by Alma Boykin
Quill snorted and gave Lazlo a sideways look. “It is always wise for a son to listen to his father. Would that mine did the same.”
A new voice protested, “My lord father, had I taken that advice, we would have no horses, mules, or sheep left.” Lord Matthew Starland walked out of the shadowy corner of the tent, carrying a steaming mug. He handed it to his father, who wrinkled his beak of a nose and then drank.
“And if I’d taken all of my mother’s advice, Lord Matthew, your grace, well, I’d be the laughingstock of every bawdy house on this continent,” Elizabeth sallied. The men stared at her, then laughed, as she’d hoped they would.
“To business,” Quill Starland said, once he’d recovered from the coughs following the laughter. “And this goes no farther than these tent walls. Do you swear?”
Elizabeth raised her hand, “I swear.” The others followed suit.
“I cannot be certain that I will be able to command the relief force for much longer. I’ve dodged that damn summer fever for over fifty years now, but it caught me at last and I do not have a death wish, despite the tales you might hear.” He reached under his seat and pulled out a long, dark, battered wooden box with brass fittings and a silver filigree pattern around the hasp. “Sarmas, take this.”
The box felt heavier than it looked. Puzzled, Elizabeth stroked the silky finish.
“Open it,” he commanded. As she slid the hasp out of the latch and lifted the metal, a horrible suspicion began forming in her mind. One glimpse of the rich blue velvet lining confirmed her fears and she started shaking her head. He rumbled, “Yes, you can do it and you will do it, Elizabeth von Sarmas, great-granddaughter of the Ironhand.”
She stared at the marshal’s baton. Longer and heavier than her colonel’s baton, the black polished wood felt cool as she brushed it with shaking fingers. Instead of brass, silver and gilded silver capped the ends, held in place by bands of black iron. “Your grace, I… if anyone, this should be Lord Matthew’s.” She looked up to see Matthew shaking his head.
Quill frowned and snapped, “You can do it and you will, Sarmas. Matthew and I have talked. If I am not able to continue, Godown forbid, you have the breadth of knowledge that Matthew does not yet possess. And you are known by everyone.”
Matthew Starland took up the argument. “Elizabeth, I’m honored that you defer to me, but there’s this: you’ve fought in the west and lead Donatello and Peilovna troops. The western lords know of me but they don’t know me like they know and trust you. That will change in the near future, Godown willing, I assure you,” and the others smiled at his fervor and heat, “but for now you are the known quantity. And you know Archduke Lewis better than anyone.”
“Almost anyone” Quill corrected, a quick, unreadable expression flashing across his lined face.
“Anyone currently outside the walls of Vindobona,” Matthew clarified, missing his father’s meaning. “And I’m going to have my hands full keeping my brother-in-law’s troops in some semblance of order once they meet the Magvi.” He shook his head again. “Take the baton, Elizabeth, and if Godown wills you can give it back to my lord father at Vindobona. After you polish the silver fittings.”
She tipped her head to the side and narrowed her eyes, glaring at the younger Starland. “Lord Matthew, do you have any idea how much I loathe polishing silver? Especially silver with detailed designs and in contact with other materials? Sister Amalthea, Godown give her peace, used polishing the chapel silver as a penance when I failed to reach her standards of comportment and devotion. I would rather do an all-night vigil at midwinter on my bare knees than polish silver,” she declared, closing the wooden case with a firm snap and latching it again.
The men chuckled. Lazlo ventured, “Your grace, not to be forward, but what are Magvi horsemen doing here? I’ve never heard of them coming north of Tivolia, let alone fighting alongside Imperial troops.”
Contempt dripping from his words, the duke explained, “They are trying to kill Duke Jan,” and Quill spat. “And Godown and St. Michael give them grace. He handed their trading land over to the Turkowi even before Michael Tillson died and is trying to force them to convert to Selkow’s worship. Oh, and you’ll appreciate this, Elizabeth. Laurence is paying Jan’s army.” She stared at him, mouth open again, dumbstruck. “Not officially, of course, but his agents made an enormous gift to the new Duke of Tivolia on the happy occasion of his accession. The Magvi captured some of the Frankonian agents’ correspondence before coming north in search of the traitor.”
