Elizabeth of Donatello Bend (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  “I see.”

  “Good. Go see that your men stay out of the remains, Sarmas. We don’t need Godown favoring the Frankonians because of some idiot’s curiosity. St. Mou warned what would happen, but no one listened to him and the Great Fires came down.” He stopped, peering at Elizabeth as if he’d not truly seen her before. “You follow St. Mou, of course.”

  “My patrons are St. Gerald and St. Sabrina, but I respect the other holy ones,” she assured him.

  “You?” Marcy pointed a long finger at Lazlo.

  “St. Kiara, sir, but my aunt follows St. Mou.”

  “Grantholm hates me,” Marcy whispered, shaking his head before running his hand through his light-brown curls. “Do not tempt Godown,” and he shook his finger at Elizabeth.

  I wonder if he’s Sr. Amalthea’s long-lost brother? She replied as she would to her former spiritual supervisor, her voice low and smooth, respectful no matter what. “I strive to do the will of Godown, Colonel. As you say, He is not to be tempted.”

  “Good. Go see to your troops, Sarmas.”

  She saluted with her baton and led Lazlo out of the tent. She kept her tongue in check until they left the camp, this time passing in front of the lines, west of the Lander site. “Col. Ratter seems a bit preoccupied.”

  Destefani coughed into his gauntlet to cover his laugh. “Indeed, my lady. I hope he puts as much thought into fighting the Frankonians as he does fighting unbelief.”

  “Agreed, Captain. How long are we going to be followed?”

  “Until we enter our camp, I suspect.”

  They rode farther, and Elizabeth undid the tie on her saber, loosening it in the scabbard on her saddle. “I’m not certain he’s ours.”

  “You too? He’s getting closer.” Lazlo had a pistol in hand and he removed the safety cloth from the end of the flint.

  “On three.” They moved apart and Ricardo slowed down, as if stretching to pee. The stranger picked up speed and Elizabeth called, “Three!”

  Ricardo and Lazlo’s Pinky pivoted and surged into motion, taking the stranger by surprise. He hesitated too long, and they flanked him. “Who are you?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “Down with Frankonia,” he yelled, drawing his own saber. It tangled in his cloak, giving Elizabeth time to draw hers. Ricardo reared, giving her height, and she brought the pommel down on the man’s helmet. He slumped, stunned for a moment, and Lazlo pushed the pistol against his side.

  Two of the Donatello men came riding up. “Trouble?”

  “Secure him,” Lazlo ordered. Elizabeth backed away from the assailant, making room for the others. “Are you all right, Colonel?”

  “Yes.” Is he a fanatic or a spy? Either way he’s a fool. Worse than a fool, for attacking me in the open. Oh shit. “Move, now,” she barked, turning Ricardo and pushing him into a zig-zag trot. He threw his head in protest but obeyed. The men followed suit and they didn’t slow until they reached the Donatello lines. “Search him before you bring him in. And be careful.”

  “You should have killed him, my lady,” Lazlo scolded her later that afternoon. “He’s from Bowerstown, hired to kill as many senior officers as he can.” She leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, thinking. “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  “Because I did not know that. He could have been one of Marcy’s or someone else’s men. He could have been a Frankonian plant, to make us think it was one of our own. And who might have been in the ruins?” She opened her eyes. “I’m surprised there were no snipers in the ruins, watching and waiting.” She drank some tea laced with salibark and a splash of grape brandy to cover the taste. “I have no orders for dealing with assassins, although hanging comes to mind.”

  “If we can find a tree tall enough.” He turned away grumbling under his breath. “Do you want him hung, my lady?”

  “My wants are immaterial. I sent a message to his grace, to find out his desires. Godown willing, we’ll get an answer back before the end of the month.”

  “Are you going to obey Col. Marcy, my lady?”

  Elizabeth rolled the words in her mind the same way she rolled the tea over her tongue, letting the sting fade before speaking or swallowing. “I am going to continue as we are, Lazlo. I see no benefit to remaining in place. A strategic defense includes tactical offense, as von Clausewitz wrote, and we gain nothing from standing around waiting for the enemy to come to us. I’d rather have warning of an impending attack, even if we can’t stop the Bowerstown and Moralo cavalry before they get close enough to be a threat.” She drank more tea and noticed that her hands had finally stopped shaking. “Unless his grace sends other orders.”

