by Alma Boykin
Sunrise brought the yellow light of the sun through haze, and Matthew began feeling hot long before he needed to. The men stayed watchful, making fast time through the last bit of forest to the road. Once they reached the Lander pave, a few dropped to their knees in thanksgiving. Then the soldiers moved into formation and marched the last two kilometers into Greyville, meeting the forces coming to rescue them.
“Your Grace!” Lt. Gordon Gilles exclaimed. “We thought you dead, you and all your men.”
Matthew nodded, then pointed to the man standing just outside the door of the lieutenant’s office and adjoining quarters. “Godown sent Martin Ryder.” Ryder looked at the ground, then straightened his shoulders and gave the officer a fiercely proud look. “And we left a lot of Turkowi. Either the largest raid I’ve seen yet, or a small army. Please Godown it be small,” Matthew told the gathered men. “Are you ready to move?”
“Aye, Your Grace. Don’t you want to rest?”
“These men need to, and I mean you, Bustos,” Matthew warned. “But I’m coming with you. Get me a fresh horse and let me change into dry clothes and I’ll be ready.”
The lieutenant’s office connected to a small catchall space and storeroom. There Matthew found someone’s spare black uniform. He dug his own smallclothes and a pair of blessedly thick, dry socks out of his bag, and pulled them on, then grimaced as he looked at his sodden gambeson. Someone tapped on the half-closed door. “Yes?”
Bustos poked his shaggy head in. “My lord, some hot food, and I think these will fit. They’re spares, a little mended.” The gambeson had been patched more than once but it fit, and Matthew inhaled the meal: bread, fowl in a sauce with something leafy, and early berries. He gulped hot chokofee and felt more like a person and less like, well, a well-aged road apple. Bustos struggled to hide his yawns as he helped Matthew with his mail, shin-guards, and thigh armor. The black leather jerkin had dried enough to start getting stiff, and it was a battle to pull on and lace.
Matthew found a black horse waiting. It gave him an evil look but didn’t fight when he mounted. “Go to bed, Bustos. That’s an order.”
“Yes, my” a huge yawn threatened to cleave his jaw off his skull. “My lord.”
Matthew rode out beside Lt. Gilles, telling him what they’d found. “We burned the woods behind us, or tried to before the storm put it out. The Turkowi found a way through the swamp. Their cavalry got ahead of us and were waiting on the other side of a bunch of trees they’d pulled down to block the road.”
Round-faced Gillis nodded. “That’s what Rat Rinaldi said. He managed to duck one of their patrols and outran a second before his horse came up lame. He got here midday yesterday. That’s when I called in everyone I could reach and started getting ready to move.”
“Good.”
They rode ready for action. Matthew excused himself from guard duty that night and slept from sundown to almost sunrise. His stiff back and almost-frozen left arm told him that he’d slept perhaps a little too deeply, and he bit back alternating curses and whimpers as he coerced the joints into motion. Late that afternoon they found signs of the Turkowi’s cavalry camp, but nothing of the invaders themselves. As best the Morloka could tell, the heathens had broken camp before the storm and the rain had washed away most of the tracks, and Matthew growled as he tried to decide which way the enemy had gone. He left some men at the meadow and rode ahead, down the road to the mound.
At least the roadblock no longer mattered, turned to ash by the blaze. To Matthew’s surprise they’d smelled the fire on the southwest wind before they got closer than a few kilometers. “The storm should have put it out,” Matthew puzzled.
“Probably did, my lord, but a few stumps and such will keep smoking. Grass mounds too,” Lt. Gilles offered. Shadow, Matthew’s current horse, tossed his head and tried to sidle. He didn’t like the smoky stench of burnt swamp any more than did his rider. Matthew kept thinking he smelled burned flesh. I probably do, and probably not just four-legged animals.
The fire had spread east, somehow, and consumed the roadblock and cleared the traps. Matthew noticed bits of pottery smashed against the remains of a few still-standing, charred trees, and made St. Michael’s sign. The remnants included slivers of metal, all at the level of a mounted man’s head. Pot-bombs of some kind, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Godown’s children never stooped to such evil. Beside him, Lt. Gilles shook his head and sighed a curse. “What?” Matthew inquired.