She wanted to throw up. She clamped a hand over her mouth, tears of anger welled up in her eyes, and she shook in her seat. Lazlo set the baton case down, got up and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. Without thinking she put one icy hand on his and he took it. The warmth helped her regain her composure.
“No wonder,” she swallowed hard. “No wonder his grace Archduke Gerald Kazmer is so worried about me.” The grip on her hand tightened, then relaxed and Lazlo returned to his seat, keeping the marshal’s baton.
“But we’re not.” Quill leaned forward and took her hand. “We’ll talk more later, Elizabeth, but you are dismissed for now. Go with my blessing, young lady, and with my trust.”
7
Hammer Strikes Anvil
The assault on the Turkowi Army came as sweet relief after three days of meetings, diplomacy, compromises, and shuttling back and forth between encampments. More than once Elizabeth wanted to take Aquila’s baton and use it to bash sense into seemingly-solid heads. Fortunately for international relations, Major Destefani rose to the occasion, remaining calm and finding ways to soothe short tempers and over-large egos. His steadiness gave Elizabeth a way to keep herself from invoking Godown’s wrath on the Imperial forces—although she remained sorely tempted.
She drank a cup of hot tea without noticing it and crunched through a slab of camp bread, intent on tying up the last loose ends in the plan for the Donatello Bend soldiers, based on the latest news. The infantry, led by now-Captain Hans Sparli, had arrived two days before the cavalry and were rested, eager, and ready to fight so they could go home for harvest. Because of their slow speed, Aquila Starland had ordered the infantry to move out first, marching into position in the rugged hills west of Vindobona. They did not have to fight their way in or worry too much about being seen if they took the usual precautions: the Turkowi cavalry gave the hills a wide berth, having lost a goodly number of their comrades to the flails, scythes, and muskets of the angry farmers and herdsmen living in the uplands. A few engineering specialists had already departed, sneaking down the river to try and mine what had been the small bridge across the Donau Novi just south of Vindobona. The Turkowi engineers had enlarged it, allowing them to bring more supplies over.
“My Lady Colonel?” Capt. Sparli called.
Elizabeth tidied her paper pile, stuffed it into a bag, and stalked out of her tent to find Capt. Sparli and Maj. Destefani, and Ricardo, waiting. She hooked her bag to Ricardo’s saddle, walked around him to make certain he’s not managed to injure himself, and tugged on his girth before stepping onto an empty box and then into the saddle. Destefani rode ahead of her and Sparli followed, both on solid, steady geldings. To add confusion to chaos, the Magvi and Poloki rode mares as well as studs and geldings, with predictable results if the Imperial horses smelled a mare in heat. “I wonder if mares and stallions have ever caused international incidents,” she thought aloud.
“Probably, my lady colonel,” Sparli grunted. The horses did not care for the “whoosh” of collapsing tents and rattle of ox-chains as the first units prepared to break camp, sidling and rolling their eyes more than once. But that was all, and the trio rode to Starland’s camp without any equine surprises. A quick glance showed that none of the others had ridden mares to the meeting, and the Donatello party relaxed a little as they walked into the command tent.
Even with the sides removed, Starland’s command tent felt crowded. Crown Prince Imre Sobieski stood beside Mat
thew Starland. The pale blond Poloki prince frowned as the dark-haired Starland gestured to something on the table in front of them. A grim man with grey-shot red hair and a white and black beard studied everyone from under a dark hat brim. He wore a yellow vest and eye-searing green trousers that made Elizabeth lust over the dye. That would be the war-chief of the Magvi riders, Drago Karleskoo. Beside her, Hans Sparli growled deep in his chest and Elizabeth caught his hand as he reached for his sword. “No, he’s not Turkowi,” she hissed. “The Magvi wear yellow but worship Godown, Captain. Stand down.”
His look of pure hatred would have terrified her ten years before. Now she kept a tight grip on Sparli’s arm until he looked away and nodded, taking his hand off his weapon.
