These uniforms. Durshkin riffled through the neatly folded tunics that had just arrived. They were Kingsmen, not Queensmen. If scouts told them the Ice Bitch was coming, then his men would change into these uniforms, but otherwise, they’d still wear their Kingsmen uniforms.
Durshkin snorted. Women. All women were supposed to do was suck cock. And shove out babies. Not strut around running countries and planning out wars.
And these Stordish. Durshkin could not get past how pathetic they were. All he kept remembering was that they were, after all, the first spit of military a country hundreds of years neutral could cough up. That made the total amount of men twenty-five hundred men, agreed upon in some treaty between Ormon and Storden. As for the other Stordish back West – they’d fall faster than snowflakes in steam.
But his men were training these shits. They were pathetic, all of these Stordish. Difficult to watch, even harder not to laugh at. Ormon bought and paid for them and Durshkin owned them now, not Storden, and he made that clear immediately. And until each one of them convinced him that they were worthy of being in his ranks, then they were only women dressed as soldiers.
Durshkin saw the Stordish glaring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. And still they stood in formation, sloppy, loose. This morning, where the Stordish troops stood next to his Ormons, Durshkin heard as he walked past, one Stordish whisper,
“Why do they call him Colonel LD?”
“Because,” whispered his Ormon soldier, “they say he has such a long dick.”
“You!” Durshkin pointed at the Ormish soldier.
“Colonel, yes sir!”
“Run in place until I tell you to stop.”
“Colonel, yes sir!”
The Ormon soldier began running in place, staring sightlessly at nothing.
Green, yes, but not untrained.
“You.” Durshkin pointed to the Stordish man.
“Colonel, yes, sir!”
Durshkin just despised these Stordish men. They did not even salute, nor snap to as Ormish soldiers. Well, perhaps that would change….
“Advance, soldier,” Durshkin called to him in a bored tone.
The Stordish soldier finally about faced before him.
The soldier’s eyes grew round, and he threw a half a look over his shoulder at his comrades, but slowly, he knelt, swallowing, for he knew what was about to happen.
Durshkin unlaced his trousers and thrust his dick down the man’s throat.
“Now suck my cock until I tell you to stop.”
Durshkin let his thoughts drift as he rammed his dick down the man’s throat.
He heard their songs around their campfires along with their laughter and forbade them to sing them, though the songs had also caught on to some of his own men. And if he was honest with himself, he found them humorous, but he was commanding this entire ragtag Army division, and so it fell to him to keep them in line.
And trained. His own men weren’t bad – he’d fought with worse. Green, but through no fault of their own, for there had been no wars, no battles in years. Nearly two decades, in fact. Durshkin remembered The Twenty Years War. He’d only fought during the last ten years of it, but just the same – battle changed a man.
These Stordish… they had no idea that they’d be divided up and used as his vanguards. Suicide soldiers, one and all, and not a one of them knew it. Durshkin permitted himself a small smile as he surveyed the Stordish camp. One thousand of them, ugly red-haired and blond freckled bastards, undisciplined, untrained – sent as a measure of good faith for this maneuver. Half of these Stordish Durshkin would send as the vanguard into Ghiverny, and the other half he’d split evenly when they attacked the Delsynth….
Durshkin looked down at the soldier before him. Vomit streamed down the man’s chin and puddled in the snow. Couldn’t suck worth a damn but he’d gotten the job done. Women were made for sucking cock, not men.
“Now stop. Next time you’re in formation, soldier, keep your mouth closed.”
“Colonel, yes, sir,” the soldier choked.