Elizabeth of Donatello Bend (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  “No, Colonel. We caught them before they could do more than start trying to rope the horses.”

  “Good. You are dismissed. I want to be on the road as early as practical, and we’d better put as much space between us and the Peilovna company as we can.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She hated to tire the animals and her men with a hard night march, but Elizabeth saw no choice in the matter, not after the attempted raid against her remuda. She gathered the officers the next afternoon, during the noon break, and gave them their orders. That night they made a temporary camp, rested four hours, and then set out by moonlight. The light cavalry rode ahead, scouting the way and securing the ferry over the Lesser Plate River. The infantry and baggage followed. The ferryman did not want to cross at night, but Elizabeth forced him to. “We have a full moon, no wind, and orders from Archduke Arpad, Master Ferryman,” she growled. “You will be paid, never fear.”

  The last of the wagons crossed just before sunrise. The company pressed ahead until they reached a large grove of floottblatt trees, on the edge of the last of the hills. The big, dark green leaves cast thick shade, and the men set up camp in the grove, glad to sleep for a few hours. Elizabeth herself took watch, over the other officers’ protestations. “I crossed first and napped. Go rest. We’ll march a few hours more this afternoon.” And so they did. That evening she grabbed a bite of supper, heard the day’s report, and fell asleep before the sun reached the western horizon.

  She woke early and heard murmuring outside her tent. “I’m worried about the colonel,” a reedy voice whispered.

  “Why? She’s Godown’s chosen,” a warmer voice replied, making Elizabeth blush.

  “No, not that. She’s got woman problems, and not like the ones half this camp has.”

  The second voice growled, “How would you know? And if she does, that’s none of our business.”

  “It is if she doesn’t rest enough.” The reedy voice continued, “my Peg has ‘em, and she gets tired fast if she’s not careful. Makes the pain worse.”

  A snort followed that statement. “And who’s going to make the colonel rest? If the captain can’t, it ain’t safe for the rest of us to try. If the colonel is having trouble, which I don’t think she is.” She heard someone hawking and spitting. “’sides, my lord Peilov’s more trouble than any woman’s complaint.”

  Reedy voice snorted in turn. “He is a woman’s complaint.” She blushed again and wondered if she should say anything. No, her job was to discipline the men’s behavior, not their thoughts. Besides, she was supposed to be asleep. After a few more minutes staring at the darkness, she made enough noise to warn anyone listening that she’d woken up, and with a stifled groan for her stiff back and knees, she knelt and began to recite the morning office.

  They saw no more of the Peilovna troops until they reached the main army, near the Great Plate River. Elizabeth wanted to ride straight to Quill’s headquarters and report, but she knew better. First she had to find her place and get her men taken care of. A broken axel on one of the wagons had slowed progress and caused them to string out over almost two kilometers, and Elizabeth needed to get everyone back together. “Col. Sarmas and the contingent from Donatello Bend reporting,” she told the first outrider they met.

  “Well met, Col. Sarmas,” he replied. “You are north of the main camp,” and he pointed. “You’ll see where as you go.”

  “North and we’ll see where, very good,” she replied, returning his salute. She and Lazlo led the way. As planned, every so often one horse and rider stopped, marking the trail for the latecomers. The distance seemed shorter than she recalled from Grantholm’s camp, but also boggier. That she did not care for. As they traveled the two kilometers or so to their assigned position, she realized the pattern. The camps held the higher ground, with the remudas and wagon depots in the lower, closer to the best grass but also near the thick muck and quiver bogs. She shrugged—this region was called the northern lowlands for a reason. Lazlo urged his horse ahead, stopped, leaned down to look at something, and waved.

  “Here, my lady,” he told her, pointing to a stake and cross-post with her and Quill’s marks on them.

  “Right.” She looked around before riding up the taller of two low mounds. “An I-formation this time. Medical on highest ground if possible, and as wide as necessary for contact with Count Eulenberg’s people on the south.” She dismounted as he passed the word. They’d trained to camp in several different formations, based on terrain and proximity to the front. Elizabeth bounced on her toes: it felt good to be on her own feet for a few minutes, and Braun made a noise like a sigh as she loosened his cinch by one hole. “Yes, it has been a long day,” she agreed. A biting gnat attacked her nose and she swatted it away. That was not an auspicious sign, she sighed.

