by Alma Boykin
She was still mulling over the problem of the lack of loot when the troop camped for the night. “It doesn’t help when the men see others foraging and raiding, my lady,” Captain William Krehbiel, her chief teamster reminded her and the other senior officers at supper.
“No, it doesn’t, but it would be safer for me to kiss the high priest of Selkow than to try and stop them once they’ve gotten enough momentum going.” She sipped her watered wine.
Some of the men laughed at her comment. Others looked vaguely confused, especially the youngest lieutenants. “My lady Colonel, what do you mean ‘safer to kiss the high priest of Selkow’?” Lt. Peter Black asked.
“Major,” she nodded to Lazlo.
“The worshippers of Selkow believe that their goddess is jealous, Black. She tolerates women who worship her from birth and who are born into the faith, but not converts. Women who worship Godown or other deities are to be driven out of captured lands, or killed. Pregnant women may be kept alive until they deliver, then they are killed and their children raised as followers of Selkow.”
Elizabeth picked up the tale. “And ten years ago or so, a group of fanatics decided that killing captured women as sacrifices to Selkow, killing them slowly after raping them I should clarify, gained even more favor with the goddess.” Elizabeth swallowed the little bit of gorge that always came up with those memories. “That was too much even for Tayyip and the high priests, although they were quite willing to let the fanatics roam within the Empire and serve as the leading wave of larger units.”
“My lady, that’s ridiculous!” Lt. Black objected, and several other men made sounds of agreement. “Godown welcomes all, since He made us male and female both.”
“My Lady,” Krehbiel added, “killing off half your population makes no sense. Without women there are no children. At least, not now.”
“I believe, although there is absolutely no proof and I am not a scholar of demons and such, but I believe that problem is precisely why only captured women are killed,” Elizabeth told them. “As you say, it makes no sense to kill your own women, or men, especially if the population is already very low.”
Lazlo nodded, “And who teaches the children? Their mothers and aunts and other women. Why risk having your captives teaching the next generation lies and falsehoods? Or what followers of Selkow believe are lies and falsehoods,” he hurriedly added.
“You can see why I, personally, am not enamored with the worship of that deity,” Elizabeth concluded.
“Yes, my lady,” and Black nodded vigorously.
“Good night gentlemen,” she said, getting to her feet. They also stood and Lazlo followed her out to her tent.
“I understand that there are rumors,” she observed, taking off her hat and arranging her skirts before sitting on her camp chair. She’d ordered one side of the tent rolled up with just the light fly-mesh down, so she could be seen, and could get a little breeze if there was any to be found. She waved to the other chair.
“Yes, there are, and I’m not happy about them.” He made sure his belt-knife and pistol holster tipped out of the way before sitting. “But they are the usual, not new ones,” he allowed.
She rolled her head around, letting it hang back as she studied the tent’s ceiling. “I keep waiting for something new and creative, but no.” She was a prostitute. She was Emperor Rudolph’s or Duke Grantholm’s or Aquila Starland’s mistress/bastard/bastard sister. She had blackmailed her way to power. Lazlo was her lover, or vice versa, and that Lazlo was the real commander. Some stories claimed that she was really a man who dressed as a woman for some unspecified reason. Or that she was Empress Margaretha’s lover. Add in the usual rumors that she might be a Frankonian spy and there were more than enough to keep the camp gossips busy for the duration of campaign season.
“I do not understand why men claim that only women gossip.”
She heard his snort of laughter. “Ah, my lady, that is because men exchange news and useful information, never gossip.”
“I wonder how great of a victory I’ll have to be part of before the rumors stop, or at least fade enough that no one would dare act on them.”
“My lady, it might depend on the rumor. I doubt you will ever be free of the Frankonian stories, I’m sorry to say. Not as long as you sound Frankonian.”
“Well, it gets old, tiresome, and boring,” she stated, finally looking back at him instead of the ceiling. She pulled a light folding table and map over, setting them in front of her chair. “Any problems with the route of march tomorrow and the next day?”
