Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  They swept around the bend and met nothing. No traps, no soldiers in the trees, nothing. Ahead, Matthew could see the break in the trees that must mark the defensive point. He didn’t try to check Brownie’s speed, letting the warhorse race in case bowmen lurked in the scanty woods. There, north of the road, a flat-topped mound sat, tempting and beckoning. Instead, Matthew continued on, as if to bypass the thing and try to escape up the road. One of the men, a scout on a lighter, faster horse drew even, pointing up the road. Matthew nodded and the young man leaped ahead, charging past the others. Matthew now checked his mount, slowing back to that damn miserable, choppy trot. Nothing happened. After a half kilometer, he slowed Brownie to a walk, signaling for a reversal. Horses blowing foam, the men returned to the strong point. Two dismounted and reconnoitered the hillock, while Matthew and the others scouted the edges of the road and the woods.

  By the time the infantry caught up with them, they’d found nothing more than a few prayer flags and the remains of a campfire. Matthew studied the mound. It seemed too flat on top to be purely natural. The slopes rose two meters and a bit, covered in drought-dry grass and blue-flowering kikory. Sgt. Aikens should be here. He loves to put this stuff in his chokofee, Godown knows why. No trees came closer than twenty meters or so, and the grassy ground around the mound held no hidden bog. Matthew made St. Michael’s sign at the mound and nothing happened, so he shrugged. Lander or not, the clearing and mound provided a good place to regroup and form a defensive perimeter until he could decide what the hell to do next.

  The scout came back as Lt. Bustos and his horsemen clattered in. “Road’s blocked, sirs. Trees down, looks like they tried to dig up the road too. Right where the swamp,” he stopped, trying to catch his breath. “Where the swamp touches the road on the north. Looks too narrow on the south to get the wagons through, and there’s signs like traps in the woods on both sides.”

  “No time,” Bustos interrupted. “More behind us. I think the whole damn Turkowi army’s behind us.”

  “Shit.” Matthew gathered his wits before they tried to escape what remained of his brain. “Right. We laager here, anchoring on the mound and the road. Remuda there,” he pointed north, in the meadow. “Bowmen on the mound, a few in the trees if anyone can climb, wagons behind the mound. How far behind?”

  “Kilometer or two? They didn’t try and chase us. Guess I know why.” The Turkowi had no need to rush if they’d pinned the men of Morloke into a trap.

  Matthew hesitated as the men set to work. Should he? Yes. “You,” he pointed to one of the militia. “You know how to get to Greyville from here, off road?”

  “Aye, my lor. I can ride. There’s a way, but it’s tight.”

  “Take my other horse and go. Get reinforcements if you can, let them know a large Turkowi force is coming. Go.”

  The rat-faced man saluted and rushed off. Matthew concentrated on getting everyone into position. Godown be praised most of the men he’d “borrowed” from Blackcross had pikes with them. They set up across the road. Most of the bowmen went to the top of the mound and brought the tents and bedrolls with them to make an arrow- and ball-resistant wall. The cavalry got sorted out and formed a line-abreast formation. They’d start in the woods, breaking forward to harass the Turkowi, then fall back, around the pikes, then attack the Turkowi again as the pikes fell back to the mound, keeping the Turkowi from flanking the infantry. The teamsters dealt with the animals and helped unload more of the weapons and supplies. Thank Godown we’d filled up on water. I wish we had some of those smaller matchlock scatterguns with us. He’d not planned on having any infantry, so he’d not brought any, and they had no spare powder for the ones in the wagons. They’d be good for cover when we have to fall back to the mound.

  Matthew took a moment to relieve himself and check Brownie over before taking his position. Godown, holy Lord, I know we may not get out of this. Be with my men and please, great Lord of justice and truth, let us take as many of the heathen with us as we can. The activity slowed, and the men began waiting.

  One of the militia spoke quickly to Lt. Bustos, then disappeared behind the mound. Matthew waited, listening for the sound of approaching men and horses. “There’s no way to hide an army,” he heard in his memory. Capt. Ricks had drilled that into him. “You can try, but you’d do better trying to conceal a glitterwing swarm. Too many men, too loud, too much dust and stench from the camps, they all betray an army.” The Morloka strained their ears, listening for Turkowi trumpets or the thud of marching boots. A bird called, startling one of the horses, but nothing else moved. Even the breeze had died, leaving Matthew roasting (as usual), even in the dappled shade of the woods.

