by Alma Boykin
The pale man leaned forward, his light green eyes intense as they met hers. “At least two dozen Turkowi,” he repeated, enunciating carefully so she could understand despite his accent.
“Yes, at least. We could identify two dozen sets of more or less complete remains, and enough tack for ten mules or pack horses and twenty riding beasts.” She looked down at the map, then to Aquila. “We were able to capture, or recapture, five more horses and a mule. We spiked a small cannon as a precaution, even though the blast quite likely rendered it useless.” She glanced back to the map, a grim smile on her face. “So is the priest it landed on.”
“That makes three and ten Sworn Acolytes found in the empire within eight weeks,” the pale man observed.
Aquila leaned forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with her. “Wait. Elizabeth, you said priest, not acolyte, did you not?”
“Priest, your grace. All yellow clothes, what we could see of them, and this.” She leaned back and pulled a cloth-wrapped bundle out of the bag hanging from her belt, along with a pair of gloves. She put the gloves on and removed the stained fabric, revealing a knife in a black leather and silver metal sheath. Silver stars adorned the hilt and a stylized woman’s face, in black wood, capped the pommel. “I have not drawn it and I am not going to, not until a priest has blessed and exorcized it, your grace.” The two men leaned away. Aquila made the breast-to-breast arc of St. Gerald and the stranger tapped his heart twice and opposite shoulder once.
“Rewrap that and hide it. If word gets out that there’s a star knife in camp, only Godown knows what sort of trouble we might have with the troops.” Aquila shook his head as he sagged into a camp chair. “Did your men see it?”
“Chan Michael and Lazlo, and they both know better than to talk.” She had no desire to touch the terrible thing, if the stories about their use were true. Even if they were not, just the fact that a priest of Selkow had owned the thing was enough to make her nauseated.
The pale man watched as she re-wrapped it. “You should keep it. Ultimate insult to Turkowi, eastern woman carrying star knife.”
Aquila and Elizabeth both stared at him, and Aquila began protesting. “That is the…” he began. He made a cutting motion with his hand. “Too dangerous until a priest has cleansed it.”
As the aid refilled Elizabeth’s camp tankard again, she realized that she was swaying. “Your grace, pardon, but might I be seated?”
“Of course.” She all but flopped into the closest camp chair, closing her eyes until things stopped swirling. “You look paler than usual.”
She prevaricated. “I’m just tired, your grace.”
The stranger remained at the map. He tapped a place. “Why a depot there? Pass is here.”
Elizabeth drank more of her watered wine. “Because they could see us coming. Because they wanted to set a trap? Because Selkow is a goddess of high places, or so I read somewhere.” She shrugged.
“Elizabeth, that is not the way to address Prince Ryszard Sobieski-Pilza,” Aquila growled. “Apologize and you are dismissed.”
She struggled to her feet. “You pardon, your highness. I forgot myself. By your leave, your grace,” she bowed deeply to both men and departed. She stopped at the picket line to check on Malcom, who ignored her in favor of devouring a pile of fresh grass that someone had mown for the beasts. Elizabeth located her men, confirmed that they had eaten and didn’t need anything, and then all but fell onto a cot in the corner of the tiny tent assigned to her. She covered her eyes with one arm and fell asleep in an instant.
Late afternoon sun shining through the open tent flap woke her up. Her mouth tasted foul, she itched all over, and her stomach growled. She could feel the star knife in her belt and winced at the bruise it must have left, even through her heavy clothing. Elizabeth sat up, undoing her jacket as she did. She’d sweated through her shirt into the jacket. “Ugh.” She needed to wash. She took off her boots and socks, padding around the tent bare footed. Someone coughed outside the flap. “Yes?”
“Are you clad, my lady?” Lazlo inquired.
She glanced down. “Yes, I am.” The other flap opened and two servants brought in a large bucket of warm water, towels, and her luggage packs. “Thank you.”
“Supper is ready when you finish, my lady, and then his grace wishes you to join him at the morning meal. We will remain here one more day,” Lazlo informed her. “And there’s another bucket of water out here.”
