[X] [CUNARIS] "I am well, sir—and very pleased to be under your command once more."
For a moment, the old Duke's eyes narrow, and you feel an all too familiar tautness betwixt your shoulder blades. Have you made yourself too familiar? Have you given offense?
But no, the next moment, Cunaris' expression grows just a little warmer. "Truth be told, I am very pleased to have you under my command as well," he replies with the smallest of grins. "We'll need as many solid officers as we can get if we are to see through this sorry business, and you may rest assured that I am not displeased to have you."
He shakes his head. "Under normal circumstances, I would not set foot in Aetoria, but the exigencies of the service must come before personal sensibilities, and the King's death has made our task a vital one indeed."
"And what exactly is our task, sir?" you ask. The summons had made no mention of it, save a vague reference to 'the current emergency.'
It is Lord Renard who answers now, his once-guileless smile now cut with just enough world-weariness to twist into a sardonic grin. "Ain't but the simplest thing, and th' most complicated thing of all, my lord: keep the peace."
"Then we must avoid being seen as associated with one faction or the other."
The Duke nods. "Precisely so. Our chiefest priority is to avoid being seen as partial to either party. The Grenadiers have already made themselves unsuitable for the task by proving themselves committed to the Crown's interests and unacceptable in the eyes of the Wulframite party. We have been chosen to reinforce them precisely because we are seen as impartial."
"And are we?" you ask. "Impartial, I mean."
"They think me father is, and that's evidently good enough," Lord Renard replies, with a sidelong look at the man in question. "He ain't ever involved himself too much in Cortes politics, and as far as fellows like Wulfram are concerned, that mean he ain't give a damn about them."
"And as far as it pertains to this duty with which we have been charged with, I don't," the Duke interjects, his voice rising to a semblance of the mighty basso it once was. "And neither will you. If any of us are perceived to be favouring one party, then it shall surely arouse the passions of the other and cause the situation to deteriorate further. That is something which this country may no longer afford, and so any deviation from the strictest impartiality must be avoided." He fixes you with a look of such ferocious determination that for a moment, he seems the Cunaris of ten years ago. "This regiment will keep the peace in this city; not Queen Isobel's peace, not the Duke of Wulfram's peace,
the peace. Am I made clear?"
[X] "Queen Isobel? At least that question's been settled."
"Yes, it has," the Duke replies, his expression almost entirely unreadable. "The laws of succession are quite clear. Isobel is Queen."
So she is. The dead King's calculating, sharp-eyed sister is to take his place upon the Gryphon Throne.
You suppose you could think of far worse candidates for the task. Yet knowing what you do of her, you cannot help but suspect that she'll be all too eager to pursue the Crown's antagonism with the Duke of Wulfram with just as much energy as her elder brother. If Cunaris intends for your regiment to keep the peace until cooler heads prevail, then he may well have a hard job of it…
Especially once—
"If that is the case, sir, then do our oaths of service not require us to serve the Queen's interests?" you ask. "If Her H—" You swap the familiar words in your mind half an instant after you begin to say them. "If Her Majesty demands we take her part of the argument against the Duke of Wulfram or his faction, are we not obliged to obey?"
Cunaris does not quite shake his head. "The laws of succession are clear, in this case. The powers those laws convey are not. Even if the Queen commands us to defend her interests, she may not have the authority to do so legally."
Of course.
"Under normal circumstances, a sister or a daughter might inherit a title, but its powers would be held in trust by the Crown or some other intermediary," you realise, fitting the pieces together as you dredge them up one by one from what you remember of inheritance law. "But in this case, there is no intermediary. No one can supersede the Crown in an affair like this, and as there is no legal precedent for such a situation…"
"Precisely," Cunaris replies. "Until the matter is settled, the exact extent of Her Majesty's powers are subject to a great deal of debate. She reigns, but we have yet to see if she rules."
[X] "Speaking of the Queen, is there to be a coronation?"
