Dathan Herulus presents his attack plan to an inebriated Legate Braegan.

    Yet I obliged the duty of my rank, steeled my nerves and approached the legate's tent, waiting to be called inside. I heard the sounds of clinking glass and cursing wafting from his shelter--then all too soon, I stood before him, saluting.

    "Centurion Herulus reporting as ordered, sir!"

    Braegan stood several inches shorter than I, but displayed a severe manner so intimidating, his persona more than made up for his lack of stature. At this moment, however, he sat at a table, conducting himself in a manner more worthy of my contempt than respect.

    Muttering expletives that exceeded the brute vulgarity of an illiterate line soldier, he slurred like a slum-dwelling drunkard. I noticed a half-drained glass at his hand and an empty wine bottle on the stained, canvas floor near the table. He overflowed with explosive invective--the words lashing like a saber recklessly wielded. These volatile moods always accompanied drunkenness, and whenever he was in this condition, I feared for my life.

    A desk, deeply scarred from transport, lay awash in a sea of documents awaiting his perusal. Yet he sat idle, running rough hands through thinning blonde hair, pausing to scratch a thickening beard that was, at its lightest, rather brown. In spite of the very cold air inside his tent, he was dressed in the same, lightweight battle fatigues we'd worn in Shirak and didn't seem to be shivering.

    With bloodshot eyes he inspected me from head to foot, smirked to himself, then proceeded with business. "I presume you've completed your preliminary attack plans," he said in a controlled tone that belied intoxication and warned of his potential rage. This man did not like to be disappointed.

    "Of course," I replied, lying, spreading my papers across his desk in order to appear as impressive as possible. "In conjunction with the artillery liaison officer, a mortar and cannon survey has been plotted. The structure is lightly defended with what we believe are inexperienced troops. We have supply routes planned and an estimate of the manpower required. At this time I believe. . ."

    "I don't give a rat's rear-end what you believe, soldier," he glowered. "I want you to give me results." The legate brushed my papers off his desk with no more ceremony than he'd give to flicking lint from his dress uniform.

    Partially relieved that he hadn't actually looked through them, but also dreading that he had enough faith in my command ability to trust me, I picked up the pile and stood at attention again. "You will have results, sir!"

    "Good," he responded. "You'll attack at dawn, tomorrow. If we have to spend another night out here in this thrice-damned wind, I'll see to it that you take on these nose-picking barbarians with a wicker shield and a sharp stick! Understood?"

    Absolutely, sir!"

    Without looking at me again, he said: "Dismissed!"

Trouble