The Heroes

was the most unruly place in his unruly division. Officers dashed about, spraying mud and shouting over one another, the loudest voice obeyed and the finest ideas ignored. A commander set the tone for his entire command. A captain for his company, a major for his battalion, a colonel for his regiment and Mitterick for his entire division. Sloppy officers meant sloppy men, and sloppy soldiering meant defeat. Rules saved lives at times like these. What kind of officer allowed things to degenerate into chaos in his own headquarters? Felnigg reined his horse up and made a direct line for the flap of Mitterick’s great tent, clearing excitable young adjutants from his path by sheer force of disapproval.
    Inside the confusion was redoubled. Mitterick was leaning over a table in the midst of a clamouring press of crimson uniforms, an improvised map of the valley spread out upon it, holding forth at tremendous volume. Felnigg felt his revulsion for the man almost like a headwind. He was the worst kind of soldier, the kind that dresses his incompetence up as flair and, to make matters worse, he fooled people more often than not. But he did not fool Felnigg.
    Felnigg stepped up and gave an impeccable salute. Mitterick gave the most peremptory movement of his hand, barely looking up from his map.
    ‘I have an order for the King’s Own First Regiment from Lord Marshal Kroy. I would be gratified if you could despatch it
at once.’
He could not entirely keep the contempt out of his voice, and Mitterick evidently noticed.
    ‘We’re a little busy
soldiering
here, perhaps you could leave it—’
    ‘I am afraid that will not be good enough, General.’ Felnigg only just prevented himself from slapping Mitterick across the face with his gloves. ‘The lord marshal was most specific, and I must insist on haste.’
    Mitterick straightened, the jaw muscles working on the side of his out-sized head. ‘Must you?’
    ‘Yes. I absolutely must.’ And Felnigg thrust the order at him as if he would throw it in his face, only by a last shred of restraint keeping it in his fingertips.
    Mitterick snatched the paper from Felnigg’s hand, only just preventing himself from punching him in the face with his other fist, and tore it open.
    Felnigg. What an arse. What an arrogant, pedantic fool. A prickly stickler with no imagination, no initiative, none of what the Northmen called, with their gift for simplicity, ‘bones’. He was lucky he had Marshal Kroy for a friend, lucky Kroy had dragged him up through the ranks behind him or he would most likely have remained all his career a tight-buttoned captain.
    Felnigg. What an
arse.
Mitterick remembered him bringing in those six wretched wagons after Kroy won his great victory at Ulrioch. Remembered him demanding to have his contribution noted. His battalion ground down to a dusty stub for the sake of six bloody wagons. His contribution had been noted, all right. Mitterick had thought then,
what an arse,
and his opinion had not changed in all the years between.
    Felnigg. What a suppurating arse. Look at him. Arse. Probably he thought he was better than everyone else, still, even though Mitterick knew for a fact he could barely get up without a drink. Probably he thought he could have done Mitterick’s job better. Probably he thought he should have had Kroy’s. Bloody arse. He was the worst kind of soldier, the kind that dresses his stupidity up as discipline, and to make matters worse he fooled people more often than not. But he did not fool Mitterick.
    Already two of his assaults on the bridge had failed, he had a third to prepare and no time to waste on this pompous streak of bureaucracy. He turned to Opker, his own chief of staff, stabbing at the map with the crumpled order. ‘Tell them to get the Seventh ready, and I want the Second in place right behind. I want cavalry across that bridge as soon as we get a foothold, damn it, these fields are made for a charge! Get the Keln Regiment out of the way, clear out the wounded. Dump ’em in the river if we have to, we’re giving the bloody Northmen time to get set. Time to have a bloody bath if they bloody want one! Tell them to get it done now or I’ll go down there myself and lead the charge, whether I can fit my fat arse into my armour or not. Tell them to—’
    A finger jabbed at his shoulder. ‘This order must be attended to at once, General Mitterick.
At once!
’ Felnigg nearly shrieked the last words, blasting Mitterick with spit.