A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “Begging your pardon, Commander, sir, but what’s the report from the bridge brigades?” interrupted a man.

  “Bridge brigades? I don’t follow.”

  “Last night Mother Rellia dispatched all our archers to take down the Oro patrollers on Kings Bridge and Electors Bridge at dawn. And behind them went wagons full of logs and such to build barricades. It’s near midmorn: What reports have come back?”

  Thalen sputtered. “I’ve heard nothing—no one mentioned—do you mean that while we’re sitting here getting acquainted, Free Staters may be dying, already taking the bridges?”

  Embarrassed, worried silence greeted his question.

  “Damnation!” Thalen swore. “Get me the Raiders. And my horse!”

  Within ten minutes, a guide led Thalen, most of the Raiders, and some sixty mounted Defiance fighters to the Post Road. Wareth galloped ahead to reconnoiter Kings Bridge; he rejoined the main force on the road with a piercing whistle and broad gestures indicating that this bridge was secure—they should proceed west.

  Some three hundred paces farther on, they swept by a horse grazing on bushes while its rider, a young girl, lay facedown in the road, the puddle of blood around her already seeping into the dirt. Thalen read in a glance that a wounded messenger racing for help hadn’t completed her mission.

  Another ten minutes at full gallop brought them the noise of a battle ahead. As soon as they rounded the curve, Thalen saw that Oro soldiers had control of two-thirds of the bridge, and Defiance fighters were desperately trying to hold their position on the last third. Bodies, weapons, even logs cluttered the bridge itself.

  Thalen had pulled his rapier after he saw the dead messenger. As they approached the bridge, he stood up in his stirrups. Kran rode at his left, occasionally pulling a nose ahead of him; Fedak was at his right, and Wareth and Kambey pounded right behind them. His Raiders didn’t need the additional goad of Gustie’s death: this was their first chance to engage Oros since the night in Iron Valley, when so many of their friends had died.

  “Make way!” they shouted. The Defiance fighters dodged the horses that dashed through the press, thundered onto the bridge, leapt over obstacles, and clove straight into the mass of Oro pikemen pushing forward.

  The Raiders’ swords flashed with fury—slicing through pike handles, hacking off hands or arms, skewering throats, or decapitating their foes. Defiance reinforcements on their heels set upon any soldier the five Raiders missed. Loud splashes behind the horses announced men or bodies being thrown off the structure into the swift and deep Jutter River below.

  Thalen couldn’t find the icy control that always before had sustained him on a battlefield. He hungered to kill.

  The mass of Oro soldiers staging at the city end of the bridge turned and fled before their furious onslaught.

  Thalen pursued them, overjoyed to see that these pikemen weren’t wearing backplates. He skewered one, pulled his blade out, and lunged for the next bare neck. This Oro, here, who had tripped and held up his hands—his bare throat was perfect. Blood spurted up Thalen’s arm. He looked around for the next target.

  “Thalen!” Wareth’s face loomed close to his, and Wareth had grabbed Thalen’s bridle. “We’ve cleared the bridge. Turn back.”

  In shock, Thalen realized that he had led his Raiders one hundred paces across a flat field straight toward Jutterdam. At the moment, scores of Oros ran from their attack, but if they stopped panicking, realized their numerical superiority, and turned around …

  Thalen whirled his mare, glancing about. The city’s walls were within sight. On top he could just make out Oro soldiers staring and pointing.

  Wareth blew a piercing whistle as recall. Thalen led the way back over the bridge, keeping his lathered horse to a prancing walk.

  Once on the other side, Thalen dismounted. He had to lean with his hands braced against his knees for long moments to catch his breath.

  A tall, square-jawed woman with rough bandages around her head and torso and clothing spattered in blood approached.

  “We’d given up hope of reinforcements. Why didn’t Mother Rellia send them earlier! Did she fuckin’ forget us here?”

  “Mother didn’t forget you. She died,” he answered between gasps, finally managing to straighten up. “I’m sorry—your messenger didn’t get through, and I didn’t know you had an action in progress.”