Cunaris shakes his head. "In view of the current situation, I have advised against it, as have several members of the Queen's Privy Council. It is primarily a matter of…" The Duke's expression grows tinged with disgust. "A matter of money. The Crown's finances are stretched enough as it is. To stage such an expensive instance of pageantry now would all but ensure that this country will not survive to see another.
And you suspect that isn't the only reason, either. Perhaps if the monarchy were as popular as it once was, a lavish coronation would have much cheered the people of the city. But years of Wulframite agitation has turned far too much of the city against the Gryphon Throne, or at least the line which sits upon it. Such a ceremony would only serve to further rouse anger now.
Yes, perhaps there will be no coronation, and perhaps that would be for the better.
[X] "Have we any further information as to the King's death?"
"What have you heard?" Cunaris asks.
"That the King's flagship went down off the coast of Weathern," you reply, "and there were no survivors. Nothing beyond that."
The Duke gives you a sour look. "Then you know precisely as much as anyone else may rightfully claim to know, save the Intendancy."
"They are conducting an investigation?"
Cunaris nods. "Lord Halford has assured me of such, though they have made no substantial findings; not that it has stopped certain disreputable individuals from speculating that the King was assassinated."
That revelation ought to have been a shocking one, but in truth, it is not so far-fetched a theory. Whatever else might be said of him, it couldn't be stated in any seriousness that the King had a shortage of enemies. "Who do they think did it?"
"Damned near everyone," Lord Renard replies with an expression that is almost a sneer. "Some say the Takarans did it t'stop the Kian treaty. Others say the Kian did it t'fabricate an excuse for war. Some say Wulfram did it out of spite, some say th' Queen did it to take th' throne, some even say Warburton, if you could believe that clotheshorse of killing anything that ain't a hare at five paces."
"They are rumours, and scurrilous ones, intended by one faction or another to deal injury to the reputation of their enemies, nothing more," Cunaris continues, his voice filling with a tightly controlled irritation. "I cannot see their circulation as serving any purpose save to render the current situation even more volatile and our own position more precarious. Under no circumstances should such dangerous lies be allowed to propagate among the men. Am I made clear?"
You nod. "Yes, sir."
"Good, then let us speak no more of this."
[X] "Very well, then. What is required of me?"
"Beginning at soonest convenience, the regiment will begin patrolling the city. One squadron will take the Upper City, one the Lower, the third will remain here at the Southern Keep as a reserve," Cunaris begins. "Large thoroughfares will be patrolled by the troops, smaller ones will necessitate the organisation of patrols under the command of a junior officer or a sergeant. Your task will be to break up seditious assemblies, deter acts of violence, and safeguard the lives and property of the city's residents. You will have the authority to impose summary judgement on the baneless and arrest any banebloods should you believe there to be just cause."
The Duke waves a hand to his side, towards his son. "Renard will command First Squadron. Captain Hawkins will retain command of the Third. Officially, I am giving you Second Squadron, which presently includes many of your veterans from Antar. I am also giving you Colour Campos and Captain Garret, who is to serve as your second."
Cunaris pauses for a moment, his chest rising in a deep breath as he leans forward, his eyes meeting yours. "Unofficially, I must also oblige you to act as my second-in-command, my eyes and ears out in the field, as it were. Out of all of my squadron commanders, you are the one with the most experience, so I am entrusting you with authority not only over your own command, but over the other squadrons as well."
For an instant, you look to Lord Renard, all but expecting to be met with some sort of resentment; an understandable sentiment, you suppose, for a man passed over for preferment by his own father.
But no. He only gives you the slightest hint of a grin and a nod, as if he were relinquishing you his space in a queue.
If Cunaris noticed the exchange, then he shows no sign of it. "This regiment has been taken out of barracks after four years of inaction and put to a task it was never intended for. That in itself is a dangerous situation. The fact that we are now at a point where the fate of the Unified Kingdom may rest upon our ability to carry out our orders only exacerbates the problem. Now, least of all, can we afford to work at cross purposes. I am relying upon you to help me ensure that the regiment is able to meet the demands it has been given. I am relying upon you to ensure that we will be seen by this city and its parties as able and impartial keepers of the peace. I…" He gives you the rueful shadow of a smile. "I am relying upon you for a great deal, in truth, but I have every confidence you will be up to the task."
