by Rob Preece
"You may rise.” Sergius didn't raise his voice, but it still cut through the ambient noises of the audience chamber. That kind of voice would be worth a fortune on the battlefield, Ellie realized.
She and Mark had essayed polite bows and were already standing upright but she didn't say anything smart. Sergius was the king, after all, even if his kingdom was currently limited to the capital city and a few square miles of nearby farmland.
"The Regent Bishop tells us that you are a long-lost cousin, come to rally the troops to our aid."
"So it seems, your majesty."
"He seems to think it would do some good.” Sergius's voice indicated his doubts, doubts that Ellie, unfortunately, shared. She'd been reading up on her medieval warfare book and the bottom line was straightforward. Nine times out of ten, the side with the bigger armies won. Not only did Sergius not have the biggest army, he had the smallest army. He also had the most politicized generals, the least money to hire mercenaries, and the weakest power base.
"We'd all better hope something will do some good. If one of your uncles wins, they'll keep you alive for a year or so while they consolidate their power base, and then poof, the regent becomes a king."
Sergius considered her, his mouth twitching between a scowl and a grin. “What we need to do and what we can do are often very different."
He wasn't stupid. But he was discouraged. No wonder the bishop thought his troops needed bucking up. If the king spent any time with them, they'd all probably desert.
"At least we can give them a fight."
Sergius laughed. “By God, we can do that. Speaking of which, my friend Baronet Arnold tells me that you're a mean hand with the blade. Unusual for a woman."
"My father insisted."
Sergius looked down at the floor for an instant. “The bishop told me about your parents’ murder. While I barely remember my father, I miss my grandfather's presence and his strong arm."
They were both orphans. Ellie hadn't thought of that bond between them. At least her parents had been there to teach her, be with her, give her the benefit of their experience and training. Sergius had been saddled with uncles and regents who saw him as a pawn in their game.
"Thank you, your Majesty."
He ran his fingers down the hilt of a sword. The scabbard was jeweled and fancy, but Ellie noticed that the tsuka or hilt was a sweat-darkened leather. Medieval-style kings, she reflected, were not all ornamental.
"We must spar, then,” Sergius announced. “Tomorrow, perhaps."
The king rose abruptly, signaling the end of their audience. And Mark and Ellie were ushered from his presence.
* * * *
"In alternate history Science Fiction, the hero usually introduces gunpowder, which changes the balance of power and allows the side with smaller armies to prevail. Guess that won't work here.” Mark sounded worried.
A week after their meeting with the king, the bishop had taken them out to review the army. It wasn't much of an army so it didn't take too long to review, but one thing was apparent. About a third of them were armed with a sort of crude musket. Most of the rest had long pikes. As far as cavalry went, there was a dispirited group of half-trained minor nobility and an even smaller group of mercenaries who looked like they had been hired only because nobody else would have them.
They'd gotten a half-hearted cheer when the bishop had announced that Ellie was the long-lost princess, returned in their nation's hour of need. But Ellie had seen the sergeants prodding the men to get even that.
So far, this miracle was turning up to be a dud.
She turned to the bishop. “Let me guess, your excellence. You've been giving them good news for a while now, right? Bragging about the successes of your allies or the problems with their enemies. Be honest. I'm not your first miracle, am I?
He narrowed his eyes but nodded. “We've got to keep their spirits up. If they desert, we'll have nothing."
"And you've poisoned the well so completely that they can't believe a real miracle when one comes along."
She knew she should be careful. The bishop wasn't blind. He could see as well as she could that the announcement of her return hadn't done anything for moral. Which meant that her value to the bishop had just fallen into the toilet. As a miracle-of-the-week, she was disposable. And she might even be worth more to the cause as a dead martyr than as a live miracle. Given what she'd seen of the bishop's pragmatism, she didn't think he would bat an eyelash if he needed to do that. It was time to take control of the situation.
"I guess I'll have to come up with a better miracle next time,” the bishop almost snarled. “You don't exactly look impressive sitting there like a lump."
She forced herself to keep a straight face. He hadn't signed her death warrant, but he'd come close.
"Does your army have a champion swordsman?"
"It's the king's army, not mine. I am merely a regent."
Yeah, sure. And if the king demanded that they'd do something they were about as likely to obey him as his uncles were. The problem was, she'd spent some time with the king and was starting to like Sergius—despite the disadvantages he labored under.
"Does the king's army have a champion swordsman?"
"How could it not?"
The bishop wasn't much good at answering questions so Ellie ignored him and addressed the troops.
"All of you are so blind that you don't recognize a genuine miracle when you see one. I didn't come across five hundred years to have you treat me like a cheap counterfeit. Give me your best swordsman and I'll teach you something about miracles."
"You're going to fight one of those monsters?” Mark whispered to her. “They've got mercenaries in this army who've been training with the sword ten hours a day for twenty years."
He was right, of course. She'd barely beaten Arnold and he was a dilettante with the sword. “We need to do something. The bishop needs a miracle and if I don't give it to him, he'll use me in another way."
