by Alma Boykin
Matthew growled and added a stick to the small fire. It was the Turkowi who started everything going wrong, of course. He could still remember even the smells of the council room that next spring, when he was fourteen. A mixture of spring’s wet soil, garlic, and the herbs used to chase out the fug of too many people who washed their clothes with moth-killing oil had filled the close-packed chamber. Master Tibor Jaros, a spice merchant and now head of the Oligarchs’ Council, had frowned at Leo from the head of the long council table in the guildhall meeting room in the city hall at Morloke City. “There are reports of Turkowi north of the river in Scheel, Count Malatesta,” he’d half-whispered. His hissing voice, a legacy of surviving child-choke fever, bright narrow eyes, and long, thin fingers at the end of sinewy arms made him look like a snake. And Matthew trusted the man about as far as he’d trust a stink snake.
Leo, arms folded, had nodded. “They are going to try and interdict the trade route from New Dobri to Sabraton and north. Not only would it stop your goods, but also cuts off our access to the Freistaadter at the moment, since the overland route is,” he’d made a curving gesture with one hand before crossing his arms again. Matthew and several of the merchants had made saints’ signs, mostly St. Michael-Herdsman and St. Basil-Pastor. Rinderpest stalked the mountains between Tivolia and the Freistaadter, striking cattle and horses alike. Even the Turkowi steered clear, or so rumor had it, preferring to risk raiding the Empire via the dry, barren Donau Novi Valley to the east rather than lose all their animals to an invisible killer. That left sea trade, and New Dobri and Marksport all but overflowed with goods and people trying to get back and forth to and from the Thumb and places beyond. It would only get busier once the weather improved with summer, Matthew knew, making the trade routes rich pickings.
“Stop them,” Master Jaros hissed. Matthew put one hand on Leo’s shoulder as his older brother bristled at the command.
“I am aware of the agreement between the Counts of Malatesta and the Oligarchs’ Council, gentlemen,” Leo snarled, radiating affronted dignity. Several of the older men growled back at the young man’s tone. “I have already made plans and am hiring a troop of light cavalry and two of infantry to go south.” He glanced over his shoulder. On cue, Matthew pulled a small stack of papers out of a leather case and laid them in front of Master Lucan Astai.
The pot-bellied, thin-shanked, lecher’s eyes almost fell out of his head as he read the numbers at the bottom of the page. “This is outrageous! A thousand thalars for two small companies?”
“Five hundred from the Malatesta funds, Master Astai,” Matthew soothed. “And this is before any income from loot and recapture, as you recall.” He knew they’d bring back a good amount of loot and defeat the Turkowi; they were Anthony Malatesta’s sons, after all.
Master Cevasco, still barrel-shaped and grumpy, sniffed. “A valid point, young man.” Cevasco relationship with Astai had chilled, to say the least, after he had caught Astai trying to corner his daughter Martina following worship one Holy Day. “When do you intend to depart, Count Malatesta?”
“Two weeks, Godown willing and weather permitting. I have firm commitments from all the horsemen and most of the infantry that I need.”
They’d left exactly two weeks later, much to Matthew’s relief. He hated mediating between Leo and the older men. Someday, he thought at his brother’s back, you are going to go too far and it will be a knife-point challenge or worse. And Matthew would not be able to pour enough oil on the waters to save either of them if Leo made that many people mad. Three or four against two the brothers could handle, but ten against two might be a little tight. But the farther south and west they rode, the more the sunlight soaked into Matthew’s tight shoulders and mind, chasing off the shadows and helping him relax. After all, there was nothing to worry about, not yet at least. He’d never been in a pitched battle before, but that’s why Sergeant Byron Roth and Lt. Will Klaus had ridden with them, to keep order among the men and to advise Count Leopold.
The farms grew fewer and better defended the farther south they rode. High walls surrounded the farmsteads, and no windows opened onto the world. Tile replaced wooden shingles, and Sgt. Roth nodded. “Fire arrows just skitter off tile, if you do it right. Gotta watch the gate, though.”