You nod firmly, even as the weight of your new duties presses down on your shoulders like the straps of a full haversack. "Thank you, sir."
"I suspect you would wish to take command at soonest opportunity," the Duke concludes. "If you have any further questions, you may as well ask them now."
[X] "If Captain Garret is to be my second, I should like to know his qualities."
Captain Garret served under your command but briefly whilst the regiment was in Antar. You got scant measure of the man personally, but you've heard more than enough of the stories to have some idea of his personal habits and vices, ones which you cannot imagine to be very helpful to the accomplishment of your current task at hand. Perhaps he has since addressed such weaknesses since you saw him last.
Judging by the Duke's expression, you suspect such a hope to be in vain.
"Garret is an able fighting officer, and were we heading into battle, that might have been enough. Here…" He shakes his head. "You know of his habits, I suspect, and thus you must know that our presence in Aetoria is all too likely to exacerbate them. The man conspires as easily as he breathes, and unless those impulses are adequately restrained, he may well do the peace of the city some injury in his carelessness."
Your eyes narrow. "You want me to keep him on a tight leash?"
"I want you to keep an eye on him," Cunaris replies. "Prevent him from bringing the name of the regiment into disrepute, keep him from conspiring with any undesirable elements; and most importantly of all, prevent him from involving us in the designs of either faction."
"I will try my best, sir."
The Duke nods, his expression grave. "Then let us hope it shall be enough."
[X] "How would you recommend I maintain impartiality, sir?"
The Duke's reply comes with an apologetic, almost pained expression. "The task, I fear, is not so much upholding impartiality as it is maintaining the impression of impartiality in the eyes of the city. Doing so means taking every possible effort to ensure that both the supporters of the Queen and the Duke of Wulfram that we will judge them fairly by their own standards. Favours and punishments must be seen to be in balance. If we must arrest a Queen's man one day, then we must arrest one of Wulfram's the next. Should you be required to mediate a dispute betwixt the two factions, you shall have to do so in a manner which both parties agree is fair, or at least a manner which angers them equally."
"But what if one of those parties is clearly in the wrong?" you protest.
"Then you must do it anyway, sir!" Cunaris all but snaps. "The prospect rankles me as much as it does you—of that one might be assured—yet in this circumstance, it is necessary. The regiment will only be capable of keeping the peace between the two factions because it is seen as above both. Allow the impression to form that we are in the service of one side or the other, and we shall lose any chance of seeing this whole crisis resolved constructively."
The Duke's voice softens, grows gentle in the space of a bare moment. "You have a desire to do right, and that sentiment is nothing but admirable. However, at this moment, the right thing to do is to ensure that the realm weathers this whole wretched matter without any further effusion of blood. The right thing to do is to safeguard the future of the Unified Kingdom. The right thing to do is your duty, of that you must be absolutely certain."
You swallow, hard. It's clear that Cunaris likes the idea of it all no more than you do, but if he's willing to put aside his dislike for the sake of his duty to Crown and Kingdom, you suppose you must be too.
Saints above, has duty always been this complicated? Surely, things were better in Antar, or at least simpler…
Yes, it was simpler then, but that was the work of destroying men, not saving them. Of crushing an enemy, not guarding a peace. Perhaps that's why war seems so clear compared to peace. Perhaps that's why so many men seem to long for it.
[X] "What kind of authority will I have?"
"You will have full authority over Second Squadron, of course," Cunaris replies. "You may command it as if we were at war, and although I would counsel you not to do so under normal circumstances, I would advise you to do so now. The success of our task relies greatly upon the discipline and preparedness of the men, and in that we can afford no lapse."
"What of the other squadrons?" you ask, your gaze shifting to Lord Renard. You suspect that Cunaris is already grooming him to take over as colonel of the regiment. Given the Duke's current state, you cannot imagine that such a prospect would be too far distant. It must rankle now, to be placed under the command of a fellow of relatively little influence and no connection, when the prospect of total authority over the whole of the regiment must seem so almost within his grasp.
