Elizabeth and Empire (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 4)

by Alma Boykin

  A faint voice, growing louder, called, “Fire by rank. Front rank, fire. Second rank, fire. Third rank, fire,” and the volley rolled south. She felt the men wavering, then gathering their strength and regaining their confidence. Another volley, and another, shredded the attacking line. The advance wavered and collapsed, the Bergenlanders retreating in good order. Satisfied, she led her guard and officers back, out of the infantry’s way. She took time to grab a drink from her water flask and to wipe her saber on her saddle blanket.

  Elizabeth began riding east again, resuming her patrol. As she did, a gray-glad rider on a lathered horse cantered up to her. “Duchess Sarmas?” he panted.

  “Here.”

  “General Destefani sends his greetings and asks for cavalry support. He’s run into a nasty nest of Frankonians, possibly Javertt’s elites.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “You,” she pointed to one of the messengers. “Go to Capt. Parr and have him send half the cavalry to Gen. Destefani.”

  “Half the cavalry to Gen. Destefani, yes, your grace.” Lazlo’s messenger saluted and rode off after her courier, so he could lead the troopers to where they were needed.

  Elizabeth found another messenger. “Tell Eulenberg to advance to his next position.” The lad and his horse disappeared in a flurry of hooves. She watched him for a moment, then turned to Chow and the others. “Stay here.” She rode a few meters away and dismounted, then ducked behind a tree to take care of some suddenly pressing business. St. Sabrina, but I wish I had the men’s plumbing at times like this, she snorted for the thousandth time. They could piss from the saddle. She was not so favored. She remounted and returned to her guards.

  As the afternoon ground on, Elizabeth found herself on the lines thrice more. They’d advanced into a hornet’s nest, and the Bergenlanders just would not quit, rallying and regrouping after each counterattack. The odds caught her and she lost her first horse of the day. She’d joined Jones, beating some of his men into the lines with the flat of her sabre, when Schwartz staggered and screamed. He collapsed and she barely got loose, rolling free of his body. She pulled her pistols and spare shot pouches out of the saddlebags, jamming the pistols into her belt and stuffing the shot into her coat pockets. Peter Chow had seen the stallion fall and he rode off, returning not long after with a strange horse. She climbed aboard the larger, dapple gray gelding and set to work again, reforming the line. One of the sergeants saw her back in the saddle and called, “Sarmas! Sarmas and Empire!” The others took up the call and the troopers held firm, then began advancing once again, stepping around the bodies of men and horses that now sprawled in the horribly hot sun. Elizabeth held her beast steady, letting the men move around her, then returning to her work.

  Once more Lazlo called for aid, and this time she sent part of Eulenberg’s infantry. As they marched off, one of Count Peilov’s men appeared, bleeding and winded. “Your grace,” and he coughed. “Your grace, we’re breaking through, but we need men. Lord Peilov asks.”

  Shit, all I’ve got is cavalry. Well, then cavalry will have to do. “Chow, grab the rest of the cavalry and bring them to Peilov’s line.”

  “Yes, your grace.” Elizabeth rode on. The heavy gray horse beneath her snorted and acted game. He wasn’t trained like Schwartz, but he obeyed and didn’t flinch too much. They passed the end of the woods and the horses squelched through a reed-choked marshy area. One of her guards’ mounts slipped and splashed into the stream, scrambling to her feet and staggering back onto firmer ground as her rider cursed.

  Elizabeth had a moment to think and peered fruitlessly east. How are the Sea Republicans doing? Sweet Godown, but I hope they haven’t found anything as tough as we’re facing. She hadn’t expected a walk-through, but the Bergenlanders refused to quit.