  The ground, not as soupy as Elizabeth had first thought, still gave more under her boots than she was used to. “It could be worse, my lady,” Lt. Will Krehbiel agreed later that afternoon. “This is low ground, not true swamp like farther south. And we’ve got good trees for mats.” As soon as they’d found the place for the wagons, he’d set the men to cutting branches from the weeping wollie trees and tamarak, along with reeds. Krehbiel showed them how to make mats of the pliable withies. “Then you lay three mats on top of each other, and tie the corners. Put those on the lowest places, and drive the wagons on top. They’ll settle but not bog, even if it rains.” Krehbiel had smiled at her questions. “Yes, my lady. My father’s people had to live in an area like this, but closer to the Triangle Range. The true bog starts where the reddish plants are, there,” and he pointed some distance away. “We have to keep clear of that area, especially the horses.”

  “Is there a way to cross something like that?”

  “Yes, my lady, or so my father says. You make mats, and lay them out, stake them down a little, and pile rushes on, then add mats if the lower ones sink too much. It’s slow going, and a lot of work, but if the bog is a brown bog, the walkways will last for years.”

  “Thank you, Krehbiel. You are a gift from Godown,” and she smiled as he looked away, embarrassed by the praise.

  The next day she reported to Duke Starland. As she rode south, behind the main line, she met the Peilovna troops arriving at the rendezvous point. They glared at her and Lt. Sparli, and several spat towards her. She ignored the insult but made mental notes of the faces of the men and their officers. She saw no trace of Jan Peilov himself and wondered if he’d come to grief. Probably not, she snorted, more likely he’d found a snug farmhouse or inn not far from the rest of the army and had made his personal headquarters there. If he had, well, there was nothing wrong with it: she’d have done the same if given the chance and no orders to the contrary.

  “Col. Sarmas reporting to his Grace,” Lt. Sparli informed the fuzz-cheeked aid waiting outside Starland’s headquarters. The building looked like a brick and wood barn, quite an improvement on the usual field tent. The young man stepped inside, reappearing with a second, older aid.

  “Follow me, please, Colonel,” the younger aid told her. Sparli fell in at her shoulder and they entered the dark, warm building. It was not a barn, she realized as her eyes adapted, but the largest drying shed she’d ever seen. Long rows of thin rods filled the top of the building, and the faint whiff of fish under the usual camp smells told the rest of the story.

  She waited as Aquila finished some business with an unfamiliar noble and dismissed the stranger before turning around. “Who?” He peered at them. Then his dark eyes lit and a broad smile bloomed on the scarred and creased face. “Well met, Lady Elizabeth! Well met indeed. You made good time.”

  “Thank you, your grace, and yes, my men did very well. How may we be of service?”

  Aquila beckoned them forward and she took the seat he pointed to. “Right now we are watching and waiting. Despite camp rumor, the Turkowi do not have a navy, or a fleet of boats to use crossing the Tongue. We are in their way here, and the route through the foothills
is also being watched. I’d prefer to be farther south, but,” he waved at the map. A huge shallow lake or deep swamp filled the space between the Plate and the foothills of the Dividing Range. North of the swamp, the Imperial army perched on a small cluster of ridge-like hills that faded away into the flat marshes of the Great Plate River’s delta and the waters of the Tongue.

  Aquila pointed at the enormous swamp. “Even the Turkowi can’t get through there. They’ve tried in the past, and learned not to try again. We can’t get through there, either. It’s perfect: too deep to walk or ride, to shallow and choked for flat-boats, the only dry spots are moss mounds, and the trees don’t burn worth a damn. And everything that walks, swims, or flies also bites.”

  No wonder there’s a convent on the edge of it, she sighed. She pointed and raised her eyebrows.

  “Empty. The Sisters decamped to safety weeks ago,” he told her. “No repetitions of your last adventure,” and he chuckled as she blushed a little. An aid set down a bottle and three cups. “Drink, drink. It’s cider, nothing stronger.” The pfeach cider tasted wonderful and she let it sit on her tongue, savoring the little bite under the sweetness. “So, what have you brought?”

