by Alma Boykin
“Eulenberg, you and Kornholt will lead the charge against the forces at the old bridge. Don’t stop once you get this end cleared,” she warned. “I want you across and wreaking havoc before the Turkowi realize what hit them.” Theirs would be the greatest risk, but also the greatest glory if they survived. If the spies were right, Eulenberg and Kornholt should have minimal difficulty.
“How close behind me will you be?” Kornholt inquired.
“I’ll be with his Highness,” she nodded to Imre. “We’re coming five minutes behind you. His troops will finish securing this end of the old bridge, then cross and support you as you grab the pontoon bridge. I’ll be taking this end of the pontoon bridge. The reason being, if the Turkowi have mined one of the bridges I suspect it will be the pontoon bridge, since that one can carry the heavier loads, and destroying the pontoons and ropes takes less work than trying to blow up the piers of the old bridge.”
Eulenberg seemed satisfied with that. Prince Imre frowned and stroked his short brown beard. “And if the pontoon bridge is mined, Sarmas?”
She chuckled without humor. “Then you’ll get to see if Donatello horses fly as well as Archduke Lewis claims they do. I have my doubts, but don’t tell him that.”
Count Albinez winced. “Sarmas, that’s not funny. I saw the sea raiders mine the wall at Pierburg.”
“No, it’s not funny, not now. And you’ll be the follow-up and mop up, as well as reserve. Once we secure both ends of the bridges, we’ll camp until the infantry reaches the bridges, then we’ll start for Esterburg.”
The afternoon had turned misty and cloudy by the time everyone fed and watered their horses, checked weapons and reported to their NCOs and officers. Elizabeth met with the war-chief one last time. They clasped forearms. “Godown be with you, and thank you for your assistance,” she said. “We will help you regain your land from Selkow, I give you my word.”
He smiled, revealing the crooked teeth hiding behind his thick black and white beard. “Then I will see you again, Elizabeth von Sarmas, warrior and daughter of warriors. Perhaps my son will need a wife by then.”
They released each other and Karleskoo mounted his light, high-strung mare, turning her without using the reins and leading his men into the woods. Elizabeth watched them go. Then Lazlo gave her a lift as she mounted Ricardo. Imre Sobieski shook his head. “You should not need help, Sarmas.”
“I do not need it, your highness. I prefer it.”
His expression darkened and he growled something she couldn’t quite hear. Then he stalked away to where another Poloki held his stallion and swung into the saddle with easy grace that made Elizabeth sigh with envy. Lazlo, now mounted, rode up beside her and watched Imre riding back to take his position at the rear of the group. “His highness will be pleased to fight on his own.”
She settled her saber and confirmed that she could reach both pistols without having to stretch. “Indeed, Major. His highness prefers not to deal with the complications of, what’s the word?” She thought for a moment, then sounded out the unfamiliar word, “Coalition warfare, I believe it is called.”
“So-ah lit-ion?” Lazlo repeated. “I’ll have to remember that, my lady.”
The bulk of the cavalry approached as close as they could without alerting the Turkowi to their presence. The bridges sat on one of the few wide places on this side of the river. Here the hills dropped almost straight down into the Donau Novi, leaving at best a kilometer of passable ground for roads and bridges. But at Geraldspont the west bank opened out, providing almost two kilometers of ground between the woods and the water. The eastern side of the fast-flowing river boasted water meadows and two gentle terraces before the hills, lower than on the west, began again. For that reason, the town sat on the east and only a small guard post covered the western edge, depending on the guns on the hilltop to protect the bridges. The Imperials had managed to carry off or spike the guns when they retreated, Godown be praised, and the Turkowi had burned, looted, and all-but leveled the town. They’d not replaced the guns, or so her spies swore.
They heard gunshots, then faint, hair curling screams and yells. “Eulenberg, Kornholt, go,” she barked, backing Ricardo out of the way as the horses began thundering past. A courier followed the first wave, and the others began advancing at the walk. Five terribly long minutes later, as gunshots grew fainter and the battle cries quieter, the courier galloped back. “They’re across,” he called.
