by Alma Boykin
In due time Karl Grantholm stormed out to join her. “He’s gone. My hand to the heavens, but I wanted to put my boot up that common-born fool’s ass.”
“He’s a fool, and a tactless one to be sure, Karl, but he fought us to a standstill at Boehm and we can’t afford to alienate him now. After the surrender’s finished and his troops disperse, then we can have an etiquette contest between him and Stubby. I suspect Stubby will win quite easily.”
Karl’s loud snort was eloquent in its brevity.
The cold fog was a portent and warning. This close to the mountains, winter came early, and much to Elizabeth’s dismay, cold rain laced with ice pellets began falling not long after the Bergenland army officially dispersed. Those men willing the fight against the Frankonians joined the Sea Republic ranks, giving Lazlo an additional three thousand troops. The others returned home to salvage what they could. Godown be with you, she thought, watching the men pile their arms and leave. You’re in for a long, hungry year. Be glad we’re paying for the coal and ore we’ve diverted from the Frankonian’s “support gift,” even if it’s not what you’d get on the market. We did save you, after all. Not that she expected gratitude for people as stiff-necked as the Bergenlanders were proving to be.
That night she listened to the rain falling and wondered what to do about Lazlo. He looked happier and more confident than she’d ever seen him. He’d found something he’d not had within the Empire, or so she guessed, and he liked it. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s no longer Duchess von Sarmas’s aid. He’s a general in his own right, chosen by the government to lead its army, in some ways entrusted with more power than I am. It’s what he’s trained his entire life for, and he does it very well. But General Destefani is not my husband. Lazlo is. And I don’t think Lazlo will want to return to what he once was. I wouldn’t. Honor and respect are too intoxicating. But what happens when he has to sober up?
Had he violated his oaths to the Babenburgs? She didn’t want to think about it, and her mind pulled back from the idea like a hand from a hot stove. But she had to face the possibility. He’s calling the Sea Republics “us” and “we:” not the Republics and the Empire, but the Republics alone. He’s gone native, and if he has, and if he’s violated his assignment and his oaths, he can’t return. And I can’t join him in the Republics, not without violating my own oaths and duties. I love him, I want him, I need him, but… She buried her face in the pillow and wept, shoulders shaking, heartsick and horribly alone. She couldn’t even go cry on Snowy’s shoulder as she had all those years before. I miss my mule.
The rain continued for another day before the clouds lifted. Elizabeth looked at the mountains, now draped in thick white down to their shoulders, and shivered. She did not want to have to fight in winter, or even to march home in winter. But they were going to if the Frankonians didn’t stop insisting on waging a fighting retreat. “Damn you, Javertt,” she muttered under her breath after yet another short, sharp collision, “you’re beaten. Quit and go home.”
T.G. Peilov snorted from his position beside her. “Your grace, he’s a man. We don’t give up easily.”
She had to smile despite her frustration and anger. “No, you don’t. I wonder too if he’s buying time for Rohan-Roi.” Prince Rohan-Roi, who had vanished from the map as if the very ground had opened and swallowed his army. “I must give him credit: Rohan-Roi is harder to find than an honest man in a horse market,” she added.
It felt all too much like the year of the siege, when old Duke Grantholm swore the Frankonians had to be in the field because they always took to the field. Except they hadn’t, for reasons known only to Lauri the Loathsome. She’d almost spent the summer chasing phantoms while the Turkowi leveled Vindobona, except for luck and Archduke Lewis’s stubborn refusal to surrender the city. Even the cold rain carried the same nasty, biting edge to it. “Well, let’s see how many fewer Frankonians Javertt will have to pay,” and the two officers nudged their horses into motion, picking their way down the short, steep slope.
They met Marlow Eulenberg at the bottom. “Something’s wrong.” He looked over his shoulder at a cluster of red-coated bodies, heaped up beside a bit of stone field wall. “He’s not fighting for an objective. He’s throwing men at us but for no reason.”
Elizabeth thought back to her studies of Clausewitz. “You’re right, that doesn’t sound like Javertt. He’s always practiced tactical offense as part of a strategic defense. He’s not even slowing our advance, not that much.”