“Oh, my lord, just that there were at least a score of mature blackwood trees back in there,” he pointed with one gauntleted arm to the woods north of the road. “We’d marked them to fell. Prime wood, too, straight old trees, the kind you don’t find too many of. The sale would have covered our taxes and then some this year.” The man carefully didn’t say anything about how the fire came about, Matthew noticed, and he decided to ignore the complaint. Instead he focused on looking for any sign of the Turkowi.
They found a good deal, mostly charred pieces of equipment and a few bodies. The bastards turned south again, infantry and cavalry both. Matthew wanted to ride south as fast as he could to reach the Blackcross stronghold, but decided to stop at the first workable camping area they found before sundown, then send for the others to follow. Lt. Gilles gave his commander a puzzled look, as if he wanted to ask something. “You disagree?”
The square-faced man rocked his head back and forth a little as he shifted back to watching the woods ahead of them. “Not exactly, my lord, but there’s a faster way for the others to catch up.”
“How so?”
“There’s a track through to a few kilometers east of Blackcross.” The hair on Matthew’s neck rose as Gilles continued, “Starts back at the big meadow. It’s got a few tricky spots, my lord, but cuts at least ten kilometers off the main route easily. The only reason we haven’t used it in place of the Lander way is the lack of water. Lack of drinkable water, I should say, my lord. There’s plenty of stinking, fetid, earth-oil fouled marsh, but only two springs, and you’d better have mighty good teamsters to get more than a light cart through. A good rain and you’re bogged up to the bed, my hand to Godown,” and he raised his right hand, fending off Matthew’s credulous stare.
“But our infantry can get through. And faster. And so could light cavalry.” That answers one of my questions, but how did the Turkowi learn of the road, and why did the commander divide his forces, unless he knew about the dangers, which means either treachery or they’ve been scouting a lot more thoroughly than I want to think about. “Send a messenger back and tell them to do it.” Matthew didn’t sleep well that night.
They heard the sounds of fighting and saw black smoke while they were still a distance from Blackcross. Prudence said they should wait, reconnoiter the scene, and attack at dawn the next day. Prudence warned that Matthew didn’t have enough men to break a siege or do more than anger the Turkowi. Matthew didn’t give a damn for prudence: he wanted revenge.
Matthew sent a light scout ahead to get an idea of the battle. Then he and the other cavalry stopped long enough to armor up, prepare horse-bows, and get their lances out of the supply wagons. The scout met them once they started moving again. “Big attack, my lord, hundreds of Turkowi. Looks like part of the wall on this side of the fort’s down, but I didn’t try and get close. They’re around the fort and the crossroad, didn’t see many cavalry. Lots of beasts, but not many mounted men, my lord.”
“Right.” Matthew pulled a sketch map out of his saddlebag. “Here’s the fort. We come in like so,” and he made a line with one hand, then a V with his fingers. “Hit fast, surprise them, kill all you can find. If you spot the gunners, hit them harder but don’t be stupid.” He looked at Gilles. “Send a few men to scatter their remuda if you think we can spare any. Then we go east, meet at the head of the trail through the woods, and clear it for our infantry.” Once we get the infantry, we can attack hard, while the Turkowi’s attention is split.
“Right, my lord.”
&nb
sp; “And the usual distribution of any loot,” Matthew reminded the men within earshot. The sense of enthusiasm increased markedly, and he smiled a grim little smile. “Godown and Blackbird,” he called, rolling up the map and drawing his sword.
“Godown and the Blackbird!”
They thundered down on the Turkowi, catching them as off guard as the invaders had caught Matthew’s patrol. A sprawl of yellow encircled the stronghold, and Matthew noted the holes in the outer wall, like missing teeth. But his banner still flew over the inner wall. He aimed for the closest Turkowi and kicked Shadow into a canter. “Godown and the Blackbird!” Matthew yelled, drawing an echo from behind him and confused shouts from the enemy. As his men jammed their lances and spears into the lightly-armed Turkowi, Matthew swung his sword, slashing the back of one man. Shadow kicked and Matthew forced him to the right, between a row of tents. Matthew leaned to the side and cut at the ropes as they thundered through, then turned the horse out of the lane again. The beast gathered and jumped over a pile of logs, scrambled for footing and trotted at a large yellow tent with Selkow’s banner.
