Elizabeth of Vindobona (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 3)

by Alma Boykin

  “My lady, what about spoils?” Lt. Brown sounded eager, but then he had a sister to help dower.

  “One quarter, plus any Turkowi banners and the Rajtan’s standard, belongs to the Imperial treasury,” she reminded them. “Of the rest, it will be divided in shares, as is customary.”

  They reviewed everything one last time. Lazlo tapped the map. “Are Counts Kornholt or Albinez going to try and cut off the Turkowi retreat over the bridge?”

  “Not that I know of. His grace does not want to trap the Turkowi too soon. We’re trying to defeat them, not inspire them to rally.” She smiled a little, trying to take the sting out of her words. Lazlo did not know about the attempt underway to mine the bridge and Quill had not given her permission to tell him.

  Lazlo gritted his teeth before dipping his head. She looked around. “Any further questions? I think we’ve plowed this ground until the furrows are four meters deep by now.” The men chuckled despite rising nerves. “Good. Go get some rest, see to your men, and don’t forget to remind them that there will be additional clergy at the sunset liturgy should anyone want to obtain a special blessing or private confession.”

  She slept well that night, almost too well, because the private assigned to be her night guard had to shake her awake. “My lady,” he urged. “My lady, wake up.”

  “Mgrf?” She shook her head, trying to clear the night fuzz. “Thank you,” she croaked. Elizabeth felt under her cot until she found her boots and her spare pair of clean socks. Good socks always made her feel better, and she suspected that by the end of the day she’d need all the energy she could get. She pulled the socks on, dragged on her boots, and levered herself off of the cot. Two of the support troops had the cot stripped almost before she could get away from it. Another soldier handed her a tankard of chokofee. She drank it as she brushed her short hair, secured a cap of unbleached linen onto her head, and began pulling on her padded gambeson. The steel paudrons, chest and back plates, and gorget went on top of the quilted, shirt-like gambeson. She secured her sword belt around her waist and clipped her saber and saddle-knife to their hooks.

  She picked up her helmet, colonel’s baton, and gauntlets, and walked out of the tent. Lazlo had stowed the marshal’s baton and her pistols in her war saddle already. He held Ricardo as she gave the stallion one last inspection. Capt. Krehbiel knelt and offered her his hands. She stepped into them and he boosted her into the war saddle. Once in the seat, it would take something like a lance blow or cannon shot to dislodge her. She locked her saber into its saddle loops, fastened the strap on her helmet, and took the reins from Lazlo. “Thank you, Captain. We’ll see you at Vindobona.”

  “Good riding, my lady, and Godown bless,” he replied, saluting and stepping out of the way.

  They met no Turkowi on the ride to the Zarstrom Valley. Neither did they find any of the farmers or foresters who lived there. Elizabeth searched for signs of chimney or campfire smoke, but saw none. The few huts and farmsteads they rode past looked empty. The fences leaned in places, and in a few cases the charred, doorless walls told the tale of Turkowi raids. The passage of the infantry the day before no doubt encouraged everyone to flee for cover and to hide or carry off their portable valuables and food. Yard fowl scattered out of the road at one point, scaring Ricardo. “You are useless,” Elizabeth scolded him.

  They reached the narrow, lush Zarstrom Valley just at sunset. The now-uneven rows of leaning vine-poles warned that someone had already stripped the vineyards of any ripe grapes. Someone had even grubbed the vegetables and herbs out of the garden behind the charred house, she noticed. No one could forage like hungry soldiers could, she sighed again. They could be as bad as a glitterwing swarm. Not that she expected any better from commoners. Elizabeth patted Ricardo’s neck and turned her attention back to where it should have been.

  Ahead of the soldiers, the high, rugged back of the Vindobona ridge loomed up against the darkening eastern sky, and a glitter of moonlight flickered on the waters of a small stream. The Imperials settled in for a short, uncomfortable night as blood-biters whined in the still night air. After feeding Ricardo a bag of grain, Elizabeth put a grazing muzzle on him before tethering him out in an empty pasture. She found an almost-soft pile of pine needles and slept there, listening to the surprising quiet of the tens of thousands of men huddled in the darkness. One lone fire gleamed, then died as the smudged white stripe of the Foamy River rose over the ridge. She glanced north, to the motionless Herdsman’s Star glittering red through a gap in the tree top, then closed her eyes and sank into dreamless sleep.

