“And you started this fire entirely on your own, in the past fifteen minutes, without a flint and steel! Most impressive.” He kissed me back.
“I did,” I said, “and you can’t prove otherwise.”
“I imagine that I could,” Sianh said, carting with him a trio of thick branches from closer to the creek. “We ought to have gotten you a proper fire-starting kit, and for that, I apologize,” he said. “Now—let me show you how this is done.”
Theodor helped Sianh set up the tripod and looped a bit of hemp rope from the center for the kettle. We boiled the peas and ate without speaking much, heavy responsibility for this small army settling like a mantle. I felt a bit as I had when, as a child, our mother had charged me and Kristos with going to the market to buy fish and turnips. I knew, deep in my bones as much as from the warning Mama drilled into us, that if anything happened to Kristos, I was responsible. Even though he was older, I was the responsible child who could be trusted to remind her brother not to run off or get into any scuffles with the other ragtag boys in the market. I forgot to buy turnips, if I recalled correctly.
I looked out over the camp, a temporary mark on this quiet pastoral corner of southern Galitha. In a week, the trampled grass and broken branches would begin to settle back into the landscape, and in a month, one would never be able to tell that an army had bivouacked here, eaten a poor supper of dried peas, and shaken the frost from their blankets in the morning. And in a year, a decade? In a generation, how would they tell the story of this army, this encampment, the battle that would surely come within days?
33
WE STAYED ON THE MOVE FOR THE NEXT WEEK, TAKING THE ARMY farther inland and farther north, toward the Royalist stronghold at Rock’s Ford. The Rock River came to a narrow and shallow point, and there the Crown had built a military school nearly two centuries before on the site of an old castle stronghold. Nobles sent their second or third sons, the ones who weren’t set to inherit titles and land, to train to take commissions in the army or navy. With the outbreak of civil war, the fortified location had become the stronghold of the Royalist army.
That narrow bend of the Rock River was also home to the Westland estate. When he fled the capital city, the king had gone home, like a loosed horse or a wayward dog, I thought with some contempt. The largest and oldest Pommerly estate was not far, either, and between the ancestral lands of two old, powerful, and rich families, the Royalist army had bided its time.
“They were smarter than I might have hoped,” Sianh said as we huddled around a campfire, the final night before the push to Rock’s Ford and the anticipated battle. “They could have attempted to hold any number of small fortifications or outposts along our way, but they’ve given us very little resistance.”
“Just a few skirmishes, and they pulled back quickly,” Theodor agreed.
“Too quickly.” Sianh sighed. “They learned. When we engaged in small skirmishes like that, they got the losing end too often. They know their strength. Their strength is in massed numbers like they will have at Rock’s Ford.”
“Cheery,” Theodor said. “I wonder how Kristos and Alba are faring.”
“No word is a good word,” Sianh said. I smiled privately at his attempt to translate the expression—his Galatine was usually exceptionally precise, and employing better grammar than most Galatines. “I am going to review the rest of the camp.” He stood and strode away, though I noticed that he made toward where the horses were tethered to their line, not toward the rest of the men.
“You think he’s nervous?” I asked.
“Most definitely,” Theodor replied. He swallowed. “I am, too. If we fail here, it’s over.”
“And if we win, we still have to march on toward Galitha City.” I looked out over the scattered campfires, bright in the dark field like night-blooming flowers. “Are you all right? We’re… we’re so close to your house,” I said lamely.
“It’s not my house any longer,” Theodor retorted. “That’s clear enough. It’s Royalist territory, my father’s stronghold. There’s no room for me there unless we make room.” He bit his lips together. “Damn, but it gets cold out here.”
“For us as well as them,” I murmured. Bodies huddled close to fires, hands outstretched to coax life back into frozen fingers. There was no promise that tomorrow night, or the night after, would prove any more comfortable.
“They’re here because they believe in what we’re doing,” Theodor replied, level. “Anyone who doesn’t want to be here… isn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
Theodor unfurled his blanket roll and draped it around us. “It means that we lost a few men to desertion.”
