So, Emma had to lead an army of several thousand, without a supply chain, through a hostile duchy into a foreign country, where they may or may not be welcomed. Not an invigorating prospect for a seasoned leader, let alone a trumped-up handmaiden.
But, she let her soldiers enjoy a couple of days of respite. There would be little enough leisure in the months to come.
“My lady, we have a problem.” Braston rushed to her side as Emma moved slowly through the disorganized camp in the early morning mist. Summer, fierce only days ago, was already giving way to autumn.
“What is it this time?” Emma asked, not breaking her stride. Her life was simply a parade of endless problems. Trying to plan ahead was like digging a well in the sand with a pitchfork. And Braston, stiff-backed and dutiful to a fault, tended to be the one to convey the news of things going awry. Emma didn’t hold it against him.
“Two hundred and thirty of Lieutenant Pino’s men are missing, including two sergeants. I believe… I believe they are deserters.” Braston’s face remained carefully neutral, but Emma could see the captain was visibly shaken. Cocks, but two hundred and thirty men! And after their victory!
“That is a lot of men,” observed Emma, unsure what else to say.
“What should we do about it, my lady?”
She worked to keep her hands at her sides. “I… let me think on it.”
“Yes, my lady. But, every moment takes the deserters further from our reach.” Was his tone patronizing, or was it just her imagination? Was he sneering, or giving an encouraging smile?
“Gather the captains and advisors. We march in two hours, but we must speak beforehand.”
“Yes, my lady.” Braston nodded respectfully and hurried off, kicking at a staggering, hungover soldier who was in his way. The camp had a haphazard, disorganized quality, as if a god had sneezed tents across a field. Discipline and organization had gone to pandemonium since the Feral attack.
Emma moved through camp mindlessly, pointedly ignoring the looks that the meandering soldiery gave her, as well as the conversations that abruptly halted at her approach. She knew these men didn’t respect her the way they respected Escamilla. These soldiers—men from every corner of the country—had answered Escamilla’s call for arms. They’d converged at Brockmore, leaving their families to march to war. So many had fought and died for Escamilla, the Apple Lady. A person and a cause they believed in. And, now, they were left with Emma, some young, unknown wench who was missing half a hand. And their doubt was evident.
Frankly, she couldn’t blame them. Emma wouldn’t have followed herself anywhere.
Sighing, she reached her destination, an unobtrusive and weathered tent sitting a little ways away from the camp proper. She dismissed the two Apple knights with a glance. One, a hulking monster of a man nicknamed Hammer, merely grunted and strode some distance away, his greatsword scraping at his heels. The other knight, Nail, gave her a reassuring smile, nodded, and joined his hulking brother. Licking her lips, Emma entered, crouching a bit to avoid disturbing her brilliant red hair.
The rattle of a cough accelerated Emma through the dimly-lit tent. In an instant, she was at Escamilla’s side, wiping flecks of blood off of her lips and chin. Escamilla reached out, grasping Emma’s hand with a surprising strength. The Apple Lady smiled a slightly bloody smile, which should have been a grotesque sight on the pale and wasted older woman. But, to Emma, it was beauteous. It meant Escamilla was having her first good day in a week. She was actually conscious today.
“Camilla,” Emma said softly. “You look quite well this morning. The physicians say that you’ve improved.” They had said no such thing, of course. Escamilla was dying. It was a slow, slow process.
“You lia…” Escamilla began in a raspy voice, but her words ended in a sputtering cough that wracked her thin body, muscles spasming as pain painted her face. Morgyn’s knife, the physicians said, had passed through the woman’s ribs and pierced one of her lungs. The mere act of breathing caused Escamilla great pain, while the coughing exacerbated the wound and prevented her from healing. The physicians had tried to operate, to sew up the wound and reinflate the organ, but the surgery had been unsuccessful. Emma believed that it had caused more harm than help. It was easy to assign blame.
“The notepad,” Emma murmured softly, handing Escamilla a bound set of paper. Escamilla, obviously frustrated, wrote for a moment, and then held up the paper. Her typically sweeping script was sloppy.