  Duke Grantholm sent soldiers to collect the would-be assassin, sparing Elizabeth the trouble of finding a suitable tree. “I believe it is called a suspended sentence,” she observed that evening at the officers’ meeting. They laughed, as she’d hoped they would. They reviewed the day’s events. “No changes to our orders, you’ll be relieved to hear.”

  Then she dropped her surprise. “I want to split the camp, east and west. Make it Y-shaped, with the open area to the north, facing the ruins.”

  Lt. Tam Lee leaned forward. “Why, my lady? It will be that much harder to defend.”

  She toyed with her knife. “Because I do not want to catch a cannonball from Marcy’s camp. Rumor has it that he’s becoming more and more unhappy with the Lander ruins, and if he decides to destroy them…” And I don’t care to give anyone an easy target. The more she saw the ruins, the more they reminded her of an ancient fragment of the description of the battle of Stella Nova that she’d read. And the writer said that it reminded him of tales from the battle for Stalingrad, on Earth. Amazing how stories lived on centuries and light-years away from the original battle.

  “Very well, my lady,” Lee nodded.

  “Any supply problems yet?”

  No one would admit to any. Well, they’d have them soon enough, especially fodder. “How long before his grace moves, my lady?” Sparli asked from beside Lee. He was as big and fair as Lee was small and dark, laidback and quiet unless his anger roused. Sparli never forgot and rarely forgave, and Elizabeth suspected that if the unlamented Count Windthorst’s body had not been burned and scattered into the Donau Novi (“pity the poor fish,” Archduke Lewis had sighed), Sparli would have built a dance floor and latrine on the grave.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and puffed her cheeks before exhaling. “Soon, that’s all I know. We’ve eaten out this district, and high summer is coming. If the pattern holds, the Frankonians will pull back and start harassing the upland towns once the passes open. But this year may be different. The drought only singed them, but there are rumors of a glitterwing plague. They swarm after dry years.”

  “So either they will hit harder, trying to capture farmland and crops, or they will retreat until they can better supply themselves, my lady? Lovely,” Lazlo snorted from the other end of the table.

  “Rumor has it, my lady, that Laurence V is making noises about attacking the Freistaadter,” Lt. Roy Smith muttered. He reminded Elizabeth of a tar barrel on legs, except he could ride anything with four hoofs, and had a gift for finding wrinkles in the land that might harbor enemy troops or provide cover for his own men. She envied his tightly-curled black hair. “That might take pressure off of us.”

  “It might also inspire Tayyip the increasing less Invincible to launch a full invasion.” She took a large swallow of wine and wrinkled her nose. “Whoever thought this was worth bottling should be forced to drink it.”

  They talked about wine for a few minutes before she dismissed them. If they got into mischief on their own time and then suffered for it the next morning, well, that was none of her business. Junior officers had to learn the hard way but after riding through a few hangovers, most of the men had already decided sobriety had some benefits after all. The cheap wine did cut the taste of the minerals in the water, however.

  I wonder if the stories are true about the water in the spring? Not that it ma
tters to me. The Donatello men knew better than to make comments about her in her hearing, and she never went anywhere without Lazlo or one of the other men as an escort. The grinding pain in her lower body terminated any inappropriate thoughts or desires, anyway. I really should talk to someone about this, she thought for the thousandth time. Someday it is going to happen at the wrong time, and I don’t want to think about what will happen if I’m wounded and taking salibark. She’d bleed to death, probably. With that inspiring thought she brought out her beads and prayer book to begin the evening office.

  Two days later the rain faded away and Duke Grantholm called a meeting of all the colonels. She opted to bring Lt. Sparli with her, leaving Lazlo Destefani to haggle with the camp baker for the Donatello contingent’s bread supply. The rain had washed some of the stench out of the air, although she knew it would return with a vengeance once the sun came out. “Either you see the dust or smell the miasma. There’s no way to hide an army,” Aquila Starland had told her and Matthew. “You can try, and some do it better than others, but something will give you away.” Except that didn’t match what she’d read about tactical surprise and using terrain. Beside her Hans Sparli made a rude noise. “Problem?”

