A few months later saw
Sergeant Borl trotting along on a donkey through the wastelands to the north of
Morg City, heading towards the Commandant’s semi-permanent headquarters. This
was smack in the middle of the area devoted to Camp maneuvers, and the Sergeant
had just finished with riding in review between the two Kingdoms. It was the
half-way point of the training, and Borl had the task of reporting back to Drim
for an assessment of the Cadets’ progress.
The red-bearded Morg looked
around at the world in satisfaction. The ravages of spring had passed away,
with their uncertain chills and sudden tempests; it was, in effect, an early
summer, without the savage heat you could expect later on in the year, and the
land was green and lush. If his bottom wasn’t numb from riding much of the day,
he would have been completely physically content. But his mind wasn’t entirely
settled, either.
He was vaguely concerned
about the Cadets. He had overseen the
Camps for twelve years now. There never was a completely smooth season, of
course, and they weren’t world-shattering affairs in the first place. Still, he
had some concerns he wanted to bring before the Commandant. And Borl was not
overly comfortable in Drim’s presence.
This was the Colonel’s first
season administering the Camp, and even after four and a half month’s
experience Borl couldn’t say he had a secure handle on his commanding officer’s
temperament quite yet. Drim was just too damn reserved. Since the Commandant’s
tent had first appeared on the horizon Borl had been watching it with half an
eye, as if he could catch it unawares, revealing something about its master. It
did not.
As he came nearer, he put
his apprehensions aside. They weren’t doing him any good. It was unlikely the
Commandant would be entirely pleased with what Borl had to say, but his
phlegmatic superior also seemed unlikely to erupt in rage. The Sergeant sensed
some sort of anger under Drim’s distant demeanor, and he was wary about what
might touch it off. Still, the Colonel seemed to have his temper under an icy
control, and Borl had his duty to do.
He reined his donkey up in
front of the tent and tied it to the hitching post with a few practiced twists.
He approached the entrance and struck the bar of metal hanging there with the
handle of his sheathed sword, deferentially, but definitely. There was a pause,
and then the Colonel’s rasping voice commanded, “Enter.”
Borl pushed the flap open
and came in.
The tent, at least, was
comfortably familiar. It had a permanent stone floor, unlike the Cadets’ rather
makeshift encampments with their tattered second-hand burlap, doled out from
the regular army’s old stores and set up however as they moved across the
wasteland. The tenting here was thick and well-cared for, taken down in winter
and erected again when camp service began. Morg City did not expect the
Commandant to live quite as roughly as the cadets did.
Commandants with whom the
Sergeant had worked for in the past had settled into these headquarters with
many of the comforts of home, even some luxuries, like the occasional keg of
Loralied wine. Borl cut his eyes around the room. There wasn’t anything personal
to Drim to be seen anywhere, if you didn’t count that damned tea set of his.
It was a plain, even ugly
pot with a single cup, the color of an eggplant. The Commandant sat with it in
front of him, laid out on an otherwise bare table. He had obviously just put
the medicinal herbs in to steep and was replacing the lid on the pot. The old
Morg looked up expectantly at Borl, eyebrows raised.
Whatever color Drim’s hair
might have been in his youth, it was now ashen grey, although he could have
been at most into his Fifth Beard. The rising steam coiling around his face
seemed to mingle with his twisting whiskers, his yellowing eyes piercing keenly
through the mist. Borl took off his pointed helmet, tucked it under his arm,
and saluted smartly.
“Sergeant Borl reporting,
sir!”
“At ease, Sergeant,” Drim
grated. His bleak attention returned to the tea. “Take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.” There was
only one other chair in the tent, a folding camp-seat without a back or
cushion. Borl sat down, helmet cradled uncomfortably on his knees. “Er. Do you
want me to wait until you’ve finished your tea, sir?”
“No. It must steep for a
while. That should be plenty of time to give your report.”
“Yes, sir.” When Borl had
served as the Colonel’s adjutant for a few weeks early in the exercises, he had
ventured to taste the medicinal mixture when sent out to rinse the cup. It was
foul beyond imagining; bitter did not even begin to describe the fetid mélange
that Drim drank every day. Borl could well understand wanting to put off the
experience as long as possible. He cleared his throat. In the closed area, he
could almost taste it in his nose.
“I have just returned from
visiting both Kingdoms, as ordered, and having met with the advising officers
and observing conditions for myself I have this to report. The camps appear to
be organized in acceptable and comparable order, with supplies adequately
protected and bogs of a sufficient distance and rotation. However.” He paused
and cleared his throat again.
“There appears to be a
difference in discipline between camp rules.” Borl frowned. “While ‘King Korm’
expects each member under his management to take equal responsibility in
rotation for every task, ‘King Nast’ has inaugurated a hierarchy, where the lowest
members are doing the dirtiest jobs while those closest to Nast do hardly
anything at all, except maybe enforce his rules.”
The Commandant was
motionless for a moment. Then he reached out and with a firm hand filled his
cup from the pot.
“A difference in style,
nothing more,” he said blandly. “This kind of approach is not entirely unheard
of in the army, as you know, Sergeant.”