Sure enough, there's a moment of silence as the father looks up at the son, and the son looks down towards the father. You cannot know what passes between the two of them in that moment, but it's clearly enough to settle the matter.
"First Squadron will be under your command," Cunaris replies, "as will the Third and the rest of the regiment as well, so long as you don't give me cause to do otherwise."
So there it is. You will effectively have command of the regiment—a position conditional to the Duke of Cunaris' approval, but it will be enough to do what needs to be done.
You hope.
[X] "What sort of state is the regiment currently in?"
"As well as could be expected, given four years of peace," Cunaris replies grimly. "A blade dulls quickly when allowed to rust in its scabbard."
Perhaps, but you suspect that it wouldn't be so difficult to hone that blade again, especially if done by someone who knows how. Whatever the regiment's current state, its ranks are still filled with veterans of the Antari war, men who were not so long ago masters of the soldier's trade. Men who may swiftly and easily restore themselves to their former proficiency, should they be given proper cause.
You rather suspect that part of your new position will involve giving them that reason.
"What measures have already been taken?" you ask, leaving unspoken the question of what remains to be done.
"We began making preparations the moment the orders reached us," the Duke replies. "Our recruiting parties were able to bring our three squadrons almost up to strength with fresh draughts before we departed from Fernandescourt. I have already made arrangements to see the men issued new uniforms. Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Squadrons are now being brought up to strength at Fernandescourt, they will join us here when they are made respectable. Until then, we shall have to make do with what we have."
It's a good start, you cannot deny that. A few weeks of drill to let the veterans remember themselves and teach the new recruits their left foot from their right might be all that's really needed. True, the regiment which results will still be a shadow of the force which came back from Antar, but so long as all goes well, the men will need to do nothing more than look imposing and keep formation as they trot down the streets, and a few weeks' drill will be good enough for that.
If all goes well…
[X] "I have no further questions, sir."
"Then there's one last order of business," Cunaris adds. "This time next week, I have been invited to dine at Wulfram House. That invitation extends to you and the other senior officers of the regiment likewise. As he has married my eldest daughter, Wulfram has framed the invitation as a matter of familial courtesy. You may be assured that it is not his sole motivation."
You can think of half a dozen potential meanings there, none of them entirely welcome. "Sir?"
"I have little doubt that Wulfram intends to gauge the mood of the regiment," the Duke continues, his expression tinged with distaste. "Having failed to solicit my support for his cause these past few years, I suspect he now wishes to see if that neutrality also extends to the men under my command, to see if he might have better luck winning the support of my officers."
You try to keep the smile off your face. "If that's the case, then it would be my pleasure to rebuff him, sir."
The Duke's eyes narrow. "Do not think your own alliances have escaped me, sir," he says tautly. "It is all well and good that you should align yourself with the King, and now the Queen; as a Lord of the Cortes, you have that liberty. However, in this case, you will be attending as an officer of my regiment, and as such, you will ensure that your words and actions reflect its neutrality. As long as you wear that uniform, your duty is to the peace of this city and this country. Any action which may lead Wulfram to think that this regiment may move against him is one which does our ability to keep that peace great injury."
He leans forward in his chair, his expression stern. "As long as you wear that uniform, he is not your enemy, just as he is not my son-by-marriage. Am I made clear?"
"Yes, sir."
The Duke nods, and his features soften. "Then I shall have every confidence in you. Dismissed."
-
"You know, I'm not sure what I should be feeling right now," Captain Garret murmurs as the two of you stand before the paraded ranks of your new squadron fifteen minutes later. "Envy or relief."
When you left the regiment at the end of the war, it had been a hard, sinewy force, men who had allowed experience and discipline and rough living to turn them into what was arguably the best cavalry in the King's Army.
There are still signs of that now. Many of the veterans which you left behind had remained in the ranks in peacetime, and Cunaris evidently wasn't lying when he promised that Second Squadron would have the largest proportion of them. Even now, you can pick out their faces and the red stripes on their sleeves amongst fresh-faced new recruits among their number.
