by Alma Boykin
“Welcome to Vindobona, Countess Sarmas,” he said, smiling up at her. “And you’re still late.” He reached up and they shook gauntleted hands.
After a few quick words, she left Lewis and rode out, back through the detritus of slaughter. Fighting continued near the river, and she sent word to Starland the Younger to go help with the clean up. She and her men took their time riding over the battlefield, watching for a surprise counterattack and wary of traps in the Turkowi camp. Momentarily confused by the chaotic mess, she turned to Lazlo, asking, “Major, where was Mukara?” They’d reached the remains of someone’s little garden manor and she stopped and looked around at the rich tapestries, brass and copper cookware, and ornate tents littering the ground.
“As I recall, his standard was here, my lady.” Lazlo peered around, looking back over his shoulder at their hill, then facing forward again. The soldiers exchanged puzzled glances as they took in the debris and he continued, “But there’s no sign of fighting here.” No bodies, no broken weapons, just a few dead Turkowi in what Elizabeth took to be servants’ clothes, all with saber cuts on their backs and heads as if cut down in flight. He gave a little headshake. “My lady, I think, Mukara bolted.”
“I think so too, Major.” As they rode a little farther, a foot soldier in Jones colors waved, catching their attention.
“My lady Colonel!” The officers stopped and waited. Four infantrymen approached, three with muskets at their shoulders. The fourth carried an ornate, golden standard on a two-meter-long silvered pole. “My lady, we claim the reward.” Duke Starland had promised a hundred gold thalers to the men who captured the Rajtan’s standard.
“And you shall have it,” she assured them. “Well done, men. Guard your find carefully. His majesty will be very pleased.”
By early evening they knew without a doubt that they’d routed the Turkowi Army, although High Priest Mukara had managed to get across the river and escape. The Poloki claimed the lion’s share of the glory, according to rumor. Elizabeth concentrated on getting the army back into a semblance of order and making absolutely certain that the Frankonian gold and the Turkowi treasure remained intact and under guard until Emperor Rudolph could get the crown’s share. Although Lewis offered her a place in Donatello House, Elizabeth chose to camp back on the little ridge, above a stream. She’d read enough to know very well what the inside of the city would be like, and she’d just as soon not see it before she had to.
That night, when she finally had time to think, Elizabeth realized that something was wrong with her. She did not hurt, and had not for several weeks. That’s strange. Did I just miss it? Not very likely, not given her problems. And although stress could suppress a woman’s time, that never happened to her. She began counting days back. It had been almost nine weeks since she’d had her cycle. Her hand went to her belly as she looked at the tally. It couldn’t be, but it had to. Six weeks had passed since the night the storm hit Grantholm’s camp. Delight and sheer terror flashed through her, leaving her shaking. I’m pregnant, she thought. Oh no. That explained why she felt so good, why she’d not had any cramps or spasms. But now what?
“Stop that,” she scolded, drawing a curious look from one of the soldiers helping set up her field camp. “Ugh,” she waved a hand in front of her face, as if shooing away gnats and bloodbiters. He returned to his task, curiosity satisfied. Stress and hunger could also throw off a woman’s cycles, Elizabeth reminded herself, even if they had not affected her that way before. And she still had a month or two before she began showing, if she were indeed pregnant. She shoved her joy, excitement, pride, and fear aside. Pregnant or not she had a war to wage, and a meeting with his grace Duke Starland, his leg propped up and strapped to two bracing rods.
“It is a clean break,” he assured her. “Damn hole. Horse stepped square into it, flipped with me in the saddle, smashed my leg against a rock. Broke his neck, too, along with his leg.” Starland was lucky to be alive and they both knew it.
She nodded. “What are your orders, your grace?” He’d been briefed on the situation already.
He held up two calloused fingers. “Two days. Take two days to gather the dead and wounded, and find horses, and pursue. Drive the bastards as far as you can before it snows, Sarmas.” He leaned forward as best he could. “I want Esterburg.” He pounded the table beside his bed, knocking over a nearly empty pitcher of beer. “Get Esterburg if you can. Without that, they can’t hurt us as badly next season, can’t get the guns up the river. Keep Mukara running.”
