The Blade Itself

“The heir to the throne, in harm’s way, when the King is in poor health? A ludicrous notion!” Burr got up, burping and wincing. “Damn this stomach!” He stalked over to the window and frowned out across the Agriont.

“They think it will be easily settled,” he said quietly. “The Closed Council. A little jaunt in Angland, done with before the first snow falls. In spite of this shock with Dunbrec. They never learn. They said the same about our war with the Gurkish, and that nearly finished us. These Northmen are not the primitives they think. I fought with Northern mercenaries in Starikland: hard men used to hard lives, raised on warfare, fearless and stubborn, expert at fighting in the hills, in the forests, in the cold. They do not follow our rules, or even understand them. They will bring a violence and a savagery to the battlefield that would make the Gurkish blush.” Burr turned away from the window, back to West. “You were born in Angland, weren’t you, Major?”

“Yes, sir, in the south, near Ostenhorm. My family’s farm was there, before my father died…” He trailed off.

“You were raised there?”

“Yes.”

“You know the land then?”

West frowned. “In that region, sir, but I have not been back for—”

“Do you know these Northmen?”

“Some. There are still many living in Angland.”

“You speak their tongue?”

“Yes, a little, but they speak many—”

“Good. I am putting together a staff, good men I can rely on to carry out my orders, and see to it that this army of ours does not fall apart before it even comes into contact with the enemy”

“Of course, sir.” West racked his brains. “Captain Luthar is a capable and intelligent officer, Lieutenant Jalenhorm—”

“Bah!” shouted Burr, waving his hand in frustration, “I know Luthar, the boy’s a cretin! Just the sort of bright-eyed child that I was talking about! It’s you I need, West.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Marshal Varuz, the Union’s most famous soldier no less, has given you a glowing report. He says you are a most committed, tenacious, and hard-working officer. The very qualities I need! As a Lieutenant you fought in Gurkhul under Colonel Glokta, did you not?”

West swallowed. “Well, yes.”

“And it is well known you were first through the breach at Ulrioch.”

“Well, among the first, I was—”

“You have led men in the field, and your personal courage is beyond question! There is no need to be modest, Major, you are the man for me!” Burr sat back, a smile on his face, confident he had made his point. He burped again, holding up his hand. “My apologies… damn indigestion!”

“Sir, may I be blunt?”

“I am no courtier, West. You must always be blunt with me. I demand it!”

“An appointment on a Lord Marshal’s staff, sir, you must understand. I am a gentleman’s son. A commoner. As commander of a battalion, I already have difficulty gaining the respect of the junior officers. The men I would have to give orders to if I were on your staff, sir, senior men with good blood…” He paused, exasperated. The Marshal gazed blankly at him. “They will not permit it!”

Burr’s eyebrows drew together. “Permit it?”

“Their pride will not allow it, sir, their—”

“Damn their pride!” Burr leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on West’s face. “Now listen to me, and listen carefully. Times are changing. I don’t need men with good blood. I need men who can plan, and organise, give orders, and follow them. There will lie no room in my army for those who cannot do as they are told, I don’t care how noble they are. As a member of my staff you represent me, and I will not be slighted or ignored.” He burped suddenly, and smashed the table with his fist. “I will see to it!” he roared. “Times are changing! They may not smell it yet, but they soon will!”

West stared dumbly back. “In any case,” and Burr waved a dismissive hand, “I am not consulting with you, I am informing you. This is your new assignment. Your King needs you, your country needs you, and that is all. You have five days to hand over command of your battalion.” And the Lord Marshal turned back to his papers.

“Yes, sir,” muttered West.

He fumbled the door shut behind him with numb fingers, walked slowly down the hallway, staring at the floor. War. War in the North. Dunbrec fallen, the Northmen loose in Angland. Officers hurried around him. Someone brushed past, but he hardly noticed. There were people in danger, mortal danger! People he knew maybe, neighbours from home. There was fighting even now, inside the Union’s borders! He rubbed his jaw. This war could be a terrible thing. Worse than Gurkhul had been, even, and he would be at the heart of it. A place on a Lord Marshal’s staff. Him? Collem West? A commoner? He still could hardly believe it.

West felt a sneaking, guilty glow of satisfaction. It was for just such an appointment that he had been working like a dog all these years. If he did well there was no telling where he might go. This war was a bad thing, a terrible thing, no doubt. He felt himself grinning. A terrible thing. But it just might be the making of him.