  Before dawn the next morning, as soon as they could discern the first hint of false dawn, the Imperial army began climbing the back of the ridge. Ricardo huffed and puffed, unused to the steep terrain. The cavalry horses labored their way through the brush and farm terraces until they reached the crest of the ridge. Elizabeth drew her binoculars out and studied the land ahead of them. Vineyards and a few steep valleys cut the gentle slope, but then nothing stood between the armies except a low, long hill.

  She watched the campfires flickering, red and yellow dots on the still-shadowed ground stretching to Vindobona. “Sweet Godown, that’s enormous,” she breathed. After another long look she stowed the binoculars. Once the men worked their way down the slope, the units would reform at the little hill, Godown willing, for the final attack. She raised her arm and swept it down and forward, urging Ricardo as she did.

  It was slow going, picking their way between vineyards and through the gullies. The Poloki seemed to fall behind and she wondered if they’d gotten into trouble. The smaller Magvi horses wove more easily around and through the obstacles in their path. Trying to maintain any hint of surprise that they could, the men kept as quiet as possible. Elizabeth concentrated on dodging trees and looking for the thin strips of wood and wires stretching across the slope of the vineyards. At least in her section, the Turkowi had chopped down the grapes, making the descent a touch less dangerous for horse and rider. She wanted to go faster. The rising sun already cast long shadows from the tents and ridge ahead of them. The sun’s light part-blinded the riders, and the watchers in the Turkowi camp would have to see the flash of metal and the long stream of riders and men descending towards the Vindobona plains. She prayed for speed and Turkowi blindness.

  Ricardo stumbled, almost throwing her over his head as he tripped on the edge of a ditch. “Easy,” she whispered, working to help him keep his balance and get to his feet. He snorted, scrambled, and then lurched into a bone-shaking trot. The men beside her matched her pace and they swept up onto the low rise. The sleepy guard barely had time to scream before someone sabered him. Two other Turkowi dropped their spears and surrendered but a fourth, hidden by the guards’ house, climbed up to the roof and began sounding a warning horn. Four loud “blat, blaat” calls rang through the air. Then he died. Elizabeth stopped, waiting for the rest of the cavalry to catch up.

  “Make way,” a rough voice called, “make way,” and Major Destefani led a trumpeter-messenger and Matthew Starland up to her position. “Good thing you have those feathers so we can see you, my lady,” Lazlo called, then got out of the way.

  “His grace, sends his greetings and gives you command,” the messenger told her.

  “Horse fell on him. Don’t stop the attack,” Matthew panted.

  Elizabeth pulled the marshal’s baton out of her saddlebag. At that moment, the wood and metal rod weighed as much as the entire world. Elizabeth tucked it into her belt and drew her binoculars, standing in the stirrups and sweeping the lines to either side of her. Everyone seemed more or less in position, and she sat back down. “Destefani, assume command of the Peilovna and Donatello cavalry.” He saluted and drew his saber, turning his horse and riding back to take her usual position in line with the reserves. Godown, guide us all, she prayed. She pulled the baton back out of her belt, raised it, and yelled, “For Godown and St. Gerald, charge!” The messenger sounded the trumpet call.

  The men s
wept down on the Turkowi camp, yelling, sabers flashing. Behind them the infantry swarmed forward, musket rows between pike squares in a bristling checkerboard. If all worked as Duke Starland had planned, the infantry lines would converge into a solid block of concentrated fire aimed at the heart of the Turkowi lines and protected by pike, while the cavalry harassed and blocked the Turkowi cavalry. Elizabeth wanted to ride in with the others. Instead, she stayed on the hill, trying to keep track of the attack. The first puffs of gunpowder appeared in the still morning air. Quill’s plan had counted on the usual west wind starting not long after sunrise, pushing the smoke back into the Turkowi lines but helping the Imperials. Matthew Starland rose in his stirrups, staring into the rising sun. A few deep booms sounded, someone firing larger cannon. Horses screamed, a gap opened in the line near Count Albinez’ position, but men closed ranks, filling the gap. The lines of men and animals rolled forward, starting to stagger as the units encountered resistance. The Poloki seemed to have the most trouble. Harder resistance or rough ground? She pulled out the binoculars and peered that way. A concentrated burst of white smoke showed the problem, but the Poloki pushed on.

