Elizabeth of Starland (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 1)

by Alma Boykin

  A short, scrawny man Aquila’s age replied, “Four thousand. We were finishing summer training when the word came.”

  “Excellent! You are the center, with Peilov and Jones to the north, your cavalry on the appropriate wings if you have any.” Aquila looked around and the officers nodded or otherwise gestured their assent. “This is what we’ve trained for, so there should not be more surprises than usual.” Grim laughter filled the tent.

  “Assuming Tayyip plays along, Quill,” Duke Theobald Peilov sniffed once the laughter faded.

  “He may not want to, but unless he has discovered some of the flying machines of legend, he has to play by the terrain’s rules, at least until he gets out of the pass.”

  Elizabeth caught herself frowning as she studied the map. They have not played by the rules thus far. Even supposedly constrained by the topography. But she held her peace.

  Aquila looked around for further questions. “Ah, Sarmas. You and a group of Montoya’s Wandertruppen will secure the secondary route. Before you protest or ask why, the reason is the Convent of St. Sabrina. It is a refuge convent and must be evacuated.” Several of the men groaned.

  Elizabeth bowed slightly. “I will do my best, your grace.” Oh, St. Kiara, may your light show me the clear way.

  There were a few more questions, and then Aquila gave the marching orders. “You are dismissed, except for Sarmas.” As the others filed out, talking amongst themselves, Aquila beckoned her. “Sarmas, a word with you, then go to Count Montoya. You’re on detached duty with him until I say otherwise.”

  “Yes, your grace.” She turned and hissed to Lazlo, “Wait outside, please.” He nodded and followed the nobles out.

  Aquila sat down and gestured for her to come closer. “You have something to tell me?”

  “Yes, your grace, and given the current situation, I did not feel confident putting it in the general reports.” She reached into her skirt and removed the bag with her finds in it. “These came from the bodies of two of the women killed this summer.” She unrolled the embroidered bands and draped them on the table. “And we found these in the pouch of a Turkowi scout a week and a day ago.” She set out the badges. “I suspect a third woman was also from the Windthorst area, or at the very least she was not Starland.”

  “And?”

  She took a deep breath and told her hands to quit shaking. “Your grace, can you tell me if there have been any reports of women kidnapped or otherwise missing from Windthorst or neighboring lands?”

  “I cannot.”

  She waited for him to elaborate. Aquila remained silent, the lines on his face deeper than she remembered, eyes dark and unreadable. She curtsied. “Thank you, your grace. Do you wish to keep these?”

  “No. Hold them for the present, Lady Sarmas. But I need to have that star knife. Send Lazlo back with it, and have him give it to me, not to anyone else.”

  “Send the star knife with Lazlo, to you,” she repeated back.

  She could almost feel his eyes trying to look through her, searching for something. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else?”

  “No, your grace. Given the delicate nature of the matter, I judged it best to keep my thoughts to myself.” She returned the items to their pouch and slid it back into the hidden bag under her skirt.

  “A wise decision. Be warned—Franconia is not well thought of, especially now. Duke Grantholm is not here because at the moment he is staring at part of the Frankonian army, near the Bergenlands, forcing them to abide by the peace treaty.” Aquila frowned and pointed at her. “There are some who believe that any Frankonian is corrupt and untrustworthy.”

  She nodded. “I will bear that in mind, your grace. And allow me to offer congratulations on the newest addition to your family.”

  A smile bloomed on Aquila’s face. “Thank you. Marie is doing well, as is Roland Rudolph. You may go, and may St. Gerald protect you.”

  She curtsied again. “Godown guide your hand and grant you the victory.”

  She found Lazlo not exactly hovering outside the door, but close. “My lady, you really should not go through camp without Gary or I with you,” he insisted.

  “I discovered that, Lazlo,” she sighed. “So, where do we find Count Montoya?”

  A tenor voice called, “Over here.” The two Starlanders walked over and found Jeronimo Montoya studying a map. “What do you know about mountain fighting?”

  “Take the high ground, mules trump horses, weather is your enemy, gravity is not your friend, and allow at least three times as much time as you think it will take to get anywhere, my lord,” she recited. “And camp above the remuda, not below it, especially if it looks like rain.”