He brought his chair over so he could see it. To anyone outside the tent, it looked as if they were studying the map, nothing more.
“How are you?” he murmured, one hand tracing the proposed routes.
“I hurt but no more than usual.” She’d given up trying to hide the intensity of her cycles from him.
He shook his head. “Love, you need to see a churigon about that.”
“Not here!” She tapped a bridge-symbol as she shook her head. “Just what I need, rumors about being incapacitated because of my cycle. And is there a ford closer that you know of?”
Lazlo pursed his lips. She felt her body trying to respond as she remembered the feeling of his lips on hers last time they’d gotten a few moments of privacy. Settle down, she told herself. This is not the time or place. Really, I mean it. Her body didn’t seem inclined to listen.
“If I recall correctly, love, there used to be a ford,” and he bent closer to the map, tracing the river with his finger. “A ford here, I think.” It was several kilometers upstream of the bridge, near a walled town. In fact, as she studied the map, she saw walled towns on both sides of the river. “But I don’t know if it is open to us.”
“Um.” She leaned back, considering. “We’re still inside the empire, so they have to let us pass through. But we are not that far from the border, either, and his grace does not want us antagonizing anyone if we can avoid it.”
Lazlo brushed her hand with his fingers as he sat back. “We would antagonize them.”
She fluttered her eyes and looked innocent. “But why? What could possibly go wrong when three hundred cavalry soldiers and two hundred support troops pass through an isolated town?” She grinned and snorted, “Besides everyone’s laundry going missing and a population surge nine months later.”
“And the wine merchant declaring insolvency, along with the goldsmith,” Lazlo reminded her. “We are not nice people.”
I don’t know… she thought about what he looked like out of uniform. Stop that! She pulled her hand back. “No, we are not, and I don’t care to be ambushed inside town by someone who wants independence.”
“Bridge then, my lady, and ford only if we have no choice. Other than that, I do not see any special difficulties with these routes, aside from the moors and wetlands, here.”
“It is said the Landers had ways to move the water from swamps that also got rid of the bad air and bloodflies.” She made a face. “Yet another bit of technology we need to rediscover.”
“My lady, be careful. St. Mou is popular in this district.”
She gritted her teeth and squinted one eye but said nothing more. After a minute she pushed her chair back and stood up. “Thank you, Major. See that Capt. Krehbiel is warned to avoid the ford.”
He took her hand and bowed. She could see the tension in his shoulders and she made it a point to meet his eyes as he straightened up. They should not have married or become lovers before the campaign started. It was starting to interfere with their professional relationship.
The Donatello Bend cavalry arrived at his grace’s camp two weeks past midsummer. Along the way they’d crossed paths with a merchant caravan, traveling north to the fair at New Herb Hill. Elizabeth had queried the merchants about their business so far and the news worried her, enough so that she seriously contemplated turning around and returning to the Donau Novi River valley, orders be damned.
“No, my lady Colone
l, no fighting-type trouble, Godown be praised,” Master Alfred Taverner had told her. The red-faced, round man, head of the caravan, rubbed the side of his bulbous nose before continuing. “The new duke in Tivolia raised taxes and our market’s not so good there, so we’re selling at New Herb Hill this year.”
“So Duke Michael has gone to his rest.”
“Ay, my lady Colonel. Duke Jan, well he says they need to raise taxes to encourage trade to stay within the duchy borders.” Taverner made a rude gesture with his left hand. “And he’s closed the western border.”
“Closed the Barnhard Pass Road? That’s strange. Tivolia had treaties with the Freistaadter and the Brothers of Service to keep the road open, weather permitting of course.” The lump in her stomach began churning.
Taverner shrugged wide shoulders. “He’s closed the road, so my factor says. And I trust him. Says the word is it’s to cut off smugglers bringing things in from Frankonia and the Freistaadter lands.” He gave her a skeptical look and the corner of her mouth tipped up into a little smile. They both knew it would have the opposite result, especially when combined with the new taxes.