“No more than the weather is, your grace,” T.G. Peilov added. Elizabeth and her sub-commanders looked at the wasted men and wondered.
That evening she had a thought. “We’ve assumed they are retreating to Frankonia.” She stabbed a bit of whiteroot and shook it at her officers for emphasis. “What if they’re going somewhere else?”
“Where else can they go? If he tries to cross the Triangels and link up with Turandott he’s a suicidal idiot who deserves the frostbite he’s going to get from wading through all that snow,” Grantholm protested. He ate more stew, swallowed, and repeated, “They can’t go anywhere else.”
“They can if they stop in Louvat, your grace,” Peilov contradicted. He too waved his fork. “That’s the closest place, it’s in Rohan-Roi’s line of march if he’s staying on the Shelly, and for all practical purposes it belongs to Laurence anyway. They already have winter quarters and depots there.” Peilov helped himself to wine from the pitcher on the table.
“Louvat makes sense. Javertt’s panicking, trying to cover his rear and sting us just because.” Elizabeth thought aloud, “I wonder if he’s hoping, or has heard from Rohan-Roi, that the prince is already in Louvat and will protect his retreat, but only once Javertt crosses out of the Bergenlands.”
“That makes sense, your grace,” Peilov agreed. “It’s too bad we can’t find Rohan-Roi.”
Out of the desire not to alienate Major Mou Murphy, who was eating with them, Elizabeth did nothing more than grunt her agreement. If we had the Lander’s flying machines and picture makers, we could. Some day, Godown willing, some day we’ll have those again.
After another four days, Elizabeth and the others knew that T.G. Peilov had been right. She wrote in her draft report, “General Javertt has abandoned his supply train and artillery. The Frankonians are running in a direct line for the border with Louvat. We still have no word on Rohan-Roi’s location, but I suspect, and Gen. Destefani concurs, that he’s already in Louvat, preparing to go to winter quarters. We’ve captured enough supplies and equipment that neither army has to forage, at least not for the next few days, and we’ve halted pursuit, although scouts are riding ahead, following the Frankonians.”
Someone tapped on the doorframe and she looked up to see now-Captain Neruda leaning around the corner. “Your grace, there’s a break in the rain.”
“Good. I’ll be out in a moment.” She capped the ink jar, puffed lightly on the page to hurry it along, and covered everything. She pulled on her rain cloak and a hat, then joined Neruda and two guards outside the inn. Stubby, looking rough in his winter hair, snorted as she checked the tack and tightened his girth. “No, I’m not falling for that and you know better,” as she poked a knee into his stomach. He deflated and she snugged the leather strap by a hole. “You’ve spent too much time around the horses.” The brown-gray mule did not try to defend himself.
Elizabeth, Neruda, and her guards rode out of the small town, following a sunken road to the next village to the south, where the Sea Republic army headquarters could be found. The road seemed remarkably well drained, so much so that Elizabeth wondered what lay beneath the dirt and leaf-litter surface. Hedges and a few trees loomed above the riders. The ground started level with Elizabeth’s shoulders and she twitched, feeling more than a little nervous at being both blind and penned in, confined to the road. A few birds startled out of the dark green hedges, fluttering up with a whirring, peeping sound. After the first avian eruption, Stubby ignored the commotion, more conc
erned with the blind curves and the leaves drifting down from the trees that leaned over the road. Elizabeth shared his concern.
The Easterners reached Bergvil without encountering anything more untoward than two horse spooks. They found Gen. Destefani and his staff in a large farmhouse, one of the old style, half-stone buildings where the animals lived on the ground floor and the farmer stayed above. For now, the animals had to share space with Lazlo’s guards, who waved Elizabeth and Jan up the stairs after a cursory glance to confirm their identity. They emerged from the stairs and Elizabeth peered around, a little confused, before catching sight of Lazlo sitting at a table very close to the fireplace at the far end of the long room. “Ah good,” he called. “Come in, Duchess Sarmas.”