“Bring it in here, please.” She caught herself. “Has Lew been taken care of?”
“Yes, my lady. Tomorrow, before noon, there will be a full memorial, with burial at the old grounds near here.”
That was a relief. She nodded gravely. “Thank you Lazlo. Have you gotten something to eat?”
“Yes, my lady, thank you. Do you need anything more?”
She glanced at the cot and smiled. “Ten hours sleep more, but otherwise no, thank you.” He smiled in return, dropping the tent flap behind the servants as they departed. She tied the flaps shut, did a quick automatic check for anyone trying to peek in, and stripped to the waist. “Ahhhhhh,” she sighed, scrubbing as hard as she could. Then she pulled on a shimmy and washed her lower half before rinsing her socks in the second bucket, after she washed her hair. Instead of horse, she now smelled like floor soap. I can live with smelling like a clean house, she decided. Clean clothes made her feel even more civilized, and she jammed her feet into fleece-lined camp shoes. They were her one luxury. Well, that and having her boots made large enough to take good, thick socks. She and the cobbler had gone two rounds before he’d given in.
Servants removed the dirty water and her dirty clothes when they brought supper. She ate whatever it was, drank more water, tied the tent shut again and fell asleep. She stirred sometime before dawn and stretched, sat up, and stretched more. Oh, it felt so good not to be having cramps. She untied the bottom of the tent flap and carefully set the nightsoil box outside to be collected. After some thought, she dressed in her skirted uniform, in case breakfast was to be a working meal. Plus she would not have to change before the memorial service. What to do with the blasted star knife? She made a space under her rain cloak in one bag and hid the blade, now double wrapped.
Elizabeth found her way to the officers’ dining tent. Matthew Starland, too awake and tidy by half, waved to her. “Another lark of the morning?”
“No, my lord. Just awake.” She rolled her shoulders. “And a touch stiff.”
“Come,” and he led her to a table away from the entry. A steward brought a large camp pot of tea, along with fresh bread and reheated minced meat. “I have no idea what my lord father wants to discuss,” he warned, before stuffing an entire roll in his mouth. She smeared some of the meat on a torn-open roll and chewed, enjoying the heat in the meat.
“I suspect it has something to do with some of what my squad found, my lord,” she guessed. He reached for another roll, then sprang to his feet. Elizabeth twisted in her seat, then also rose, before curtsying to the Poloki prince.
“Relax Matthew,” Ryszard ordered. “And sit, please. You as well, Lady Sarmas,” he added when she hesitated. He pulled up a third stool, stabbed a roll with his knife and helped himself to the minced meat. A servant brought more hot tea and filled Ryszard’s cup. “Needs more spices,” he grunted after swallowing the first bite of breakfast. Elizabeth waited until he got a second roll before finishing her own, and drinking more tea. “Eat, eat,” he ordered. “Duke Aquila will talk until breakfast is cold.”
Matthew winked at Elizabeth over the top of his metal cup, confirming her fears. She nodded a hair. “So is it true that you found some interesting things, Lady Elizabeth?” he inquired. Matthew spread meat on another roll, chewing like a civilized person this time.
“Yes, my lord. Trouble and horses, the same as usual.”
Ryszard finished his drink. “What think you of Turkowi horses?”
“They are horses, your highness. The one I rode seems well behaved, has good night
vision, is sure footed, but lacks war training.” She thought for a moment, adding, “Or perhaps, your highness, I do not know the cues to get him to fight.”
“What of the size?”
She shrugged. “They are the same size as Starland horses, your highness. Perhaps a touch leaner in the flanks, but that could be hunger rather than breeding.”
“So they did not race them,” the prince told Matthew.
“No, your highness. They brought back a dead man. We do not race during the mourning days,” Matthew replied. Was he reminding him? Elizabeth could not tell.
Ryszard gave the Imperials a curious look. “Then how will his spirit get home?”
She had no idea. Matthew struggled for a bit before saying, “Godown has taken him already, your highness.”