Matthew saw his chance. He sheathed his sword and, praying to Godown that the horse wouldn’t do anything stupid, he leaned to the left and snatched one of the Turkowi banners, one still rolled on its pole. He stuck the fabric into a fire and it caught. Shadow accelerated and the flames grew, blazing with the wind of Matthew’s run. He aimed Shadow even closer to the temple tent. “Godown! Godown and St. Michael!” Matthew hurled the flaming banner like a spear at the thinnest-looking part of the tent, then spurred the horse even faster. He stayed low on Shadow’s neck as the rest of the Turkowi camp blurred past, and they were out, running down the road. He brought Shadow down to a canter but continued until the sounds of fighting faded.
Two men had managed to catch up with him, somehow, and their horses blew and panted, lathered with sweat. Matthew slowed Shadow to a walk. “Sir,” one of the men panted. “I think you,” pant, pant, “may have surprised them a little.”
“Good.” I want them surprised. I want them to think Godown sent a bolt from heaven to blast them. He heard trumpets and galloping hoofs, and more of his own men caught up with them. “To the road junction,” he ordered. The others know where to form up.
He rode along the diagonal track just far enough to get into cover, out of easy sight of the Turkowi sure to come after him. More of his horsemen arrived in small groups or singly, until he had all but ten of the eighty. Two had stayed with the wagons as they cut east through the woods along a game trail in hopes of avoiding the camp. A bird called overhead and Matthew relaxed a little, but only a little, and took a large gulp from his water bag. He dismounted long enough to take care of business and to look Shadow over for any injuries, then returned to the saddle, watching the trail and the road.
Two of the men sagged, worse for wear. A third had a shattered lower leg, and the others helped him out of the saddle and tied off the wound. Gilles had words with someone and sent them up the trail. “To find the rest of our people and warn the churigon to get ready, my lord.”
Those men with bows moved to the front of the group, ready for the inevitable Turkowi pursuit. It came not long after Matthew finished riding the line, tightening up the formation. They heard horses thundering down the road. The men drew their swords and those with bows got ready. The first three ranks of yellow-clad horsemen charged past before the Morloka opened fire. Men and horses fell, tripping the riders behind them and causing a pile on the road. Matthew and the others emerged from the woods, sabering anything still moving, before attacking the men behind the fallen as the archers turned their attention farther up the road. A few Turkowi rode into the woods: they didn’t come out.
Once he’d sown enough chaos, Matthew rode back into the woods. He and the others raced as quickly as they could along the trail, hoping to reach the infantry before the Turkowi caught them. Matthew laughed to himself, desire for revenge satisfied for the moment.
Two long months later he sat his desk in his office in Solva fortress, composing a letter to Emperor Alois. His right leg ached, as did his left arm, and he now bore a healing slash along his lower right jaw. He looked up at a sound and noticed a serving maid replacing the chokofee pot with a fresh one. She dropped a curtsy and rushed out before he could growl at the distraction. Cold rain patted the roof and ran down the window glass, making the fire even more welcome. Matthew refilled his cup, drank, and returned to his task. He’d written a brief letter to Paul Kossuth, giving him an overview of the year and information about new kind of Turkowi gun they’d managed to capture, and offering condolences on Anthony Kossuth’s death. That had been painless compared to the missive now spread across his desk.
He frowned down at the fourth draft. It covered three wax boards, and he shook his free hand, loosening a cramp from the stylus. He didn’t enjoy writing. After more chokofee, he picked up the first board and began reading aloud. “To His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Alois, from Duke Malatesta of Morloke, Greetings.” Damn formal salutations; I should just start with “Dear trough-head” but no, diplomacy and all that.