Matthew started to say, “So you keep someone by the gate with water buckets to put the fire out,” but caught himself and nodded instead. Something told him that would be the wrong response, and he didn’t want the men laughing at him. If they laughed they wouldn’t obey. Or so he’d assumed.
Back in the half-cave, Matthew felt his face burning at the memory. The fourth night out of Morloke City, he’d gone to relieve himself near some unfamiliar bushes. Barely seconds after he finished his business and pulled up his drawers, his legs, rear, and privates had begun to burn. He’d taken a dump near a grey-ant hill, and they’d swarmed into his clothes. He stripped and ran for the closest stream, frantic to wash them off before they turned him into a woman. That he’d managed, and had gotten them out of his drawers and trousers, but he could barely walk for the pain, and the thought of putting the heavy, stiff, wet clothes back on almost made him cry. He managed it, somehow, and made slow progress back to camp.
“Problem, sir?” One of the perimeter guards had asked. It usually did not require the better part of an hour to take a shit.
“No,” he lied through clenched teeth, trying to walk and not to cry. His mind shied away from the thought of sitting. After a while the cool wind on the wet pants and drawers drew some of the sting away, enough that he could sit, then lay down. Despite his denials that anything was wrong, someone guessed, and the men gave him knowing grins the next morning as he tried to mount his horse. Finally, after the third failed try, he led the gelding to a stump and climbed aboard like a girl would, his face burning with shame. No one would follow his orders after that!
But they had. He’d gained their respect by taking it like a soldier. A few of the sergeants made asides about stinging plants and wildlife, but no one said anything to his face. And they soon had far more interesting things to talk about. Indeed, once they crossed the old border of Scheel, they found the first signs of Turkowi raids. “Aye, good,” the farmer spat, glaring at Leo and the other men. “Where were you last week, eh? Beat the bastards off ourselves, we did, no thanks to you and your precious merchant bosses. And keep your men outen my fields and orchards, mind you.”
Leopold had bristled. “We, my brother and I, heard they were still south, focusing on the trade route from Amsport They’re moving earlier and faster.”
Leo’s reply sounded lame and angry both, and Matthew had rolled his eyes. Really stupid, Leo; make excuses and piss him off when we need information. “Which way did they come from, sir, if you can recall?” He’d asked aloud, trying to prevent more trouble.
“From there,” the bandy-legged man pointed. “Outen the woodlot, left down the road. Came on foot this time.” He spat again, toward Leo, as if daring the young man to take offense.
“Did you lose any people or livestock?” Leo asked, still stiff but not as stupid sounding.
“Not yet. Beasts are away, plow stock’s in the walls, people too. Been raided by common thieves oncet, not again.” He glared at Leo from under the brim of his battered hat.
“Thanks be to Godown. And thank you for your information.” With that Leo stalked off, swinging onto his horse and leading the men past the farm. Matthew gave the man a salute before mounting, still a touch gingerly, and riding on after his brother.
“Quit pissing people off,” he hissed at Leo later that night, when they had a little semi-private space.
His older brother bristled, snapping, “What do you mean, pissing people off? If you mean that farmer, I asked a simple, polite question, and answered his in return.”
“You sounded like an idiot and a dumb one at that.” Matthew crossed his arms and glared across the tent at Leo. “Not a smart way to treat people we may some day rule over, brother
.”
“Oh, and what do you know of ruling, asshole?” Leo snarled, keeping his voice down at least. “I should toss you out for making me look bad with your dumb questions and not being able to tell where you’re taking a dump.”
Matthew wondered if pounding Leo’s head into the dirt like he had during wrestling practice one day the winter would force sense into it. Probably not, so instead he said, “I understand enough to know that anyone who beats off a Turkowi scouting raid deserves a little respect at least. Good night, my lord,” he sketched a bow and saw himself out before Leo made their fight public.
