Bren left the tent, returning with a tray of wine, butter, cheese and bread. ‘The captains wish to know when you will see them, my Lord,’ he said. Gargan looked up at him. The man was getting old, worn out.
‘How many campaigns have you served with me?’ asked Gargan.
‘Twelve, my Lord,’ answered Bren, cutting the bread and buttering three slices.
‘Which do you remember most fondly?’
The old man paused in his preparations. ‘Gassima,’ he said.
Pouring the wine into a silver goblet, Bren added water and passed it to his general. Gargan sipped it. Gassima! The last civil war, almost twenty-five years ago now. Outnumbered, Gargan had led a retreat across the marshes, then swung his force and launched an attack which ought to have been suicidal. On his giant white stallion, Skall, he had thundered into the heart of the enemy camp and killed Barin in hand-to-hand combat. The war was won on that day, the civil war ended. Gargan drained his wine and handed the goblet to Bren, who refilled it.
‘That was a horse, by Missael! Feared nothing. It would have charged into the fires of Hell.’
‘A rnighty steed,’ agreed Bren.
‘Never known another like him. You know the stallion I ride now? He is of the blood of Skall, his great-grandson. But he does not have the same qualities. Skall was a prince of horses.’ Gargan chuckled. ‘Mounted three mares on the day he died – at the ripe age of thirty-two. I have only wept twice in my life, Bren. The first was on the death of Skall.’
‘Yes, my Lord. What shall I tell the captains?’
‘One hour from now. I have letters to read.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Leaving the meal on the table, Bren stepped back through the tent-flap. Gargan stood and poured a third goblet of wine; this time he added no water. The mail riders had caught up with the vanguard of the army at dusk and there were three letters for him. He opened the first, which bore the seal of Garen-Tsen. Gargan tried to focus on the spidery script. Lifting a lantern from its pole, he lowered it to the desk. His eyes were not what they were. ‘Nothing is what it was,’ he thought.
The letter told of the funeral of the Queen, and how Garen-Tsen had smuggled the King from the city, having him taken to the Winter Palace at Siccus. The factions were beginning to speak openly now in the Senate about ‘a need for change’. Garen-Tsen urged a speedy end to the campaign, and a swift return to the capital.
The second letter was from his wife. He scanned it: four pages containing little of interest, detailing small incidents from the household and the farms. A maidservant had broken an arm, falling from a chair as she cleaned windows, a prize foal had been sold for a thousand raq, three slaves had fled the North Farm, but had been recaptured in a local brothel.
The last letter was from his daughter, Mirkel. She had given birth to a baby boy and she was calling him Argo. She hoped Gargan could see him soon.
The old soldier’s eyes misted.
Argo. Finding his mutilated body had been like a knife blow to the heart, and Gargan could still feel the pain of it. He had known all along that allowing Nadir filth to attend the Academy would lead to disaster. But never had he remotely considered the possibility that it would lead to the death of his own son. And what a death to suffer!
Anger and sorrow vied in him.
The old Emperor had been a wise man, ruling well in the main. But his later years had seen a rise in confusion, a softening of his attitudes. It was for this man that Gargan had fought at Gassima. I gave you that crown, he thought. I placed it on your head. And because of you my son is dead.
Nadir janizaries! A foul and perditious idea. Why was it the old man could not see the stupidity of it? The Nadir were numberless, and dreamed only of the day when a Uniter would draw them together into one unstoppable army. And yet the Emperor had wished the sons of their chiefs to be trained in the ways of Gothir warfare. Gargan could still scarcely believe it.