Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  More trumpet calls brought him back to himself, and Matthew scrambled up the slope again to get a better view. He could see the banners of the lead Turkowi officers and heralds still trying to fight their way back into the valley. They must have discovered our other little surprise. Soldiers had triggered another rock and tree slide not long after the first one. The baggage train had already fallen, if the apparent chaos at the southern end of the road meant what he thought it might. He traded sword for bow again and worked north along the slope above the battle, trying to see if he could find any acolytes or priests. He spotted a man on an especially fine horse, without armor and wearing a twisted yellow cloth head-cover. Matthew drew, sighted, and fired, pulled a second arrow from his nearly-empty quiver and shot again. The man below screamed, one arrow in his back and the other pinning his leg to the horse. His horse screamed as well and began lashing out, kicking and making the soldiers around it duck.

  Soon the Blackbird’s troops held the upper hand, although not without cost. Matthew returned to the slaughter, fighting hand-to-hand with the now desperate Turkowi. Archers from the eastern slope continued to work on any enemy who managed to get free of the melee, while a handful of Matthew’s men turned their attention to the Turkowi trying to escape through the bog. A few trees smoldered, caught by the splashes from the two fireballs. The smell of oil smoke and resin and burnt flesh sent Matthew back to the fire battle in Scheel, and he shook off the memory and fear. These wet woods wouldn’t burn, not that fast at least.

  A few Turkowi tried to surrender. Matthew had already planned for that: the healers he intended to send back with a message for their commander, but no one else. Especially not the priests and sworn acolytes. Ordinary soldiers died quickly. There was no point in tormenting them—Godown would take care of that. And he didn’t want stories to start that led to retaliations in kind, given how viciously the Turkowi already treated their enemies. Matthew staggered back, ducking a sword blow. One of his men leaned in, catching the strike on his shield and ramming his own sword up, into the Turkowi’s guts. The bitter black smell faded into the greater stench of the battlefield and swamp.

  An hour after it started, the slaughter faded to an end. Matthew’d collected a nasty slash on his left arm and the usual bruises and bumps, but his armor had prevented worse. Klaus sported a concussion from a glancing mace blow to his helmet. Matthew wiped his sword off on a handful of mostly-clean yellow fabric, sheathed it, and drew his long knife. He wouldn’t ask his men to do what he didn’t, and so he set to work, giving mercy strokes. Not many Turkowi needed them, as it proved.

  “Well, my lord, we cleaned them out,” Roth announced that evening. “ ‘Course, now someone has to clean the valley out.” The yellow mass clogged the road, dead men and horses interspersed with broken wagons and stuck carts.

  Not tonight, though. Tonight we watch for people playing dead, nurse our wounds, give thanks to Godown, and pray for cool weather until we can dispose of the bodies. “Between loot seekers, beasts of prey, and the black death-lizards, I suspect the road will be clear by the time harvest ends.”

  Roth fingered one of the captured banners. “You going to give this to Barbara to make a dress with, my lord?”

  “No. No woman of my house will ever wear yellow,” Matthew snarled. “She can take it apart and use the threads for something else, but no yellow.”

  He sent the two surviving medics back, on their honor, with a letter for their Captain of Thousands. “Stay clear of the Blackbird’s lands,” it read, and bore Matthew’s seal, a black eagle, wings spread, talons clenching a sword and arrows, its beak open in a battle scream.

  Matthew played with a pendant on a gold chain, feeling the weight of the material and trying to guess the value. Then he dropped it back into the box. “If it’s all been documented, seal the box and put it in a wagon.” Kazmer Takcas nodded and waved for the clerk to come do the honors. Matthew watched as they fastened the lid on, then pasted paper strips over the four sides and marked them with his blackbird. That should cover the end-of-season bonus, he decided. But where’s the rest? And why did they have all this with them, rather then leaving it back, or sending it south under guard?