  He turned away from her for a moment.

  “Fedak!” he called. “Get those wagons turned on their side and get this end of the barricade up before they regroup!”

  He turned back. “I am Thalen of Sutterdam,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Bellishia of Yosta,” answered the woman, whose handshake was firm despite her injuries. “The Thalen of Sutterdam?”

  He nodded. “Tell me, what happened?”

  “Mother Rellia sent us to get in position in the night. We attacked the bridge guards just before dawn. They summoned reinforcements. We’re closer to the city here than Kings Bridge, as you can see. We sent for help too and held them off as best we could, but we were so busy fighting that we couldn’t get the barricade in place. Spirits damn those Oros, I lost so many good people.”

  “It was valiantly done. Let’s get you and your wounded to where healers can tend you. We’ll leave these fresh fighters to finish and hold the barricade.”

  Before he remounted, Thalen studied the bridge. Electors Bridge was built of masonry, forty paces long and rising at least twenty paces above the rushing river. Five arches supported its length; the last arch, on the Post Road side, rose to the bridge’s apex.

  Thalen addressed Wareth and Fedak. “Stay here; supervise the reinforcements. Make the barricade unbreakable. Send reports—every hour—to the farmhouse.”

  After waving the wounded from Bellishia’s brigade on to headquarters, Thalen motioned for Kran to turn off with him at Kings Bridge. This older overpass, built by one of the Iga kings, crossed the Jutter at its narrowest but swiftest running point with a single-arch design. The Free Staters trying to capture and hold Kings had benefited from an essential advantage—the bridge included a tower on the countryside, originally to help lookouts keep watch for anyone approaching the city. With the tower providing a height advantage, Defiance archers had been able to chase the Oros off the bridge and erect a barrier.

  Thalen dismounted to check the soundness of the construction. He had knelt to examine the interlaced bracing of some logs when a man tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Those braces will hold till the end of time. Thalen, ain’t it?”

  Thalen stood up and whirled around. He recognized the wheelwright he had hidden with for several days after the Rout, though it took a moment for him to find the name.

  “Good to see you alive, my friend. Ikas, right?”

  “That it is.” The men clasped hands.

  “Are you the one in charge of this bridge?” Thalen asked. “I heard about a Sutter with a dark beard but didn’t realize it was you.”

  “Mother Rellia put me in charge of building the barricade, and that fellow up in the tower with the green hat, he’s in charge of the archers.”

  Green Hat smiled down on them and saluted.

  “Well, Ikas, I have news. Mother Rellia died in the night; I’ve assumed command of the Defiance; and thus far this morning has been a total cock-up except you’ve done a good job here.”

  Ikas chewed over this information in consternation, but Thalen didn’t have time to waste. “Here, this is Kran; he’s one of my Raiders. I’m going to leave him with you to help. Send reports to the farmhouse every hour.”

  Once they arrived at the farmhouse, Dalogun ran over to take Thalen’s mare.

  “We need horses saddled and ready at all times,” Thalen remarked as he passed over the reins.

  “Did these Sutter horses do us proud?” Dalogun asked.

  “Well enough,” Thalen answered.

  Cerf had already taken over assessing the wounded from Electors Bridge. While
Thalen had been off fighting, Cerf had decided that the spacious barn would serve as the infirmary. His assistants were rigorously scouring it clean.

  Thalen discovered that Tristo had seen to Mother Rellia’s burial. He’d even cut off another random hank of his hair to burn to assist her journey to the stars and had begun the job of turning the building into a working command center, with maps, lanterns, paper, and other things he knew Thalen would want.

  Turning about after peeking in the farmhouse door, Thalen almost bumped into Jothile, who had materialized behind him carrying a plate of food that he thrust out as an offering.

  “Thank you, Jothile. Something hot to eat is exactly what I need most right now. Thank the cooks too. Maybe you could fetch me a cup of tisane? Or coffee, if they have any? I’m going to sit for a spell on that hill behind the house, out of the bustle, and try to clear my head.”