Yet the half-familiar faces that stare back at you are not the lean, clear-eyed veterans you remember. Now, their faces are sagging from the ravages of drink and dissipation, their cheeks scarred with pox, their bellies and limbs sagging with the weight of what you remember as once being muscle. Men who had once been able to fight and ride for hours in the burning Antari sun are now already seeming to flag after a few minutes' inspection in the midst of a warm Aetorian spring.
Only Captain Garret himself is as you remember him; slim, clear-eyed, his fine features always giving off the faint impression that he's privy to some secret joke at your expense.
"Not quite what you expected, eh?" Garret continues, his tone somewhere between amusement and apology. "I'm sure with enough time, we can get them back up to scratch again."
"Time may not be a luxury we have," replies Captain Hawkins, standing to your other side. "The Colonel wants to begin patrols at soonest opportunity. I suspect the longer we put them off, the worse the situation in the city is going to get."
"Then we must hope their presence on the streets alone will deter any sort of violence," Captain Sandoral observes, quietly appalled. His return to the regiment was almost as recent as yours, and it's clear that the shock of what it has become in his absence hasn't quite worn off. "I fear none of us can answer for what might happen if comes to a fight."
"I would place even odds," Captain Blaylock replies, his look of disgust both obvious and complete. "Assuming that ours were all sober and ahorse, and they were unarmed, and half of them were children, and we had the numbers by two to one."
Garret looks to you with an almost cat-like grin. "Well then, it seems we have our work cut out for us—or rather, you do, sir."
[X] "Are the other squadrons also this bad?"
"Yes and no, I suspect," Garret replies after a moment's thought. "First Squadron is closer to strength, but it also has the greatest proportion of new men. They haven't picked up the veterans' bad habits yet, but I suspect they aren't quite entirely trained either, so it will be insolence and ignorance, rather than dissolution and indolence that are their main problems."
"And Third Squadron?" you ask, turning to Hawkins.
"Third Squadron is the opposite, sir," he reports, with something that is almost like pride. "I daresay we've done the best in maintaining drill and discipline, which wouldn't be so much of a problem were we not so sorely understrength."
"Still?" The Third had spent much of the war barely above half strength, but that was more due to the harsh and disreputable nature of the assignments it was given—not to mention the harsh and disreputable reputation of its commanding officer, though it was one which was as much a function of Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta's circumstances of birth as it was his style of command. Yet it's been half a decade since then. Surely such matters have been rectified under its new officer commanding?
By the way that Hawkins shakes his head, it's clear that the case is anything but. "I fear the Third's record in Antar gave us a reputation, both with the Colonel and the men themselves. We are, I suspect, given lowest priority for replacements and reinforcements, and that which we do receive often arrange to have themselves transferred to the other squadrons, where the discipline is more lax and the duties easier."
Captain Hawkins doesn't quite look pointedly at Captain Garret when he says it, but the other man apparently caught the implication regardless.
"One could hardly be blamed for maintaining peacetime standards in a time of peace," Garret replies easily. "Who could have expected any of this?" he asks, waving one hand to encompass his surroundings.
This time Hawkins does reply with a pointed glance, his silence more than eloquence enough to offer a reply.
Garret lets out a sigh before turning back to you. "Well then, there you have it, sir. The First is closest to strength, but most raw. The Third is most ready, but is grievously understrength. That puts the Second somewhere in between the two."
It's something, better than what your worst fears might have been. Garret may be right in saying you have your work cut out for you, but that doesn't mean the task is hopeless.
[X] "Shouldn't Sir Caius also be here?"
There are few men on familiar terms with Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta, either due to his deathborn-bastardry or simply his rather hard personality. Indeed, aside from Hawkins, you don't think there's any other officer in the regiment on friendlier terms with him than you. Even so, his absence is a bit of a mystery. After all, as quartermaster, the regiment's supplies of ammunition, equipment, and rations are all his responsibility. One would think his presence to be required at a time like this.