  Where are they? Matthew fought the urge to ride back and challenge his old enemies. Tension grew, men shifted, saddles creaking, bridles jingling as horses tossed their heads to get rid of the flies. Damn it, where are you? He demanded of the foe.

  After an eternity, motion to the west, in the scanty woods, caught his attention. The militia soldier he’d seen talking with Bustos appeared, slipping from tree to bush. Matthew waited as the black-clad form spoke with Bustos, gesturing back to the west. Bustos shook his head, but the man insisted. With what appeared to be a shrug, the lieutenant pointed to Matthew. Matthew left his position to see what transpired.

  “They’ve stopped, my lor’.”

  “What?” Thank you for a bit of rest, Godown.

  The man nodded. “Aye, my lor’. Looks as if they’ve stopped to do somethin’. They’re scatterin’ out into the woods. Not many horses, mostly foot soldiers, but I could be missing somethin’. I didn’t try and count, my lor’.”

  Did they dare dismount and ease the infantry? Yes, his gut whispered. “Good. Pass the order to dismount and rest in formation, at least for the moment.” Men dismounted and loosened girths, while others took turns leaving the pike rows to take care of their needs or rest in the shade. Matthew racked his brain trying to think like the Turkowi commander.

  Why had they stopped? Do they know how small we are? Why not attack us now and finish us off? And where are their cavalry? This isn’t a small scout, not with two ambushes and preparing the roadblock ahead of us. We need to get out, but how? And where?

  A spate of cursing and the sound of fisticuffs distracted him. “No you damn fool! You want to burn us out? Don’t light that, you stupid dolt.” The man scattered a bunch of wood that one of the teamsters had gathered, judging by who was gesticulating and protesting.

  “What’s this?” Bustos demanded, breaking up the spat.

  “Idiot tried to light a fire. Not that wood. It doesn’t burn, it explodes. Especially this time of year.” The Greyville man glowered at the teamster.

  An idea began forming in Matthew’s mind as Bustos scolded both men and sent them to opposite sides of the defensive line. A horrible, vicious idea that just might save them, perhaps, if Godown granted them luck.

  He sent Sgt. Andretti to find men who might know the swamps. He returned with two. “No, my lord, I don’t know this area, just the fringe near Greyville,” the shorter of the two apologized.

  “I do. Not well, but I know some of the almost safe parts,” the other man said.

  Matthew weighed his options. “Can we get through, go north from here?”

  The man shifted from left foot to right and back. “Aye and nay, my lord. Aye, there’s a way, but we have to go on foot part way, I think. I’ve never tried it with beasts. No wagons, none at all. And there’s a section I don’t know.”

  Damn. Matthew turned, looking west, then turned back. “Thank you. Don’t go too far, I may need your skills. Your name?”

  “Ryder, my lord. Michael Ryder.” He nodded, a longsuffering expression on his face as Matthew’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, my lord, Godown and my father have a sad sense of what’s funny.”

  Matthew quashed the joke bubbling up. Instead he replied, “Good, Ryder. Don’t stray.”

  “No fear of that, my lord.” He returned to the infantry
rank while Matthew collected some jerky, drank from his water skin, and considered his options.

  He waved away a fly. He didn’t want to turn tail and run, damn it. He didn’t want to throw men’s lives away for nothing, either. And taking on the Turkowi army with at most forty men was probably a sin of pride, stupidity, or both. And he couldn’t rally the troops in Greyville if he was dead. The shadows crawled as he sorted through plan after plan and dismissed them. The man who’d scouted the Turkowi disappeared again, along with one of his fellows. The shadows grew paler. The air seemed to still and what little breeze had been chasing the flies their direction died away. A heavy smell of decay and wet leaves, of dark, earthy life filled the oppressive air. Ugh. It feels like a storm.