A coughed warning from one of the mess orderlies saved them from any theological disasters. Matthew and Elizabeth got to their feet as Aquila, his aid Andrew, Lazlo, and Father Jefferson walked in. “Bring your leftovers here,” Aquila ordered and Elizabeth collected the pot and tray, while the men carried their cups to the larger table. “Be seated. Nothing leaves this tent unless Father Jefferson or I say otherwise, do you understand?”
A murmured chorus of “yes your grace,” “yes, my lord,” and “understood,” followed his statement. As the group got settled, orderlies removed the other tables, taking them outside so the junior officers would neither starve nor wander into a privileged discussion. Once more meat, rolls, sliced sausages, and cheeses had been brought, along with juice and more tea, the orderlies departed. At Aquila’s nod the others served themselves.
“Very well. While you were gone Elizabeth, Lazlo, we found the raiding party. Or I should say, a raiding party. The group had split up, and as we tracked the one bunch, Matthew and his squad stumbled into the second set.” Matthew nodded and his father continued, “There were too many Sworn Acolytes. We lost four killed and twelve wounded, one of whom died. I’m sorry Lazlo, if you have not heard, it was Jerry Chow.”
Elizabeth gripped his good shoulder in silent sympathy as Lazlo nodded. “I had heard, your grace, thank you.”
“Matthew also found evidence of a kidnapping. The woman, Godown give her peace, killed herself before the Turkowi could. We have not identified her family yet.”
Lazlo started to speak but Elizabeth squeezed his shoulder as tightly as she could, shaking her head a fraction to warn him off. He raised an eyebrow and she mouthed, “Later.”
Aquila missed the by-play as he devoured a meat-smeared roll. Matthew comes by it honestly, Elizabeth snorted to herself. After Aquila swallowed he continued, “The main force caught the other Turkowi just as they attacked one of the farmsteads. It’s one of the farm-forts, Godown be praised, or we’d have been too late. As it was they killed several cattle and two good draft horses.” Prince Ryszard cursed in Polowki. Aquila nodded. “My thoughts as well, your highness. There were four Sworn Acolytes in that bunch, for a total of eleven. Plus the priest you found, Elizabeth.”
“My lord, something strange is going on,” Matthew ventured as his father drank a large gulp of tea. “The past two years we’ve only found a handful of Sworn Acolytes on imperial lands, and never any priests.”
“Nor have we found Turkowi depots with cannon and explosives,” Aquila reminded everyone. “Not in the past decade, not this far south.” He leaned back. “Father Jefferson?”
“Thank you, your grace.” The priest reminded Elizabeth of the Poloki prince. Both shared a similar pale coloring and a horseman’s posture. Father Jefferson’s nose bent to the side, suggesting that perhaps he’d not always been a man of contemplation and peace. Not that Godown prohibited His servants from taking up arms if the need was dire. “I must say, Lady Sarmas, you seem to be a magnet for followers of Selkow. I’ve never read of a western woman alive who has encountered as many Sworn Acolytes, let alone a priest, and lived.”
“Godown has been gracious, Father, and I have spectacularly bad luck.” The men laughed at the rueful admission.
“Bad luck, perhaps,” the priest repeated, “but also good or bad timing, depending on what you believe.” He looked around the group, meeting everyone’s eyes. “You see, it appears that the worship of Selkow has changed.”
“Changed how?” Ryszard snorted. “They are murdering bastards, just as they have been.”
“Until now, human sacrifice played no role in worship. Killing women who did not believe in Selkow, yes, but it appears that a rogue group of Turkowi and others have declared that Selkow has not granted Protector Tayyip his victories because the offerings to her are insufficient.” Father Jefferson stopped so that his words could sink in.
“The good news is that most priests and Sworn Acolytes disagree, and there is infighting between the two groups within the Turkowi Empire. The bad news is that members of this new sect have begun acting on their own, as you,” he nodded to Matthew and Elizabeth, “have found. And they believe that by killing Imperial women on Imperial soil, they claim the land for Selkow. And that which is once dedicated to Selkow is hers forever. On that both factions agree.”