I started, displacing the thick wool from my shoulders. “How many? Are we—”
“It’s all right,” Theodor said, voice still level in what I now realized was terse control. “Not many. We had some cold nights and one of those skirmishes moving northward—to Sianh I suppose the engagements didn’t mean much, but men were killed, and that was a bit much for some of the lads who hadn’t seen action before.”
“What did they think they were signing up for?” I tugged the blanket back around me, brow creasing with contempt. “Parades and uniforms?”
“Well, you’re of the same mind as most of the fellows out there, then.” Theodor moved closer to me. “They felt rather the same as you. I think—Sianh won’t agree—that it’s been a bit of a good thing. A few running off now, and being ridiculed by the others for their tender feet and delicate constitutions.” He pulled my hand between his, warming my chilled fingertips. “Gave them some solidarity.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about solidarity from vilifying other people. It doesn’t always end well.” I raised an eyebrow, recalling the angry words from broadsides translated into reality on the streets of Galitha City during the Midwinter Revolt.
“Your brother is working on that back in Hazelwhite,” Theodor said. “We figured we could use a pamphlet or two extolling the virtues of the brave fellows sticking it out to direct the momentum a bit. And some celebration of the Council of Country, newly elected, in session currently at Hazelwhite.”
“I’d say I was jealous of their warm beds,” I said as I watched an army unroll blankets, bank fires, and bed down for the night, “but I seem to recall they were tasked with creating enlistment records and procurement policies.”
“Under Alba’s watchful advisement, yes.” Theodor pulled me next to him, welcome warmth against the gathering cold. We layered our blankets against the night’s chill and curled together.
“Whatever happens tomorrow…” I swallowed, burrowing closer to Theodor in search of both warmth and security. “Whatever happens, I know what you’re giving up. Your home. Your family. You already had, but this—”
“I don’t want to talk about it tonight, Sophie.” His voice was heavy and rough, as though he was holding back fear or frustration or, I realized as I heard a few shuddering breaths, tears. I wrapped my arms around him and tried to sleep, ignoring the weight of the next day already pressing against us.
I woke in the pale gray before dawn, stiff and chilled. I slunk out from under the blanket, hoping not to wake Theodor. It was too early to be up; there was no promise of warmth from the dead campfire next to us, and the sun still a good hour from rising enough to make a dent in the frost. I looked over the sleeping camp, and tiptoed away, flexing frozen feet in unforgiving leather shoes.
I climbed a rise, stamping my feet and clapping my hands together to warm them as I got far enough away that I didn’t risk waking anyone. My cloak was still cold, but I knew that if I kept moving, I could work some warmth into the wool. I had been cold plenty of times, running errands in the snow of Galitha City’s winters or huddling next to the stove when we had to stringently ration our coal use. This was different, living in the open as the cold set in, not quite the bitter cold of winter, but unrelenting. There was no warm fire after the errands were finished, no bed piled with down feathe
r mattresses and quilts.
I crested the hill and stood beneath a thick-trunked beech. It was nearly bare of leaves, which lay in a scattered golden carpet around me, the color almost pure enough to feel warm through the frost glistening on each stem and vein. Cold, but beautiful, and I admired the brilliant yellow that would have put the best silks in my collection to shame. Then I looked down at the valley below.
The Rock River sparkled like ice in the first rays of the rising sun. Beyond it were thick forests and, almost obscured by a gently sloping hill, the bend in the river where I knew the military school sat. I squinted—it almost looked as though, against the sparkling brightness of the river, there were people moving, fording the stream.
Drums beat behind me in the camp, not the steady reveille, but the rapid staccato of the call to arms. I looked at the river again. They were people, massing on the riverbank and, if I looked more closely, wearing Royalist army uniforms.
I turned and ran back, the cold forgotten. Theodor was just sitting up from under his rumpled blanket. “Where were you? I didn’t see you, and the drums—”
“They’re forming on the riverbank.” I caught my breath, which formed a white cloud between us.