She couldn't hear Mark's answer because the small army was in turmoil. It turned out that there were differences of opinion about which of their swordmasters was really the champion.
By the time that was sorted out, two injured sergeants had been dragged to the hospital and a giant with a crisscross of scars across his face stood in front of her. He was older than her father, walked with a pronounced limp, and looked about as dangerous as an atom bomb.
"At least the scars mean he can be hit,” she whispered to Mark, in English.
"But none of them look especially new,” he whispered back. Which was a problem. If he'd learned from his mistakes, she could really be in trouble.
"I don't normally give lessons to girls,” he shouted, letting his voice carry through the army. “But since you're a miracle princess, I'll make an exception."
She vaulted the wooden barrier that separated their reviewing stand from the troops. “Fabulous. Ask the soldiers to stand back, though. I want them to see who gets the lesson."
It took a few minutes to sort things out. The bishop wasn't happy. He probably thought she was going to get chopped up in a way that wouldn't further his goals. And Mark wasn't happy. He was even muttering something about shooting the swordsman and making it look like Ellie had beaten him.
She put the kabash on that right away. These soldiers might not recognize the Glock as a weapon, but they would certainly recognize the sound of a gunshot. Nobody was going to believe the old thunderbolt miracle gimmick. Besides, shooting up Sergius's army wasn't going to help anyone.
She bowed to the swordsman who returned the favor. “One touch?"
"If you wish."
"The army is small enough as it is. I don't wish to hurt you and I certainly don't want to get hurt myself."
He laughed. “Perhaps you should be a soldier, then, princess. None of us wants to get hurt either."
She didn't think much of the idea of an army career. She hadn't seen any women in the army that had marched past them and Lubica was suppo
sed to be relatively liberated for this world.
"At your pleasure, then,” she said.
The tough-looking soldier advanced slowly. Unlike Arnold and the King who fought with fencing sabers more suitable for duels and scars than for warfare and death, this soldier carried a shortsword similar to the Roman gladius but with a substantial cross-guard. It wasn't a pretty weapon but it looked effective. So much so that Ellie wasn't sure she would survive a first touch.
She drew her own blade and went on guard. She needed to take full advantage of her weapon's greater length.
"You may attack first,” the swordsmaster said.
As if attacking would give her an advantage. In fact, her attack would tell him about her technique, close the distance between the two of them, and let him take advantage of his years of training recruits.
She simply smiled. Her blade was slightly heavier than his, and he was stronger than she, but she'd trained in holding her stance for hours at a time and swinging thousands of cuts each day. She wasn't in any hurry.
"I'd think a princess like you would want to give the men a show."
He put an emphasis on the word princess. As if he doubted her claim. She wasn't sure she believed it either so she wasn't much offended. Besides, whatever her parents had been, she'd been raised in a democracy. She didn't have a lot of use for titles and royalty although she, like most of her friends, had occasionally lusted over the cute British princes.
Instead of talking, she shifted her stance. With the katana, as with all martial arts, offense and defense are closely linked. A good defensive stance is one that you can attack from. An effective offense is one that allows you to control your opponent and defends you from his counter.
She moved slowly, brushing her katana against his shortsword but putting no muscle into it, letting the weight of her sword rest on his arm.
He flicked her blade away.
She let his energy give her sword speed, not fighting it, but directing it into a cut.
He batted that away as well, this time keeping contact with her sword and twisting as he extended her reach.
It would have been a nice disarm, but her father had taught her that technique. She relaxed through it, then flipped her wrist to free her sword and bring the edge back into play.
He parried, then backed away, a wolfish grin on his face. “Okay, you know something about the sword."
And so did he. Against most opponents she'd faced, her counter would have landed. He was so strong that he moved his heavy shortsword like a fencing foil, using his fingers rather than his entire wrist and arm to change its orientation.
"Let's put on a show, then,” she suggested.
He glared at her. She didn't need magic to follow his thoughts. And they flowed quickly. He needed to figure her angle before he could respond. Finally he smiled. “You want to show them that you're not just a figurehead, right princess?"
"Right now I'm worth more to the bishop as a dead saint than as a living soldier. I'd like to change that."
"We can use good soldiers so I'll play along. If you try anything, though, first blood is going to be bloody. And it won't be mine."
She could get to like this guy. “Agreed. I'm Ellie."
"Dafed."
She launched a series of attacks.
To most of the viewers, they would appear genuine. To less well-trained soldiers, they would have been fatal. To Dafed or another serious martial artist, they were just slow enough to be easy. Opportunities to show off his skill or demonstrate techniques that he might only really use in an emergency.
He parried and riposted each, but he also dropped into the slightly exaggerated style of the teacher rather than the killer she knew him to be. Giving her the same chances, letting her make moves that she wouldn't make in a real fight because they were a little too complicated, a little too cute. In a real fight, the rule is to kill and keep moving.
After a few minutes, the sounds of conversation vanished and Ellie could feel the concentration of several thousand soldiers. The energy of their concentration filled her with strength. It was exciting, intoxicating and more than a little humbling.
