‘Boys, this here is the famous Corporal Tunny, one of the longest serving non-commissioned officers in General Jalenhorm’s division. A veteran of the Starikland Rebellion, the Gurkish War, the last Northern War, the Siege of Adua, this current unpleasantness and a quantity of peacetime soldiering that would have bored a keener mind to death. He has survived the runs, the rot, the grip, the autumn shudders, the caresses of Northern winds, the buffets of Southern women, thousands of miles of marching, many years of his Majesty’s rations and even a tiny bit of actual fighting to stand – or sit – before you now. He has four times been Sergeant Tunny, once even Colour Sergeant Tunny, but always, like a homing pigeon to its humble cage, returned to his current station. He now holds the exalted post of standard-bearer of his August Majesty’s indomitable First Regiment of cavalry. That gives him responsibility—’ Tunny groaned at the mere mention of the word ‘—for the regimental riders, tasked with carrying messages to and from our much admired commanding officer, Colonel Vallimir. Which is where you boys come in.’

‘Oh, bloody hell, Forest.’

‘Oh, bloody hell, Tunny. Why don’t you introduce yourselves to the corporal?’

‘Klige.’ Chubby-faced, with a big sty that had closed one eye and his strapping on the wrong way round.

‘Previous profession, Klige?’ asked Forest.

‘Was going to be a weaver, sir. But I hadn’t been ’prenticed more than a month before my master sold me out to the recruiter.’

Tunny gave a further grimace. The replacements they were getting lately were an insult to the bottom of the barrel.

‘Worth.’ The next was gaunt and bony with an ill-looking grey sheen to his skin. ‘I was in the militia and they disbanded the company, so we all got drafted.’

‘Lederlingen.’ A tall, rangy specimen with big hands and a worried look. ‘I was a cobbler.’ He offered no further detail on the mechanics of his entry into the King’s Own and Tunny’s head was hurting too much for him to pry. The man was here now, unfortunately for everyone involved.

‘Yolk.’ A short lad with a lot of freckles, dwarfed by his pack. He glanced guiltily about. ‘They called me a thief but I never done it. Judge said it was this or five year in prison.’

‘I rather think we may all come to regret that choice,’ grunted Tunny, though probably as a thief he was the only one with transferrable skills. ‘Why’s your name Yolk?’

‘Er … don’t know. Was my father’s name … I guess.’

‘Think you’re the best part of the egg, do you, Yolk?’

‘Well …’ He looked doubtfully at his neighbours. ‘Not really.’

Tunny squinted up at him. ‘I’ll be watching you, boy.’ Yolk’s bottom lip almost trembled at the injustice.

‘You lads stick close to Corporal Tunny here. He’ll keep you out of danger.’ Forest had a smile that was tough to define. ‘If there was ever a soldier for staying clear of danger, it’s Corporal Tunny. Just don’t play cards with him!’ he shouted over his shoulder as he made off through the shambles of ill-kempt canvas that was their camp.