“Duck!” Matthew threw himself low along his horse’s neck, barely missing the brown wire strung between the trees. The man beside him, much taller, caught the wire with his chest plate. The impact knocked him off his horse. Matthew drew his sword before straightening up. The riders behind him scattered out, some riding off the road and some laying themselves flat to pass under the wire. One of the younger men started to cut the obstruction, but Sgt. Byron Roth stopped him.
“No. Not until we know what else it’s attached to,” the veteran warned. He started to add more, but battle calls and the shriek of an injured man interrupted.
Turkowi surged out of the underbrush. Matthew froze for an instant at the sight of the swarm of warriors in their yellow coats and head wraps, then caught himself. Run or fight? Fight. They want us to run. That much he remembered from Lt. Klaus and from the books he’d read. His body reacted better than his mind, swinging his sword and guiding Socks the way he’d been trained, even as his brain gibbered, half-scared and half-excited to be in battle at last. “Attack! Into them! Godown and Morloke!” he yelled, matching deeds to words.
“Godown and Malatesta” his brother answered. The ambush turned into a chaotic melee as the Turkowi tried to push the men of Morloke up the road, and the troopers fought out from the road and into the woods, attempting to break the sides of the trap. It didn’t take long for Matthew to realize that the Turkowi foot soldiers aimed for the horsemen, trying to kill the horses or unseat their riders. They also seemed to be trying to avoid the bit of road with the wire.
OK, let’s see what happens if … Matthew backed Socks onto the hard-packed dirt, then turned him slightly, as if being driven back into the heart of the ambush. Five Turkowi followed him. He flailed around with his sword, trying to deliberately miss just enough to tempt the Turkowi, as if he were scared and desperate. The men drew closer, staying clear of Socks’ hind legs, at least for the moment. Matthew saw his chance. “Godown,” he called, making his voice crack like terrified boy, and instead of swinging at the Turkowi, he swung across and cut the brown wire. As he did, he jabbed spurs into Socks’ flanks. The stud screamed and lunged forward, knocking aside one of the raiders who’d been grabbing for his headstall. Matthew heard a “whoosh” behind him and felt a wave of heat, as if someone had opened an oven door.
“Shit!” The wire had been a flame trap as well as a throat-cutter. The Turkowi men screamed, rolling on the ground to beat out the clinging flames. One ran into the woods in terror, scattering the other Turkowi as he did.
“Follow him!” Lt. Klaus called, and Matthew and the others did, followed by the infantry. Once clear of the ambush, the men rallied, regrouped, and changed tactics. The riders and infantry turned parallel to the road for almost half a kilometer. The cavalry rode a little farther before returning to the road and starting to ride back toward the ambush. “Don’t let any of them live to report,” Klaus ordered as they rounded a curve in the road. “Godown and Morloke!” At the call, the infantry in the woods surged to the road.
Surprised Turkowi appeared from the woods, caught between infantry and cavalry, and the Morloka rode them down, giving no quarter. Back the way they had come, they could hear the sound of wood burning and a few more screams. I think I started a forest fire, Matthew realized. That was stupid.
As soon as they could account for all their men, Leo and Matthew regrouped and pushed ahead on the road. Godown (or St. Gimple, patron of fools) protected them by shifting the wind so it blew the fire back behind them, but the soldiers took no further chances, pushing their march until they’d crossed a good-sized stream and then camping in an open area after clearing it of all underbrush and debris. After they’d bandaged their wounds, scouted a safe perimeter, and taken care of everyone else, and only then, did Lt. Klaus and Sgt. Roth invite Matthew for an “after action report.”
“You utter, absolute, total, complete, idiot,” Klaus began, as calm as if they were discussing a long-ago battle out of a book. “What in the name of Godown’s own toenails did you think you were doing, cutting the tripwire?”
I’d better be honest. “I,” Matthew gulped. “I thought I’d see what it did and if it would catch the Turkowi. Socks is fast enough I knew could get away.”
Sgt. Roth put one hand over his eyes and sighed. Klaus looked up into the trees. “You wanted to see what would happen,” the black man repeated.
