by Alma Boykin
Fifty riders made it before the first horse bolted. She’d stopped on top of the hill beyond the bridge, in a nice thicket of brush, and was taking care of her needs when she heard the terrible sound of a horse screaming and men shouting. Oh Godown, have mercy, she begged, flashing back ten years to her and Snowy’s flight from Frankonia and the horse that drowned behind them in the Martin River. She cleaned up and settled her clothes, thinking yet again that skirts were so much easier and cleaner than trousers, at least for women. Braun pulled against his reins and she soothed him, swinging into the saddle and riding down to join her guard. “Major Destefani?”
“There, my lady,” and he pointed with his whip. She peered through the rain and saw Lazlo’s grey horse pushing against the flow of traffic. The riders were sorting themselves out, getting clear of the bridge. Lazlo reached the end of the bridge and soon the group began moving again. Elizabeth rode down to the road and Lazlo caught up with her.
“How many?”
“Only one, my lady, and the rider. One of Montoya’s men. Horse panicked and bolted to the side, tripped and rolled over…” She could guess the rest. “Two injured but not badly.”
“Keep moving. We need to reach DonauPlaat before the rising water does.” She sounded heartless, even to her own ears, but there was no point in trying to ride along the river and look for bodies, not with the water still rising.
They camped cold that night, but somewhat dry, in and around a pilgrimage shelter set in a grove. She walked back through the long line of soldiers, talking to the officers and a few sergeants that she recognized, and checking on the leading teamsters. Everyone seemed well, although she suspected that it would only be days before the first cases of loose bowels broke out, especially if the wet continued and they could not boil their water or dry the filter cloth.
The rain eased but the weather stayed cool and damp for the next four days. When the sun broke through Elizabeth felt like cheering. Her hands and knees had begun aching with the dull, sullen ache of hard-used joints. She noticed many men complaining about the horseman’s perpetual curse: painful hips and knees. She’d taken to walking in the evenings if possible, just to move different bits of her, and at night she dreamed of a warm fire, thick, dry socks, and as much hot tea as she wanted. “When we reach DonauPlaat, we can get clean and dry,” she told Ricardo. She’d begun alternating horses, so the other could rest a little.
Instead of warm and dry beds, they found chaos one day’s ride from the city. It started when a rider cantered up to the first outriders. “Where’s Col. Sarmas? Dispatches for Col. Sarmas.”
“Here.” She guided Braun off to the side of the way before reading the first message. Part of her wanted to cry and the other part wanted to crow with triumph. I was right. They’re besieging Vindobona. She read further and shook herself back to professionalism. “How is the crossing at DonauPlaat?”
“Open, my lady Colonel,” the courier assured her. “The bridge was repaired and reinforced last year.”
“Thank you. We’ll camp past Barretsford and wait for further word there.”
“You’ll camp past Barretsford. Very good my lady Colonel.” He bowed in the saddle and rode back the way he had come.
Once he had left, Elizabeth gave her orders. “Pass the word back: we’re stopping at Barretsford. There’s no room closer to DonauPlaat. I’ll send the teamsters to get us supplies tomorrow.” She rode on in silence, ignoring the men’s increasingly curious looks. Why was there no room at DonauPlaat? Because that’s where the imperial court now met and where part of the army was mustering. The rain had abated, for the moment at least, and she savored the sun’s heat, hoping it could stay in the sky long enough to bake away the chill in her bones.
Just before Barretsford, the ancient paving of the Lander High Road faded into the hard-packed soil of a worn dirt road. Less rain had fallen in this area, or so Lazlo and the others guessed. Elizabeth barely noticed their discussion, her mind preoccupied with plans and decisions and speculation. What to do? The descent to the ford caught her almost by surprise. The water looked safe, and she decided to ride across. Although belly deep on Braun, the water flowed smoothly and did not try to suck the horses under. The footing felt solid all the way across, and Elizabeth sent kind thoughts to the long dead Barret who had found the ford. Then they were up and turning south, away from the small town, and into a large area set aside for trade caravans to park and overnight.