“Your highness?” She bowed in the saddle. Imre snapped his helmet visor down and kicked his big bay charger into a canter, saber drawn. The men behind him carried lances as well as pistols and other weapons. As soon as the last red-clad Poloki rushed past, Elizabeth and Lazlo nudged their mounts. Ricardo needed no encouragement and he lurched into a canter.
They swept up the road and around the last curve, plunging into the heart of the fighting. Elizabeth drew her saber and before Lazlo could stop her she rode straight for the guards on the pontoon bridge, ignoring the fighting around the Lander bridge and at the guards’ shelters. “Godown!” she screamed, “Godown and Babenburg!” Ricardo called as well and she caught the first guard still raising his musket. She swept her saber down, almost cutting his head off, and continued past onto the pontoon bridge. Ricardo’s hoofs beat a hollow rhythm as they cantered across the soft, floating surface. She heard bullets go past. “Ping,” a bullet hit her shoulder armor. She could see Kornholt’s men fighting with the guards at the eastern end. Three of the Turkowi knelt, aiming muskets at her. “Godown and Babenburg,” she called again, riding straight for them.
At the last instant Ricardo swerved hard to the left and she pushed him into a jump, cutting across the edge of the bridge and landing on the bank. She heard a horse scream behind her and hoped it wasn’t Lazlo’s. Then Ricardo was turning and she urged him back into the fray, slashing at the Turkowi soldiers. She counted for two more before forcing herself out of the battle, riding clear so she could see more.
The land climbed just a little on the eastern end of the bridges and she pushed Ricardo up the slope, then stopped. Albinez and his men seemed to have the western side secure, and the flashes of bright color among the riders told her that the Magvi had descended from the hill to help. Now the fighting concentrated at the eastern end of the bridges, more so around the pontoon bridge, as she’d suspected. Several Poloki rode past her, joining the fight at the pontoon bridge. All at once the surviving Turkowi, trapped, tried to surrender but the Imperials and Poloki showed no mercy. They couldn’t really, and no one wanted to wake up with a slit throat when a prisoner got free. A riderless Turkowi horse trotted up to Ricardo and Elizabeth managed to catch the beast.
It was good that she had. Lazlo, very much worse for wear, his armor dented at the shoulder and his arm dripping blood, limped up to her not long after. He saluted and sat down where he stood. “I hate firearms.”
Prince Imre, also battered, stalked up, grabbed the Turkowi horse’s reins from Elizabeth, and mounted, returning to the battle. Another Imperial soldier came out of the battle, his horse limping, and joined Elizabeth. Soon a Donatello soldier found them, and another, and the Imperials reformed. A man from Peilovna rode up and saluted. “My lady, we captured their remuda intact.”
“Very well done!” Lazlo used Ricardo’s leg as a prop and got back to his feet. She inquired, hiding her fear, “Are you going to survive, Major?”
“Yes. I hate firearms, my lady.”
The low clouds blew out just before sundown and the night turned cold. Elizabeth decided to sleep out of the wind, in the ruins of Geraldspont town. The men had stripped every bit of Turkowi religious material out of the enemy’s quick-built barracks, making a bonfire of the altar, scrolls, and image of Selkow. Elizabeth recited the Liturgy of Purification and invoked Godown’s blessing on the buildings after the idol and “holy books” had been burned. The wounded stayed in the now-clean barracks, while the others camped or stood watch. Out of five hundred cavalry, not counting the Magvi, she
’d lost four dead and thirty-seven wounded, ten of those badly enough that they could not ride.
The horses fared worse and the Turkowi animals just barely made up for the lost Imperial and Poloki mounts. Prince Imre found a spirited grey gelding that suited his temper and claimed it. Lazlo opted for the quiet, unremarkable brown gelding he discovered scratching its rear against a shed. It fit his tack. “A beast’s a beast, my lady.” His own mount had been shot out from under him, taking two of the three musket rounds that Elizabeth and Ricardo had dodged.
Lazlo’s arm wound proved to be shallow but long, and he cleaned it well before putting a bandage on it. They found a moment to cuddle in the ruins, glad of each other’s survival. Then they returned to their duties. He volunteered to take the first watch over the wounded. Elizabeth would take the last watch, and so she now lay on her back, staring up at the cloud-faded stars. One man would die, she knew. He’d taken a hard blow to the helmet that had pushed metal into bone and bone into brain. No churigon could do anything once that happened. Godown be with him, please. Make his passing easy and have mercy. He was a good man. Then she dozed off, too tired to feel the rocks and bits of wood under her.
