Elizabeth of Donatello Bend (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  “All present or accounted for, Colonel,” Lazlo reported. They shared a dusty smile.

  “Thank you, Captain.” She took a deep breath to settle the butterflies in her stomach. You have rank, title, and troops, she reminded her nerves. Settle down and do your job. “Advance at the trot,” she ordered, turning Ricardo to face the Imperial banners. The group thundered into motion, raising a cloud of dust from the traffic-powdered dirt of the road. The banners also surged into motion as their bearers turned to meet the newcomers.

  “Halt and be recognized!”

  Elizabeth slowed to a walk, then stopped as Grantholm’s rearguard advanced. The sergeant gave the group wide berth until Elizabeth held up her black-ebony and brass colonel’s baton. “The light cavalry from Donatello Bend, with supplies and remounts,” she told him.

  “Well met, Col. Sarmas,” he grated. “You made good time.”

  “Godown favored us. You have our assignment?”

  “South end of the line, my lady. You and your captain need to meet Duke Grantholm. Two kilometers that way,” he pointed northwest. “Your men can follow the lieutenant to their position.” He turned in his saddle, pointing with his riding stick to the approaching blue-clad officer.

  “Is the lieutenant concerned about saving his horse, Sergeant?”

  The man’s expression remained bland and polite, but one eyebrow rose to meet the brim of his helmet. She nodded at the officer and raised an answering eyebrow. The sergeant pursed his lips and glanced to the side before offering, “Lieutenant Wooly moves with deliberate speed, my lady.”

  At her side, Lazlo fell victim to a sudden coughing fit and had to step out of line to regain control of himself. “I see,” she observed. She turned in the saddle. “Lt. Sparli, follow the young gentleman to our assigned location. Capt. Destefani and I will follow.”

  Hans Sparli frowned. “Yes, my lady.” They’d had trouble finding horses capable of carrying his weight and she’d almost assigned him one of Archduke Lewis’s Oberland mares. Instead he rode a dapple cob of uncertain ancestry and amazing endurance. He and the other officer studied each other like two cats meeting on a narrow fence.

  “Come,” she ordered Lazlo and they rode northwest. Once they passed out of the other soldiers’ hearing she said, “I’m not pleased with the lack of security.”

  He snorted. “My lady, you are, as far as anyone knows, the only woman on either side with troops under her command. You ride a horse with the Imperial brand. Who else could you be?”

  “I still do not like it.” They’d reached a second group of soldiers and she turned her attention to finding Grantholm’s headquarters.

  The land around them reminded Elizabeth of the passing of a glitterwing swarm. Everything green had been grazed or cut down for firewood or for use in the camp’s defenses. Dust rose from the bare ground, and Elizabeth wondered if the land would recover. At least there would be more than sufficient fertilizer, and she wrinkled her nose, pulling her scarf higher to block the dust. She and Lazlo forded two stinking, dung-fouled streams before entering the main camp.

  Lazlo spotted Duke Grantholm’s black rose banner flapping below the Imperial standard. They dismounted and she loosened Ricardo’s girth before brushing some of the dirt off of her split skirt. “This way, my lady,” Lazlo called, having found the remuda for visiting officers.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she warned Ricardo. The black horse twitched his skin and swished his tail at a fly. “I like mules better,” she muttered under her breath, leading the way to the command tent.

  “Col. Sarmas for his grace,” she told the orderly on duty. He looked into the tent then beckoned.

  “Your Grace, Col. Sarmas,” the orderly announced as Elizabeth ducked and entered the dark, hot tent.

  “So you are the infamous Frankonian with the murderous mule,” she heard a deep voice say. As her eyes adapted, she spotted Duke Arnold Grantholm. The word “square” sprang to her mind. His grey hair looked flat on top, as flat as his broad shoulders, flat stomach and rear end, and square, red-cheeked face. Pockmarks covered his face, but not the large hand he extended to Elizabeth. She shook it, noticing the controlled strength. “And Captain Destefani. You look like your brother.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Lazlo replied, bowing.

  “So, Sarmas, how many did you bring me?”

  “Two hundred eighty, with some remounts, your grace.”

  He grunted, pointing to the map. “Not what I wanted, but more than I’d feared. I need skirmishers, down here. The Frankonian fools are harassing us with rented troops. Harass them back, Sarmas.”