You are a liar, girl. The physicians refuse to answer my questions and give only platitudes. If I were improving, they would fall over themselves to tell me so. And, you wouldn’t look at me, just so.
“Well, I am glad to see you awake, anyhow. There is so much to tell you. The battle, first of all!” Emma swallowed the lump in her throat. Act normal, and perhaps things would return to normal. “The plan was successful, more so than we could have hoped. Many cavalry were slaughtered in the pits, and a number were taken by our arrows. Ferl’s greenies, though, won the day. I don’t fully understand it, but Ashland created a box of raw power, it seems, which they harnessed from trees outside the battlefield. The greenies labored to fill this box for three days, and they set it off with a magical fuse of some sort. The outcome was fantastical.” Emma could still see the green flames and feel the remnants of fear and exaltation.
“Regardless, we have hundreds of prisoners.”
Escamilla gestured sharply, narrowing her eyes at Emma. How are you feeding them?
“They eat what we eat… Oh. No, this is not a good idea.” That much was obvious from Escamilla’s expression. “But we can’t kill them. I won’t have the blood of hundreds of men on my hands.”
Other options? Escamilla, still quizzing her via notepad, though the lady already knew the right answer.
“We… set them free? No supplies. No… boots. And, point them toward Draston. They should be able to manage a few days, living off the land. And the Drastoners would attribute any looting to the Rostanian Army.” Emma should have thought of this sooner. Why could she only consider a problem from all angles at Escamilla’s insistence?
Good. But, not perfect. See if any will join us. We cannot see every Rostanian soldier as an enemy. Some may be reluctant to battle their countrymen, or to have been following the now-dead duke. Others may respect our cause.
Emma wasn’t certain what their cause was, though, anymore.
“Of course, Camilla. I will do this all at once.” Emma stroked Escamilla’s gray hair, perspiration leaving her hand damp. Gods, Emma would visit torture upon Morgyn, once she could capture the girl. In the aftermath of the Feral attack, things had been too disorganized to send pursuit. But, like the scummy vermin she was, Morgyn could only return to one place—the gutters of Rostane. Emma vowed to find her, one day.
Her end would be long and bloody.
How is the army? Escamilla rested her head back and closed her eyes, exhausted from the simple task of writing.
“The Silver Lady is unhappy. She lost many of her Fists in the Battle of Florens, and a handful more from the Feral. I worry she might leave us, payment received or not. That slimy bastard Ferl seems to be enjoying himself. His greenies are our only advantage, and he enjoys showing them off. Though, they represent a threat of their own.” Emma sat heavily in the simple camp chair next to Escamilla’s cot, thinking what to say before she continued.
“The devout Yetranian soldiers—half of our army—find the greenies to be… troubling. Their book—The Book of Amorum—preaches against use of the powers of the earth. Says it sullies the soul with Pandemonium. The discontent has not grown worse than muttering and drunken boasts, but I fear tension is growing. Ignatius hasn’t helped things. Ostensibly, he supports the command structure, but he speaks out against this magic in his sermons. His words are heeded, as always. Hypocritical though they may be,” Emma muttered, heat rising to her face.
Ignatius would be ally. Escamilla’s near-translucent hand wavered, saving herself the e
ffort of filler words.
“I know. I will be civil, I promise.” Emma would certainly attempt civility, anyway, though one look at Ignatius’ falsely righteous face would likely drown that attempt like a puppy trying to ford the Fullane.
And you?
How was Emma? That was a complex question. ‘Bad’ came to mind. ‘Overcome,’ too. ‘Floundering’ perhaps?
“I… I am not too popular with the soldiers,” she answered delicately. “They… I’m not you, Escamilla. They don’t know me. They don’t respect me. The officers. They seem to listen to me, but they find loopholes in my orders. I… I shouldn’t be here.” Emma felt tears pooling at the bottoms of her eyes, threatening to escape. She averted her gaze from Escamilla’s, carefully looking straight ahead.