“Which means even the traditionalists will fight harder to re-conquer Selkow’s land,” Aquila reminded them. He leaned forward, moving the food out of his way. “What concerns me is that Tayyip will take advantage of our distraction with the radicals.” Aquila used his knife to draw an invisible map. “As we fight ‘minor’ incursions here, Tayyip gathers a larger force and comes in from the north so he can prove that Selkow supports the old tradition. We take care of his problem for him, and the radicals weaken us to his benefit.”
“Or, your grace,” Elizabeth ventured, “he does come at us from the south, after having let us wear ourselves out. He sends a distraction along the usual route.” She pointed to the northern end of Aquila’s pretend map, “And then hammers us from down here. If they were planning to make the track through the Dividing Range into a true road, it would explain the amount of gunpowder that exploded.”
“Possible but not likely, Lady Sarmas,” Father Jefferson corrected. “I cannot go into detail, but will simply say that Selkow’s followers will only take that route if no other option exists. They are more likely to blast a tunnel through the Dividing Range than to use that track.”
“Thank you, Father,” she murmured, bowing her head. I wonder why not? Could there be Lander ruins on the back side? Or is it one of those legendary death pits? She shivered and made a blessing sign under the table, just out of sight. She’d always thought those tales about Lander technology gone amuck had been devised to keep children out of ruins, but perhaps… She shivered again.
“The more likely short-term danger is that we will have more incursions, until the snows and after.” Everyone groaned at Aquila’s declaration. “Agreed. And we must be especially careful about erasing any signs of Turkowi worship that we might find. His majesty wants no grounds for any legal claim Tayyip might make that Frankonia could use as an excuse to do something—” He stopped, looking at Elizabeth.
“Your grace, I believe the phrase you wish to use is ‘foolish to the point of being suicidal.’ Or if you prefer, of questionable diplomatic value and dubious long-term outcome.” Which sounds like Laurence in spades, if not in baggage carts.
Ryszard made a very rude sound. “The enemy of my enemy could well be my enemy too.”
Aquila nodded, his mouth full of bread and cheese. After several minutes the duke sighed, adding, “And if my plate were not full enough, Count Windthorst claims that Count Peilov is encroaching on his farmland, and has sent armed men to defend his borders.” He shook his head.
And Starland is married into the Peilov family, Elizabeth remembered. Breakfast turned into a lump in her stomach. Was there something more in Count Windthorst’s timing? No, that is too far beyond belief. There is no way anyone within the empire would even consider such a thing seriously, no matter how nasty the family feuds might be. She scolded herself for even thinking such thoughts.
> The funeral for Lew Margi reminded Elizabeth again of Laurence of Frankonia’s blindness. She recited the service along with the others, grateful that Sister Amalthea had pounded it into her memory. The only difference between what she’d grown up with in Lord Armstrong’s household and what she saw on the plains came at the invocation, when Fr. Jefferson called on St. Gerald and St. Kiara instead of St. François and St. Sabrina.
The bright spring sunshine brought out the best in the land around the ancient graveyard, and Elizabeth heard bird song on the soft, warm wind. “Rest in peace, Lew Margi, faithful servant of Godown and of Aquila Starland, and thy spirit find eternal rest and peace in the love of Godown,” Fr. Jefferson concluded.
“Selah,” the soldiers responded, making the signs of their patrons. Elizabeth mimicked Aquila’s Gerald’s bridge, then touched her forehead to St. Kiara.
Elizabeth watched as the men filled in the hole, then set up the temporary marker. If his family desired it, Lew’s bones would be returned to them to inter in their parish grounds. “Have you composed your letter for his parents and wife?” Aquila asked as they walked back to the camp.
“No, your grace. I have words I wish to say, but have not taken the time to set them down.”
“And what do you wish to say?”
“That he was a good man and a good soldier, that he did his duty, and he died in Godown’s grace defending his land and people.”
“Will you tell them about his fight?”
“I… I do not know, your grace. Is that traditional?”
Aquila looked eastwards. “I will lift up my eyes to the hills, where my refuge lies,” he recited. “No, and depending on what happens in the fight or battle, you might do well to spare them the details.”