  “Damn, I hoped they’d not learned countermarch yet,” Elizabeth hissed. She studied the line again, careful to avoid looking into the still-low sun. Motion to the southeast caught her eye and she turned Ricardo as a messenger galloped up.

  “Duke Starland?”

  Elizabeth raised the baton so he could see it. “I’m in command. What news?”

  He didn’t blink. “My lady, we’ve found Frankonians. Count Jones asks what to do.”

  “Capture them if you can, otherwise kill them. They are enemy combatants. Don’t take chances.”

  “Capture if can, kill otherwise, yes my lady.” He wrenched his panting horse around. The beast tossed foam from its head as it scrambled, then surged into a canter. She watched the messenger for a moment and then returned her attention to the battlefield. The Imperial banners continued advancing, pushing farther and farther into the Turkowi camps, closer and closer to the walls of Vindobona. Now she could see puffs of smoke up high, from the city guns. It’s going too well, she realized. Why are the Turkowi falling back so quickly? This has to be a trap.

  Another messenger cantered up. “My lady, Count Eulenberg sends his greetings. He’s hit heavy resistance.” She looked that way but the acrid powder smoke hid the lines.

  She hesitated, watching the lines. Something nudged her, some memory, and a line from Clausewitz floated up. “Courier,” she barked.

  “My lady?”

  She threw her die, her heart cracking as she ordered, “Tell Major Destefani to take the Donatello reserve and go to Eulenberg. Starland, stay here for now. Courier, tell Destefani that as soon as he gets a breakthrough, he’s to drive as hard as he can, and send a messenger once he reaches the walls.” She had a hunch that she’d found the schwerpunkt. If they could break it, the Turkowi would snap instead of rallying.

  “My lady,” the messenger saluted, and followed the courier. A few minutes later the Donatello cavalry loped off behind them.

  Please Godown may I be right, please holy Godown. Please keep him safe, please. With a hideous effort of will Elizabeth shut aside the pain in her heart and turned her attention to the bridge south of Vindobona, battered but still standing. A few splashes in the water beside it showed the efforts of Vindobona’s gunners, but the structure lay just out of their range. She guessed why and smiled. “Smart. He shifted his guns.”

  “My lady?” Starland asked.

  “Nothing.” She felt a soft, cool touch on the back of her neck, brushing the tiny gap between the collar of her backplate and the base of her helmet. Could it be? A banner shifted oh so slightly beside her, almost venturing to wave. “Ah,” she smiled more broadly. The first wisp of wind caressed her cheek before hurrying eastwards. Soon smoke piled up ahead of the Imperial troops, pushed back into the Turkowi’s eyes.

  She watched, waiting, praying, issuing orders as necessary. Three hours after the initial attack, she heard and felt the atmosphere change. The faint sound of a distant, deep roar washed across the long plains ahead of the reserves and command staff. There, beyond the city, a blood red flag appeared, and another. The Poloki had cut through on the river side, breaking the encirclement!

  Matthew Starland scanned the field, focusing on the western gate of the city. “My Lady, we need to call back the cavalry! The Turkowi are rallying.”

  Elizabeth von Sarmas shook her head. “No, Starland, not yet. We’ve pushed them almost to the river. Just wait. Trust Prince Imre’s judgment.” She lowered her binoculars and studied the sprawl of carnage and chaos lapping against the walls of the city, and bared her teeth in terrible, almost unholy, ferocious joy. You are a fool, Lauri. I trust you realize that? No, His Gracious Majesty Laurence the Fifth, by Grace of Godown King of Frankonia, monarch of the western empire, would never allow himself to admit that perhaps he had made an error of judgment in supporting the Turkowi.

  She heard a horse puffing and blowing, and turned to see Lazlo Destefani riding up the back of the hill. Starland shifted his mount sideways, allowing the other officer to stop even with Elizabeth. “We reached the walls! Count Eulenberg sends his thanks and released us to return in case we’re needed elsewhere. And, my lady, I do believe that, barring the unforeseen, King Laurence is going to regret shipping all that gold overland,” Major Destefani observed, panting, before taking a long drink from his saddle flask. He slapped his gelding’s crest with his free hand.

  “Indeed, Major, indeed.” Elizabeth raised the binoculars to her eyes again, studying the scene with her now-methodical pattern. “The Poloki and the Magvi certainly compliment his majesty’s infantry.”