  That decided Matthew. He found Bustos trying to nap, and squatted down beside him. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  The unofficial scouts returned an hour later by sun, more or less. “The Turkowi camped, my lor’.”

  Matthew’s stomach dropped. That meant only one thing: twilight attack. The Turkowi must have someone watching, someone who saw how the Morloka had stopped and had sent word back. And they know we can’t get around the roadblock. Or is something waiting on the other side of that roadblock? I don’t like this at all. He took a deep breath of the heavy air. “Right. I need Ryder.”

  Michael Ryder walked up. “My lord?”

  Matthew and Bustos led him a little way away from the increasingly curious men. “I want to leave an hour before sunset,” Matthew began. “We’ll lead the horses by hand, and if the mules balk, we’ll kill them. We’ll go north for as long as you can take us, then stop in place for the night, and move again at first light.”

  Pure relief flashed over the man’s face before he frowned a little. “There’s a storm coming, my lord. We might be able to move a little by lightning.”

  “I’ll trust your judgment.” And You, Godown, please help us. St. Kiara, help us see clearly.

  Bustos dismissed the guide and waited until he’d passed out of earshot. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is madness. We’d be better off riding double and staying with the road.”

  “There are surprises in the woods and swamp on either side of that roadblock. You know it.”

  Bustos kicked at stick on the hard ground. “It’s still safer than the swamp, sir. At least let a few of us ride that way, see what we can find, and if there’s nothing there, we can double up and run.”

  I need to see if my bad feeling is right, and the men won’t be any more tired than they already are. “Two. Send two men to scout. If they are not back by two hours before sundown, they’re on their own.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you,” Bustos sounded confident and relieved both. Matthew stripped Brownie’s tack off and rubbed him drier while Bustos found two volunteers to reconnoiter. Then Matthew tried to nap a little after speaking with the men, making certain they had what they needed. The dead man posed a problem, but if Matthew’s second plan came into play, there’d be no body for the heathens to desecrate.

  Just before the deadline, the two scouts trotted up. The dark sky hinted at a nasty storm brewing, and the men seemed glad to regain the protection of the Morloka troops. “We, that is, we found the heretics’ cavalry. In the big grassy bald other side of the big north turn, lots of tents and horses.”

  How’d they get ahead of us? They had to go through the woods and swamp, who guided them? And how fast can they reach Greyville? Oh, stop it: deal with it later. He stomped down the worry before it had time to get going. “Any problems?”

  “One may have seen us, and it looks like someone’s been doing something to the trees on either side of the logs in the road.”

  His partner shook a finger. “Not to the trees, Mik, in the trees. Something’s hanging, like nets, pots, all kinds of things. Maybe to keep the animals out, or maybe traps, my lord.”

  “Traps. I’ve seen that before,” Matthew affirmed. He handed each man a silver coin. “Well done. Now try and get a little rest and something to eat before we leave.”

  Lt. Bustos had heard everything. “Damn,” he hissed under his breath so only Matthew could hear. “How’d they get ahead of us, sir?”

  “I’d like to know. But I’m not going to go ask them. Later, once we’ve gotten more troops.” He sniffed, then sniffed again. The air felt different, wetter and cleaner. He glanced up through the trees at the little patch of sky. Bits of pale cloud raced past, in the direction of the Turkowi to the west. Godown provides.

  The men had just started loading things onto the mules and collecting the smaller weapons when they heard trumpets. Curses filled the dark afternoon. “Shut it,” a sergeant roared. Matthew nodded to Michael Ryder, who saluted and loped off to get in place at the head of the group of soldiers. Matthew triple-checked Brownie’s tack and the supplies, now strapped to his war saddle. The gelding snorted, unhappy. “That makes two of us, boy,” Matthew assured him. One of the infantrymen took the lead rope and Brownie followed, quite willing to go with the rest of the herd. Even the mules behaved, at least until they got a better idea in their heads. They’ll wait until we get into the darkest, meanest, nastiest part of the swamp and then turn into unholy terrors, Matthew knew in his bones. He’d be rearguard, despite Bustos and other men’s protests.