How? She asked silently. I need more details, Quill. Which units, how many men, how? Her mouth dried up as she realized what he’d just done. “Ah, the baton?”
“Get me Esterburg,” he repeated, enunciating clearly enough for everyone in the tent in Mukara’s former campsite to understand.
“I’ll do my best,” she promised, bowing.
8
To Cross a Bridge
“I’m glad the screaming has stopped,” someone commented around a mouthful of sausage and bread. Elizabeth, chewing, nodded her agreement. The intermittent wails had made trying to plan and write difficult. Other sounds would drown them out for a little while, or they’d fade, and then start up again during a quiet moment, jarring her nerves.
“I must admit, I’m surprised he lasted two days,” acting Colonel Ivan Williams said.
So am I. Maybe the Turkowi toughened him up? Or the Magvi are just that good? She really, truly did not want to know. She’d turned down an invitation to watch and participate, pleading other duties. Not that he deserved much better, given what he’d permitted the Turkowi to do in Tivolia, but she’d rather the Magvi’d just executed him, hanging, drawing, and quartering, or something similar. Well, Magvi judicial procedure was the least of her worries, not with an army to chase, a fortress to capture, and a diplomatic nightmare billowing up behind her like a storm off the mountains.
The day after the battle, Duke Starland ordered Matthew, Elizabeth, Prince Imre, and the War-chief to ride together at the head of the next day’s formal procession from the western gate of Vindobona to St. Gerald’s Cathedral, for the service of thanks. Instead, Crown Prince Imre and half his Poloki horsemen rode in ahead of the others by an hour, accepting the thanks of the citizens of the city and presenting several of the Turkowi military banners and some gold to the Archbishop. “Don’t you realize what he’s done?” Lewis had fumed after the service. “He’s made the people think that the Poloki and not Rudolph broke the siege! His Majesty will be furious with him, and with us for letting this happen.” He’d glared at Matthew Starland, who’d spread his hands and shrugged. Imre outranked Matthew, even though he was Matthew’s brother-in-law. And because Imre had seen no need to tell anyone else of his plans, once the Imperials realized what the Poloki Crown Prince was doing, they could not have stopped him short of using force, which would have been far worse than a diplomatic incident. War-chief Drago Karleskoo felt slighted as well, but he’d taken his anger out on Jan, or so rumor had it.
Lewis had sent a letter of protest to Rudolph and planned to send one to King Bogumil. Elizabeth, who needed the Poloki to keep fighting, wanted to dunk Lewis into a horse trough until he saw either sense or stars, whichever came first. Matthew Starland retreated to the safer semi-anonymity of acting as a courier for Elizabeth and his father.
Elizabeth shook herself back to the problem at hand. She swallowed the last of her breakfast and drained her new chokofee cup, a heavy silver one liberated from Mukara’s kitchen. “Finish eating while I talk, gentlemen,” she told the nobles and officers gathered at her tent. “The last report we have, three days old, claims that the bridge at Geraldspont is still passable. My plan, based on that, is as follows. Col. Williams, you and Count Jones will stay here until his majesty and the court return, as a guard force and to ensure that any Turkowi stragglers do not try something stupid.” She nodded to the round-faced, straw-haired colonel. “And to guard the spoils. I’d hate to lead a weak-souled person into
temptation.”
Col. Williams, standing in for the late Col. Brody, nodded his agreement. Another follower of St. Mou, he and Count Jones seemed to get along, and this kept both of them out of Elizabeth’s hair. Since the Geraldspont Bridge and Esterburg included Lander-built material in their walls and piers, not having the count and colonel’s troops with her formed less of a problem than trying to get St. Mou’s followers across the river without using the bridge.