"He is still in Fernandescourt," Hawkins answers. "Cunaris has him tallying carbines for the new recruits he's raising."
"Damn shame," Garret replies, the corner of his mouth turned downwards in something of a frown. "We could use a fellow like him, especially now." He gives you an almost conspiratorial look. "You wouldn't think it of the fellow, but he's actually a damned good quartermaster. For all of the regiment's other current shortcomings, we've got plenty of powder and shot."
"Short on carbines though, and sabres," Sandoral points out. "I can see half a dozen missing. That man there, rear rank, second file from the right, he's missing his helmet too."
"That is due to no shortcoming on the quartermaster's part, of that you may be assured," Hawkins replies, his tone vaguely affronted. "Third Squadron is fully equipped. If the men of Second Squadron insist upon selling their weapons and equipment for drink and opium and poor company, then that is the fault of their officers."
For an instant, you almost expect Garret to call Third Squadron's captain out then and there, regulations be damned. But judging by the somewhat sly grin on your own second's face, their relations are congenial enough for such remarks to be more banter than insult.
"Men are rational creatures," Garret replies airily. "They do as they think benefits them the most. They can hardly be blamed for trading the accoutrements of war for the pleasures of peace when the former seems so distant and the latter so present."
"Doesn't seem so distant now, does it?" Blaylock all but snarls. "I never thought I'd say it, but we really could do with the bastard now. Can't understand why Cunaris would leave him in Fernandescourt, when we may well have such need of him."
Neither can you, but perhaps you'll have a chance to find out.
[X] "I don't suppose it'd be too much to hope for this all to blow over."
"I can't say that would be an entirely unwelcome prospect," Garret replies drily. "Personally speaking, sir, I would rather prefer it if it didn't come to blood in the streets, with us caught in the middle." He shrugs. "I suppose we can only hope the Queen comes to her senses and negotiates with Wulfram, that's the only way I can see this whole mess ending."
Perhaps, but you've seen enough of Queen Isobel to know that there's likely to be little chance of that.
Captain Blaylock, on the other hand, seems to be of a rather different mind. "It seems to me that Wulfram could end this in the same manner. Perhaps it is he who ought to see sense and negotiate with the Queen."
"I fear I cannot see that happening," Sandoral replies dubiously. "He's had his chance these past four years, and he never takes the opportunity."
Blaylock's eyes narrow, ever so slightly, his voice taking on the barest tinge of indignation. "And that means the Queen should?"
Sandoral shakes his head. "It's not a matter of 'should.' Her Majesty is not yet well-established on the Gryphon Throne, and she may well lack the allies in the Cortes which her brother the King was once able to marshal. It may be the more sensible course of action to offer concessions now, regroup, and press the matter again when her position is more secure."
"A fool's hope," Blaylock replies contemptuously. "Her Majesty cannot afford to show weakness now, it is what her foes expect, doubly so because she's a woman. If she allows herself to be knocked about now, she'll be giving them leave to do so for the rest of her life."
"And if she doesn't show some mind to offer concessions, the present crisis will only worsen." Sandoral lets out a sigh of resignation. "I suppose we shall never agree on this matter, not that it is of any relevance. I do not see the sentiments of two captains without commands capable of shifting the reality of the matter one way or the other. If Her Majesty deems it fit to negotiate with Wulfram, then perhaps the issue may be resolved. If not…"
If not, then Wulfram may well have to be brought to heel before his intransigence causes the ruin of the country…
[X] "Enough of this. To work."
It's been a long time since you were a soldier, yet you find your thoughts slipping almost immediately into familiar channels. There's no need to think on what must be done or how to do it. The answers simply come to you, as if you'd known all along.
"Captain Blaylock, I want an accounting of the available stocks of shot and powder," you begin, your voice crisp with the authority of command. "Captain Sandoral. I want First Squadron's strength tallies and sick lists, both to be submitted to me within the hour."
The two officers snap to attention almost immediately. With sharp salutes and quiet "yes sir"s, they depart without an instant of delay.