  The older man smiled. “That’s a good start. I’ll fill you in on the way to the Montoya encampment. And Lord Matthew already sent a messenger to have your gear relocated, Lady Sarmas.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” After they walked through the inner part of the encampment, Elizabeth ventured, “Forgive my curiosity, my lord, but how old are you?”

  “Thirty five.” He smiled again. “My hair turned gray when I was ten, after a fever, and I’ve been stoop-shouldered since a draft horse threw me when I was sixteen. In case you ever wondered, you cannot jump an Oberlander over a two-meter fence. He stopped, I kept going. Cleared the fence very well, or so I’m told, but I landed on my neck and shoulders. Woke up two weeks later and am damn lucky to be alive.”

  Lazlo coughed. “My father tried crossing Oberlanders with a mammoth jack, my lord. He’ll never do it again.”

  “Too smart?”

  “Yes, my lord. As smart as the Oberlander, as stubborn as the donkey, and too strong for anyone’s good.”

  Elizabeth considered the animal. “Sounds like the ideal heavy artillery mule, Lazlo.”

  Both men stared at her. Lazlo shook his head. “My lady, this beast made Snowy seem like a handmaid of St. Guinnora.”

  “Oh.” Even she might not be up to dealing with that much recalcitrant equine.

  It took just under half an hour to walk to the Montoya camp. By the time they got there, Elizabeth’s long days caught up with her, and she started yawning. No, not if you are going to be around Wandertruppen, she snarled at herself.

  “Sabino!” Count Montoya called. A handsome man with bright green eyes emerged from behind a dull-colored tent. “Sabino, Lady Elizabeth von Sarmas and her aid Lazlo Destefani.”

  The stranger studied Elizabeth from scuffed boots to scraggly hair. “The Elizabeth von Sarmas who rode across the continent on a killer mule and killed a priest of Selkow?”

  She shook her head. “No, the cannon killed the priest. I killed two Sworn Acolytes, and that’s only because the so-called killer mule panicked when a pistol went off a few meters from him.”

  “Close enough for the rumor tree, my lady,” Sabino bowed. “Your tent and beasts are in the corner, there, my lady.”

  She started to ask a question, but stopped when someone yelled, “Ow! Damn mule, Godown blast you, what the fook is the matter with you, you white bastard.” Lazlo choked as he tried to smother a laugh.

  Elizabeth sighed, “By your leave, my lord?” Montoya, obviously curious, nodded.

  She led the group to where the voice continued, “Stupid fook of a mule. Stand still or I’ll turn you into camp stew.” Snowy sidled out of reach as far as his picket rope allowed, twisting so he could aim a kick at the man.

  “Snowy, quit,” Elizabeth called. The mule stopped moving. She decided to have some fun, and she walked up and began petting Snowy’s nose, cooing like a little girl, “Oh, who’s a good little mule? You’re such a sweet little mule, aren’t you? Yes, yes, you are.” Snowy took the attention as if it were his due, slobbering on her jacket. After making sure she could keep a straight face, she looked up. “Is there a problem?” She fluttered her eyes, looking as young and harmless as she dared.

  Lazlo couldn’t hold his laughter in any longer. Jeronimo Montoya covered his eyes with his hand, and Sabino looked
from Lazlo to Elizabeth and Snowy, utterly confused. The farrier spat with disgust.

  “Right.” Elizabeth sobered. “Snowy will fight. Snowy bites. He kicks. If you need to examine him or work on his shoes, let me know and Lazlo or I will hold him. He is a sucker for pinkroot tops.” She bent down and picked up the right front hoof, showing the farrier. “I apologize for the disturbance, my lord.”

  Count Montoya, eyes twinkling, nodded. “I’m glad to see part of the legends are true, at least concerning the mule. Do you ride him in battle?”

  “Not intentionally, my lord. He is a mule, not a war horse.” The men all nodded.

  After finding their portion of the Montoya encampment, Elizabeth passed the star knife to Lazlo and sent him back to Duke Aquila. Jeronimo Montoya had told her to rest the next few hours. “I’ll introduce you to the men later. Sabino will have let them know that you are with us.” She dozed until Lazlo returned, then fell completely asleep.