He drank more chokofee. “Allow me to express again my condolences at the loss of your honored father, and my prayers for his rest in Godown’s mercy. And my congratulations on your elevation to the throne. May your reign continue as it has begun: quiet and prosperous.” Quiet because I’m standing between you and the forces of the entire damn Turkowi people. The summer had ended with a draw. Matthew’s men took a heavy beating, but the Turkowi had paid in blood and treasure for what little land they managed to hold. And the caravans had gotten to and from Morloke City without major loss, only Godown knew how. Harvest, neither excessively good nor terribly poor, now filled the barns, safe from blight and field pests.
“It is with some reluctance that I find myself forced to impose upon your generosity and good will. As you may have heard, Morloke and Scheel suffered heavy raids by two large Turkowi invasion forces. Although the Morloka repelled the heathen and regained all but a small fraction of the land claimed by the interlopers, the cost in lives and treasure was quite high.” I lost a quarter of my effectives, although half of those should recover enough to be able to serve as local land-wards, if not rejoin the army. And replacing weapons is not cheap, Alois, especially not when the damn Turkowi spiked their guns before we could grab them, the bastards. Matthew considered that a personal insult. He’d ended up having the things broken up and had sent the metal to Kirwali to use as part-payment for more guns and powder.
“Captured Turkowi materials, along with intelligence from sources among the Freistaadter, confirms that the Turkowi do indeed have a new Rajtan, one self-styled Tulwar the Terrible. He seeks to repeat his ‘illustrious ancestor’s mighty victory over the unbelievers at Sigurney,’ or so his proclamations claim.” Matthew snorted, Illustrious victory my ass. Capt. Kidder handed the yellow monsters nothing but death, Godown grant him peace. “As a result, he has intensified his attacks against the southern border of Scheel, driving north as far as Greyville. The forces of the Morloka drove the Turkowi back to their initial holdings,” mostly. “However, I anticipate renewed and stronger attacks once campaign season resumes.” So do my farmers and townsfolk, which is why they are already starting to flee north.
“With great reluctance, I find myself forced to ask Your Majesty for your assistance. I realize your attention is occupied with your own defense, and that you face the additional threat of the Frankonians, who, as you no doubt are aware, have been providing assistance to the Turkowi as well. However, with the greatest of respect, your borders will be safer if Morloke, Scheel, and Tivolia remain in the hands of Godown’s people.” Matthew refilled his chokofee glass and picked up the second wax board.
“In light of these developments, I most humbly request the assistance of the Eastern Empire, either with weapons and supplies, or with men.” I need Don Starland and Paul Kossuth, their men, and all the arms in Florabi and Kilwali. “Should it be p
ossible for you to at least release some of your soldiers to assist in defending my western borders, that would permit me to strike the Turkowi harder and sooner, with men more willing to turn their backs to their homes.” Because Mischa Tillson is not going to leave me alone for much longer, even if he does have his hands full dealing with the creature he still calls his son.
“If Your Majesty does not feel comfortable sending troops, any assistance in weaponry and supplies would be most welcome. Such generosity would release me to focus on securing improved artillery and re-building fortifications damaged or destroyed during this past season’s fighting.” Like the outer walls at Blackcross: that was close. And they were lucky. He knocked back a large gulp of hot, dark chokofee to kill the memory of how his gorge had risen at what they’d found in the remains of one of the smaller outposts. After that he’d turned a blind eye to anything his men did to the Turkowi, dead or living. Matthew read over the rest of the letter, teeth clenched at having to beg anyone for help. He’d already tapped his credit with his father-in-law to the maximum. Thanks to Mischa Tillson’s follies, Matthew found that the merchants wanted half the next year’s purchases paid in advance, rather than the already-outrageous fifth they’d been demanding in the spring.
As a result, Matthew had nothing left for his own pleasure, which greatly displeased him and the women in his life. Barbara’s eloquent silence as she remade some of her own clothes into garments for his children spoke volumes. Kiara Ann’s ear-piercing shrieks of accusation had led to the herbwife adding soothing herbs to Duchess Malatesta’s teas and porridges for several weeks, lest her distress with her husband cause her to lose her child. Matthew felt a little badly, but defense came before feminine fripperies. He’d saved back some of the Turkowi treasure they’d managed to loot over the summer, enough so he could provide the household with the traditional gifts and material for new clothes at the feast of St. Basil, but that remained in the future, and he was not going to let Kiara Ann know.