The other nobles and one unfamiliar colonel nodded to Elizabeth before returning to the center of attention. An enormous map, one of the largest she’d seen, hung from two of the tent poles behind Matthew Starland and Prince Imre. It depicted the crownlands around Vindobona as far as Melkin. More artistic than precise, the map showed the major fortifications, streams, and highest hills, along with imaginary creatures including a woman with a fish tail and bare breasts who cavorted in the Donau Novi. What the map did not show was that the ridges grew sharper and higher as one rode south, until the final slope dropped into the plain around Vindobona. Nor had anyone drawn in the Turkowi positions.
Elizabeth and her men took their places not far from Imre and Matthew. Duke Starland appeared moments later, and the nobles and soldiers bowed or saluted as the old warrior took his seat. “Thank you. You may rise.” He seemed to meet everyone’s eyes as he looked at the thirty or more soldiers filling the tent to overflowing. “There are no changes to your orders, your highness, war-chief, gentlemen. The infantry and light artillery depart this afternoon and will make a cold camp in the Zarstrom Valley. Cavalry, you go out before dawn tomorrow morning. We are going to roll down on them like Godown’s thunder. Before anyone asks,” he raised his hand; “I have no new word from his grace Archduke Lewis or the garrison in Vindobona. The outer bastion on the north side of the city, near the palace quarter, suffered a major breach that endangered the wall in that section, but the wall stood and the attack was repelled, according to the last word I had.”
He stopped to let the news sink in. Elizabeth felt pain in her hands and wrists and realized that she’d clenched her fists so tightly that the muscles were cramping. She relaxed with deliberate effort. The Turkowi had not breached the walls.
“To remind you of your positions,” Quill began again, standing up and walking over to the map. He pointed to the center of the last ridge between the hills and Vindobona. “Your highness, your soldiers will be here, so you have the clearest line of advance.” Imre did not seem happy, Elizabeth thought, and he gave a very curt nod. Starland pointed to the northeastern end of the ridge. “Kornholt, here,” he moved west, “Albinez,” and west again, “Eulenberg and I’m not listening to any more complaints. Speak to his majesty if you wish.” Count Arnold Eulenberg, as happy as Prince Imre, folded his arms but did not protest.
Starland turned to the western end of the northern ridge. “Jones and Brody here. War-chief Karleskoo, your riders have a direct line to where the traitor’s camp is supposed to be, and may Godown grant you what you desire.”
The war-chief replied, his accent so thick that Elizabeth almost could not understand him. “Koot, yahr Krayce. Kodown kive us winks.”
Starland looked around until he found Elizabeth. “Sarmas, your infantry units here, between the Magvi and the Poloki. Your cavalry will be in reserve. And Lord Matthew will be riding with the Poloki as a guide on your flank, Sarmas.” She nodded. The duke turned to the entire group. “Godown forbid, but should anything happen to me, command falls to Countess Sarmas, then Lord Matthew, then his highness Prince Imre.” Since Starland had already spoken to each man privately, the only mutters of complaint came from Jones and Brody, but they did no more than mutter and glare at Elizabeth.
“You have your assignments, you have the signals, and you know what we have to do. Godown be with you and we will celebrate the victory in St. Gerald’s cathedral, Godown willing. Remember that in all likelihood the garrison will not sally and join the attack. If anyone but the Magvi captures the traitor, hold him and turn him over to the Magvi. No ransom on that creature, and they have first claim on his head and the rest of him. And do not let your men loot until the battle is won.” Quill met everyone’s eyes until each commander nodded. “Too many opportunities have been lost to early looting and this will not be one of them. The High Priest has thrown everything he has into this battle and we cannot let him regroup and counterattack.
“Godown and St. Gerald be with us and I’ll see you at the Zarstrom. You are dismissed except Sarmas—Sarmas, stay for a moment.”
The officers departed, forming small clusters as they discussed their assignments and reconfirmed signals and positions. Elizabeth waited until all the others had departed before joining Crown Prince Imre, the war-chief and the lords Starland at the map. Quill sagged back into his chair. His eyes seemed to have sunk farther into his skull and Elizabeth shivered. Quill ignored her. “War-chief, this is Colonel Countess Elizabeth von Sarmas, the daughter and granddaughter of notable warriors. She has led men in battle for the past ten years.”
Drago Karleskoo walked around Elizabeth, reminding her of a horse or cattle buyer. “Have you lost, Countess Sarmas?” He demanded.
