Midmorning on the first Tridi of Decem, Alucius and the eight other remaining members of the second squad, still in well-worn black training tunics and trousers, were seated on backless wooden benches in the square room where squad leader Furwell discussed cavalry tactics—and anything else that came to mind.
“…to repeat it all in simple terms,” Furwell concluded, “always come from where you’re not expected. Never charge a prepared position. It’s a waste of men and mounts. They could have caltrops spread on the ground. They could have concealed pits with riflemen—or even pikemen waiting in ditches, and there’s nothing that will stop you quicker than getting your mount spitted on a four-yard-long pike. If the fall doesn’t kill you, one of the pikemen probably will. If you survive that, the best you can hope for is a very long run with soldiers shooting at you.”
“What about warlocks or people with Talent?”
Alucius couldn’t see who asked the question, and he didn’t recognize the voice.
Furwell smiled. “Cold steel or a well-aimed rifle bullet will kill someone with Talent just as dead as anyone else.”
“Sir…aren’t folk with Talent more like sanders and soarers than real people? Can’t they avoid a sabre?”
The squad leader snorted. “I can avoid your blade, Oliuf. That doesn’t make me Talented. Having Talent is like having any other skill. It gives people abilities. For example, we use herders as scouts, and most herders have a touch of Talent. They make good scouts because they have a better sense of where sentries and ambushes are. They can also confuse tracking dogs. But they get killed and die like anyone else. People kill sanders all the time. It usually takes two or three men—but it would take two or three men to kill an experienced soldier—the kind we’re trying to make you. Don’t worry about Talent in battle. There probably aren’t twenty people with a major Talent in all of Corus, and no one’s going to waste them in a battle.”
“Do you know if the Reillies, the brigands, have warlocks?”
“I doubt it. But it doesn’t make much difference. You shoot him first, and he’s dead. You don’t, and he’s got a chance to kill you, either with a crossbow or a rifle or a blade.”
“Crossbow?” asked Ramsat.
“They’re slow to reload, but you get hit with an iron quarrel and the whole time you’re dying you’ll wish that they’d shot you with a rifle. With crossbows, they don’t have to worry about powder, and any backwoods smith can forge quarrels.”
“What about the Matrites?”
Furwell laughed. “You just don’t want to go out and go through drills, Velon. Right now, we’re not fighting the Madrien forces. The hill folks to the west are. We might have to in time, but you’ll have a chance to learn about that when you get to your permanent company.” Furwell held up a hand. “They have cavalry, just like we do, and more foot. They’ve got rifles, and their officers carry pistols along with their sabres and rifles. They’ve taken over the entire coast from below Fola to well north of Northport. I’d say that they can fight.” The squad leader grinned. “And don’t ask me about the Lanachronans. You’re dismissed. You’ve got half a glass to take care of whatever you need and to get saddled and mounted in formation.”
The nine stood and stiffened at attention until Furwell had left the room.
“…still say Talent can make difference…”
Anything that provided an advantage could make a difference. That was the whole point of what Furwell had said. And what an enemy—or an officer—didn’t know was another type of advantage, Alucius reflected.