by Alma Boykin
“Yes, Master Takacs,” she agreed. “It might be easier if we had a house of the Sisters of Service, but we don’t and that’s that.” She sounded very much like her lord, and the men managed to smile despite the situation.
Klaus turned aside and sneezed. “Godown bless,” Barbara told him.
He sniffed hard. “Thank you, Mistress Lee.” After a loud honk into a nose rag, he turned back to the table. “So, working from the probability that the bastards won’t come overland, my lord, that means …”
That night Matthew found time to look at the Oligarchs’ letter. He smiled grimly. The tone was far more polite and respectful than the previous two missives had been. “To Count Malatesta of Marteen, greetings,” it began. “It has perhaps come to your attention that the depredations which began two years ago have increased in intensity and frequency.” It continued in that vein for most of the page, outlining just how much the merchants had lost. Matthew almost felt sorry for them, and he did feel sorry for the families of the dead journeymen and teamsters. “Your reputation as a military leader has only increased since your departure to the Eastern Empire, and it is with this in mind that the executive committee of the Council requests that you come address them concerning matters of mutual interest and protection.”
He looked up and watched the shadows cast by the oil lamp as they danced on the wall. Barbara had already gone to the bedchamber, pleading a slight headache. Reading and writing did not come easily to her, and the day’s work had taxed her skills to their limit. So you want me to come bail your asses, oxen, and everything else out, do you? And you want to pay me, or just have me do it for the honor? Because it will cost you, assuming I even agree to expand my patrols to cover your routes and borders. Which I might not be able to do, not with this news. He didn’t want to be surrounded by Tivolia on one side and the Turkowi on the other, but his first duty was to the people of Marteen and Rosino. Morloke came a very distant third on that list, possibly fourth if the Babenburgs ever asked for his assistance. The Oligarchs had murdered his brother, something he would never forgive or forget.
He mulled over the offer and prepared for a battle. Three days after the messenger’s arrival, Matthew decided. “Kazmer, do you have any violent objection to going to Morloke City to see the state of their preparations?”
Takcas wrinkled his nose, as if smelling something foul on the wind. “No, my lord, but Master Istfan Takcas might not be pleased to see me. His father was supposed to be a paragon of virtue and continence, after all.” Matthew hid a smile behind his hand at the exact mimicry of Fr. Allesandro’s righteous tones.
“If Istfan quails at the prospect of his father being as weak and sinful as the rest of us, he can quail.” Matthew turned and sneezed. “Pardon. Damn golden spike flowers. I want you and five troopers to come with me to Morloke City to see what the Oligarchs want and how badly they want it.”
As it turned out, the Oligarchs wanted it very badly indeed. “Tu-Turkowi?” Todor Arvay squeaked. “That’s why the glass I ordered from Kirwali never got here?”
Matthew shrugged. He wore black from head to toe, black armor and a black cape, and loomed over the end of the council table. “It could be, Master Arvay. I did not speak to the men in person, but heard the news from a man I trust.”
Damian Cevasco, now head of the council, ran a finger over his oily mustache. The look did not flatter him, Matthew thought. It appeared as if a greasy, starving, black wooly worm had died while having a seizure between Cevasco’s nose and lip. “I must regretfully agree with Count Malatesta’s observation,” the textile merchant allowed, hoarding words the same way he hoarded coin. “The most recent couriers from Valdoro reported seeing tokens left to claim the area along the road for Selkow. And given other recent events, we are unable to procure sufficient men of quality to secure our borders as is necessary.”
Matthew waited. If he was supposed to offer his services, the greasy bastard had a surprise coming. He’d been taken aback as it was when Matthew and his men rode in on the heels of the overnight storm, armed to the teeth and ready for trouble. I’m not a terrified boy anymore, you murdering slimeballs.
“Well, something must be done,” Tomasso Bove whined. “Turkowi or no, the bandits are causing enough trouble. We can’t even get a decent tax payment because of the farmers moaning about being robbed in their houses, not that they need any excuse to complain.”