  “Very well, your grace.” Well, that sounds familiar.

  “And don’t close with Frankonians if you can avoid it.” She stared at him and he explained, “I don’t need rumors of treason, Sarmas. If you fight and lose, even if you do everything else right, some will say that you threw the battle. Get used to it. I’m from Tivolia, born on the eastern border near the Triangle Range while my father was on a diplomatic mission.”

  She felt sick. She’d sworn her allegiance to Rudolph of Babenburg—why would anyone doubt her loyalty? Think about it later, not now. “Understood, your grace.”

  Grantholm grunted again and peered around at the other officers in the tent. “Major Pedersoon?” A lean man with enormous mustaches and a single arm got to his feet. “Brief Col. Sarmas and Destefani while you take them to their position. You are dismissed.”

  “Thank you, your grace.”

  “Right,” the major began, once they’d found their horses and set out. “You’re on the southern flank. We’ve anchored on an old Lander complex.” He warned, “Stay out of it. Marcy’s people have a lot of St. Mou devotees, my lady.” She sighed inside her head as he continued, “The good news is you’re the only ones with decent water. Bad news is drink too much of it and you’ll never get it up. Too many minerals.”

  Lazlo made a choking sound. Elizabeth tried to figure out what had upset him, when she recalled a bit of medical information she’d read. “Bwa, ha, ha,” and she snorted, then coughed before laughing again. Lazlo glared at the major, who failed to see what Elizabeth found so funny. Ricardo began tossing his head and she calmed down, settling the stud. “So his grace wants to preserve both my political and physical virtue. Please tell him of my gratitude for his thoughtfulness.”

  Major Pedersoon either did not get the joke or decided not to take the bait. “Back to the matters at hand, my lady,” and Lazlo made another strangling noise. “Mercenaries from Bowerstown and Moralo have been harassing the supply trains coming in from the south. Until last week they were more of a nuisance than anything, like that,” and he pointed down at the effluvium trickling beside them where once a stream had flowed, “small, smelly, not fatal. Then two days ago they tried to carry off three cannons.”

  “Do they have enough animals to do that?”

  He waited until they passed a group of laundrywomen before answering. “I don’t know, my lady. They did not succeed, although they killed, oh, a quarter of the cannoneers.”

  Major Pedersoon explained where the Donatello force could find the camp bakery and butcher. “No wine, though. This was a liqueur area. Fruit trees. We tried to leave most of them alone, but if it turns colder,” and he shrugged his empty sleeve.

  Elizabeth shrugged as well. War ate or fouled everything it could reach. In a way, Starland had been lucky only to suffer raids for the past twenty or thirty years. And she could easily imagine what Donatello Bend would look like if the fighting moved that far southeast. The afternoon breeze carried the stench of the army as it passed. No matter how an individual might try to stay clean, twenty thousand people and as many horses, mules, and oxen produced mountains of ordure. And with that came disease, starting with flux and fever.

  “Is there anything dangerous in the Lander ruins?” she asked Pedersoon as they rode past the grey and red walls and chimneys.

  “Don’t know, my lady. The duke ordered them left alon
e, to keep from upsetting Col. Marcy.”

  “So no one has blocked the approaches to keep out musket men or spies,” she observed.

  “Of course not.” He looked offended at her suggestion. “We cannot afford to have Col. Marcy pull his artillery and tercio out of the lines, not with a Frankonian attack expected any day.”

  “Sir, who is commanding the Frankonians?” Lazlo inquired.

  Major Pedersoon shook his head. “Not one of the court nobles. Ah,” he turned his horse to the east, away from the rear of Col. Marcy’s encampment and farther from the Lander site. “It’s one of those two-name Frankonian things. Rohan-Roi, I think.”

  “André Rohan-Roi, King Laurence’s second cousin on the maternal side, the natural son of then-Crown Prince Charles and one of the servants from his sister’s hunting lodge,” Elizabeth recited. Pedersoon gave her a very suspicious look. “My guardian required me to pray for the entire Frankonian royal family, Major. Which meant being able to recite the pedigrees back four generations.”

  “In case you have not heard, Lady Sarmas fled Frankonia when Laurence ordered her confined to a vocation against her calling,” Lazlo added.