Elizabeth and Lazlo reread the dispatches after making camp. She stuck her tongue out as she tried to put all the pieces together. The message from Aquila Starland bothered her a great deal, enough that she held it next to the lamp and looked through the paper, to see if the writer had used the dot code, but all she found was the watermark. “Well, perhaps things will become clearer in the next few days,” she decided at last.
“I hope so, my lady.” Lazlo rubbed the bridge of his nose. “These suggest that we’re doomed, at least for this year,” and he held the pages out on one hand. “These suggest that we are inches from destroying the entire Turkowi army west of the Dividing Range, as far south as Scheel.” He held the other pages out, eyes closed, imitating the statue of St. Alan the Just.
“More likely is that things are grim but not impossible.” Which describes much of this life. “I rode from Frankonia to Starland with no more than a mule to protect my virtue and it’s still intact, so we certainly should be able to beat the Turkowi back at least as far as Esterberg. After all, defeating the Turkowi is a far less improbable feat.”
Lazlo almost dropped the papers. He flushed and spluttered as he sorted the pages. “My lady, such blunt talk…”
“Is most unladylike, Major? But I speak nothing other than the truth.”
“Indeed, my lady,” and he made a little turning and pointing motion with his finger, warning that someone stood behind her.
She turned around and observed a courier in the colors of one of the Emperor’s personal men riding up to them, escorted by Lt. Black. “My lady Colonel?”
“I am here. What are his majesty’s orders?” She accepted the envelope he handed her, confirmed the seal, broke it open, and read. “I read and will obey.” She inclined in a half-bow to the courier. He saluted, turned, and rode off again to deliver other messages. She turned to Lazlo. “We’re riding into the city tomorrow. To meet with his majesty and the imperial council.”
Major Lazlo Destefani and Countess Colonel Elizabeth von Sarmas waited for the gates of DonauPlaat to open. She’d put the feathers back on her hat and the warm morning breeze played with the white plumes, fluttering the delicate fringe. “Impressive walls,” she observed, studying the stone and masonry.
“Good walls, my lady, but not if they lose control of the ridge crest.” They both looked at the small fort and walls capping the long ridge that looked down into DonauPlaat. “I wonder why the city is here and not there.”
“Ease of access to the river? Although,” and she twisted around in the saddle as much as she could without hurting herself, trying to see the lower ridge behind her. “There was a city on Earth, can’t remember the name, that built walls down from the high point to the port. Peer-ray-oos? I read about it in Hwing’s fortification manual. It could be done.” She straightened out again before Braun started fidgeting.
“My lady, isn’t Hwing the one who went mad?”
She smiled. “Not exactly, although the second half of the book, what’s left of it, sounds like a fly-root dream.”
“That it does, my lady. I know flying fortresses existed, and that people travel between the stars, but I know it here,” he tapped his head. “This,” he pointed to his heart, “says such things are impossible.”
“They are, for us, for now.” A loud groaning creak drowned out the rest of her thought. She looked back at the tall walls and the slowly opening gate. After the heavy chains ceased rattling and the complaining hinges fell silent she added, “As impossible as besieging DonauPlaat.”
The c
ity guard had been warned, and let the soldiers in without more than the usual questions and confirmations. “Follow this road to the White Goose. You can’t miss it. Then turn onto Crown Street,” the guard advised. “Look for the Imperial troops at Crown and Hammer.” The royal seal opened many doors, Elizabeth observed yet again. Tradesmen and others already filled the streets, and she noted the bakers’ apprentices carrying huge trays of breads. Her stomach growled. After so long in the field and at the manor, the close walls and narrow streets felt tight, making her nervous. She looked up, watching for surprises from the windows and balconies.
“No, you can’t miss it,” Lazlo observed as they spotted the White Goose. The oval sign must have been two meters across, depicting a supine white goose, its gilded legs sticking up in the air, on a dark blue background. To the left was a sign with a black cat, and to the right a crown of metal hung from a small pole built into the corner of the building. “Crown Street, my lady.”