  They’d cleared enough of the bodies and broken equipment off the road to make it passable for traffic. That done, Matthew, Klaus, Kazmer Takacs, and two priests oversaw the logging and distribution of the loot. The priests wasted no time destroying any ritual implements, along with a star knife they found, and several copies of religious texts. Matthew kept the one he’d discovered well hidden in his saddlebag, along with a book of tales found in a cart in the baggage train. As much as he hated to see beautiful books consigned to the flames, Matthew knew damn well that he’d have a mutiny on his hands if he tried to bring the yellow-bound volumes back with him. The implements were another story, and he happily scattered the ashes after the flames finished burning off the hilts and any remaining blood from the blades and out of the bowls. He’d tossed the incense in, too. He didn’t care for the smell and, again, his men would have rioted if they knew of anyone trying to bring anything of Selkow’s back from the battlefield.

  So now what? He’d sent riders out to shadow the two medics, following them as far as New Dobri, both to look for more Turkowi and to kill the men if they broke their parole. Part of him wanted to follow with his troops, to make absolutely certain that the Turkowi bastards go the message and left him alone. The rest of him wanted to get the men home and the grain harvested. After some consideration, he ordered his paid professionals to set up a patrol line for the next two weeks, just in case, and dismissed the militia.

  Once back at Solva and rested, Matthew gnawed on roast pig with spiced-apple sauce and mulled over the problems of loot and Barbara. Kazmer, overseeing the cataloging and distribution of the loot, already noted some discrepancies between what the traders claimed in losses and what the Turkowi wagons had contained. The lightest, highest value goods, and the lightest-weight textiles could not be located. Matthew assumed that the glass had succumbed to rough handling—he’d seen what his men could do to fragile things and doubted the Turkowi were any different. They’re men just like us. They bleed red, they fight for what they believe to be most important, apparently they tell stories to their children. It’s just that what they believe in is completely wrong and they refuse to see that. And they’re murderous monsters when it comes to women.

  Which brought back the problem of Barbara. She carried his child. The announcement hadn’t surprised him—that’s what happened when you enjoyed bodily congress, after all. But since he had no plans to marry her, he would have difficulty forcing Tivolia, the Oligarchs, and the Empire to acknowledge her son as his legitimate heir. Assuming that the child proved to be both male and competent. Matthew didn’t exactly love her, as best he could tell, certainly not enough to marry. No, he needed to marry a woman with connections and means, one who could give him legitimate sons. I’ll keep Barbara as my chatelaine and official mistress, since I doubt I’ll fall in love with whoever I decide to marry. He did need to update his will, however, to make a provision for his child, assuming it came into the world alive.

  He added that to the list of “things to do when I have a spare moment,” before returning to his contemplations of the discrepancy between what the Turkowi stole and what he’d recovered. If they didn’t destroy it, and didn’t hide it to collect on their return, and if the merchants weren’t lying about the Turkowi instead of ordinary bandits grabbing their caravans, then where had everything gone? South? Does that mean the Turkowi had consolidated their hold on Scheel south of the Morpalo enough to live there permanently? Or were they sending the goods away to trade for weapons to someone like Frankonia? He ate more pork and brooded. Barbara added a slice of meat and extra apples to his plate, and he smiled absently at her, his mind hundreds of kilometers away.

  Not just the Turkowi and the missing goods bothered him. He’d heard nothing from the border between Rosino and Duke Tillson’
s lands. No scouting attempts, no spies sniffing around, no overtly or (as best anyone could tell) covertly hostile action disturbed the frantic business of harvest. The quiet bothered Matthew as much as the Turkowi raid had, for a different reason. Why wasn’t Mischa Tillson attacking? What was the duke waiting for? Matthew finished the food on his plate and waved away any more. He’ll probably stay quiet until the Turkowi capture Morloke City, then come barging in. And then wonder why everyone’s running the wrong way, Matthew snorted. He wanted to laugh at Mischa Tillson’s self-inflicted woes, but didn’t quite dare. He wasn’t quite afraid of tempting Godown, but …

  Speaking of Godown, he sighed. “Has there been any news of a new priest?”

  Barbara shook her head, as did Lt. Klaus and the accounts keeper, Rudolfo Nagy. Nagy wiped his plate with a bit of bread. “I have not heard anything either way, my lord. No one is pressuring the bishop, trying to prevent an appointment, but neither is the bishop in any rush, it seems.”