  Pedersoon’s eyes widened. “Ah. I was not aware of that, Captain. Thank you.” They rode in silence past the Lander ruins. Elizabeth wanted to ride over and study the buildings, some of which seemed half-intact, and she growled at idiots who put superstition before safety.

  “And here we are,” Pedersoon announced at last. Elizabeth noted the wagons still creaking into the camp. She’d used the hard march technique Marlboro developed during Earth’s second Age of War, and it had worked, but she did not want to go anywhere until the animals recovered. “You can smell the mineral spring.”

  Indeed she could, even through the malodors trickling in from the camps to the north. Pedersoon studied the arrivals just as Elizabeth did, and he grew increasingly confused as they rode to where Elizabeth’s tent had been set up. “Yes?” She inquired.

  “Colonel, where are your support women?”

  “We brought none. The junior enlisted serve as support, and I hired a medic rather than depend on herb-women.”

  “Oh.” His confusion deepened, but he stayed quiet when he spotted the sacks of coal for the boil pots. The heavy pots and fuel took up precious wagons, but her men were not going to get sick from bad water and lice if she could help it. “Is there anything else you need, my lady?”

  “No, thank you Major Pedersoon. Please give my respects to his grace.”

  After he departed, she made a quick survey of the camp, making certain that the livestock could be held safely. Then she called her officers and senior NCOs into the mess and meeting tent. “I’ll be brief, since we have camp matters to attend to. His grace Duke Grantholm sends his greetings. We are to be skirmish troops, protecting Marcy’s artillery. Bowerstown and Moralo mercenaries have been giving them fits and almost managed to carry off some of Marcy’s cannon. Once I have a better idea of the terrain, I’ll start assigning patrols. I see no reason to wait for them to come to us,” and she looked around for objections. No one raised any, so she continued. “I want at least one officer on watch each night. I’ll start tonight. And do not approach the Lander ruins—do not even look at the Lander ruins. Pretend they don’t exist. Those orders are from Duke Grantholm. Any questions?”

  Lt. Sparli raised a hand. “What about food?”

  “We have access to the main bakery and butchery, and the sutlers as needed. We’re on the delivery rotation. No wine, though, so stick with what we brought or bought, and then go to teas and chokofee. I trust no one has argued about drinking from the streams?”

  “Oh no, my lady,” and the officers all laughed at the thought.

  “We’ll need at least one group of teamsters to make water runs every few days, unless we get a good rain. I don’t trust the spring entirely, despite his grace’s promises.” Lazlo started to add more detail, but Elizabeth glared at him. Wait until I’m not around, Lazlo.

  He must have gotten the hint, because he limited himself to, “Don’t drink the spring water straight, at least not until we make certain that it really is clean.”

  Elizabeth dismissed everyone but Sparli and Destefani. “Right. Col. Marcy may trust Godown to keep snipers and others out of the Lander ruins, but Godown also helps those who plan ahead.” Sparli spread out a sketch map one of the others had made of the camps and the terrain around them. Elizabeth spread her hand over the camp and surrounding areas, south of the line. “I want patrols and watches out this far tonight, and a watch on the Lander site tomorrow as well, until we become familiar with all the approaches.”

  Lazlo shook his head. “That’s dangerously close to the ruins, my lady.”

  “Dangerous as in our orders or safety dangerous, Destefani?”

  “Orders.”

  Hans Sparli snorted. “With all due respect, Captain, my lady, the Frankonians don’t seem to have our aversion to the Landers. We should be planning for them to come through there.”

  “Many do avoid the sites, but many do not, Sparli.” She folded her arms and straightened up, rocking from foot to foot, left and right. “We will not enter the ruins, but I don’t want to have to explain to Godown and St. Gerald why I let a sniper or musket-men walk in and make a nest under my nose.” She kept her thoughts about St. Mou and his followers to herself.