  Three days later she caught the pommel of Malcom’s saddle as he staggered in the slippery mud. I’m never letting a good mud horse out of my grip ever again. Rain and storms the night before had made the trails in the Garibey Hills dangerously slick and the Imperials had already lost a packhorse down a cliff. The men of the Wandertruppen had cursed but time did not permit them to salvage the supplies.

  Tayyip’s general had declined to wait for Duke Aquila. The enemy had gotten at least one artillery piece up into the forest above the pass, forcing Montoya to divide his Wandertruppen, sending some after the cannon and the rest with Elizabeth to evacuate the convent. Malcom plodded around a small bend in the trail and Elizabeth spotted the wall of that convent ahead of them. Yes, it is a wonderful place to be left alone.

  Except that neither the Turkowi nor the Imperials could leave the Retired Sisters of St. Sabrina alone. Sabino caught Elizabeth’s eye and she urged Malcom forward, weaving past trees and soldiers both to reach the head of the group. “Good defensive position,” the Wandertruppen captain observed.

  “Indeed. Wonder if the walls are thick enough for cannon,” Lazlo half-asked.

  Elizabeth flinched, pained by the idea of using the buildings as artillery emplacements. She frowned as she dismounted, unhappy with the men’s disrespectful attitude. She brushed the dirt off as best she could and approached a small, narrow wooden door in the blank plaster wall. After brushing off again, she tapped on the portal with the end of her riding stick.

  “Who seeks entrance?” A woman’s muffled voice called through the wood.

  “Elizabeth, a messenger.”

  “Are you a sojourner or do you seek retirement?”

  How best to answer? “I am neither. I am a messenger.”

  “Wait.” She stepped back from the door and waited. The men had dismounted and found defensive positions along the trail and in the open area near the convent walls. Lazlo started to approach and she shooed him back. The sister on duty might not even open the door if she caught a glimpse of a man of the world.

  She heard wood scraping on wood and turned back to the door. It opened a fraction, allowing someone to look out. “Elizabeth messenger, you may come in.”

  It took some effort but she managed to squeeze through the barely-open door. Once inside, Elizabeth waited until the porteress had shut and barred the door before looking up at her surroundings. Paintings of the life of St. Sabrina covered the walls of the courtyard, done in pastel shades. Or were they just faded? Elizabeth had no time to study them, as the porteress led her farther into the convent. She pointed and Elizabeth ducked under a low doorframe, into the Mother Superior’s office.

  “You have a message, my daughter?”

  Elizabeth bowed low to the old woman in a deep red habit of a retired sister. “Yes, Reverend Mother. A force of Turkowi soldiers is en route through the Coulmain Pass, and I have been sent with Imperial soldiers to bring you and your daughters to safety.”

  The Mother Superior’s serene expression did not change with the news. “There is no need. Godown and St. Sabrina will protect us. The Turkowi have never offended these walls.”

  “Reverend Mother, that has been true in the past, and Godown willing, it will remain true. But things have changed among the followers of Selkow, and it is not safe for you to stay. They will murder you all on Selkow’s altar.” If you are lucky.

  Now the old woman frowned ever so slightly and raised an admonishing finger at Elizabeth, who quailed at the reproof. “St. Sabrina protects this house. We are a retired community and shall remain so. Godown’s will be done.”

  That was that. Elizabeth bowed again. “By your leave, your reverence,” and she backed out of the low doorway. The red-clad porteress unbarred the door and opened it just enough to allow the young woman to squeeze back out. Lazlo, Sabino, and one of the sergeants met her. “They are not leaving.”

  “My lady, you told them what is coming?” Sabino demanded.

  “Yes, I told them that the Turkowi are on the way and that the worshippers of Selkow will kill them. The reverend mother refuses to leave.”

  “Then we will have to remove them,” he groaned.

  She shook her head. “We can’t. They will not leave.”

  “You spoke with all the sisters?”

  “No, only the reverend mother. Only she can speak with outsiders, male or female. These are retired sisters,” she explained. The men gave her blank looks. “They have retired from the world. They do not leave the grounds or speak with anyone, unless it is the priest who has been assigned to come and bring supplies.”