  “Strange fruit on that tree, my lady.” She looked to the east and made the sign of St. Gerald. Two bodies dangled from a gibbet. She suspected she knew who one of them had been.

  “Godown have mercy on their souls,” she recited without thinking. “May He who gives life, He who knows our hearts, reward them as He wills.”

  “Ay, my lady, but best you not say that around the other officers, with all due respect.” He looked worried, and for good reason, she realized.

  “Thank you. Some training goes deeper than others.”

  He nodded, relieved that she’d gotten the warning. “That it does, my lady. They say that the bedside prayer is the last thing anyone ever forgets.” An angry look came into his eyes, and she nodded. He’d never forgive the Turkowi and she did not blame him.

  Duke Grantholm did not stand on formality or ceremony. “We are moving tomorrow, attacking Frankonian positions here, here, and here,” he began as soon as everyone had gathered, pointing to the map. “I have word that General Rohan-Roi is away on a diplomatic mission.” The more he spoke, outlining his plans and what the colonels’ duties would be, the more Elizabeth’s hackles rose, although she had no idea why. “And you will continue flanking and protecting Marcy’s artillery, Sarmas,” he announced at last.

  “Yes, your grace.”

  Grantholm gave both Marcy and Sarmas hard looks. “Don’t hover, Sarmas, but don’t go hunting, either.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  Marcy drummed his fingers on his leg, rocking back and forth, glowering at the map. He had to maneuver around another set of Lander ruins. “Your grace, I request permission to shift north and exchange positions with Col. Lang.”

  “Denied. We don’t have time and I need your artillery where you can pivot if necessary.”

  “I protest! I will have no truck with cursed ground. You endanger my men with this formation, your grace.” He folded his arms, tapping one foot against the tent floor.

  “There are no standing walls, Marcy, the stones were carted off years ago,” Col. Lang informed him, shaking his head. “My scouts already checked, looking for more snipers. You can see the traces of an old wall, but that’s it.” Col. Marcy paled.

  Elizabeth’s eyes went wide and before Marcy could protest, she demanded, “More snipers, Col. Lang?”

  “Had some in a farmhouse we’d thought we’d cleared out and secured. Took care of them already,” he shrugged, dismissing the matter.

  Oh, damnation. She had a vision of her troopers getting picked off as they tried to move out the next morning. St. Gerald, give me strength. Should she request permission to go into the ruins between her and Marcy’s positions?

  Grantholm spoke before she could. “Anything else? You have the signals, then. Your current orders remain in force, and I’ll send chaplains out for your men later today. You are dismissed.”

  As they left, Marcy grabbed her arm and squeezed so tightly it hurt even through her heavy jacket. “Don’t provoke Godown’s wrath, Sarmas,” and he shook her. “Protect my flank or I’ll have you tried for treason,” and he flung her arm down, rushing off to find his horse and leaving her standing in the shade of Grantholm’s tent, shaking with anger.

  Now she wanted to ride into the Lander ruins, climb as high as she could, and wave her banner while singing one of those rude songs she supposedly did not know. Lt. Sparli glowered at Marcy’s back as the colonel hurried off. “We have our orders,” she managed, sounding surprisingly calm to her own ears.

  “Col. Sarmas?” a new voice asked. She turned around and saw a young man, lightly built, in the buff and blue of the Imperial couriers. “Messages for you, my lo— ah, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” The messenger handed her four letters. She stuffed them into one of the pouches on her belt and wound her way between tents and around a cooking fire to reach the remuda. She and Hans collected their horses and rode back to their camp. They did not rush, wanting to spare their beasts for the next day. “I can see why people build fortresses and walled cities,” she observed after two kilometers.

  “My lady?”

  “Let the war come to you or flow around it, rather than wearing yourself out riding to the battle, fighting, and riding back.” Except that she’d read about sieges and what could happen when the city collapsed.