A slap rapped across Emma’s cheek, knocking loose a few tears and leaving a stinging pain. Escamilla was on her side, propped up on one elbow, glaring at Emma. Emma almost laughed—Escamilla was here, still teaching her lessons despite her slowly wasting away.
That thought renewed the tears, and Emma began to sob anew, uncontrollably this time. Escamilla was all she had in this strange new life.
Escamilla reclined, and Emma laid her head upon the woman’s chest, letting loose her sadness, which was only amplified by the sound of the breath rattling about in Escamilla’s failing lungs. The older woman stroked Emma’s red curls, just like she used to. It was the most solace Emma had felt in months.
After several minutes, Emma sat up, wiping her damp face on her sleeve. Though her new rank afforded her the services of a laundress, the fabric of her long-sleeved dress had even now grown dingy and worn.
“I’m sorry, Camilla. I’m not suited to this. Things seem to be falling apart, and I don’t know how to fix them. We’ve not enough food for the march to Farrow’s Hold. Ultner’s Fist might leave us, and Braston, just today, tells me that over two hundred soldiers have deserted. And I can’t blame them. I can’t. Why would they follow me?”
Escamilla held her gaze for a long minute, the older woman seemingly beyond exhausted, but struggling against the embrace of sleep. Her jaw clenched, and she rasped a few quiet words. “You see what we… fought. Those Feral. Use that. Unite the men… against that.” Escamilla whispered, with great effort, “They cannot… follow you… if they do not… respect you. Make them respect you… however you must.”
Escamilla began to cough, struggling mightily to fight her failing lungs. Emma tried to comfort her, but Escamilla pushed her away, arresting her ward with a cold, stoic mask.
“You must… become hard.”
***
The command tent had an empty feel, though near every officer was in attendance. They sat around the great folding table upon uncomfortable folding chairs. And while it was unlikely after weeks of travel, Emma could have sworn that the iron tang of blood lingered in the mobile structure, though there was nary a stain, so thorough were the cleaning staff.
Anew Opine sat at the head of the table, opposite Emma. A few years younger than her, General Opine displayed a wisp of a mustache which was a rather laughable attempt to hide his youth. Nonetheless, he had the confidence of a great breeding stallion. Emma had originally thought the confidence was feigned, hiding his uncertainty, but she now realized that the man had no fear, least of all of his own abilities.
“If we continue due east, we will encounter half a dozen decent-sized towns that will give us an opportunity to resupply before reaching the border,” he was saying, apparently disinterested with the conversation. Heroes, it seemed, were bored with the mundane concerns of an army.
Danby met the man’s gaze unblinkingly. “I’ve said before, that is a dangerous path. Three of those towns are walled, and all have at least a token militia. Though they’d stand no chance at fighting us, a fight is exactly what we want to avoid. We can consider Draston hostile territory, according to my agents. But we still don’t want to raise the populace against us.” Danby was a plain young man whose only identifying characteristic was an oft-broken nose, and he sat at Emma’s side. Of those in the tent, Danby seemed the least perturbed at Emma taking command. In retrospect, given that he had been Escamilla’s master of information for several years, Emma realized he’d likely been privy to her place in the hierarchy.
“I agree,” remarked Trina Almark, the Silver Lady and commander of Ultner’s Fist, the dwindling force of warrior women. “We need to minimize all losses, as we are already hideously outnumbered. And succor is not yet guaranteed at Farrow’s Hold.” The Silver Lady counted both battles near Florens as grievous losses, and had herself lost her fiery spirit.
Ferl snorted. “You’ve often called me a coward, and yet you fear some pitchfork-wielding bumpkins. I say we sack those towns for supplies. This is war now, and we need every advantage.”
“I’d show you what a coward really is, Ferl, if you’d step from behind your greenies for more than a moment.” Trina glared hotly at Ferl, obviously ready to make good on her threat. Ferl just smiled as cockily as a king.
“While we’d all be amused to see the inevitable brawl between the two of you, please do so outside of the command tent,” Emma commented with a laconic wave. That seemed like an Escamilla thing to say. “Now, we do need supplies, but we can send out parties to pay for them. Unfortunately, we lost so many of our wagons that we will have to resupply more frequently than I would like.”