  Jothile returned with two mugs of coffee, one in each hand. “Give me your rapier?” he asked. Thalen passed him the rapier he had only barely wiped after the battle. Jothile sat down a few paces in front of Thalen with a rag and whetstone, his protective presence (he reminded Thalen of a dog on guard duty) serving as a deterrent against those who would interrupt the commander’s chance to eat and think.

  Thalen gulped the first mug of hot coffee swiftly, savoring how it fortified him and cleared his head. He slowly sipped from the second as he ate and reviewed their situation.

  Norling had told him that though scattered Oro units occupied the far reaches of the Free States, they were now rudderless. Their most capable officers had all either sailed back to Oromondo, been poisoned at Gustie’s banquet, or already gathered in Jutterdam. There was little chance, then, that the Oro general in Jutterdam counted upon his countrymen coming to lift the siege. The Oro’s leader would accept that he had to deal with this threat from the Defiance himself.

  Thalen very much doubted that Oros would sit passively behind the stone walls, waiting to starve. The Oro general would counterattack soon. He had nothing to gain in waiting while the Defiance organized itself or hunger eroded discipline and strength. Thalen blessed Gustie’s mission for taking down the sea route. With that option closed, they would hurl brute force against the bridge barricades.

  Tonight. Or tomorrow at dawn.

  At all costs, he had to hold the bridges.

  In his mind, Thalen addressed the Oro general. When you find you can’t beat down the barricades, what will be your next move? You’ll try to break us with your hostages, right?

  Could this novice army hold firm? Could it sacrifice innocents? What alternatives did he have?

  Thalen had no answer. He lifted his eyes to survey the farm and environs. In every direction squads buzzed with activity: many loaded more logs onto wagons, or worked on reinforcing ladders and scaffolds. Quinith, standing behind the barn in the informal armory, had set workers to taking an inventory. Women pulled down laundry, ripped the cloth, and rolled bandages. Thalen realized that for weeks Mother Rellia had been gathering the materials her forces would need to maintain this siege. Though she’d been negligent about a command structure, in other areas she had shown foresight.

  Thank you, Mother R. For your wisdom and your sacrifice. Thalen saluted her memory with his coffee mug. Then he bestirred himself to enter the farmhouse and take his position at the table.

  “First things first,” he said to Tristo. “We must prepare the barricades for imminent attacks.”

  The afternoon and evening passed in a myriad of arrangements, including organizing relief shifts on the barricades, building blinds for archers at Electors Bridge, and readying weapons.

  When Ikas came in to report, he said to Thalen, “I heard about Gustie of Weaverton. She was a friend of yours, I take it. I had the honor of fighting beside her in Sutterdam. Damn shame.”

  “If we survive tonight, I’d like to hear more about her Sutterdam escapades,” answered Thalen.

  “We’ll survive. We have Commander Thalen leading us,” Ikas answered.

  “By the way,” Ikas continued, “remember the healer, Dwinny, who lived with us in that first farmhouse? She’s here too.”

  “Good. I’m delighted she survived. And we’ll need her.”

  * * *

  Around midnight Thalen personally took command of the barricade at Electors and assigned Kambey to hold Kings Bridge. Under cover of darkness, his crews braced for combat.

  An hour before light, Wareth’s sentries sighted Oro columns marching to attack both bridges. The defenders heard the clink of the Oros’ armor long before they saw the troops. The Oros marched confidently, with no effort at silence or stealth, and approached the bridge in ranks of eight, wearing their helmets, breastplates, and armor on the front of their legs and arms. When they reached the cobblestones on the bridge’s far side, orders rang out and pikes leveled with impressive precision. In the middle of their ranks they carried two large battering rams, rams large and heavy enough to do real damage to the bulwark.

  The Oros crested the highest point of Electors Bridge, and their officers called out commands and pulled whips, urging their men to charge. Obediently, the soldiers broke into a run. But in the night Thalen had used ropes to lower giggling children with buckets of tar and oil and mops. They had made the downslope surface as slippery as a frozen lake.