  Hans seemed to mull over her words. “True, my lady, but you can’t get out of the way if you get caught in the middle. And everyone knows where to find you and your goods.”

  “True. Strong borders work best when you are well inside them.”

  “Until a traitor opens the door,” he snarled.

  “Agreed.” They rode in silence the rest of the way back to camp. As they passed the remains of the ancient buildings, a glint like sunlight on metal caught her eye. It disappeared before she could focus on it, and for a second she wondered if she’d imagined it. She shook her head and continued on her way.

  She briefed Lazlo and the other officers, then dismissed them to begin preparations for the next day’s maneuvers. “Captain, a word.” Lazlo hung back, waiting. “Have you noticed anything new over there?” She tipped her head to the north.

  He looked that direction. “My lady, I thought I saw… Early this morning, a few minutes after sunrise, I thought I saw a flash like light on a mirror just before the clouds thickened up again.” Lazlo kicked an invisible rock and studied the ground. “I was on the east side of,” and he too jerked his head to the north.

  “I saw it as Sparli and I rode past. Fast, and well up, on the second or third level, if the Landers built the inside the same way we build.” Both soldiers turned, facing north, as if they could see through the tent wall and other obstructions. “I don’t remember seeing anything shiny before today.”

  “Me either, my lady. Should we,” and he stopped as she shook her head. “Our orders?”

  “Yes. I think we need to reposition as many as possible, and double the night watch, if we can.” She turned back to the map still draped over the camp table. “Leave the tents and fires closest to the ruins as they are, keep the fires going, but shift people south. Some from each arm of the Y.” She studied the map, sticking her tongue out a little as she thought about what the Frankonians or their allies might be planning.

  “What if General Rohan-Roi is not on a diplomatic mission, my lady?” She looked up to find Lazlo frowning, eyebrows drawn together, eyes so narrow she almost couldn’t see them. “What if he’s bringing his personal troops around, to catch us from behind?”

  “Um, how fast can the artillery turn around? Once they are aware that they are being attacked from the rear,” she added.

  Lazlo shook his head, answering her question.

  “Godown be with us,” she sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. Because we’re
going to need every bit of help we can get.

  Late that night she rolled off of her camp cot, half-asleep, ears ringing. “What in Godown’s name?” A crunching sound, screams of men or horses or both, a flash, and another crash finished waking her. She jammed her sock-feet into her boots, grabbed her weapons and charged out of her tent. The sound had come from the north. She heard more, fainter screams and she joined the stream of men rushing toward the Lander ruins. “Hold you position,” she bellowed as best she could. “Hold your position!”

  The stream slowed and Lazlo and Hans appeared, armed and with torches. “Hold your position,” Sparli shouted, his voice carrying farther than Elizabeth’s could.

  Lazlo glanced around. “Secure the perimeter,” he snapped. Men leaped back into motion, now scattering to their assigned positions, in case the commotion proved to be a diversion. “What in Godown’s Name was that?”

  They heard more cries from within the ruins, and what had to be a horse or mule screaming in the darkness. “I’d say it was someone making a mistake or being stupid,” Elizabeth guessed. She looked down at her white night clothes. Like me.

  “Ah, my lady, you are a rather pale target,” Sparli ventured, stepping to the side so she would not be in the torch’s glare.

  She mustered her remaining dignity. “Once the perimeter is secure, send a messenger over to check on Marcy’s people. No, belay that order.” She did not want any of her people getting killed by an over-eager guard. “Don’t go into the ruins, even to render aid. But if anyone sees motion, they have permission to fire at will.”

  Conscience satisfied, she returned to her tent to put on her uniform and try and get more sleep.

  The sticky, cloudy sunrise revealed at least part of the cause. “That looks like a mountain gun,” Lazlo noted. “I’ve heard of them. They can be carried in pieces and assembled anywhere a mule can go.” Chunks of shattered metal spilled out of one of the buildings, as best Elizabeth could tell through her binoculars. What looked like a dead horse sprawled beside a dull yellow-brown length of what might once have been a cannon barrel.