“Is Escamilla’s credit still good this side of the border?” asked Captain Quentin, a thoughtful frown twisting his mouth downward. He was an earnest, honest man who often voiced his thoughts, but never with rancor. Emma had once viewed the captains as identical, grizzled military men, but she was quickly learning how different they really were.
“That is a fair question,” Emma acknowledged. Would the banks bow to the pressures of war and seize Escamilla’s assets? Emma had sent trusted men, Apple Knights all, to attempt withdrawals from banks in Draston and Hunesa. They hadn’t yet returned. “Thankfully, we have enough yets to carry us to the border, though the men will go unpaid until we reach Farrow’s Hold.”
“I don’t expect that will go over well. This is a dire enough situation without having men with empty pockets,” Captain Ezram said. He was a washout from Hunesa’s military, so he knew enough about the life of a soldier. He often sympathized more with the men than the command structure, which was an annoying habit for all those in the tent.
“It’s empty pockets or empty bellies,” grumbled Opine. “And men march on their bellies.”
“Away from their homes and families during wartime,” said Erik Malless with a sullen shake of his head. The former duke’s hair was askew, having lost the manicured, greased look that he had favored early in the march. His eyes had the glossed texture of an insomniac, and a patchy beard was coming in. He took yet another swig of a Sestrian red, wiping his mouth on his increasingly grape-stained shirt.
“Necessarily. The presence of soldiers who fought for our army would only endanger them. This is the best that we can do to protect the families. Rostanians aren’t monsters, no matter who leads them.” Braston scrubbed at his eyes as he spoke. Many times, he had made this argument. “Can we please stick to the topic of supplies before we break camp?”
“The men’s faith will sustain them though the trials ahead,” intoned Ignatius Pender, raising his head from apparent prayer. “Deontis writes that ‘Yetra shall watch over all of those who live in Harmony, providing protection and guidance.’ Later, in his letters as a much older man, Deontis tells us, ‘I have seen faith keep a man upright when he would otherwise be slain.’ Faith, my brothers, will keep our soldiers and followers focused on our goals over the coming months.” Many of the captains nodded, while Danby scribbled in a small book and Malless stared at his empty cup.
He would be ally. Emma quite literally bit her tongue to prevent herself from insulting the chaplain yet again.
“Chaplain Pender is right.” Cocks, the words were acid in Emma’s mouth. Ignatius starte
d, frowning. Perhaps he suspected a trick. “Faith drives our men more than money, more than food. Especially now that we know what we fight.” Unease spread through the command tent. No one relished speaking of the Feral.
“We must harness that faith. We must remind the men of why we must continue this struggle, outnumbered as we are. We fight for our homes and families. We fight for our country. But, most of all, we fight against men who would unleash such creatures upon us. The Feral.” Emma strove to adopt Escamilla’s authoritarian tone, her implacable mask. It felt fabricated, a cheap veneer on the front of a rotting house. “Men who would use dark magicks to create and control such creatures. I want each of you captains to spend time around the fires with the men, each night, stressing the why, serving as a reminder for why we fight, for why we must stay together. Remind the men of their duty and of their faith.”
An infinitely long silence filled the tent following her little speech. It felt hollow to her, speaking of faith, and Emma fully expected to be denounced as a fraud. Or that these men, spies and career military, noble and religious leaders, would burst into laughter as she was forced to flee the tent. Who was she, anyway, to speak to such men?
But, defying her expectations, each of her officers nodded in turn, their faces steady and grim. Aside from Malless, who’d apparently drifted off to sleep. Ignatius sat solemnly in his chair, grasping his Yetranian medallion with both hands. Likely trying to appear pious, though Emma could smell his satisfaction as if it were an overflowing chamberpot.
“That’s all fine and good for your people. As long as we are still getting paid.” Ferl grinned, though his tone had held a hint of a threat.
“You will get paid, as we agreed. As will Ultner’s Fist.” Trina did not look up, Emma noted. She would need to attempt to mend this woman’s spirit, lest she lose the veteran fighting warriors.
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