  As soon as the pikemen stepped on the cobblestones, their feet went flying out from under them. Their own battering rams fell on top of the sliding heap, crushing limbs. The whole tangled mass of men, logs, and pikes slid against the blockade with a thunderous crash that knocked part of it askew. But the shocked Oros, many with the wind knocked out of them or broken bones, were incapable of taking advantage of the damage they had wrought.

  Defiance crossbows punched through the steel plating of their armor. Only a few soldiers made it past the arrows, and if they pressed against the barricade, hoping to be safe inside the archers’ angle, crouching children with spears stabbed through the chinks, slashing at their enemies’ feet and legs. Some Oros tried to climb the obstacle, only to be met by the clubs and axes of Defiance fighters on top.

  The Oro officers called retreat, but very few men were left alive to reverse across the slippery bridge.

  Free Staters whooped and laughed at the men sliding about as they tried to flee.

  “I doubt it’s over,” Thalen warned. “Drink some water, settle yourselves, and get ready.”

  Twenty minutes later a larger group of about one hundred Oros came swarming over the bridge once more. These men held metal plates aloft as shields against the arrows.

  “Here they come!” Thalen shouted.

  Some of the tar had worn off, and the shields helped the attackers ward off arrows. This time, more upright men reached the barricade and started to batter against its wooden supports or climb up it. Just when the pressure was at its height, Thalen yelled, “Now!” Cauldrons of hot oil were turned upside down on the attackers. They yowled and ran for safety.

  Without pity, Thalen watched one injured Oro try to crawl up the bridge, digging his fingers into the cracks between the cobblestones. Observing the man’s unarmored backside, a Free States archer took aim and skewered him from buttock to groin.

  After the noise of the skirmish, the quiet—broken only by the cries of the wounded—made the fighters’ ears hum.

  “Leave all the bodies and debris on the bridge,” Thalen ordered. “Repair the barricade. Make it stronger still. Ferry our injured to the infirmary.”

  An hour later, when the Oros tried pushing burning carts over the bridge, the carts got stuck on the fallen pikes, shields, and logs that lay scattered about. They harmlessly burned themselves out without getting anywhere near the obstruction.

  Thalen wondered how many times the Oro general would throw men to die against the barriers before he switched tactics. He redoubled his sentries along the riverbank, just in case the Oros tried to swim or row across. But the tumbling river looked fearsome; locals said they couldn’t recal
l a time when the Jutter River had run so swift and deep.

  30

  Cascada

  Matwyck’s day had been inordinately tiresome. His calculators had come to him with a discrepancy, and Matwyck had kept the books but sent them away, concluding after several hours of tracing tiny figures himself that General Yurgn was skimming off more of the budget allotted to military matters than Matwyck had agreed to.

  With the populace increasingly restive, this was not the time to be shorting the funds for the garrisons! Of late, painted letters had appeared on the sides of buildings, “Matwyck the Usurper” and “Where is our Queen?” Matwyck needed all his soldiers content with their salaries and reassured by having plentiful arms at hand.

  Had Yurgn’s greed overwhelmed his senses?

  He’d sent for his longtime coconspirator and had a confrontation that had turned ugly. Yurgn maintained that he needed the money and he refused to return it. After much wrangling, however, he agreed to stop plundering the accounts and to come to Matwyck directly with monetary requests.

  Matwyck wasn’t confident this promise would hold. Old men die every day, Matwyck thought as his valet dressed him for dinner in his bedroom. But Yurgn’s hold on the army makes him damn near irreplaceable.

  Matwyck turned his mind to a more pleasant topic: the intimate supper he had planned with Duchette Lolethia. Lolethia’s pouts and stratagems, which he found so charming, would be on full display. When she casually brushed against him, or leaned over to give him a privileged view down her dress, he knew she was trying to trap him with his own lust. He approved of her clever marshaling of her assets. Besides, who wouldn’t enjoy such a luscious tidbit trying to win his approval?

  His valet poured hot water for him to wash his face and handed him a towel.

  How will my upcoming engagement and remarriage affect the populace? Can I use the spectacle to divert the masses? Will Lolethia’s beauty charm the nobles?