She took a seat across the table from him, and accepted hot wine. “Forgive me if I skip the customary formalities and cut directly to the matter at hand,” Lazlo began, all but vibrating with excitement.
“No apology needed, General. What is it?”
His broad smile made her heart leap. “Javertt will cross into the Louvat Valley in a few days. Since he shows no signs of stopping, we’ve decided to call off the pursuit.” His hand gesture took in his entire staff, suggesting it had been a group decision.
“Good.” Now she could take her men back to the Empire and leave the Bergenlands to Archduke Gerald André and the diplomats.
When she did not say more, Lazlo leaned forward, elbows on the table’s rough-hewn, pale wood. “My orders are to disengage and return to the Sea Republics by the Shelly Valley. The council ruled that we’ve accomplished our mission and the season will end once we reenter the Republics’ borders. They’d like to hear our report as soon as possible, so they can begin the necessary diplomatic mission.” Did she see a hint of invitation in his dark eyes? Was he suggesting that she come with him?
“Good,” she repeated. “His majesty and Count Montoya sent their congratulations and fresh orders. The Imperial army is to depart Bergenlander territory as soon as practical, and to return to the Empire via Donaupont and Karstadt. The cities will provide our supply needs in lieu of this year’s taxes.” They would be traveling at right angles, him going north and she northeast, then due east. “I’d intended to pay off the Bergenlanders who served with the Imperials at the same rate as we usually offer, plus allowing them to keep their weapons. It may be paranoid, but I don’t want them to be unarmed if pro-Laurence people try something stupid.”
He hissed through his teeth and turned to one of his aids, who muttered in his ear. Lazlo’s frown deepened. “Ah, a good point, Duchess Sarmas, and one we’d not given adequate consideration to, it seems.”
“Well, you are not used to dealing with the Turkowi and Selkow’s followers. The Frankonians tend to be a little less vengeful, at least in their official policy.” I’m trying to be tactful here, Lazlo. Take the hint and don’t scream at your staff, please.
He grunted noncommittally and took more hot wine, as did she. “Given the current state of affairs, when do you envision returning to the Empire and what supplies will you need?” he asked. Logistics was a safe topic, she knew, and she took the distraction.
They hammered out the details as best they could over the course of the hour, and agreed in broad outline what they’d report to their governments and what their recommendations would be regarding the Frankonians. “This is all assuming that Lauri the Letch doesn’t devise a brilliantly idiotic idea between now and next spring,” she cautioned at last.
Lazlo’s automatic, absent reply made her heart ache. “You give him too much credit my,” and he caught himself. Instead of “my love,” he switched to, “my lady.”
I wonder if Gen. Destefani and Duchess von Sarmas will ever go off duty? I’m not so certain. And Emperor Thomas can demand that we dissolve our marriage if Lazlo’s given formal allegiance to the Sea Republic. Oh, Lazlo, I wish I could ask you what’s going on. She shoved the realization and fears aside, concentrating on the matters at hand, including King Laurence. “There’s always the possibility he might learn, General. Granted, the Tongue Sea will probably freeze solid to its depths first, but it is possible.”
Several of the officers chuckled at her caution, but no one denied it. Lazlo smiled a little, raising one skeptical eyebrow. She finished her wine. “Is there anything else we need to discuss? No offense intended, General, but I’d like to get back under roof before the rains begin again.”
“None taken and no, I can’t think of anything?”
He turned to his staff as he asked the last and Jan DeSmoot and the others shook their heads. “Nothing I can think of, General.” Her men also thought of nothing, and she stood.
“Then I’ll be on my way, General. Thank you for the hospitality.”
To her surprise, Lazlo got to his feet as well, accepting his hat and a cloak from an orderly. “I’ll ride with you a little, if I may, Duchess Sarmas.”
“Certainly, General.” Trying to delay the inevitable, I suppose. When will we see each other again, I wonder?
Jan DeSmoot came with them, as did three of Lazlo’s guards. “You are tempting targets,” Neruda reminded her. Busy with arranging her skirts, she just nodded. The rain had not yet returned, and they trotted along in silence. Lazlo rode with her into the sunken road. “I wonder what the purpose of this was?” She gestured with her riding stick at the high dirt banks and trees around and above them.
