattern of diagrams drawn upon it. They gathered closer to look.
“This is how the army will go into battle. General Menin, kindly explain.”
“Yes, sire. Gentlemen, we shall be in four distinct commands. In the centre will be the main body, eighteen thousand men under His Majesty, myself and Colonel Rusio. Within this formation will be the field artillery-thirty guns under you, Rusio-and the cuirassiers-three thousand horsemen. His Majesty will lead the heavy horse personally.
“On the right flank of the main body will be a smaller formation, a flank guard to deal with the possibility of a Merduk assault from that quarter. This will be under Colonel Aras, and will number some five thousand, primarily arquebusiers. To the rear will be General Cear-Inaf’s command, eight thousand men. These constitute our only reserve, and will also have the task of guarding the baggage train. Am I clear, gentlemen?”
“What about the left flank?” Corfe asked. “It’s up in the air.”
“We do not feel that the left flank is particularly threatened,” the King told him. “The only threat from that quarter is from the baggage and headquarters camp of the enemy. We feel that the Merduk Sultan will not detach troops which are guarding his person until he knows exactly what the situation is. By that time we will have withdrawn. No, the only real threat is on the right, from the camp of the Hraibadar and the Ferinai. Aras, you have the position of honour. Hold it well.”