9
The Siege of Esterburg
When he finished reciting the latest information, Lt. Nicholson half-whined, “So, where is Mukara and the army?”
Elizabeth did not know and that ignorance irritated her almost beyond measure. If she had not been so tired, she’d have bitten Lt. Nicholson’s head off for using that tone of voice. Instead she thanked him and dismissed him once he’d given the outriders’ report. Fists on hips, she glared down at her maps, trying to force the Turkowi army to appear through sheer force of her will. The imperial army had ridden halfway to Esterburg and still found no sign of High Priest Mukara or his men. Perhaps by a miracle of Godown the ground had opened and swallowed him? Alas, no; the period of true miracles had ended, or so the priests averred, because Godown’s children had grown strong and wise enough to care for themselves. A little help would still be appreciated, though, Elizabeth thought towards Godown.
Captain Will Krehbiel’s hand appeared in her view as he traced the route to Esterburg with one finger. “At least we do not have to worry about things going too smoothly, my lady Colonel.”
The other officers and even the guards outside the farmhouse door laughed. It broke the tension that had built since Nicholson’s arrival, and Elizabeth straightened up, smiling. “An excellent point, Captain.” They’d suffered from a sudden rash of bad food, wet nights, horses going lame or colicking, and yesterday both a supply wagon and an artillery carriage had broken axels within minutes of each other. “Although I suspect the horses are laming themselves out of spite.”
“We are keeping them out of winter pasture, my lady,” Krehbiel replied, deadpan. “And you sent the mares away.”
That brought even more laughter and she rolled her eyes, looking to the ceiling. Godown bless men and stallions. “Are you suggesting that we’ll find Mukara hiding in a herd of mares, Captain?” After a few moments she raised her hand, quieting the laughter and rude comments. “Enough. Given that we have found no trace of the Turkowi’s main force, we will continue as planned. Sparli, Martin, Black, Han, we’re going to outpace you again. I’m leaving couriers with you, so if you find our missing High Priest, you can send word.” They’d also forage more effectively out from under her eyes.
Captain Hans Sparli nodded. “Yes, my lady Colonel. Do we keep the supply wagons, too?”
“Most of them.” She turned back to Krehbiel. “I want you to get five of your fastest teamsters, and I mean fast without flogging the horses to death. They will go with the artillery, behind the cavalry. We are going to push as hard and fast as we can to get to Esterburg while we still have momentum and before Mukara can regain his wind or his nerve.”
A voice from the back of the group added, “Or before he’s pushed aside by someone with more experience. The Rajtan doesn’t like failure.”
“An excellent observation.” That seemed to have covered the foreseeable problems. “Anything anyone can add to this discussion?”
Count Irwin Kossuth, Duke Jan’s cousin and heir, raised a finger. “Yes. Before I left the highlands, there were rumors that rinderpest, a sheep version, had appeared in Tivolia along with the Turkowi, Colonel. It could just be a rumor, Godown willing, but it might be wise to leave the sheep alone, and to keep away from any cattle that act or look odd.”
Elizabeth shivered and several of the men made signs of St. Gerald, St. Michael-Herdsman, and St. Basil Pastor. “Thank you, my lord. I think that is a very good idea indeed.” She met everyone’s eyes. “Tell your men, and remind them that they will be walking and carrying their own kit and supplies, and pulling the guns, if our beasts get sick.” Not that it would make much difference to a hungry soldier, but there was always hope.
The next day Elizabeth rode out at the head of the cavalry. She liked the looks of the landscape around them, neither too flat nor too rugged, with just enough roll and slope that it drained well. Thick patches of still-green grass covered the unplowed pastures, and rows of trees, a few sporting the last flush of autumn’s crimson and gold, marked the streams. A bluish line on the eastern horizon hinted at the presence of the Dividing Range, now looming just out of sight. The gray, dusty road could have been wider, and not so rutted, but Count Kossuth had warned her that it was in prime condition at the moment. Once the winter set in, they’d do better to travel overland. The soil turned to slick, thick, clinging mud, even worse than to the north, and the wet roads transformed into long, straight morasses.