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, you are living proof that Godown does indeed protect children, widows, and idiots. Don’t do it again, please sir.” Matthew writhed with shame and contrition at the officer’s cool, dispassionate tone. It hurt worse than yelling at him would have.
“I— I won’t.”
Sergeant Roth uncovered his eyes and instead folded his arms. “Sir, have you ever seen sticky fire before?”
Matthew turned to him. “No, just read about it.”
“Now you know why we don’t use it. Especially not in the woods or around burnables. It’s for ships and stone walls, and even then only the desperate or already damned resort to it.”
“And the Turkowi,” Klaus added.
“As I said, sir, the desperate and damned,” Roth repeated. “Which is not us.”
Matthew thought a moment. “Is there any way to put it out?”
Klaus and Roth made identical hand wags. “Yes and no,” Klaus told him. “Not really, since water just spreads the stuff unless you submerge whatever it is for several minutes at least, and even then the goo floats on the surface of the water until it finishes eating itself. Yes, you can use dirt or wet dung to smother the flames, and I’ve heard that vinegar will quench it?” He turned to Roth.
“Yes sir, or so I’ve been told. I’ve never met anyone who did it, though, and you’d need all the vinegar in Frankonia, I wager.”
With that the older men returned to camp, leaving Matthew to think about what he’d done. At first he felt terrible, then he started getting angry. Right, so he shouldn’t have triggered the trap without looking around to see what it was attached to. But how could he know? And no one used sticky fire in the woods, anyway, so how could he have anticipated it? Except that someone had, at least once now. I was trying to do what I’ve been taught, and I get reamed out for it? I’ll show them. But the calmer part of his brain hissed, show them what? And how? They’ve been in battle, you have not before today, not really. You’ve never killed people before today. No, that wasn’t true, he’d killed the man who attacked him in the street in Morloke City. But it wasn’t combat, true. Matthew stomped around, listening for trouble even as he stewed, then returned to camp.
There he found Leo waiting for him. His brother all but pounced on him the moment he ducked into their tent. “You bloody fool! We don’t have anything to show for the battle because of you, damn it.”
“Wait, wha—?” The force of Leo’s anger ignited Matthew’s own temper. “What the hell do you mean we have nothing to show? We got almost everyone out of the ambush and we know to look for sticky fire as well as wires now. And we know there are at least a dozen or two Turkowi who won’t be bothering anyone.” He planted his fists on his hips.
“And we have no loot, no golden tokens, no Turkowi horses or weapons because you lit the woods, impulsive idiot. If you weren’t my own blood I’d have you horsewhipped.” A new, mad rage spread over Leo’s face, forcing Matthew back a step, then another. “You owe me, o
h you so owe me. Get out.”
Matthew got out. I’m not spending the night with a madman, he snarled as he hauled his spare bedroll over to one of the fires. The troopers gave him curious looks, and he did his best to shrug them off. As long as no one made a comment about not getting to loot, he’d ignore the stares.
The rest of the venture south, well—Matthew stared into the embers of his dying fire—it had been quiet. They’d collided with the Turkowi a few more times, often enough to get the point across that Count Leopold Maltesta did not intend to allow the trade caravans to go unprotected. And Matthew had made his first acknowledged visit to a pleasure house. The next day he’d decided to use his share of any spoils to get a mistress, however one went about hiring such a creature.
And they’d gotten far more spoils than Matthew had imagined possible, although it came about by pure luck. They ambushed what they thought was just another raiding patrol and instead found a portable temple and what Lt. Klaus said were the tithe boxes, full of coin and stolen jewelry and treasures. They’d turned around at that point, partly because of the lateness of the season and partly to get back to Morloke with their haul intact. Two more encounters with Turkowi and one with ordinary thieves made the return trip exciting enough for any young man. They arrived at Morloke City with their treasure, but stayed outside the walls until Leo paid the soldiers their share. Only then did he meet with the Oligarchs’ Council. Leo kept his own counsel and left his brother at home. Oh, Leo, you should have let me come as a buffer, Matthew thought for the hundredth time at least.