“Maybe so, but not in
training, sir,” said Borl in disapproval. “When I asked one of his minions to
describe how to dig a trench, he couldn’t even tell me how to begin. Said they
had people to do that.”
“Sounds like excellent
officer material,” said Drim drily. He gave his tea a stir. “Delegation of duties, chain of command, and
so on. Do you know how long it’s been since I dug a trench?”
“No, sir. But I bet in a
pinch you’d know how. Korm was first in line in his Kingdom to take digging
instructions.”
“I congratulate him.
Whatever his profession in the future, he’ll always have the expertise on how
to dig a hole.”
“Sir!” Borl’s temper flared
a little, red beard bristling. “Training is for everyone, and Nast is not
assuring that his men are properly trained! In fact, I think it is fairly
obvious that Nast is cheating and using his influence to gain his followers an
unfair advantage and obtaining outside luxuries through that influence and not
through ordinary, traditional channels.”
He whipped out a little roll
of paper from his jacket. It was scrawled with notes.
“To wit, several barrels of
beer, found ‘abandoned’ by the roadside and appropriated by the King; to wit, a
drove of ‘wild’ pigs conveniently found hedged in a gully and slaughtered for a
feast; to wit, a ‘derelict’ cabin with a huge supply of firewood taken as a
headquarters during the coldest week of spring!”
He looked up sternly.
“There are others. Sir, no
one has a run of luck like that, especially in the wastelands! Meanwhile, the
other kingdom subsists on camp rations and whatever their foraging drill can
scrounge up. They burned buffalo dung and scrub-brush to help stay warm through
the night!”
“My, my,” said Drim calmly.
“Are they dead?”
Borl looked taken aback.
“Well, no sir, but their
morale is very low.”
“And the morale in the other
camp is very high, I take it.” The Commandant shrugged his shoulders. “Nast is
covering his actions with stories, implausible, certainly, but not impossible.
To use all one’s resources and cunning is one aspect of being an effective
King.”
“But, Gammoth’s eyes, it’s
not fair!”
“Life is not fair!”
Drim suddenly snarled, pounding the table, rattling the tea things. Borl’s head
flew back, blinking. “Was it fair when Karn abandoned Mog on the eve of the
Battle of the Folk? Was it fair when the
Ogres came in ambush in the Passes of Gruk? Was it fair when the High Generals
told me … ”
He stopped abruptly,
catching hold of himself. He sat back in his chair.
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
“What are the standing scores between the Kingdoms?”
“Um.” Borl quickly checked
his notes. “Nast has twenty points; he’s won most of the major exercises so
far. Korm has nine, mostly in some minor technical categories, not in
engagements.” He looked up. “I must say, sir, that despite all his
disadvantages, he has managed so far to save his reign from being a complete
washout.”
“That, too, is a test of
kingship,” Drim replied, raspy voice dour. “What does one do when the odds are
against you? The best that you can.”
“If you don’t mind me saying
so, I still think Nast should be reined in, disciplined somehow. For the good
of us all, sir. His followers could be in a real war someday; then Mog
help Morg City if we have to depend on them, Commandant.”
Drim lifted the cup with his palms, testing
the heat. He looked speculatively into the murky depths of the tea for a
moment.
“Sergeant, you seem like a
sensible soldier, despite your feisty words and fiery nature. That’s just your
red beard talking. I’m going to come
clean and explain something to you.”
He looked up at Borl grimly,
one eye squinting.
“Some people are given the
station of Commandant as a reward; I have had it imposed on me as a
disciplinary action.” He waved his paw. “I don’t feel obliged to tell you why.
I’m sure with enough snooping you could find out on your own. I’ll only say
that the reasons given are entirely false, and, as you put it, unfair.”
Drim sniffed the rising
fumes from his tea and frowned.
“I want my time here to be
served without a hitch so I can get back to the regular army. If I make trouble
for the influential Keth family – and there are three of them on the Royal
Council, let me inform you - they will see that I suffer further; maybe be
stuck in this dead-end job of training cadets forever.”
He set the cup down. His
tone was reasonable.
“This fellow Korm’s failure
is a necessary sacrifice, but a weak weed like him will never be important to
Morg City, certainly not militarily. Let’s … just let this play out, shall we?”
Borl said nothing, snorting
involuntarily in disgust. He didn’t see anything wrong with training cadets,
and certainly didn’t care about politics, especially if they interfered with
justice. Korm was obviously trying his best, and it seemed hard on the boy that
he should be caught up in these machinations.
Drim’s expression did not
change.
“I remind you, Sergeant,
that any sand that gets kicked up over this situation could find a duly
proportionate amount in your eye, too,” he said mildly. “And that wouldn’t help
your career, either.”
The implied threat of it
shut Borl up immediately. He sat transfixed in silent attention as the Colonel
took a little jar of honey from his pocket, added a spoonful to his foul tea,
and, after a short stir, took a long sip.
“I beg your pardon, sir,”
Borl said, trying to gauge the gray Morg’s unchanging face, his curiosity
getting the better of him. “Does that really help the taste?”
“No,” the Colonel said
huskily. He took another firm sip. “But at least it
tastes terrible in a completely different way.”
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