“Thank you for the news, Master Taverner, and Godown be with you on your way. You know about the rinderpest to the north?”
“Ay, my lady. That’s why we’re not going past New Herb Hill.”
Elizabeth chewed on his words all the way to Duke Grantholm’s camp. Once there, with her men sorted out, she left Lazlo in charge and rode up the line to his grace’s headquarters, on the slope of a hill overlooking a small stream. Lt. Black came with her as a second set of ears and as a bodyguard. Some people still insisted on learning for themselves that she could fight back, as long as she was in the saddle.
“Col. Sarmas for his grace,” she informed the aid at the flap of his grace’s large tent.
“He’s expecting you, Colonel.” The dark man gestured and Elizabeth ducked into the hot shade of the tent.
She peered around until she found Duke Miles “Bear” Grantholm, leaning over a table. “Your grace,” she said, bowing.
“Ah, there you are, Sarmas. You made good time.”
“Thank you, your grace, Godown was with us, as was the weather.” Especially the weather, she thought, remembering two years before and the slog through mud to the horses’ knees.
He grunted and waved for her to join him looking at the papers on the table. “He’s not engaging us.” A beefy hand thumped the report. “He’s playing, staying just out of range, sending small raids but not stopping were I can beat him. I want your people to drive him to me.”
Elizabeth felt her eyebrows rising into her wig. “Who are we facing, your grace, and just how large is his main force?”
“Michelet, and we think only twenty-thousand, plus followers.”
She ran the numbers in her head. Two hundred eighty cavalry would not convince twenty-thousand cavalry, infantry, artillery, and who-knew-who-else to flee into Grantholm’s arms. Before she could open her mouth to protest, Grantholm handed her one of the reports. She took it closer to the open side of the tent to read in the light. Wait, these are not serious raids. Not army serious at least. Any military action was serious to the civilians caught up in it, but none of the raids, encounters, or clashes on the list warranted an army-sized response, according to what Elizabeth had studied. You don’t use a sledgehammer to swat at flies. OK, I can see using cavalry against the cavalry, but… she skimmed over the accounts yet again. Where’s their army? Confused, she looked up from the pages.
“Your grace, how far from us is Michelet’s force, as last reported?”
He grunted something unintelligible and an aid shifted the papers out of the way and unrolled a map for him. Elizabeth returned to the table. She found their location, on the northwest edge of the Eastern Empire, facing west into the Bergenlands. What’s that? The western border of the Bergenlands seemed to have shifted east a little since last she’d seen. Drat. That must be the disputed border with the so-called neutral Principality of Louvet. Who is a good friend of Frankonia and lets the Frankonians march through at will, she growled. Back to the point, she tried to find something indicating where General Michelet lurked. Grantholm tapped the map with a silver-chased bloodwood pointer. “Raids hit here, here, and here. Found camp signs of the raiders here,” and he indicated a bend in the Clearwater River that flowed north out of the Bergenlands, fifty kilometers from imperials’ current location. “Scouts all through here,” and he spread his hand over the region. “Nothing yet. I want you to flush him out.”
Lt. Black made a questioning sort of sound and she looked over her shoulder at him. He frowned and waved his hand back and forth, two fingers down, mimicking someone scurrying to and fro. She sliced her own hand sideways, cutting off the gesture before Grantholm noticed. Black was correct, but this was not the place to be challenging the Bear. “Very good, your grace. Do we know what route he used to move into the area this year?”
“No. Doesn’t matter. I want you to go out and find him, start harrying him, push Michelet this way. Get rested, say three days, and then start here,” and he pointed well to the north of the Clearwater. “Stay away from cattle. I do not want you bringing that damned rinderpest into my army, Col. Sarmas.”
“Start to the north and avoid livestock, yes, your grace.”
Grantholm straightened up and looked at her. She met his gaze. “Huh. I was told you’d protest these orders. Glad to see you’re smarter than that. Dismissed.”
She bowed again, accepted copies of her orders and the raid reports from the aid, and led Black out of the tent. They stopped to the side of the entry flap, waiting for their eyes to recover from the bright sunlight. “My lady,” the young officer began.