Cevasco’s hand cut sideways, chopping Bove’s plaint into silence. “That is a separate matter for a different time.” The warning in his tone made Matthew exchange a look with Kazmer before Cevasco continued. “Although you, despite claiming the title of Count Malatesta, apparently prefer not to acknowledge the contract between us, we still require your services. The Inner Council is authorized to pay you and your men a hundred thalers to protect our caravans for the rest of this season and all of next. An exclusive contract, of course, with ten percent down. Should you encounter any Turkowi or recapture loot from other merchants, half will be yours. The division taking place prior to the payment of expenses, of course.”
“Bwa ha, ha, ha,” Matthew bellowed as Kazmer guffawed behind him. All color drained from Cevasco’s round face as Matthew wiped away tears of laughter. “Your pardon. You offer us a hundred thalers and half any loot, on an exclusive contract. You have not been pricing soldiers recently, have you, Master Cevasco? A hundred thalers will pay ten men for two months, assuming they have their own horses and arms.”
Lucan Astai gasped. “That’s impossible. Last fall we only paid fifty thalers for twenty men to guard two caravans. This spring it was the same.”
“And how many caravans got through safely, Master Astai?” Matthew inquired, deadly quiet.
Astai waved his hand. “That’s beside the point. You drove the bandits into our territory, so some of this is your fault, Malatesta.”
Matthew froze. The men on either side of Astai grabbed him, hissing for him to shut up. You are in deep trouble, aren’t you? I should squeeze you dry, gold sucking scum. But that would be stooping to their level. Matthew waited for the commotion to settle. “Five hundred thalers for the rest of this season and next, I keep what I recapture that goes unclaimed by the original owner, and non-exclusive contract.”
Several men turned faintly green and Cevasco fanned a little, as if he felt faint. “Five hundred and non-exclusive? That’s impossible.”
Matthew shrugged and turned to go. “You know where to find me, gentlemen.” Frantic mutters grew louder as he neared the door, Kazmer hard on his heels.
“Wait.” A new, calmer voice cut through the conversations and accusations. “Five hundred, non-exclusive, and we get our property back if he recaptures it sounds eminently fair compared to what we stand to lose otherwise in taxes as well as goods.” Matthew turned to see Fidelio Colella standing by the table. The grain merchant nodded to Matthew. “My uncle rode with the party that saw Sigurney fall, if you care to remember, my lord Count, gentlemen. If that is what is coming toward Morloke, I would just as soon have someone between us and them. Someone strong, who can also dissuade Duke Tillson and the Emperor from, shall we say, foolish ambitions?”
After more unhappy babble, Cevasco heaved his bulk to his feet. “Very well. Five hundred, non-exclusive, and you keep everything that goes unclaimed.” He sounded miserably unhappy, although Matthew suspected Damian was probably utterly gleeful at how cheap they thought they were buying Count Maltesta’s services. Cevasco waved to one of the scribes sitting at a smaller table by the window.
“No need. I have a contract already prepared.” Kazmer handed him the page, and Matthew presented it to Cevasco. It said nothing more, or less, than what he’d proposed. Cevasco touched the edge reluctantly, read over it, and tossed it to the next councilor in line. After all had read and agreed, Matthew signed it, as did Cevasco, Bove, and Colella.
Matthew had not cared to linger in Morloke City. Too many memories haunted the place and he felt a constant itching between his
shoulder blades, waiting for someone to stab him in the back once more. They’d ridden out between rain showers, taking the chance that nothing lurked in the dark. And then they’d found the Turkowi.
Once they’d put two small streams, a thicket of woods, and ten kilometers or so between themselves and the enemy, Matthew called a halt. “We’re out of their range and the road gets worse from here.”
The crack of lightning confirmed his decision. The men led their horses into the thicket and made themselves as comfortable as possible. Matthew took first watch, his mind on the next days’ tasks. First we muster, then we scout and see if we can lure them onto ground of our choosing. He didn’t have much heavy cavalry, and the terrain didn’t favor heavy horse. Which way were the Turkowi going? Toward Morloke City, or back from that way, or were they moving across country, which explained why they stopped for the night there. Dear Godown, we were so lucky to smell smoke in the wrong place. That had alerted him to something strange, and his men had gone into “enemy territory” mode from then on. The storm bellowed and jagged spears of white danced on the hill not far from the little copse of trees. Matthew made St. Michael and St. Andre’s signs, reciting the prayers for safety in storms.