  “All the more reason for us to evacuate them,” Sabino growled.

  “No. The reverend mother said no and I can’t force her to change her mind, assuming the others would follow her out.”

  “My lady, why not go back in, then open the door so we can…” Lazlo stopped as Elizabeth stared at him in horror.

  “No! That’s blasphemy!” She gasped. “I can’t allow that.” Sister Amalthea’s warnings about disobedience echoed in her memory. The mother superior had spoken and there was nothing left to be done but defend the convent from outside.

  “Why not?” Sabino pressed.

  “Because Reverend Mother’s word is law. I cannot gainsay her any more than you can disobey your priest.” She heard muttering and muted laughter from behind her and wondered what was going on.

  Lazlo hissed something in Sabino’s ear, and the captain gave Elizabeth an odd look, as if suddenly learning a bit of critical information. “One moment, my lady.” Sabino bowed a little, then walked with Lazlo over to the picket area, deep in conversation.

  Elizabeth used the time to walk around the outer wall of the convent, looking at the layout, and then to check on Malcom. He seemed to have recovered from the trek up into the mountains. Why do they not understand, she wondered as she picked a stone out of one hoof. I do not have the authority to order sisters around, even if I am a woman. Especially not retired sisters; they held special legal rights that even other orders could not infringe. She could never take up that life, she knew. Nor could most women, which was why Elizabeth could only think of one or two retired convents in all of the Empire and Frankonia. All the sisters had born at least three children who lived to age twelve, then had obtained permission from their husbands and families to leave the world, renouncing all claims, never leaving the convent walls except in death, if then. Their lives centered on prayer. It is said that their prayers keep the Fires at bay. Or so Sister Amalthea had once assured her charge.

  The men returned. “We can’t abandon them.” Sabino sounded resigned or disgusted. Elizabeth couldn’t tell. “So now what, my lady?”

  “Unless the Turkowi can fly, they cannot approach from that side,” she pointed to the rear, opposite the wall with the door. “The wall stops one meter from the edge of a cliff: a very long cliff, or so it looked from up here. So I suggest,” she caught her words, changing them. “We will take positions up there, and back here.”

  “Are you assuming that the
Turkowi won’t climb?”

  “What does it gain them to climb if there are trails? Look for yourself, Captain, but I do not think the Turkowi would get very far up that cliff before it comes down on their heads.”

  As she thought, he went and looked. He came back, curiosity satisfied. “The convent will be going over that cliff in a few years, but no Turkowi can reach it from behind.”

  As Lazlo, Elizabeth, and Sabino studied the terrain, one of the men trotted up the slope to them. He sketched a salute and warned, “Time’s up, my lady, Captain. Turkowi cutting our trail, two kilometers back, maybe farther.”

  Sabino turned to her, “Very well. My lady?”

  She thought through their options. According to her map, the trail up the mountain led to a dead end in another treeless meadow not far above the convent’s flat. No one could come up the cliff to attack the back of the convent. Would the Turkowi try flanking the convent by avoiding the trail? She doubted it. That’s too much effort for such a small target. “Back to the two big rocks, I think, unless you saw better defensive terrain. We leave a few men here, but most of us center on the rocks. The attackers will have trouble leaving the trail before then, and once past the rocks, it’s that narrower, cut-up trail, so we can fall back onto the second ambush if they get through.”

  No one argued with her. The men divided themselves into three groups: a few advance scouts, the main group of troops, and a few men who prepared the ground for an ambush where the trail passed through the defile. By now Elizabeth knew better than to try and micromanage anything. She stayed out from under foot, looking over the map and trying to anticipate the Turkowi commander’s next move. OK, why are they on this trail? What do they gain besides the convent? An overlook? Was that it? The next time Lazlo looked her way she jerked her head back, signaling for him to join her.

  “Did you notice any places where the trail overlooked the battlefield or the pass?”

  “Not the pass, no, my lady,” and he turned, staring through the trees. “Stay here,” and he scurried off through the brush beneath the trees. She waited, shifting position to catch some of the breeze blowing up from the lower ground. As hot as it was up here, it had to be miserable in the valley below. Especially in armor, which led to another thought.