The road narrowed to a mere passage, then opened onto a plaza. Across the broad stone expanse they could just see a sign of a hammer inside a ring of stars. A fountain gurgled in the middle of the plaza and soldiers in the colors of the Imperial palace guard lounged at the corners, watching the servants and tradesmen coming and going. Two soldiers stood at parade rest on either side of an ornate gate just to the left of the Sign of the Hammer, and Elizabeth pointed with her colonel’s baton. Lazlo nodded and they rode across the plaza, their horses’ hooves ringing on the stone and drawing the attention of everyone in the quiet plaza.
“Countess Colonel Sarmas and Major Destefani reporting as ordered,” Lazlo informed the guards. One of the men reached up and Lazlo handed him their orders. The guard confirmed the seal, returned the papers, and stepped out of the way.
“You are clear to enter Colonel, Major. Please dismount once you are through the gateway.” He saluted. They returned the salute and rode past, through deep shadow and cool stone into another, smaller courtyard. Elizabeth spotted a mounting block and dismounted there. A servant appeared and took Braun’s reins. Lazlo joined her and they walked to the only visible door. It opened and another servant bowed them inside. “This way, please,” he intoned.
Elizabeth did her best not to stare at the scenes painted on the walls. One side of the hallway depicted lives of various saints. The other side sported gardens and men and women dancing and conversing, or playing games. The beautiful wooden floor needed to be re-finished, she noted, and wondered why it had not been replaced with tile or stone. Because this is not where people in boots usually walk, silly.
She heard voices, and the sound of metal on china, and smelled food and chokofee. Her stomach growled again and she told it to hush. The servant turned and led them into a side room, with tables along two walls. Plates of breads, fresh fruits, cheese, and other cold items covered one table. The other table had silver trays with papers on them. Several soldiers and courtiers stood around, eating or drinking. One man turned, a relieved smile spreading over his wrinkled features. “My lady Colonel! It is good to see you.”
“Major Wyler,” she replied, smiling in turn. But if he was here, then who was in Vindobona with the princes in charge of the city’s defense?
“And Major Destefani,” the old horseman nodded to Lazlo. “Have you eaten breakfast yet, my lady?”
“No, Major. We left camp early, in order to get through the gates before traffic overwhelmed the guards.”
Wyler gestured to the food. “Help yourselves, my lady. His Majesty and the others are finishing their own meal and will call us in shortly. I recommend the Cambrai cheese.”
She and Lazlo did not wait for a second invitation. Despite Wyler’s suggestion she stayed away from the Cambrai. Soft cheeses made her nervous, even if they were supposed to be soft. The fresh bread tasted like the fruits of paradise to Elizabeth’s starving palate. Well, she and Lazlo had earned their treat, and she savored every crumb. The hot chokofee further improved the prospects for the day. Lazlo drank his without sweetener or cream. She raised her eyebrow and intoned, “Barbarian.”
He looked into her creamy, sucre-laden cup and replied under his breath, “Hedonist.”
She didn’t tease him further. In part, she did not want to be feeding whatever rumors already circulated. And she needed to finish eating. As she devoured the last crumbs of a second roll with cheese, she noticed the careful distance some of the court officers and nobles kept from her and Lazlo, without trying to seem obvious about avoiding the smelly, dirty newcomers. Major Wyler ignored the dirt and he usually smelled faintly of horse anyway.
She’d started her third cup of chokofee when a door at the side of the room, next to the paper-laden tables, opened and a servant appeared. He whispered a message to someone and disappeared again. Elizabeth took that as a hint and gulped the rest of her drink, trying not to gasp as the very hot brew burned her throat. The men began setting their cups and plates down, brushing any stray crumbs from jacket fronts. Sure enough, a second door opened and a voice called, “His imperial majesty, Rudolph II Babenburg, by Godown’s Grace Emperor of the East, Duke of the Western Marches.”
Everyone bowed low as Rudolph entered. The herald intoned, “His Highness Crown Prince Thomas, his grace Archduke Gerald Kazmer,” and the other royals followed Rudolph into the room.