  Leather creaked as Starland shifted, rising in the stirrups to get a better look at something. “They do. In fact,” he stopped. A dull, rippling boom rolled towards the watchers as a dirty cloud burst up from the Donau Novi bridge. Even from their vantage point, they could see chunks of wood and stone flying up and then back down, splashing into the fast-running water.

  Lazlo gasped, “Was that planned?”

  Elizabeth smiled, not lowering her binoculars. “Yes. King Laurence is going to be very unhappy. High Priest Mukara, Standardbearer of Selkow, may be even unhappier. And unless something truly unprecedented happens in the next hour, Tayyip the Invincible could well share their unhappiness.”

  As she watched the closest end of the bridge, individual splashes appeared in the water as Turkowi soldiers tried to swim for safety in the fast, flooded river. She shook her head, smiling. “May Godown have mercy on you,” she warned, “because I’m not going to.”

  As the battle turned into a rout, Elizabeth stowed her binoculars and kneed Ricardo, turning him to the north. “Lord Starland, stay here until you are certain that the High Priest has not pulled a miracle out from under his veil. Major, come with me. Let’s see if his grace the Archduke is at home.” And if I do not see the looting, then I do not know about it, she laughed inside her mind. Her men and the residents of Vindobona had more than earned the right to “liberate” the Selkowaki portable treasury. Lauri, you truly are a fool. I’ve been waiting ten years for this day. Condemn me to death by convent, would you? Godown be praised for your stubbornness.

  Elizabeth, Lazlo, and a small guard trotted down the hill, turning a little north. They found the first dead Turkowi four kilometers from the walls and slowed, picking their way between clumps of dead bodies and collapsed tents. Moans and faint screams rose from some of the badly wounded Turkowi and Imperials. The smell of human and animal waste filled the air and she fought the urge to flee. Her usual post-battle nausea began to sour her stomach and she swallowed hard. No, she scolded herself. Not anymore. You can’t throw up in a corner yet. A few civilians appeared, staying well clear of the riders. The thin, ragged men carried knives and bags, and a few of the soldiers made sounds of disgust.

  “Would you rather listen to Turkowi screams all ni
ght?” She snapped, irritated.

  “No, my lady, but,” he subsided as the others glared at him. He looked young, unused to the misery of the battlefield.

  Soon they came into the trenches, the lines dug for the sappers and the troops closer to the walls, within range of Archduke Lewis’s guns. More dead, some blasted to pieces, littered the muddy-bottomed ditches. The riders advanced with care, weaving their way between the trenches to reach the mostly-undamaged road.

  They stopped at the edge of the Lander road. “Shit and damnation,” one of the men cursed with awe. The outer bastion wall sported a large hole, only part-refilled with rubble and timber cribbing. Bloated bodies and fly-covered body parts lay at the foot of the bastion, in the deep trench of the dry moat. A classic, textbook model for a zig-zag trench led back, away from the dry moat and into the Turkowi camp. Broken weapons lay here and there amid the rubble. The inner bastion, also damaged, looked better, but she could see where the city wall had suffered. A deep crack traced up from the foundations almost the full height of the grey stones, unneeded proof of the city’s near loss. Cold washed down her back and she shivered before making the sign of St. Gerald’s bridge.

  They rode on, into a stream of civilian men pouring out to loot and scavenge. “Make way,” some of the soldiers called, pushing the cheering mass apart. “Make way for Colonel Sarmas.”

  A familiar, irritated, voice called over the crowd, “About time you got here, Sarmas. You’ll be late to your own wedding,” Archduke Lewis grinned down from the wall above the battered gate.

  She and Lazlo burst into laughter. When she recovered, Elizabeth called up, “You’d better have left me some pfeaches. I warned you never, ever to touch those trees, your grace.”

  “Woman, if that’s all you can bother to think about, Duke Starland is going to get an earful from my dear wife,” he called back. Now that she could see him, Elizabeth had to blink. Hunger and stress had tempered him, paring Lewis until he looked exactly like Emperor Rudolph’s dirty, scruffy twin. Lewis turned and said something to the soldier beside him, then disappeared. Elizabeth and the others waited and he reappeared, this time at the base of the wall. The growing crowd parted ahead of him and people cheered.