They survived the soggy night undisturbed by anything more than the storm. As soon as the cloud-dimmed sun gave enough light, the men set out overland. They had to ford a few streams, but otherwise made good time back to Solva. The wheat harvest appeared well underway, and Matthew bit his tongue to keep from cursing. He needed men to fight, but also to bring in the grain. After the last year’s dearth, he didn’t dare risk leaving anything standing in the fields for later. “Ah, Godown give me guidance,” he muttered as they rode through the town gate. The quartet stopped in front of his house door. Roger opened it.
“Roger, get Barbara, Klaus, and my muster master.” His mistress waved, peeking out from behind Roger, and he continued, “Barbara, start the women preparing for battle wounded,” he barked. She gathered her skirts and fled, giving him a nice look at her calves before she disappeared into the expanded infirmary beside his house. “You are dismissed for now. Go get some rest,” he ordered Kazmer and the other men.
Klaus came skidding around the corner, took one look at Matthew, and grabbed a passing servant. He whispered something and the man nodded, changing direction. Not five minutes later hot wine, hot tea, and breakfast cakes arrived in the main room of the house. Klaus moved them to the side and unrolled a map of the area. “I’m guessing south, my lord?”
“South and east, or so I suspect. I hope to know better by the end of the day.” And if not, may Godown grant Crag a quick and easy death. “Turkowi scouts,” he leaned over, peering around before finding the more-or-less exact spot. “Here, on the south side of the ridge, camped on the road. We didn’t bother them.” He straightened up and took a mug of tea. No wine on an empty stomach, even I know better. “And they’ve been leaving Selkow’s claim markers all along the Greyland road.”
Klaus swore, adding some creative variations Matthew hadn’t heard before, as Matthew knocked back the tea. He got a second mug and one of the breakfast cakes, chewing as Klaus and Roger conferred with Sgt. Roth. Simon Tanner, the muster master, appeared, sketched a salute with his free hand, and held up a sheaf of lists of names. “How many, my lord, and when?”
Matthew swallowed. “Everyone who’s finished harvest, and two days. I need half the Marteen militia ready to go, pikes and horse, to support the regular troops. It’s Turkowi, but not their main army.” Godown, it had better not be the main army. Otherwise You may find Yourself short of worshippers.
Simon’s loud gulp made the others smile. “Now, my lord? During harvest?” He squeaked.
“Yes. The Turkowi don’t seem to have been considerate enough to wait until they can just burn down the barns and haystacks at their leisure,” Matthew snarled. Simon sorted his lists and presented three of them to Klaus, who looked them over as Matthew finished another cheese- and sausage-laced cake. “We need to alert the Rosino militia as well, because we’ll be stripping the troopers from there until the battle’s over.”
Roger’s lips tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Everyone knew Matthew might as well have handed Duke Tillson an engraved invitation to do something stupid. Instead, talk focused on preparing for outgoing soldiers and incoming refugees. Barbara returned about the time the men finished confirming their plans. “Everything’s in hand for the moment, my lord.” She pointed over her shoulder, in the direction of the main gate. “Watch says there’s a rider coming in full speed. One of ours.”
“That’s Crag,” Matthew and Klaus chimed. They hurried to meet him, pushing Barbara out of their way.
The exhausted man slouched in the saddle. His horse hung her head, totally spent, white foam around her mouth, sweat streaking her flanks and soaking the saddle blanket and breast strap. “They’re scouting the secondary road, the one that cuts north, then back northeast toward Terristown and Blackseam. And they’re leaving more than just Selkow’s claim chits. Looks like they were marking caches, or using older caches. Couldn’t get close enough to tell. Don’t think the main force is too far behind. They’d gotten to Glitter Creek when I left.”
“Very good work, Crag,” Matthew said. He helped ease the man out of the saddle. “You, see to the horse. You,” he pointed to a passing servant, “pallet in the main room, out of traffic. And food.”