  Elizabeth and the cavalry reached the Peilov troops at the same time, and she swung her arm, saber pointing into the gaping breach opening up in the infantry line. The men swept past, sabers and pistols drawn, and blue-coated Imperials collided with Bergenland and Frankonian cavalry and some infantry. Horses screamed, men yelled, and she drove the gray gelding into the melee. He reared, crashing down onto a red-clad soldier. She felt the shock of the man’s bones crushing vibrate through the horse’s legs, and imagined the familiar, sickening sound. Then they were in the battle. She fired one pistol at a Frankonian infantryman, who staggered but didn’t fall. She jammed the pistol back into her belt and swung her saber up just in time to block a blow from one of the Bergenlanders. He bared his teeth and pressed his attack, slamming his horse into hers. She aimed for his throat, ducking and stabbing up. His blow slapped her armor and slid off. She continued her lean, almost in his lap, and sliced the top of his leg above the thigh armor. He screamed and she hauled back, across his groin, kneeing her horse out of his way. The enemy rider grabbed for his mangled privates and she left him for someone else to finish off. As she did, fire erupted in her face and she jerked back, twisting. The world went white.

  “My lady,” someone called, and she felt a hand on her arm, pulling her upright. She opened her eyes and saw red on one side. She wiped above her eye and her vision cleared. Her face stung as if she’d been in the sun too long.

  “I’m,” and she shook her head. “I’m OK.” Even so, she let herself be guided out of the worst fighting. One of the cavalrymen handed her a clean kerchief and she moistened it with the contents of the horse’s saddle flask, wiping her face. The pfeach brandy stung and the cloth came away red and black. Holy Godown, that was close. She’d been so near the shot that the powder had burned her. She took off her helmet long enough to bandage her forehead and to see that one plume had been shot away. “You bastards! Do you know how hard these feathers are to get? You Frankonian sons of bitches owe me.” The men close enough to hear her laughed. She jammed the helmet back on and fastened the strap.

  Four hours after noon, more or less, she threw her last reserves in. The cavalry stayed with Peilov, harrying the Frankonians back through their own lines, cutting down stragglers and strays. The shadows grew longer and thin streamers of cloud dimmed the sun. The wind dropped away, leaving the battlefield covered in ever-thickening, choking smoke. The heavy gray horse slugged his head, tired but still willing to try. She’d lost Lt. Chow to a musket ball when they’d ridden into Jones’ lines again. There wasn’t time to do more than register his death before she had to reload her pistols and help Jones’s second-in-command rally their exhausted troops once more.

  Then she felt it. Something changed. Her men started moving faster, pushing up the long slope to the road. “Go to Destefani,” she croaked to the courier. “I need anyone he can spare. We’re breaking through.” Back and forth along the lines she rode, encouraging, praising, cursing, driving and leading the Imperial troops as they pushed south, driving the enemy off the field. Gray coats flowed into the Babenburg blue lines as Lazlo sent help. The men took the bit, sensing the Bergenlander’s sudden waver. As she watched, the brown line broke and began folding back and then falling apart into pockets of men. “Guns forward, advance the guns,” she barked, and the artillery pushed ahead, wreaking more havoc on the brown mass. They’d switched to canister shot, the masses of little balls that tore men and horses apart. Her own men pushed on, driving up the long slope. The enemy fire weakened and its artillery stopped, at least in her end of the field.

  When they reached the top of the slope, she remembered that she still had her binoculars. Chow had rescued them from Schwarz’s body and returned them before his own death. She peered east, down the lines, and saw gray all along the road. The red had pulled back, along with the brown. Was it a trap? No, it did not have that feel. The Bergenlanders were beaten and she needed to drive the point home. “All ranks, free advance. Cavalry pursue if Peilov releases them,” she choked out, her throat terribly dry. Her horse needed water too, and she sent one man around until he found a well that had not been fouled. She let the gray gelding drink a little, then slaked her own thirst before giving him more. “N
o, boy, you’re not going to founder under me. Too bad you’re not a mule or you’d know better,” she sighed as she pulled him back.

  She stopped her men just past the road, taking possession of the hamlet of Kirburg for her field headquarters. The shadows lengthened, stretching black over the trampled green and gold. There’d be no harvest here this year, but next year would be lush from the blood and bone fertilizer. Her head ached and her face stung, as did her arm. She’d gotten another musket graze to the back of her upper arm, tearing her jacket and shirt in the process. She’d had her arm up, this time, and she shook her head, amused by the injury. She’d have matching scars on both sides of her arm now.