“The Royalists?” Theodor could be impossible in the morning, I remembered, frowsy and slow to wake completely.
“Yes! Wake up! Find Sianh, I’m sure we’re under attack. Or whatever one would call it—it’s happening, now.”
“Indeed it is.” Sianh strode toward us, purposeful and somehow impeccably dressed already, even his hair combed and clubbed. “They have grown impatient waiting for us and, I would venture, overly confident.”
Theodor raked his fingers through tangled hair and gathered it into a messy queue. “But they’re in position already? Doesn’t that mean they’ve rather chosen the field for their advantage?”
Sianh grinned. “Their advantage was staying behind walls, and they have chosen to forgo that. No, they did not anticipate a quick response from us and we will prevent them from asserting a position on the higher ground.” As if on cue, a volley of musket fire echoed across the morning plains. “The pickets are already supported by several units of the First. I imagine the Royalists did not expect that. You will move the bulk of the Second toward a position on the front side of that hill.”
“And you?” Theodor struggled to button his epaulet over his sword belt, slung across his shoulder. I pried his cold fingers from the strap and buttoned it for him.
“At the front, where else?” He grinned again. “The dragoons will press them from the side so that we can keep them pinned against the river.”
“And me?” I asked.
Theodor’s sharp breath spoke objection, but he knew he couldn’t prevent my participation. Sianh ignored him. “We will be moving swiftly at the beginning—this first part will be a mad shuffle, I imagine, and there is no use your getting caught between two colliding armies. We will be repositioning the artillery pieces on the other side of that ridge.” He pointed to an outcropping. “If you move with them, there is little risk of your getting in the way or coming under fire.”
“Then I’ll find a spot on that ridge and work from there,” I agreed.
Sianh nodded once, brisk. “Try not to be seen. We do not know what the Royalists might do to prevent your aiding us.”
34
THE ARTILLERISTS ALREADY HAD ROPES ON THE CANNONS AND were moving them from their position with the supply wagons and oxen toward the river. I laid a hand on one iron barrel, the simple foundry marking raised in relief near the touchhole. Somewhere across the cold Fenian sea, the men who had made this gun were fighting for liberty in their own way. Thinking about them, about how they’d made sure our work was complete for us, about how the Red Caps and the Reformists had inspired them, in turn gave me encouragement.
The enlisted men were tasked with the actual pulling, though several officers, I noticed, joined them in the spirit of either egalitarianism or pragmatism. Though they were far from the heavy guns used on ships and in fortresses, the men strained at the weight and the wheels cut into the soft turf near the road.
“I miss the oxen already,” complained one young man, maybe eighteen, with the insignia of his artillery company stitched into his wool forage cap.
“Damn it, Genrick, put your hat on. An ox would be smarter,” muttered his sergeant. The private yanked his wool cap from his head and dashed for the black cocked hat still lying on the ground, red-and-gray cockade as bright as a beacon. “Would have gone to battle in your shirtsleeves if we let you,” the sergeant added as Genrick resumed his place on the ropes.
I hung back, silent, letting them tease and jest as the rate of volleys from nearer the river increased. This was good, I reminded myself. This meant our men were engaging the Royalists, not falling back or surrendering. But the echoes of gunfire hollowed my chest, and my heart skipped at every volley.
We waited well back from the fray—the cannons were too valuable to risk losing, so the first order was to avoid being overrun. Gently sloping hills blocked my view of the fighting itself, except for an all-too-brief glimpse of dragoons in Reformist gray and red thundering toward the river. Where was Theodor, I wondered, and how was he faring? The question itself was enough to tie my stomach in a thick knot, and I forced myself to stop asking questions I couldn’t answer and, if I were honest, might not want to.
I was a bit jealous of the companies of artillery, gathered in hubs around their guns, joking, speculating, never still long enough to descend into fear and worry. Of course, they also knew their roles, and everyone had someone a rank above him telling him what was expected of him next. Even Genrick, his hat awkwardly perched on his head, only needed to concern himself about doing what he was told, whether it was hauling a rope or ramming a charge or running powder. He’d practiced, drilled, had the movement and the orders ground into rote memory.
