In the late afternoon light, Northern Perimeter HQ looked to Horys like any other army post. In fact, it appeared to be considerably smarter than the dusty Fort Hagan which was the Frontier HQ. The gate gave directly onto a large parade ground, and facing him across it was an imposing brick building, in front of which was a flagstaff on which the Ancelstierran national flag flapped lazily in the dying breeze. Surrounding the other two sides of the parade ground were the usual motley collection of huts, barrack blocks and blockhouses. Around the edge of the parade ground were set immaculately whitewashed stones, which were being whitewashed again a small group of men in the shapeless overalls issued to defaulters, a bored looking Military Police corporal watching over them. From somewhere on the left, Horys could hear rifle fire and shouted orders and assumed, correctly, that that was where the ranges were located. All in all, at first glance, it looked very normal and like any army post.
Following the friendly Curran's directions, Horys set out across the parade ground towards the brick building which he had correctly identified as the HQ building and officers' mess. He returned the salutes of several groups of soldiers he passed, noting that many wore the same leather jerkins and shields as Curran. Some even seemed to be wearing hauberks of chain mail. Horys shook his head – surely he must be imagining that. But everyone appeared to carry swords and steel helmets, apart from a few obvious HQ types, and he saw one platoon marching in who looked ragged and mud-caked and were obviously coming in from the frontline.
The next morning, Horys stood uncomfortably to attention in front of Colonel McGovern, commanding officer of the Perimeter garrison. The colonel glanced at the papers in front of him.
"So, you are Horys."
"Yes, sir."
"Bad business, down on the Frontier," the colonel commented.
"Yes, sir." Horys kept his tone carefully neutral.
"So, now they've sent you to me, presumably to keep you out of the way until it all blows over." He sighed. "Listen, Mr Horys, we can't carry passengers up here on the Perimeter. Initiative is to be commended but I will not stand for insubordination. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm attaching you to B company under Captain Tindall. Your official title will be company executive officer. Don't make the mistake of thinking that's a promotion, because it isn't. We don't give subalterns command of a platoon until we know whether or not they are any use. Watch and learn, obey orders, and above all, stay out of the way."
"Yes sir."
"Dismissed, Lieutenant."
The less than warm welcome was discouraging to Horys, and he felt dispirited as he walked across the parade ground to the hut that had been pointed out to him as the headquarters of B company, currently finishing a rest period in barracks. The orderly room corporal directed him to Captain Tindall's office, and with some apprehension, he knocked on the door and obeyed the summons to come in.
"Lieutenant Horys reporting for duty, sir!" he saluted, smartly. The officer seated behind the untidy desk returned his salute, then stood and came around the desk, holding out a hand for him to shake. Captain Tindall was younger than Horys had expected, with a dark, untidy fringe that gave him a boyish look, and an energetic but forceful manner.
"Welcome to B company, Mr Horys. I'm Frank Tindall and I'm damned glad to see you. We're short of officers. Take your cap off and have a seat, and I'll give you the low-down." Some of Horys' surprise must have shown in his face, because Tindall grinned at him. "The CO give you his usual warm welcome, did he? Don't mind Colonel McGovern. He's burned out, been on the Perimeter far too long for someone who isn't a Charter… That is, who isn't suited to it. He's seen too much. The MO tried to send him back as Not Yet Diagnosed, Nervous, but until his replacement arrives we are all stuck. Major Nugent was pretty much running the show, but he was wounded last week and had to be evacuated back to Bain."
"I see," said Horys. He had heard that the Perimeter produced an unusually high number of NYDN cases, which the soldiers themselves referred to as shell shock. The official explanation was that Perimeter troops were of poorer quality than the wider army, but Horys was beginning to doubt that notion.
"I won't be giving you command of a platoon, though," continued Tindall. "Mainly because that's not really how we do things up here. A platoon is an administrative formation, no more. And I'm not tying up a subaltern in administrative work that one of the clerks can do perfectly well. Operationally we operate flexible formations depending on where we are and what we are doing. Command is assigned based on the size of the force, and what the task is."
Horys nodded. "The Frontier Rangers work in a similar way," he said.