“You may rise and then be seated,” Rudolph said, sounding tired. Elizabeth waited until the others found places and discovered that there were not enough chairs, leaving her, Lazlo, Wyler, and Count Albinez standing in the back, along with some others whose names she did not recall. You can certainly identify the Babenburg line she thought as she studied the imperial siblings and sons. All shared the family leanness and dark coloring, although none were as dangerously thin as the emperor. The princes had their mother’s rounder face, while the royal dukes reminded Elizabeth of sight hounds, with sharp features, bright eyes, and an air of suppressed energy.
“I have called you here to inform you of your duties and responsibilities during this crisis,” the emperor began. “As many of you know, the Turkowi annexed Sheel five years ago, with the open support of Laurence of Frankonia. It seemed they were content with their gains and with raiding as they had before. That seeming has proven false.” He coughed, a wet sounding noise that made Elizabeth’s neck-hair stand up. She’d heard that sound before. “Gerald?”
Archduke Gerald Kazmer took up the tale. “After being disinherited, Jan, once of Peilov, sought to regain his fortunes through service to Duke Michael of Tivolia. His grace’s nephew, Thomas Mitchell Tillson Count of Millun, the ducal heir, was declared insane last summer, and died not long after being confined for his own safety.” A murmur of disgust and surprise filled the room, and Elizabeth and Count Albinez exchanged concerned looks. Had Thomas truly gone mad, or was there something more? He had been at the age where the Tivolian family madness appeared, but still.
Gerald Kazmer cut through the murmurs. “Jan became heir to his grace and secretly converted to Selkow’s worship. Duke Michael turned management of the duchy to Jan and this spring Jan became duke in truth, after Michael’s death following a long illness. Duke Jan opened the gates of Tivolia to the Turkowi and requested their help in regaining his inheritance. It now appears that the Turkowi have been planning this for some time, because the main Turkowi army, roughly 50,000 men, began moving north, besieging Esterburg before Duke Jan requested their aid. He is riding with them and providing information about our defenses.”
A vicious growl filled the room and Elizabeth felt her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. Quill should have hung the incompetent malingering coward at Platesford. Well, Jan was his wife’s brother, and at the time had been Count Peilov’s heir, she reminded herself. Quill must be kicking himself right now, if he can spare the time.
Emperor Rudolph spoke again. “The Turkowi captured Esterburg along with several smaller forts along the Donau Novi. Because of our concerns with the Frankonian threat, we did not muster the
southern forces as soon as necessary, allowing High Priest Standardlord Mukara to advance this far.” The emperor’s admission of error made Elizabeth feel a slight bit better. “Duke Starland rallied and began pursuit, but the Turkowi struck Vindobona directly and have invested the city.”
At his father’s nod, Crown Prince Thomas explained, “Forces are mustering as we speak to break the siege and drive the Turkowi back before they can claim any imperial lands for Selkow. The last word from Archduke Lewis was that they had sufficient food for the 40,000 people within the walls, plus the soldiers, and enough weapons to keep the Turkowi out—for now.”
Elizabeth ran through what she knew of breaking sieges. There were two main ways, well, three ways if you had enough troops inside the city and few enough outside it. First, the relieving force could encircle the attackers, pinning them between the city and the other army and besieging the besiegers. That worked if the relieving army had a lot of troops and the city could stand the long delay. She doubted that this applied to Vindobona, since it never stockpiled enough supplies for a siege. The second option involved a shock attack against the besiegers, hammering them against the anvil of the city and breaking the army apart. That required fewer troops and less time, but more skill and surprise. And sometimes, very rarely, the soldiers inside the city broke out and shattered the siege. I don’t think that’s going to happen this time. Vindobona is a fortified city, not a garrisoned fortress.
A hand came up at the front of the room. “Your highness, pardon my boldness, but if his grace is well supplied, why not wait until campaign season ends and the Turkowi leave? They can’t stay all winter, and this may be a feint, tricking us into opening the western border and allowing the Frankonians to attack us or the Poloki or our other allies.” Elizabeth groaned; Duke Midland just could not give up on the idea of the western threat.