  Will Klaus wrinkled his nose. “It could be there’s trouble finding someone sturdy enough for the post. With all due respect, my lord, this isn’t quite as comfortable as being the imperial chaplain, or the rector of St. François-Florabi.”

  “Well, his excellency had best find someone soon, or there will be ten name babies and two dozen confirmands showing up at the episcopal residence in Morloke City demanding his attention.” Barbara sniffed and added, “All with golden spike sneezes.”

  That drew a smile from Matthew. “It is said the Landers had a way to prevent the spring and fall sniffles.” He raised an eyebrow and winked at Klaus before the older man could start to protest, “Since it’s also said that they had wagons that floated above the ground, and could make meat from sawdust without putting it through mushrooms and pigs first, I suspect they had as much trouble as we do.”

  Nagy finished his bread. “One wonders why they brought golden bloom to Colplatschki, my lord. Sheep, shahma, quinley, pfeekan trees, those all make sense. But golden spike?” He shrugged.

  “No doubt it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Klaus sighed, then sniffed. “Like not finding a way to kill off all the dardogs. That’s on my list of things to ask Godown about.”

  Barbara made St. Alice’s sign, eyes wide, but the men just chuckled. “Indeed. And how can a hay-stuffed beast like a horse be so heavy when it steps on your foot?” Matthew lazed back in his chair, playing with his wine glass.

  “Well, we need a priest,” Barbara stated. “Sooner than later, my lord.” She thought for a moment, tipping her head to the side in a gesture Matthew found endearing. “My lord, Duke Tillson’s not in conflict with the church, is he? Like his uncle was, I mean.”

  More head shakes. “Not that I know of Mistress Lee,” Nagy replied. “From what I understand, no one is pleased with his letting Klaus and Michael and that other cousin fight for the ducal throne, but he’s not under ban like his uncle was.”

  Matthew shook his head a little. I can see why Don Starland thinks the Tivolian line needs out-crossing. Not the that bishops accomplished anything by denying the church’s grace to the old duke, other than returning the favor after he tried to tax the sacraments. Talk about stupid.

  “They what?” Matthew heard himself starting to shout and choked back the beginnings of a blind rage. Instead he hissed, “Tell me exactly what they said when they handed you this message, Crag.”

  The soldier gulped, apparently more afraid of the icy order than the shouted question. “Master Cevasco told me to give it to my employer, and that he—meaning you, my lord—should equip us better, given how much you’ve taken in loot. And the lean, ratty one? Master Madau, I think, my lord?”

  “Yes, that’s Madau.”

  Crag nodded. “Master Madau said we—your troops, my lord—certainly should have better livery, especially since the fabric all disappeared from the caravans and never reached the destination.”

  Matthew recovered enough of his temper to snort with derision. “According to the bills of lading from the caravans, at least the ones we recovered, what’s missing are fine gauzes and summer fabric, as well as heavy canvas. I don’t believe you or any of the other men care to go into battle wearing pale blue linen like the court women make summer shimmys out of, do you?”

  “Not me, my lord, although there’s that corporal who’s always complaining about the heat.” He wiggled his eyebrows and made St. Jenna’s sign.

  “Back to the matter at hand, Crag. Did the masters have any other compliments or comments?”

  “Not really, my lord, although …” The man’s voice trailed off and he rubbed under his nose with one finger. “I’m not sure, because I didn’t hear it myself, my lord, and it’s market talk, but.” Matthew churned the air with one hand, encouraging him to continue. “Well, my lord, Beppo said he heard folks grumbling in the market. One of the shepherds asked him if we’d taken over defending Morloke proper, and Beppo said no. Shepherd walked off. Little later, Beppo was watering the horses and heard the shepherd talking to a farmwoman and someone else. They were upset that we weren’t going to be protecting everyone, and Beppo swears the woman said that there’s no point in paying taxes for nothing. Shepherd said that roads ain’t nothing, but Beppo said it sounded to him like the man’s heart wasn’t in it, and he was just talking to fill hungry ears, my lord, if you know what I mean.”