That soil explained the low population, or at least lower than Elizabeth thought there should be, even allowing for the refugees and people now hiding from both armies. “Takes too much effort to break out a field, my lady, and then the raw land only gives good wheat. Anything else sours the soil, or drowns in it,” Kossuth had explained. “And wheat needs a fallow every fourth year. If you add sand, lots of it, and manure, then you can grow other things, but that takes time. So we raise wheat, sheep, and good mudder horses,” with thick necks, strong legs, and stamina instead of speed. Elizabeth had made a note to inquire about crossing a few of Archduke Lewis’s jacks with some of the mares, to see what the results might be for draft mules. She could never get enough good draft mules.
Thinking of mules and other stubborn individuals… She looked east again, trying to see through the rolling hills. She had not heard from the Poloki for almost ten days. Which, she assumed, meant that Crown Prince Imre had not run into the Turkowi Army. Don’t assume anything, she scolded herself, you know what happened to that patrol in the Hunter Hills that never returned. She shuddered a little at the memory of what the Turkowi had left for the Starland men to find. It had been several days before any of them could bear to watch meat roasting again. Braun, her spare horse, shifted under her and she checked him without thinking. He sidled the other way and she finally took notice of her surroundings.
Ugh. She made St. Gerald’s bridge across her chest, warding off the Turkowi’s evil, before pulling her binoculars out of their pouch and looking down the road. Ahead of her, grey tracks and large, thorny trees stretched east and west, marking a cross roads with some houses or a house-inn. A light breeze carried an all-too familiar burnt, sour smell. The stench of decay cut through the smoky scent. Black soot and char marred what had been whitewashed walls, now roofless, with empty windows that gaped even in daylight. Of the barn and stables or cowshed only a pile of burnt timber remained, although at least part the haystacks seemed salvageable, Elizabeth decided. Unless the Turkowi had fouled them with bodies and dung, as they’d been known to do, like they fouled the wells.
Count Kossuth trotted up to ride beside her. “We’ll find bodies,” he warned. “You might want to stop here, my lady, until we can clear the remains.”
“I’ve probably seen as bad or worse,” she growled. “I rode with Starland when the fanatics were cr
ossing the mountains, ten years ago.”
Irwin Kossuth shrugged before gesturing to the men behind to ride with him. They sped to a trot before slowing again as they got within sight of the south side of the buildings. Two of their horses shied, unwilling to go any closer to something. Thus warned, Elizabeth steeled herself for what they’d found.
She took a long, hard look at the remains, found a semi-private corner, and vomited until her nose ran and she could hardly see for the tears. Then she wiped her face, rinsed her mouth with some of the water she carried with her, and began inspecting the site for any information about how long ago the Turkowi had passed through. She found tracks, but only old ones, and those muddled by rain. “My lady, the cellar looks intact,” someone called.
“Look, but be careful.”
Count Kossuth rejoined her, where she waited on the far side of the crossroads. “This is why we don’t kill Turkowi quickly,” he snarled. “Make them pay for what they do to us.”
“The Magvi share your habits, my lord.” But I’m not sure I could do it. I can kill, but torture? Perhaps I’ve been too well trained that Godown is to take revenge for me, she sighed.
“And no quarter if the garrison won’t surrender,” he warned.
“Of course not,” she snapped. “That’s the law: no quarter for any soldier or civilian within the walls and three days free rein for the soldiers unless a counterattack is sighted.” As if anyone could prevent the soldiers from looting, murder, and rapine after a long siege, she snorted. Too long pent up and having to sit around being rained on, bombarded with shot from the fortress or city, on short rations, and with disease in camp, once their commanders turned the men loose, no force short of Godown could stop them.
The cellar held only two barrels of whiteroots, hidden behind the remains of several bales of fleeces. The whiteroots, baked in the campfires, tasted fine and no one took sick. Just to be safe, the men had discarded the layer on the top of the barrels and washed the roots in the stream before cooking them.