  Sparli handed her the pages, which she passed to Quill’s aid. “A hundred light cavalry. Four hundred infantry, all trained in the square, and another two hundred musket men. That’s from Donatello Bend, Donatello Ford, and Creptown. Supplies include three tons of wheat and quinly, and some maize for the horses but not much. We also brought all the medical supplies we could spare, and a dozen hundred weights of camp bread,” the flour-fruit-meat planks that the army marched on. She omitted the fuel they’d brought, since that had been her decision, not army requirements.

  Quill poured himself more cider. “Good. Major André will give you orders for the supplies you brought.” He pushed a sealed envelope to her. “And this was given to me to give to you.”

  She looked at the seal and wondered what Archduke Lewis had been thinking. She put the envelope away without opening it. Aquila gave her an inquiring look over the rim of his cup.

  She shrugged. “Mule matters, I suspect, your grace. It will be that time of year when we get back to Donatello Bend.”

  Starland’s braying laugh filled the barn, drawing curious looks from his staff and the other soldiers coming and going. “Oh, St. Michael but that’s funny,” he managed, catching his breath. “He certainly has mules on the mind.”

  “Yes, your grace, he does.”

  “So, has the killer mule eaten anyone recently?”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “No, although he’s developed a taste for bedding. We can’t leave him alone near drying laundry,” and at his gesture she recounted the tale of the mattress.

  He laughed again. “Ah, Frankonia’s most famous export. It really is too bad he’s not a stud.”

  They discussed general matters for a few more minutes. “Unless matters change, I do not anticipate needing to meet again until the day after tomorrow,” he began, before shouting exploded from just outside the door.

  “I demand to speak to his grace immediately! I do not care who he’s with,” a young man bellowed. Elizabeth recognized the voice and got to her feet as Jan Peilov pushed past the startled aid at the door. “You have no right to stop me.”

  Aquila rose out of his seat, face darkening with anger. Elizabeth took two steps back, getting clear of the table. One of the servants whisked the half-empty cider bottle and cups out of the way. “What is this?” Aquila demanded.

  “Your grace,” Peilov stopped, saluting with a crisp gesture. “I apologize, but there has been a mistake. Your orders were not transmitted correctly to my men.”

  Elizabeth caught Sparli’s eye and made a little shooing gesture. She didn’t think either of them needed to hear the rest of the pending discussion, if ‘discussion’ was the right word.

  “What orders?”

  “The orders for our encampment, your grace. My men were sent north, to the end of the line, and I’m sure we are to be closer to your headquarters, your grace.”

  Aquila turned to Elizabeth. “Sarmas, where are you?”

  “Northern end, between Count Eulenberg and Lord Peilov, your grace.”

  He turned back to the younger man. Peilov had come close enough that Elizabeth could see the details on his ornate armor and her mind boggled at how much it must have cost. Just the cuirass alone would have paid for four new windows in the chapel at Donatello Bend! Aquila seemed to be studying the noble. “Your position is on the left flank of the company from Donatello Bend,” he said, his voice quiet.

  “Your grace, I protest. I outrank Miss Sarmas by both birth and marriage, and my men should not have the indignity of being left so far from—”

  “Enough!” Aquila Starland roared. Elizabeth wanted to dive under the table and hide from his anger. Everyone else in the building took a step backwards as he continued in a deadly tone, “Lord Peilov, you forget yourself. You may be my brother-in-law. You are also the son of Count Theobald Peilov. That matters not here,” and he stabbed down with one finger before advancing on the astonished nobleman. “Colonel Elizabeth von Sarmas has shown her mettle in combat several times over. Her position, and yours, have nothing to do with rank and everything to do with where I need troops. You will obey her orders as well as mine, should the need arise. Or you will be sent home and I shall inform both his royal highness, and his grace the archduke, that your services are not necessary to the crown, and your men will be placed under Col. Sarmas’s direct command. Is that clear?” He stood nose-to-nose with Jan Peilov. “Is that clear?”