“Someone preferred to travel in the shade?” He shrugged. “I’d make the road raised instead of sunken, my lady, but I’m not an engineer. Maybe it was not a road and people simply began using it as such.”
“That’s certainly possible, General.” They rounded a curve and the Sea Republicans and Lazlo began to slow their horses, as if to turn and ride back to Bergvil.
“Bang!” A shot rang out, then a second and third, and she saw red and motion in the brush above them. Someone behind her screamed.
Riding sidesaddle saved her. The first shot hit Stubby in the flank, punching a hole in her full skirt, and the mule staggered, groaning and dropping to his knees. She kicked lose of his body and drew her pistol, aiming and firing at a flash of red in the hedge. She didn’t hit the sniper but he dodged the shot, breaking his aim and giving her time to draw her second pistol and pull out the safety patch. Elizabeth cursed, ducking for cover against the wall of the sunken road, under some tree roots that provided a little concealment from above as she reloaded. One of her guards rode up, leading her other guard’s riderless horse. “Go, your grace,” he told her. She scrambled into the saddle and slapped the beast into a gallop.
A low area in the side of the road gave her an idea, and she drove the dull brown horse to it, then chivvied him up, out of the lane and into the field beside the road. She ran him along the side of the road and found what she’d feared: a second ambush. Elizabeth drew her saber and rode down onto the gunmen crouched behind a tree. “Sarmas,” she screamed, “Sarmas and Empire.” She shot one with her pistol as she cantered past, hauling the horse into a wide circle. The other man tried to fire on her but missed, and she attacked him, slashing and chopping his head and shoulders. She vented all her pent-up rage and loss on the Frankonian soldier, leaving his body a bloody, battered heap by the foot of the tree.
The brown horse snorted, dancing away from the corpse. She let him, riding farther back into the field. “Gah, you know better,” she scolded herself, wiping her saber on the fabric of her skirt before sheathing it. She stopped the horse and reloaded one pistol, slipping the safety patch under the striker. The other pistol went empty under a saddle strap, and the loaded one she tucked into her belt. Back to the first ambush or forward to my headquarters? I’d better go back, otherwise the men will panic when they see the dead Frankonians and no sign of me. And her heart needed to know how Lazlo fared.
She found out when he came out of the roadway at the same place she had, followed by Capt. Neruda, her guard, and one of his guards. “The others are staying with the bodies until my men can
get to them,” he panted before she could ask.
“Ambush farther on. I broke it. Men in Frankonian uniform,” she replied. “Blast it, I liked that mule.”
“Your grace, are you alright?” Neruda demanded.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. You all?”
Lazlo glanced down automatically, then back up. “I’m fine. Angry, but fine.” He rode closer to her, as if to touch her, and she steered the brown horse away from him. “What?”
She shook her head ever so slightly. “That’s good, General. I think it would be safest if we scatter. I’ll take a different route back, one with less cover for… interruptions.”
“You are making a very large target, sir.” Jan DeSmoot urged Lazlo, “You need to get out of here, General, before the men Duchess Sarmas found come back to see if this was successful.” He gestured with his head back to the road behind them.
“Blast it,” Lazlo snarled. “Very well. Your grace,” he touched his hat brim and hauled his horse’s head around, cutting the beast’s mouth terribly. He and his guards rode off, and she turned her own mount.
“Let’s go, Captain. I’ll send a dozen back to recover the body and see if we can find any trace of the Frankonians.”
“Very good, my lady,” and they set off at a trot. They encountered no more surprises between the road and her inn, and she sent a wagon and riders to collect her guard’s body and her tack as soon as she reached her field headquarters.
Neruda had a grazed shoulder that he’d not noticed in the excitement. Elizabeth looked at the hole in her skirt. If she’d been riding astride, the bullet would have broken her leg. Thank you, holy Godown, for protecting fools and soldiers. She stuck a finger through the material and wiggled it. She started laughing at the funny sight, then fought back tears. Not here, not now. When you reach Vindobona, then you may mourn.