  Fighting continued to her east and she sent Lazlo’s troops back to him once she secured the road and her part of the battlefield. The fighting had spread, sprawling at least three kilometers along Sherlin Creek and the fields south of it. When she looked again, after getting her headquarters organized, she saw that the Sea Republic lines had advanced farther. “We have the field. We win, for now.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Lt. Neruda agreed. He proffered a stick of dried shahma meat, which she accepted. It hurt to chew, but she needed food. She’d lost her stomach contents midafternoon when her usual battlefield nausea struck.

  By sunset she knew they’d won the day. Her troopers dug in for the night and fires began flickering in the twilight. The medical men set up their tents and started the grisly work of amputations, while a few of the camp followers searched the battlefield, carrying or dragging Imperial wounded to the churigons. A quarter moon shed some light over the scene, but blessed darkness hid most of the bodies and other signs of chaos. If only it would soften the screams, too. She massaged pounding temples and wished something could make the dying men and animals shut up. As messengers and officers found her in the farmhouse she’d commandeered, she began to learn just how much the day’s victory had cost.

  Count Jones was missing, presumed dead. His second in command, Capt. Mou Murphy reported, “We last saw his horse, and him on it, running to the Frankonian lines, and we found part of his arm on the field.” T. G. Peilov had lost his lower right leg and Godown willing, wouldn’t lose too much more, or develop wound fever. He’d been aware enough to pour the contents of his flask into the wound, but the churigons still had been forced to remove the limb below the knee. Marlow Eulenberg seemed unscathed, and Captain Martin had a concussion but no other damage. No one had seen Tim Albinez since the last advance began. He’d had four horses shot out from under him. I can’t afford to lose more horses, Elizabeth thought, numb. Any adrenalin left in her body had long since worn off, and her ears still rang from the day’s constant gunfire.

  At last she pushed herself to her feet. “Right. I’m going to sleep. Wake me if any messages come from General Destefani or someone has firm news about Albinez and Jones.” With that she shed her armor and weapons, jacket and vest, prized off her boots, and fell asleep on the farmer’s bed.

  She woke before dawn. She ached, her head throbbed, her mouth tasted like something she’d just as soon not think about, and she wondered if the bedding had lice in it, or bedbugs. I hope not. I’ve managed to avoid seam squirrels for the last six years, thank you, and I’d like to continue the streak. Elizabeth smelled chokofee and let the scent pull her out of the bed. She hauled on her boots, tucked her shirttails into her trousers, and emerged into the main room of the farmhouse. One of the men presented her with a cup of chokofee strong enough to curl her wigs. She drained it and took a refill. “What news?”

  “The Frankonians and Bergenlanders seem to have continued retreating,” Lt. Neruda told her, around a yawn. “Sorry, your grace. There’s still fighting down at Brightstone, in the village, your grace. No news about the missing counts yet, but perhaps with sunrise…” He held one hand up, palm up, in a form of shrug.

  She nodded and drank more. “Once we have sunlight, we need to start moving, taking the time Godown’s given us.” That had been part of the first plan as well, to exploit the success if they managed one and to run the Frankonians back across the Donau Novi, then out of the Bergenlands. She needed Grantholm and Midland. That would be another three thousand effectives, possibly more if they’d swept up any strays. And who knew, some Bergenlanders might swing over in exchange for pardon, food and a mount. She nursed her chokofee and planned.

  Just as the first bit of sunlight peeked over the edge of the hills on the east side of the Donau Novi, a messenger from Lazlo found her. “Duchess Sarmas?” He asked, peering at the cluster of blue clad officers and men in the farmyard.

  She raised a hand. “Here.” She’d left her jacket and armor off for the moment.

  He took off his hat. “General Destefani sends his greetings and asks that you continue as planned, as much as you are possible. The Frankonians have pulled back to within a kilometer of the boat bridge. He also requests the use of your artillery in Brightstown.”