"Quite so. Anyway, I had a letter from Major Fazackerly who seems to think you've the makings of a decent officer. He was my OC when I was posted here out of the Academy, and I trust his judgement. And Sergeant Curran formed a favourable impression of you. Trust me, if he hadn't you'd have known about it." Again, that boyish grin. "We're going into the front line tonight so we'll show you around, get you out on patrol, give you a chance to see the lie of the land. Main job today is to get yourself over to the QM stores. You'll need a cutlass or a light cavalry sabre – a parade ground sword is no use here. Draw a helmet too, we've modified the design to suit some of the, ah, more unusual requirements of the perimeter garrison. What else? Buckler, dagger, and a leather jerkin. Or a mail hauberk if you prefer it. Personally I find the damned things too heavy, and it's a devil of a job to stop them jangling on a raid. Do you have a decent pair of combat boots? Good. Also, indent for any deficiencies in your field kit. I'm assuming as an ex Frontier man, you are used to extended patrols?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Then go to the armoury, draw a revolver and check it out on the ranges. Half the time you'll find the damn thing won't fire, but it's useful when it does."
"What about a rifle, sir? On the Frontier, I always carried one. Most of the officers did."
Tindall shook his head. "Dead weight. Again, you'll find that half the time, it won't fire. Most of the troops regard them as a useful handle to stick a bayonet on and not much more. And don't get me started on the uselessness of Lewins up here."
Horys looked at him in open astonishment, having seen on the Frontier just how devastatingly effective the water-cooled machine guns could be in the right hands. Tindall grimaced. "Of course, I keep forgetting, you're as green as grass. You will find that the closer you get to the Old Kingdom, the less reliable our technology is. When the wind is from the north, the effects can be felt almost as far back as Bain. As you discovered yesterday."
"I thought that the drivers might be playing some sort of hoax on me," admitted Horys. Tindall grinned and shook his head.
"No, it's all too real. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, the ranges. When you've done that, go to the blacksmith's forge and get a good edge put on your cutlass and dagger. And anything else you might have. Up here, you can't have too many hand-to-hand weapons. I'm guessing you may have learned a trick or two on the Frontier?"
Greatly daring, Horys reached into his tunic pocket, withdrew something and gave a practiced flick of his wrist. A spinning, flat metal object zoomed over Tindall's head, close enough to ruffle his hair, and embedded itself in the plaster behind him. Tindall gave an exclamation of surprise, then pulled the object out to examine it. It was like a four-pointed star, except that each point was a curved, viciously sharp blade.
"What on earth is that?" Tindall demanded.
"Korovian throwing star, sir." Horys said nervously, wondering whether he had gone too far. But Tindall's eyes were sparking with interest as he examined the strange object.
"How accurate is it?"
"If you know how to use it, sir, very accurate up to a range of about 5 metres. And deadly," he added.
"And do you know how to use it?"
"I do, sir." Briefly, he explained how he had once rescued a Sergeant of the Frontier Rangers who had been caught on their own wire, under fire from raiding tribesmen. As a token of his gratitude, the Sergeant, who was a native of the southern Ancelstierran province of Korovia, had taught him to use the throwing stars. Horys always carried several to hand, concealed in various pouches and pockets. He wondered, briefly, where Sergeant Kalil was now, or even if he was still alive.
Tindall nodded, approvingly. "Mind if I hang onto this? I'd like to see whether the blacksmith could knock up a few. Might come in useful, if you could teach some of the men how to use them. Now, any more surprises?"
"Knuckledusters, sir, and a couple of home-made coshes."
"By the Charter, maybe we should get some more Frontier types up here," Tindall exclaimed. Then he rang a bell on his desk. The door opened without a knock and one of the orderly room corporals looked in.
"Corporal Malloy, pass the word for Private Anshye. On the double."
"Yes, sir!"
"Anshye will be your batman. He's a reject from the Arquebusiers as it happens, but I suspect he may make a Perimeter man. Ah, Private Anshye, this is Mr Horys. Latest in a long line of officers whose unfortunate task is to try and keep you out of trouble."
"Yes sir," Anshye said, with a grin. He was a stocky young man, with the dark eyes and brown skin of the Korovians, and the misshapen nose of a habitual brawler. Horys instinctively liked him.
"Anshye will come with you this morning, show you around the base and help you carry all the mountains of stuff you'll be collecting. Anshye, make sure the Lieutenant gets everything he needs, and don't let the QM fob him off with anything second rate." Anshye nodded, solemnly. "Meet me in the officer's mess anteroom at 12 pip emma sharpish," Tindall continued, addressing Horys once more. "We'll have a pre-lunch drink and you can meet some of the others. Might as well enjoy the comforts of civilisation while we can, we go up the line tonight."
"What about this afternoon, sir?"
"Study for the Staff College, if you've any sense," Tindall answered, grinning as he used the age-old army euphemism for an afternoon nap. "You still look all in from yesterday, and you'll get precious little sleep in the front line. But I think you'll cope with that."