  A little voice squeaked, “Colonel Sarmas, your grace?”

  “Colonel. His majesty awarded her that rank over a year ago. Are my orders clear, Peilov?”

  “Yes, your grace,” Elizabeth barely heard Peilov mumble. As Aquila turned and began walking back to the table, Peilov began, “Your grace, Sarmas denied me necessary supplies.” Elizabeth remembered the whining tone all too well and gritted her teeth. “She allowed her men to assault my soldiers.”

  Elizabeth shivered at the expression on the duke’s face. He seemed to recall that she was there, and gave her a little smile. “Sarmas, you are dismissed,” Aquila told her.

  “Your grace.” She and Sparli saluted and walked out of the headquarters barn at a brisk pace. They found their horses, mounted, and rode away in silence.

  After they had passed well clear of the headquarters area, Elizabeth slowed Braun to a dignified walk and told the air, “I do not recommend irritating his grace.”

  “My lady, I will take that advice to heart, and pass it on to the other officers for the good of the company,” Sparli assured her.

  “I think that would be wise. I’d hate to have people duplicating each other’s mistakes needlessly.”

  She heard nothing more from Jan Peilov, nor did any messages come from his division of the camp. That suited Elizabeth quite well. If he wished to sulk, he could do so. She and Lazlo had enough to deal with, trying to keep their people clean and healthy. Sanitation at Malfeld had been easy compared to disposing of waste in the lowlands of the Great Plate River. She made a point of being seen filtering her water through three layers of sacking cloth, even before boiling the water for tea. It only took a few cases of bloody flux before the other men made filtering their water a habit, even when the officers and NCOs were not in sight. Having coal fires for boiling water and clothes helped as well.

  “Shade is good,” Elizabeth sighed to herself as she dismounted after scouting the land east of camp. Molly the mule snorted and jerked her head up and down, as if agreeing. Elizabeth scratched the beast’s crest. She did not care what people said, she still preferred mules to horses for almost everything. Except combat, that is. “You are too smart, you do realize that,” she informed the mule.

  “True. Only horses and humans go into battle willingly,” Lazlo observed.

  They handed their beasts over to the care of the groom and sat down
to compare observations. With some reluctance she admitted, “I’m a little concerned about the lack of communication from Peilovna.”

  “As am I, my lady. I’ve heard nothing, other than acknowledgement of messages received.”

  She frowned and played with the penknife on the top of the field desk, twirling the slender shaft between her fingers and watching light flicker off the metal blade. “It serves no point to try and force them to provide us information so long as they are reporting to his grace,” she decided at last.

  Lazlo started to speak, but shook his head instead, watching the penknife twirl. “Agreed, my lady. It is too quiet.”

  “Here or in this area?”

  “This area, my lady.” Tea arrived and despite the heat they both drank avidly.

  She finished her cup before replying. “I… am inclined to agree. It feels as if a storm is looming just behind a hill and all we can see is the shadow.”

  “And the wind has gone still, my lady.”

  The first winds from the coming storm blew into camp the next day. Starland called all the senior officers in to headquarters. Elizabeth and Lazlo took care to put several other nobles and aids between themselves and Jan Peilov. Aquila Starland pointed to a rough map, drawn on the wall of the drying barn with charcoal. “The Turkowi are coming toward us. I’ve been getting news for the past three days. It seems they tried to flank us through the swamp, with as little success as last time.” Several of the older men shook their heads and Elizabeth wondered why the enemy had even wasted the energy trying. Oh well. She’d take the news and be grateful for it.

  “They have heavy guns.” A stir of concern rippled through the officers. “Not many, probably no more than two or three, but that’s more than enough. And there are more of them than we’d first thought. As in, twenty thousand more, or so the scouts guess.” Elizabeth’s stomach churned.

  “The good news is that we know where they are and how many they are. Thus far, they do not seem to know our exact position and numbers, although I assume they will by the time they attack us, if not sooner. So,” and he picked up a stick with charcoal tied to the end. “We are here. We are moving here,” and he pointed east and south. “That means Kornholt and Mitchell, you will move first, in combat order, then Jones and DeWitt, and so on up the line.”