He helped Crag stagger into the front room of the house. There he found Barbara already shaking out a blanket for the doss bed and a boy with a bootjack and wash water. “There’s more breakfast cakes and mint tea with sucre, my lord,” Barbara said before she disappeared again, leaving the men alone. Godown, but she’s worth every penny. Matthew laid Crag down. As he did, he felt something wet. He undid the buttons on the man’s dark jacket and pulled it open to reveal a bleeding puncture wound. “They saw you.”
“Thought I was a brigand, my lord. Arrow had a smooth point, thanks be.”
“That and your jerkin took most of the force,” Sgt. Roth said. He’d reappeared as soon as Crag clattered up to the door. “Eat, drink, and nap. That’s an order.”
Matthew and Klaus returned to the map. They heard a bell starting to ring, the warning bell for the town. That would alert others and speed the muster time. “Right. We need watchers here and here, with birds or helios or something. If we catch them here . . ?” He looked up at Klaus.
“Hmmm. You’re thinking of the battle at Nuovo Malagueña, my lord?”
Matthew tapped the mark beside the road. “Precisely. It’s our best option, and if we catch them here, we block the crossroads.” Because once they reach that, terrain and transport routes all favor the invader and we’ll be fighting from house to stump to the Imperial border. Once the Turkowi passed the ridge, the defenders had nothing but open fields and low, rolling hills to try and hide behind.
“So why refugees here?”
“Because here is fortified and it’s where I am, and it’s at an angle to the Turkowi advance thus far. Think like a scared rabbit, Klaus.”
The black man made a face. “Rather think like a dardog, my lord.”
“Point.” Now, how fast can we organize ourselves and have the Turkowi studied the same ancient battles we do? Probably. So we have to be a little different.
Five days later, Matthew crouched down behind an artificial log pile, counting the soldiers marching by and trying not to panic. I’ve got a hundred, plus some reserves, against four hundred or so, I think. Godown, we need a little help here. He had more men fanned out on either side of the ridges, trying to intercept any outriders or flank scouts the Turkowi had sent to protect their line of march. He’d let the first group of Turkowi scouts get as far as the road junction beyond the pass, then killed every single one. Now he waited. I hate waiting.
Beside him, Roth tapped his shoulder twice, then twice more. The last of the Turkowi had entered the narrows. Matthew’s heart pounded in his ears as he pulled an arrow out
of the quiver on his belt and selected his target. Godown be with us. He nodded once, hard, so there could be no mistakes. Roth flashed his remaining teeth and tapped a second man on the shoulder. Four loud trumpet blats sounded. Matthew rose clear of the logs, drew, and fired. He heard other archers at work, and a second set of four blats echoed from the other side of the valley. Screams and battle cries rose from the Turkowi. Matthew selected a second target and fired. Following the third volley, he backed away from the logs. Other men rushed forward and after a few grunts of effort, pulled the supports out of the pile, sending the mass of rocks and wood crashing down into the seething yellow swarm below.
Matthew heard the brighter sound of Turkowi trumpets and watched a man on a horse waving, trying to rally the soldiers, or so Matthew guessed. The infantry at the base of his hill turned Matthew’s direction, scrambling over the mess of fallen timber and rocks to reach the Malatesta soldiers. Another volley of arrows rained down on them, along with rocks launched from a makeshift catapult across the valley. Two flaming pitch barrels followed the rocks and the Turkowi tried to scatter out, away from the sticky inferno. As they did, they solidified the traffic jam, locking themselves in the narrow valley. Some men plunged into the swamp on the east side of the road, and others collided with the troops from the front of the unit that rushed to help. Horses screamed, men yelled, a few beat at the flames or dove into the swamp only to discover that pitch mixed with earth-oil floated.
“Godown! Godown and the Blackbird!” Matthew yelled. The others picked up the call as Matthew cased his bow and drew his sword. He half-ran down the slope, wading into the fray. “Blackbird!” echoed from his troops.
“Selkow! Selkow and her Rajtan” came the answer, but weaker and interspersed with screams. Matthew concentrated on killing, hacking and slashing his way through the mass of bodies all trying to get enough room to fight back or flee. Yellow and red filled his vision, yellow of the Turkowi uniforms and red from blood, from the rage mist that covered his vision.