  “My compliments to General Destefani. He can have half my artillery if he promises not to break it, and tell him that he owes me a feather.”

  Although obviously nonplussed, the courier repeated her words back, handed her a folded message, and departed to the east. She looked around and pointed to a faintly familiar sergeant. “Sergeant, find Major Lucien if you can, or his successor, and tell him he needs to send half the guns to Brightstown. Yell in his good ear if you have to, and give him this.” She’d been writing the order out as well, in case Don had lost the last of his hearing the day before. The men laughed.

  “Find Major Lucien or his subordinate, give him the message, and chase him to Brightstown, yes, your grace.”

  By two hours after sunup she’d dragged herself onto a third horse, one smaller than the sturdy gray gelding. “Keep him back for me,” she’d told one of the men. “Or for whoever else needs a remount.” She didn’t want to risk riding and losing Maldonado if she didn’t have to. Godown willing, she’d be able to recover her tack from Schwartz’s body before it rotted beyond use. The tack, that was. She’d heard the sound of mercy shots as soon as false dawn lit the field enough that the men could find the dying animals. More beasts would have their throats cut, to conserve powder and shot. She’d done it herself more times than she cared to recall. No wonder the Landers and their predecessors went to machines. Machines don’t scream when they get broken. The men’s moans are bad enough, but sweet St. Michael, the horses and mules!

  Now she rode out again, leading the men south, across the remains of the Frankonian and Bergenlander lines. Travel grew easier once they crossed the end of the battlefield.

  Although the retreat had not been a rout, she saw evidence of panic or near panic. The few horses still running loose were captured by the Imperials, and they found personal packs and pouches, and a few muskets, tossed aside by exhausted men in their flight from the field. The Imperials collected the weapons for their own use, although Elizabeth wasn’t pleased with the quality of the Bergenlander muskets.

  Already in a grim mood, she snarled when she saw that the Frankonians had cut down orchards. “Wasteful bastards,” she hissed. As the Imperials advanced, careful and watchful but relaxed, they began taking prisoners, mostly wounded.

  One of her scouts appeared, waving frantically. “Your grace, we found Count Jones! He needs a priest.”

  Godown have mercy, and she turned her horse that way, all but dragging her guards with her. She followed the outrider to a farmyard, a little distance off the main road. She heard the groans and stopped, dismounting. Then she walked around a corner of the farmyard wall and into an annex of hell.

  It had been a field hospital, or as close to one as the Frankonians had come. Amputated limbs, piled into a fly-covered heap, seeped blood in one corner of the dirty area. A few wounded men moaned, some pleading for water, their pallets soaked in blood and ordure, those lucky few who had pallets. Gerald Jones lay in a broken wagon. She steeled herself as she approached him, but it still required all her force of will not to retch
and flee.

  He’d lost an arm and someone had cauterized the stump. But his leg also oozed blood and when she pulled back the remains of his trouser leg, she could see that it would never heal. He was bleeding to death, dying by inches. Blood on bandages around his stomach confirmed the death sentence. “Gerald,” she asked. “Can you hear me?”

  “Here. They tried, Sarmas,” he whispered, “give them that. The medics tried. Need priest.”

  “You know what I was. Will that do?” If not, it would be too late by the time one of the chaplains could be found.

  He searched her face with his eyes, looking for something. Perhaps he found it, because he let his head fall back. “Yes.” She drew closer and took his remaining hand. “Hear me, sister, for I seek refuge from my failings.”

  “Godown hears all who truly and earnestly seek His forgiveness and grace,” she assured him. “Speak freely, if you are able.”

  He finished his croaked recitation with, “Have mercy on me, Godown, for I deserve only justice.”

  She made Godown’s sign on his forehead. “Godown hears and forgives, through His depthless, boundless love and merit. What we lack, He provides. Go in peace, child of Godown, and rest easily until the day of His calling.”

  “Selah,” the mangled man breathed. Even as she watched, his eyes rolled back in the sockets and his pulse failed under her fingertips. She closed his eyes and laid his arm over his chest.