“Not here, Lieutenant.”
He held his peace until they got their horses and began the ride back to their portion of the large camp. “My lady, we’re chasing a shadow.”
“Yes, we are.” A shadow that I do not believe is even on this side of the Triangle Range. After several more minutes, once well clear of Grantholm’s headquarters, she explained, “Once we get to camp, we will begin planning our search system, Lieutenant, and sorting out supplies. His grace has given us time to rest and reorganize, and it behooves us to make the best use of it we can.” Elizabeth noticed a rider pacing them, near the edge of the encampment. She spoke louder, pitching her voice to carry, “Godown helps those who don’t squander His blessings.” As she said the last she glanced over at the camp, past Lt. Black, at a red and black tent with St. Mou’s symbol painted on the back. She did not need to be causing more trouble than usual. The rider, on a nondescript brown horse, followed them until they cleared that part of the encampments.
As they reached camp, Black looked up to the west and frowned. “My lady, not to be forward, but I think we will have storms tonight.”
“Oh?” She peered out from under her hat brim and saw a veil of white spreading across the sky from behind the rumpled blue peaks to the west and south. “Those high clouds coming from the mountains?”
“Yes, my lady. My father fought up here and he says that when you see those this early, especially if the wind goes quiet in the afternoon and the air feels wet, there’s a good chance of heavy storms around sunset.”
She looked around at the encampment. Should she order the men to set up storm ropes? It would be easier now than later. “Good to know, Lieutenant. Have your men storm tie the tents and equipment.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She sent him on his way. She left Braun, her spare horse, with the hostlers, advising them to prepare for heavy weather. As Elizabeth walked back to her tent, she gave orders to ready the camp for a possible storm. The men grumbled but no one challenged the order.
That night Lazlo read over their orders and exploded, slamming the pages onto the table and almost knocking over the lamp. “My lady, this is stupid. We’ll wear ourselves out before we find Michelet.”
“Especially since Michelet is not in
this theater.” As Lazlo stared at her, she repeated in a placid tone, “Michelet is not here. Raiders are, and probably a cavalry division’s worth of mercenaries, which explains in part why his grace couldn’t find any to hire, but Michelet and his army are probably west of the Louvet Valley.”
Lazlo gasped at her words, as shocked as if she’d just denied the existence of Godown. His mouth opened and closed, no sound emerging. He reminded her of one of the giant karpf that fishermen occasionally pulled out of the Donau Novi. Lazlo finally managed to squeak, “Then why is his grace so convinced Michelet is here?”
She leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table and rubbing her temples. “Because the Frankonians are always here. They’ve been here eight of the last ten years, and before then, love, so of course they are here. He sees Frankonian cavalry, so there must be an army to go with it.” She kept the rest of her thoughts about Grantholm to herself.
Lazlo stared down at the map and copies of the reports. “You’re not going to challenge him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“There’s point in challenging him, is there?” She fanned herself, wishing she could strip down to just her blouse and one underskirt. She’d already dispensed with her shimmy. “His grace has done very well here, he knows how the different Frankonian generals usually manage and deploy their troops, and he outranks me, both in title and in years.”
“But you think he’s wrong, and that were going on a wild hefelumf chase.” Lazlo shifted his chair around so his back was to the door, making Elizabeth shiver.
“Love, don’t sit like that, please. It makes me nervous.”
“What?” He glanced down at his chair, then caught her meaning as she pointed over his shoulder. He scooted again until he sat almost beside her. “Better?” he inquired, voice low, a teasing expression on his face. He rested one hand on her knee.
“Not exactly, but, whoop!” She lunged forward across the little table, grabbing at skittering, flying papers as a gust of ice-cold wind blasted through the open door flaps. “Mule breath!” She swore. Blue-white light flashed outside the tent and she heard a distant rolling boom of thunder. People ran past, grabbing loose objects and rushing to get supplies and themselves under cover. “I hope the horses are well tied.”