  The trumpets sounded again. Despite himself Matthew felt his bowels trying to go loose and fought the urge to run. No, this time he’d catch the bastards in their own trap. A pile of wood, long and thin, stretched around the back of the mound and led to two of the strange logs, upwind of the Turkowi but behind the retreating Morloka—the same wood the natives had warned not to burn. As he watched the others disappear into the twilight-dim depths of the swamp, Matthew lit a small fire, just a tiny bit of flame that he fed with dry tree needles and a bit of sponge moss. He waited another hundred heartbeats and prayed. Then he crouched down, touched his miniature fire to the wood, and jumped back. “Holy shit!” He spun around and ran as fast as he could, hand on his sword hilt. The woods turned red behind him.

  He caught up with the last of the men. They’d sped up already, and he flashed a wolfish grin before glancing over his shoulder. Oohh, that’s impressive, dear Godown please may the wind not shift, pleasepleaseplease. Crimson danced and he could hear a different sound of trumpets, and thought he heard screams. Then Matthew turned his attention to the trail and the trees around them.

  The Morloka picked their way north by smell and touch, or so Matthew swore. He had no idea when they stopped, but they’d reached a wide, somewhat drier area. The cold rain bucketed down, interspersed with bursts of lightning that made Matthew think of the most graphic descriptions of the torments awaiting the worst of sinners. The skies roared and crashed, the land suddenly appeared—but only for a blue-purple instant—then vanished into deeper blackness, and the animals cringed together. A few broke free, running into the storm. The men didn’t try to fight them: it wasn’t any use.

  Matthew walked around, checking on the men, speaking to those not asleep on the ground, and counting heads. “We’re missing two,” he told Bustos.

  Ryder, standing by the lieutenant, whispered out of the wet, “Aye, my lord. Horse dragged Tom Martin into the night, and one of your cavalrymen tried to pick a different way. I think he found a hole, because he walked out of line and into the grass, and we heard a splash, and a gurgle, and nothing.”

  Matthew’d caught glimpses of the waist-high grass and he shivered. He’d never been in ground this treacherous, where the very land dissolved under your boots, and he made St. Michael’s sign. A close crack of lightning sent all three men ducking. A few horses reared, but most sagged on their feet. Even the mules appeared too tired to pull any tricks. Ryder continued after their ears stopped ringing, “I don’t want to move before dawn, my lord, unless we have to. The next bit’s trickier, if I remember rightly.”

  Trickier? Matthew gulped. “You are the guide, Mr. Ryder.”
He found a less-wet-looking spot and rolled up in his rain cape, more for warmth than any hope of dryness. The grassy ground under his head squelched but didn’t give. They hadn’t posted guards, trusting Godown and the storm.

  Everyone grumbled the next morning, but no one complained about moving as soon as light enough filtered down through the sticky air. The storms had not swept the skies clear. Instead they left a thick mist that burned off slowly, creating strange phantoms out of tree stumps and clumps of reeds and grass. Birds called and something splashed, probably a pseudo-deer. Matthew stayed at the end of the line of men, picking his way. They made steady but painfully slow progress as the sun crossed the sky. At last, just before sunset, the men reached what looked like riverside woods. One of the trees bore a splash of white paint and a number. “We’re two kilometers from the road,” one of the infantrymen exclaimed. “That’s Master Pescer’s sign, marking the edge of his woods claim.”

  Matthew wanted to collapse against a tree and sleep. Instead he reclaimed Brownie and checked him over, frowning as he saw the gash on his offside hock. It didn’t seem to bother the gelding, so Matthew let one of the teamsters unload the horse before he stripped off the saddle and tack. He’d left the bridle in one of the bags. Matthew staked the gelding out with the rest of the remuda. They’d lost one of the mules and two more horses, but no more men, Godown be praised. Someone found enough mostly-dry wood to get a fire going. The heat felt good as Matthew toasted his hands over the flames before walking among the men, checking on them and conferring with the Greyville militia about routes and supplies. He also gave Michael Ryder a gold piece, with plans to award him with a great deal more once they’d reached the town and gathered their reinforcements. Matthew dreaded another storm, but Godown stayed the bad weather. Please, Godown, keep any more bugs away too. He’d found two ticks in uncomfortable places, and had removed them with all speed.