  Matthew knew very well what he meant. “Interesting. Thank you, Crag. You’re dismissed.” The man tugged his forelock and left. Matthew glared at the sealed message, wishing he’d never seen the sign of two trade tokens flanking Godown’s symbol. The Oligarchs’ Council was enough to make him hate all merchants, almost. Certainly enough to make him have great doubts about what he’d read of Lander government. There was no way people could select their leaders without disaster ensuing. No. Even if the Landers taught all their children about how to manage money and what is required to lead men, no. Half the masters in Morloke and Scheel didn’t want to fuss even when they disagreed with the Council, a quarter didn’t care who was in charge so long as business went unmolested, and the rest were as crooked as a twining vine. The commoners bitched about bad government but wouldn’t do anything about it. Matthew’s conscience whispered that most people had enough trouble putting food on the table and keeping themselves in clothes and under a roof without trying to take over and reorganize a county. And what good were scythes against crossbows and cavalry? A lot, actually, depending on how mad the farmers are and how stupid the cavalry are. Which again was beside the point.

  The Oligarchs seemed to be about to change from an annoyance to an active threat. Oh, he remembered the lectures about how his father had taken over, briefly, until the craft and trade masters, and some of the richer farmers, got together and formed a governing council to deal with day-to-day matters in Morloke City, expanding their “oversight” to the point that they took over Morloke and the remains of Scheel. But, if the market stories were true, their focus on only keeping the roads open left a gaping hole for the Turkowi to walk through. Or the Eastern Empire, although from what he’d seen the Babenburgs didn’t care to grab another spiny nettle: their plate already overflowed with trouble. My people are trapped between a fool and blind men. And I think the blind men are more dangerous.

  Godown give me wisdom, the sooner the better, please. He walked over to the window, looking out at the hard blue sky and the smoke pouring from the inn’s bake-house chimney. They’d had the first hard frost of the season overnight, a killing freeze that left a skin of ice on the water troughs and winter flowers on the windows. Three weeks had passed since he’d sent the Oligarch’s their recaptured wares and a portion of the Turkowi’s goods and beasts. His patrols had not encountered anything more, not even ordinary bandits. Well, even dardogs slink off when one of those legendary mountain cats makes a kill, or so they say.

  With that in mind, he broke the seal on the pages from Morloke City and began to read. Time has not mellowed Madau’s temper. I wonder if he stil
l makes boys nervous? And I owe you nothing, Cevalo. Nothing. You owe me blood price for my brother, scum. Matthew turned and looked at the fireplace, once more imagining the flames dancing through the fancy houses in Morloke City, burning the masters’ mansions and devouring their warehouses of goods. If the Landers’ pride brought the Great Fires, surely the Oligarchs had earned a little fire of their own?

  He heard Barbara gasp. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway, face pale, one hand on her throat. “My, my lord? Is there danger?” He realized he’d begun snarling, battle fury rising.

  He brought himself back under control, but not easily. “No. Not to you there isn’t, nor to Marteen or Rosino, not yet. And not if I can,” he chose his words with great care. “I can persuade certain individuals of their poor judgment in certain matters.”

  That settled her, a little. “Very good, my lord. Master Takacs asked me to let you know that the first animals for the second day beast market are arriving, and the market master is, ah,” she shifted her posture and tone, imitating the old drover. “These beasts ain’t fit for nowt but glue and shoe soles. What’s the meaning, dumping the walking bone bags on us?” She straightened up and added, “At least one of the cows has mastitis, my lord. They are all in the quarantine pasture outside the gates until the market masters decide what to do about them.”

  “Thank you. Tell Kazmer I’ll look at them in a little while.”

  She bobbed a curtsy and left. Matthew returned to the letter, raising one eyebrow at the final accusation before the rather disrespectful closing lines. So I am not giving you enough of what you did nothing to earn in the first place, my men are too shabby even though I spend too much of your money in wages, and at least one of you, probably Tibor Jaros, thinks pulling up and burning Turkowi claim markers and dedication poles is going to make things worse by irking the Turkowi when they return, and they won’t want to trade. A dull pounding began at the base of Matthew’s skull. The Turkowi had yet to express interest in trade, at least not this side of the Sutherland Sea.