She and Dafed sparred, trained rather, for a good ten minutes before Dafed took a step back, wiped his forehead, which, Ellie noticed, wasn't sweating, and smiled.
"That was fun. Now, though, we go to work."
She didn't think she could beat him. Mark had been right about his skill. Although she had the advantage of generations of Samurai warrior tradition, Dafed had been training with the sword for as long as she'd been alive. And any warrior culture can develop plenty of its own tricks and techniques with the sword. The basic reality of the sword is this: techniques that don't work don't survive to be taught to students.
Still, just because she didn't think she could win didn't mean she intended to roll over for Dafed.
She stepped forward, putting her weight behind her strike, let Dafed's parry beat her blade off target, ducked under his riposte, and then switched hands on her blade, grasping his wrist with her freed right hand and attempting a wrist take-down while, simultaneously striking with the sword in her left hand.
She not only failed at her takedown, Dafed was so strong he tore himself free of her grip and struck. The tip of his blade rested on his throat.
"First touch?"
"Look down,” she said.
His eyes followed her gaze to where her katana brushed against his thigh. Its ultrasharp blade had sliced through the leather of his trousers and brushed against the naked skin underneath.
"With your left hand. Very nice."
"You weren't so bad yourself. Shall we call this a draw, then?"
Dafed laughed. “Why not. Bring your friend and come meet some of my troop. Oh, but leave the bishop. He doesn't know how to party."
* * * *
The bishop went back to Moray but he left Lawgrave to keep his eyes on Ellie and Mark.
Dafed led the three of them to a group of tents. Unlike most of those in the camp, these were surrounded by a wooden palisade and a small trench lined with caltrops.
"Expecting an attack?” Mark asked. His facility with the language was progressing faster than Ellie could have imagined. Helped, she figured, by the several hours a day he spent with Arnold's sisters.
"Doing our best to make sure there isn't one,” Dafed answered. “With the good bishop in charge of our army, we never have a clue where the enemy is, what they'll do next, or even, half the time, who the next enemy will be."
He called for wine, bread and cheese and introduced Ellie and Mark to the other sergeants in his force.
Once the food had been brought, he put Ellie at the head of an oversized table and took a deep drink from a mug of wine the size of a fire bucket. “So, what's the plan, princess?"
Ellie almost looked around but she was the only female there. “Huh?"
"Come on. Just now you as good as told the bishop to lose himself so you burned that bridge. The bishop's big deal about you being the miracle princess means that the Dukes will be looking for you. And even if you weren't on the King's side, the Rissel will declare you a witch and a heretic once they get word of what happened here today. And they're probably getting word about now, because this camp leaks like a sieve. So, either you're a complete idiot or you have some plan. I'm hoping you're not an idiot."
Ellie hoped that too. “Can I ask you a few questions first?"
"Ask away. That's why I brought the other sergeants in."
"I'm going to be straight with you, Dafed. You may not believe the bishop's story about the once and future princess but I'm from a long ways away. I don't know much about the situation here and I more information before I can figure out what to do next. So let's start with the uncles. How many are there, are their factions among them, and who has the biggest army?"
"You'll have to ask your ex-friend the bishop for the political scoop,” Dafed said. “But in terms of armies and proximity, only two of the four surviving brothe
rs mean anything. Duke Harrison to the north and Duke Sullivan to the south are the keys. Either one of them outnumbers us about four to one. Together they'd roll us up like a cheap scroll. Separately they're afraid to move because we'd do enough damage that whoever attacks first will be easy prey to whichever brother waits. Assuming the Rissel didn't step in first."
"Okay. About the Rissel. Do they have a favorite?"
"For the past hundred years, Lubica soldiers have been marching all over Rissel. I don't think they care who wins as long as we're stomped into the ground and worse off than we ever made them. Of course, they do want to make sure we hew to the orthodox faith."
"I thought they were extremists."
"That's what the bishop calls them. They call themselves orthodox and say the bishop is a schismatic."
"How big is their army?"
Dafed shrugged. “Nobody knows. Mostly they've sent over engineers to help with sieges and to garrison some of the port cities. But Rissel is about ten times as big as Lubica and they've got money to hire every mercenary from here to Zen."
Okay, Dafed was a font of information, but none of the information could remotely be called good news. If anything, the bishop's reading of the situation had been optimistic.
"One more question, then. What's the situation with our own army? Besides being outnumbered, I mean."
Dafed muttered something but decided not to answer that question himself. Instead, he had each of the sergeants, who, it turned out weren't just from his unit but from all of the significant mercenary companies, and let them run through the arithmetic.
The arithmetic and the situation were both dismal. Between desertion and usual casualties, the army was losing about ten percent of its force every month.
"How does that relate to new soldiers coming in?"
"The ten percent is net, after the new soldiers,” Dafed answered. “Our quality is deteriorating almost as fast as our numbers. Sometimes I think the Rissel think of us as a free training program rather than an enemy, because they hire most of our deserters. The ones worth having, anyway."