“Yes. I have been defeated but not yet routed, War-chief.”
“Yet. That is good. And blooded?”
Matthew Starland stepped up, “She’s been blooded several times.”
“Good. We fight beside her.” Satisfied, the southern warrior returned to stand beside Prince Imre.
Aquila Starland seemed amused. “Is there a problem, Major Destefani?”
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder to see Lazlo looking like thunder, frowning, jaw tight. He grated, “No, your grace.”
Oh Godown help me. I do not have time to mediate between Imperials and fight the Turkowi too! She glanced up at the ceiling for inspiration.
Quill’s eyes narrowed. “Countess Sarmas, come with me,” he grunted, getting to his feet and limping out of the tent. He led her to a small stand of trees that had escaped the woodcutters’ axes. There he turned to her and pointed at her. “What is going on with Major Destefani?”
“He is overprotective at times, your grace. I will speak to him and ensure that there are no problems.”
“There’s more than that, Sarmas. Tell me,” he interrupted, demanding an answer she did not want to give him. She hesitated and he snarled, “Tell me.”
She gulped. “We are married.”
“Damn it!” He slammed his hand into one of the trees. The heat in his anger made her step back a pace. He hissed, “You had no call to ruin his future, woman.”
Torn between bursting into tears and apologizing, or exploding with anger, Elizabeth chose cold anger. “Your grace, Lazlo Destefani asked me to marry him. I did not importune him nor did I encourage his interests in any way. I did not know he was courting me until the day that his grace proposed to Lady Ann. Major Destefani is of age to make his own decision, as am I.”
“Damn it.” Starland locked eyes with her. She gulped, frightened by the rage flaming in the old man’s eyes, but refused to back down. He snarled, “You are dismissed. Nothing changes.”
She saluted, turned and strode away, hiding her pain and disappointment with Quill’s reaction. “Nothing,” she snapped at Capt. Sparli and Maj. Destefani before either could ask. They did not press for information, perhaps because Godown and everyone on the planet could see the steam rising from her ears. She longed to ride straight into the Turkowi camp and saber as many as she could reach, just to release her anger.
She banked that fire and held it for the next days. Elizabeth reviewed the attack plans once more, making a note to keep Lazlo on the eastern portion of the line, away from the Magvi. She spoke w
ith Hans Sparli and his men before they marched out, cautioning the soldiers from Peilovna, where Lord Jan had once been the estate heir, that, “Jan is fighting alongside the Turkowi. The Magvi have first claim on his life. If you capture him, do not kill him unless you have no choice, but give him to the Magvi instead.”
A hand waved and a man called out, “My lady colonel, does Lord Theobald know?”
“Not as far as I’ve been told, and given his health, he will not know until after we relieve Vindobona and finish harvest.”
Another man replied, “Good, my lady. The bastard’s been more trouble than he’s worth.”
I’m inclined to agree with you, she thought. “To repeat, Jan belongs to the Magvi, no matter your personal claims to him. Godown be with you.” She rode off, returning to her headquarters and a mug of salibark tea.
Lazlo and the others eyed the mug with concern. “My lady, is that safe,” Lt. Matt Bonaventure asked.
“I will drink no more of this until after the battle, I assure you,” she told them. “I know better.” But nothing else short of grain smut would deal with the throbbing headache that her confrontation with Aquila Starland had caused. She drank the sharp, sour brew and wrinkled her nose at the familiar bitter aftertaste. Godown made it taste foul to keep people from abusing the stuff, she’d long ago decided.
“There are no changes to our earlier orders. In the event that his grace’s special orders come into force, Maj. Destefani, you will take over command of the Donatello and Peilovna troops.” Lord Matthew would become her second-in-command, since he knew all of Quill’s couriers and staff much better than she did. “If you find Jan, once of Peilov, alive, try to keep him that way and turn him over to the Magvi. If you find his body, turn that over to the Magvi. If you have to kill him to prevent him being recaptured by the Turkowi, do it and give the head to the Magvi if you can, or make a note where you left the body, again, if you can. I don’t want anyone dying over a corpse,” she added. The men agreed with her, judging from the nods.