“Now that his more pressing business is taken care of, War-chief Karleskoo and the Magvi wish to return home before the snow flies. Karleskoo will stay with us as far as Geraldspont, then continue south along the Donau Novi on the west side.” She drew a map in the air. “They’ve promised to make as much mess and noise as the rest of the army combined, and will also sweep out any Turkowi on their side of the river. We will cross at Geraldspont, cut inland away from the river, and swing down on Esterburg before either Mukara or additional supplies can get to it.”
Count Eulenberg shook his head. “We can’t move that fast, Sarmas. Not and carry enough supplies.”
“That’s why we will bring our artillery and enough to get us across the river, but no more. I’ve sent the first supply wagons ahead, to start caching food and fodder. Once we cross the river, we’ll forage. The Turkowi have not raided that far from the river, as best anyone can tell, which is another reason to move away from the stream. We can move faster, have more food available, and I’m hoping Mukara will take the Magvi for the main army and try to stop them, not us.” She waited as the officers considered her plan, then she added almost as an afterthought, “and the Turkowi payroll is in Esterburg. With a small garrison.”
That news sparked an intense whispered discussion. She waited patiently for the talk to finish. She hated asking men who’d been on campaign since early summer to push on into the fall and possibly winter, if it came to a siege. And it well could. Esterberg had not fallen easily to Mukara’s forces. The Turkowi had savaged the city and garrison, then stripped every trace of Godown and the Tivolians out, while rebuilding the walls as best and as quickly as they could. They would not be eager to surrender their key to attacking the Empire.
“My lady,” Lazlo asked, “You said that you’ve already sent teamsters ahead?”
She smiled, since he already knew the answer. “Yes, Major. We have to secure the river as far as possible, and to patrol for Turkowi survivors, so it made sense to send out teamsters with supplies. They will leave them with the mayors and estate managers. The patrols will have food and it will not have to come from the farmers and estates.” Winning friends for Emperor Rudolph and the Babenburgs seemed wise, after the depredations Rudolph had “allowed” to happen, or so rumor had it. “I assume the civilians will borrow some of the food, but I don’t intend on our leaving it unused long enough to become an irresistible temptation.”
After more mutters and discussion, Count Kornholt nodded. “That sounds workable. But no farther than Esterburg?”
“Correct, no farther than Esterburg.”
Albinez wiped his mouth. “Then we’ll start organizing to move day after tomorrow. Same order of march as before?”
“Yes, except the Poloki will be acting as a semi-independent command once we cross the Donau Novi.” Some of the men, notably Count Albinez, looked disappointed, but the others smiled and one or two relaxed tight shoulders and slumped a little in their chairs, relieved. She was inclined to agree with them. “Oh, and Count Irwin Kossuth and his men will be joining us once we cross the river. He was fighting off a ferengrazzia, as you know, but is now in a position to join us.”
“What’s his share?” Albinez demanded.
Lazlo jumped to the rescue. “One half of the general share, my lord.”
“That’s fair.” Albinez grunted. He sat back and sipped from his now-refilled chokofee. Elizabeth pointed to her empty cup and the servant hurried over, whispered an apology and refilled it. Elizabeth added a generous spoon of sucre before trying to drink the very dark brew. Even so, it threatened to curl what remained of her hair.
“Are you going to meet with Duke Starland before we go?” Lazlo asked that night. They were finishing up the latest round of letters and dispatches, many of which were polite refusals to attend victory feasts and celebrations.
“I don’t know.” Quill’s furious reaction to the news of their marriage still hurt Elizabeth very much. “I suppose I should, just to reconfirm his official agreement to my retaining field command.” She was still carrying out his orders, after all, when it came down to it. She set down her pen, capped the inkbottle, and looked around, lifting papers and scooting back to try and find something. “Where did I put my seal kit?”
“You put it back in the field desk,” Lazlo reminded her. He got up and fetched the light brown wooden box from the portable desk and brought it to the table. He also brought a lamp closer, and took off the chimney so she could light the candle. Lazlo rubbed her shoulders, then kissed the back of her neck before returning to his seat.