I had no idea what to expect, and no one telling me what to do. My part in this battle was an experiment, and one with no testing or trial runs. I couldn’t make a muslin to see if it fit before draping it on the field of battle. I didn’t like the unknown, the variables.
“We’re moving around now.” I started. An officer with a bright metal spontoon reflecting the morning sunlight into my eyes interrupted my thoughts. “We’re moving,” he repeated. “The commander told me that meant something for you?”
“Yes, I—yes.” I nodded. “It means I’m moving, too.” I tried a smile, failed, and left the artillery companies to their maneuvers while I climbed the hill.
I wasn’t sure what I had expected to see—visions of a chess game and a slaughterhouse had vied for prominence in my imagination. What was in front of me was neither. There was orderliness and chaos side by side, lines of battle shifting, yielding, overtaking one another rapidly, and both sides asserted themselves with musket ball and bayonet.
I took a breath, trying to make sense of the action as I saw it. As soon as I felt fairly sure of the Reformists’ victory in one section of the field, they were flanked by Royalist forces. When I began to weave a charm of protection for the outmaneuvered Reformists, a complement of three-pound field pieces on light carriages appeared to assist them, swiftly turning the tide in that section of the field.
I couldn’t keep up, and I fought back the rising panic that I was useless here, that we would fail for my lack of ability. What would I have told anyone else to do? I imagined a full slate of orders and an overwhelmed Alice in my shop, a bewildered Emmi fighting with fitting a sleeve and sweeping the floors at once. “Just pick something,” I muttered out loud, “and do it.”
One thing. One thing at first, I told myself. I couldn’t do everything at once. No one ever can, I reminded myself. I had to cut a gown or sew a hem, tabulate expenses or copy receipts. One thing at a time, and I chose the nearby and relatively static artillery company that had just deployed onto the field. I pulled a charm from the ether and focused on the properties I thought they would be mos
t in need of—protection, speed. I drew the charm tight, strengthening it, and then unspooled it over the guns’ carriages. Protection and speed. I pressed into the grain of the wood, willing it to accept the offering I was giving it, and let a cloud of gold linger half-embedded.
More of our men poured onto the field. The Royalists reacted with surprise, at least it seemed so to me, and even I was shocked at the massed numbers of our men on the field, large companies moving together. I wove more charm magic and cast it toward the troops moving onto the field, but in my haste I didn’t anchor it well to the moving men and it flickered and glowed in undulating patterns in the air.
Focus. I took a breath, realizing each intake had been shallow as I took a long moment to fill my lungs and then exhale. Nearby, cannon crews maneuvered heavier pieces onto the flat plateau that my hillside became before dropping toward the river below. A perfect emplacement for artillery. I pulled more charm, deliberately, efficiently but not in haste, to fortify their position.
The hillside twenty yards away from me exploded in clods of dirt and dead grass, and I lost my concentration entirely. The Royalist artillery, from across the river, had sighted and responded to the cannons near me too quickly, and were perfectly positioned to not only suppress our fire but turn the field carriages to kindling. Another round buried itself in the hill, still not quite aimed perfectly, but too close for me.
I knew what Sianh and Theodor would both say if they saw me—perhaps one or both did, and was resisting yelling at me to pull back. I pressed my blanched lips together and surveyed the field one more time. I could cast a charm over the advancing infantry, just one more quick net of protection—
A cannonball shattered the limbs of a tree behind me, raining sticks like greenwood shrapnel. I cowered with my arms over my head, instinct overriding any attempt at strategy. I tentatively peered at the damage. Fortunately, the ball had struck outermost branches, the thin stems and dead leaves making for an impressive scatter of what now looked like mulch, but at least it hadn’t struck closer to the trunk, where I might not have been so lucky.
Rule Page 17