  She caught a quick nap after eating supper, then began her night patrol. Elizabeth carried a walking stick, having learned the hard way about holes and darkness. It also made a good prod to stir napping sentries. To her delight she did not have to use it that night. High clouds masked all but the brightest stars. I wonder if we’re going to have a storm tomorrow. Probably. We need to get ready to catch water if it does. As well as setting an example for her officers and men, her patrol allowed her to get an idea of the topography of the camp, and where the wet spots would be. I’ll have some additional drainage trenches dug tomorrow. Only half her troops would be out looking for the Frankonians at any given time, and she needed ways to keep the others out of trouble. I also need to get information about provender and fodder. We brought enough to get us here, and for a week or two of emergency rations, but I want to spare that if we can. She’d developed quite a to-do list by the time the sun rose.

  She’d also developed a healthy dislike for the policy of keeping out of the Lander settlement. As she lay down on her cot, trying to relax enough to sleep for a few hours, she alternated between anger and resignation. I truly wonder if St. Mou really intended for his followers to put themselves and other people in danger. Because that’s what’s going to happen one of these days. There is nothing in the Holy Writ about shunning all Lander technology and ruins, just that we must exercise great caution and humility, knowing how much we do not know. St. Gerald even said that saving human life comes before purity in an emergency. Godown forgives. She rolled onto her side, fingered her beads, and got two-thirds through the morning office before falling asleep.

  The next day she went to meet with Col. Marcy. A steady rain had begun pattering down just before dawn, and the Donatello contingent made sure they filled their water casks and the boilers. The gray weather matched Elizabeth’s mood. Her monthly course had started and although not as bad as in the past, the grinding pain in her back, stomach, and legs soured her temper. Capt. Destefani looked like a lump of coal perched on a horse, his dark brown waxed coat dripping water, the hood pulled forward over his face. “Godown be praised for mud-colored horses,” she half-joked.

  “Agreed, my lady.” Ricardo plodded along, not pleased to be out in the cool damp. Elizabeth sympathized. She’d rather be in her snug little library, reading battlefield theory and military history instead of slogging through muck and manure in order to meet with someone who probably detested her. Well, Godown never promised His followers ease in this life. We are to rise to His standards. And speaking of standards, there’s Marcy’s perimeter marker. She and Lazlo had followed their earlier route bac
k, east of the Lander site, to reach Marcy’s encampment.

  She and Lazlo rode into the camp unchallenged. He frowned and she nodded. No one should be coming and going without being known. He took the lead, asking a passing trooper where to find Col. Marcy. “White tent, sor.”

  The white tent dwarfed Elizabeth’s own shelter. She dismounted and studied the platform the tent rested on. Oh, that’s clever. It sits on a wagon-bed. I wonder how it travels? Do the sides fold in? How do you keep it warm in winter? Lazlo coughed, pulling her back to duty. “Sorry.” She pulled her colonel’s baton out of her saddlebag and tucked it into her belt. Lazlo stepped aside and she led the way to the entrance of the tent.

  Col. Alan Marcy waved them to seats as he finished eating. “Beastly weather, Sarmas.”

  “Yes. Glad to have some rain, though, Godown be thanked. Last year’s drought is still causing shortages.”

  Marcy grunted and wiped his mouth and beard clean. He began playing with a polished rock as an orderly took away the dishes. The thin man also tapped his foot, moving without stop. He reminded Elizabeth of one of the half-tame rat-hunting weasels, always sniffing and twitching unless they were asleep. “Right. Keep the Frankonians away from my men, Sarmas. And stay the hell out of those cursed remains. Nothing good can come from them. Grantholm hates me. That’s why he put us here, near the curse. Are you drinking from the spring? Don’t. It carries the corruption from the evil ones.” He spoke without pause or breath, the words spilling out and over each other. He spoke like rocks fell, Elizabeth decided.

  “We were warned to avoid the remains,” she replied when he stopped for breath. “I’ve ordered my men to stay well clear of them, and we’ve begun patrolling out, looking for the Bowerstown and Moralo raiders.”

  “Don’t. I need you here, protecting me,” he snapped. “You’re new at this, Sarmas, so do as I tell you. Stay close and don’t waste your beasts and men chasing phantoms. Let them come to you. Warfare is different from dealing with the occasional raider. Watch and learn, Sarmas, watch and learn. I’ll talk to Grantholm and have him correct your orders, if that’s what you are worried about,” he assured her, now rocking back and forth as well as rolling a worry-rock between his fingers. “You need to keep close and protect my men and artillery,” Marcy repeated, smoothing his blond beard with his empty hand.