Elizabeth wanted to kiss him. Her whole body wanted him, more now than she could ever remember. Every little bit of her craved him, and she could feel herself already responding to his touch, blood surging, heart speeding. But they dared not, not here. And she wanted to tell him her news, about the life inside her, but she could not. Not until the campaign ended. By then it would be nearly impossible for her uniforms to hide her condition. As she began sealing the various official and personal letters, Lazlo observed, “You are marrying Matthew Starland.”
She almost dropped the burning wax stick. “I’m what?”
“That is the latest rumor: that Emperor is going to order Matthew to set his fiancée aside and marry you.”
Elizabeth recovered from her shock and kept working. “Lord Matthew is charming,” she dripped wax, “rich,” she pressed the seal into the blob and, “and talented,” another drip, another stamp of the seal. “With a good eye for horses and an excellent sense of ambush and irregular tactics, and a knack for diplomacy,” she listed, dripping wax and sealing each letter in time with her words. “But I do not wish to marry him. We’d end up living in separate castles and only see eachother during campaigns.” Nor do I want to deal with his father.
“And if his majesty orders you to?”
“Then I’ll go south and fight alongside the Magvi.”
A mischievous smile bloomed on Lazlo’s face. “My lady, I’d love to see you on horse back wearing trousers and a vest.” She caught his implied, “and nothing else.”
She raised one eyebrow and ordered her body to settle down. You’re not helping here, Lazlo. “I don’t think I’d stay on horseback very long, dressed like that.”
“No. All rumors and legends to the contrary, there are some things one cannot do while riding. Shaving comes to mind, among others.”
She blew out the wax stick. “Do you have any more papers or documents for me?”
“No, my lady.”
Elizabeth smiled, caressing his hand as she reached across the table to corral the papers and ink. “Then you are dismissed. Thank you for your assistance, Major, and good night.”
He gave her a wistful look and she nodded very slightly as he stood to go. “Good night, my lady.” He bowed, then departed.
The river saved her from meeting with Aquila Starland. Word arrived the next morning that it had started rising again at DonauPlaat and more rain seemed likely. “We can’t wait,” she told the others. “Infantry, cavalry, all start tomorrow at dawn.”
Two weeks of hard effort later they reached the bridges at Geraldspont. Both the damaged Lander-built bridge and the Turkowi pontoon bridge seemed intact, according to the spies who had ridden ahead of the main army. The Turkowi held the wooded hills above the bridges, as well as the bridges themselves, but no trace of Mukara and his army had been found on the west side of the Donau Novi. The cavalry had also outrun the infantry and artillery. Should she wait for them? Elizabeth peered at the map.
“Time is not our friend,” she decided. She called the counts and colonels in at noon, along with Crown Prince Imre and War-chief Karleskoo. “Your highness, War-chief, gentlemen, we attack as soon as everyone has rested and watered their horses. Neither time nor surprise will be on our side otherwise, and I do not want to lose what Godown appears to have so generously given us.
“War-chief, I would like you and your men to lead our attack by taking the Turkowi positions on the hill. Since you will be staying west of the river, you will be able to take your time securing this side.” She added silently, and searching for any loot, pay, or livestock the troops here have hidden away.
Karleskoo grunted, “Good.” He’d let it be known that he preferred to fight for glory and loot, now that the Magvi had taken their revenge. Sitting in water-filled holes for three months trying to starve the enemy out of a comfortable fortress did not appeal to them, even with the promise of loot if the Imperials won. They’d stay until the infantry caught up with them and then continue on to their homes.
“Our attack will come down the river road as soon as the Magvi gain the hill.” She raised a hand as four people took breaths to start protesting. “Yes, they are expecting to be attacked from the road. We can’t ride over the hill and attack that way. I talked with Lieutenants Taloe and Bonaventure, and some of the teamsters who’ve also been in this area before. The slope’s too steep, and the trees have been cut, leaving all sorts of stump and slash. If any of your men want to make a ‘forlorn hope’ over the hill, they can, but I for one do not care to imitate Duke Starland, at least not in that fashion.” Eulenberg and Imre muttered but did not challenge her.