It seems you're not the only one falling into old patterns.
"Captain Hawkins, I shall require the same for Third Squadron," you continue before turning to your own second-in-command. "Captain Garret. I shall require a tour of the stables and the living quarters of the men. After that, I would like you to have the squadron mount up and go through the evolutions. Let me see what I'm working with…"
-
The next few days pass in a blur of exertion and exhaustion. Every morning, you linger in your townhouse only long enough to render yourself presentable and throw on your uniform before stepping immediately into your coach to arrive at the Southern Keep before the reveille sounds. Every night, you return home only to the pale glow of the gas lamps, drawn and exhausted. The regular routines of city life which once occupied your day are gone now. There's no more time for the Shipowners, for coffeehouses, for broadsheets, for letters from home, or even for meals of any variety save that of the simplest and most expedient sort. All of it has been emptied out, like the summer jackets of a winter wardrobe, in service to the one sole purpose that matters: the restoration of your command into a state fit for action.
It is a difficult task, to be sure, but perhaps not impossible. True, much has decayed over the past years of peace, but every so often, you can still catch a glimmer of the terrible, deadly machine which you left behind in Antar—a straight back here, a well-oiled carbine there—a faint reassurance that however rusted the gearwheels and however rotten the belts, there is some chance that the even the most broken machine might be repaired.
And there are some parts which need little repair at all.
If anything, Colour Campos has grown more comfortable in his rank, not less. He murmurs less, bellows more, and still holds his head up high. When you assume command of Second Squadron on that first day, he falls in behind you with all the intrusiveness of a breath, ready to relay your orders, as if your absence from the regiment had been but for an hour, and not nearly four years.
It seems to have something of an effect upon the men. After that, they stand a bit straighter, their salutes come a bit quicker. You're not sure what your Colour Sergeant said or did, but evidently, his mere presence at your side is enough to serve some purpose.
You cannot deny that it's had some effect upon you, as well. Whatever else, you can rest assured in knowing that you'll have your Colour's support.
And given the task that has been placed before you, that support will be much needed, indeed.
It only takes you the space of two days to achieve a reasonable idea of your command's qualities. When you do, you cannot help but look upon the veterans of your squadron almost the way you would see an aged man whom you last saw in his prime. However stooped and withered by time and inactivity, there are still signs of the strengths that once were. Despite all the ravages of peace, there remain the vestiges of the men your old Dragoons once were.
But only the vestiges.
Your Dragoons were never the most tautly drilled cavalry in the King's Army, but they made a very good accounting of themselves. By the end of the war, you could count upon their steadiness readily enough. Now, they're as shaky as you've ever seen them, with every movement and evolution ragged and uncoordinated.
At least their morale is better. In Antar, you could have taken your men's high spirits as an article of faith. Through cold, through heat, through battle and fatigue, you could be absolutely sure that the good cheer of your men would endure. Now, four years of peace and inactivity have reduced that once-mighty sentiment to a mere shadow of itself. They may be yet capable of a cheer, but the force behind those voices seems long gone.
At least their loyalty seems a little stronger. Once, you could have counted upon your Dragoons to follow you anywhere, to sacrifice anything only on your word of honour that the situation demanded it. By the end of the war, you could have crowned yourself Emperor of Old Calligia, and they might well have dropped to their knees and sworn fealty. Your name still carries some weight among them, but nowhere near what it once did. Your veterans may have once loved you, but that was a long time ago.
And that isn't even considering the new recruits, those who know your veteran Dragoons not as the proud fighting men they were when you last left them in Antar, but as the broken-down remnants they have become since; the cast-off debris of an army which no longer required them. Fresh-faced boys who have never seen battle, nor the sort of qualities needed to survive it. They too will have to be moulded, drilled, and if necessary, beaten into shape.
The only real question is, where do you even start?
[ ] [TRAINING] Before all else, soldiers must have discipline!
[ ] [TRAINING] Morale must come first.
[ ] [TRAINING] I will begin by building up their loyalty, and the rest will follow.
