9th of Petrarium, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Recha casually slapped her riding crop against her thigh in time with the drumbeats and footfalls of the marching columns of infantry parading in front of her.
Tap!
Tap!
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Try as she might to remain stoic and commanding, she grinned broadly as the first column of pikemen paraded before her. They marched in lock step. Their fourteen-foot-long poles stretched high and straight in the air. The Easterly Sun’s rays gleamed off their pikes’ spearheads, their polished pot helmets, and their breastplates.
Recha always found it stirring to watch armies on parade. She couldn’t be exactly sure why. Whether it be the sight of any entire army marching as one, the sheer awe and inspiration of fighting men moving in formation, the intimidating sight they created, or simply her womanly fancies to witness fighting men on display, the demonstration impressed her, nonetheless.
Savior take it, Hiraldo, she inwardly chided. I was wanting to storm in and demand you explain for why you needed more money. But you beat me to it!
She had departed for Fort Debres the day after the Exchange had ended. A mere three hours of relative darkness was hardly enough for a peaceful sleep, but it was the last time she’d been in a bed. The importance of this visit had been too great to put off for longer.
However, before she could ride in and take charge, Hiraldo had an escort waiting for her a day’s ride from the fort. They had escorted her right up to the parade stand inside the fort to witness her First Army parade for her inspection.
“I’m please your impressed, La Dama,” Hiraldo said. The second member of her Companions stood beside her right, beaming proudly at his troops. “I promised you wouldn’t be disappointed!”
Hiraldo Galvez stood tall with a military baring, broad in the chest and narrowed waist. He was the only one of her Companions to match her beloved Sebastian in military prowess. He had forgotten to shave that morning, black specks of stubble bristling his square jaw and cheeks. His hazel eyes danced up and down each passing line of men, hunting for a single soldier out of step.
“I can’t help but notice,” Cornelos said, standing on Recha’s left, “but the entire army appears to be dressed in purple. Is that the reason you requested more funds, Hiraldo? Testing your idea of providing all enlisted soldiers with uniforms?”
The soldiers were dressed in purple jackets under their armor, leaving only their sleeves visible, and black trousers. Hiraldo was dressed the same, with his violet, high collar jacket and black buttons running at an angle down his right side and black trousers matching his soldiers.
“Dyeing cloth doesn’t cost that much, Cornelos,” Hiraldo replied dryly. “Besides, all the men march and stand better dressed in our La Dama’s colors.”
Recha bit the inside of her check. The flattery and seeing an entire army dressed in her colors added to the awe-inspiring sight. However, she couldn’t let it sway her from overseeing everything.
Incidentally, she had chosen a violet riding dress with black leggings and trousers underneath her divided skirts. Her hair was spun up on the left side of her head, covering her ear and providing a resting place for the black bonnet with a white honey blossom facing upward toward the sun.
“I thought of wearing armor myself,” she said, raising her riding crop to a column of swordsmen marching by with their rapiers on their shoulders and their round shields at their sides. “A decorative breastplate or such.”
“I thankfully talked her out of it,” Cornelos chimed.
Hiraldo grunted in approval. “Soldiers can always see through a commander trying too hard to appear formidable.”
“Are you say I’m not formidable, Commandant Galvez?” Recha slid her gaze around, fixing him with a stern, sideways glance, and slapped her skirts with her riding crop.
Hiraldo swallowed and folded his hands behind his back at attention. “Of course not, La Dama! I apologize. I meant no disrespect.”
Recha’s cheeks warmed. She hadn’t meant to give the appearance of berating him in front of his men. “No need for apologies, Hiraldo. Stand easy.”
A stillness fell over the trio as more companies marched by. At the head of each marched the company’s capitán, drummer, and bannerman. The capitáns were mostly younger calleroses, enlisted into her new armies after having been freed from serving their families’ old barons. They raised their swords in salute as they passed her, and their bannermen likewise lowered her banner.
She’d had Lazorna’s banner changed after her coup. The deep violet cloth fluttered with the bannerman’s movements, swaying the black bars at the top and bottom of the banner, separated from the violet cloth by red straps. A red I, symbolizing the First Army, was emblazoned in the center of the banter with their company number and pike below it.
She held up her riding crop to them as a return salute.
“Hoorah, Mandas!” they shouted. “Huzzah!”
Recha shivered. Every strand of her hair stood on end. She grinned broader and waved.
“Huzzah!” they shouted again.
“Hoorah!” the company that followed shouted.
Regaining her composure, Recha glanced at her two Companions. Hiraldo stood stoically, chest out and back straight, imitating a perfect statue. Cornelos wore a half-smile with his hands clasped behind his back but stood just as tall.
“I didn’t mean to be harsh to either of you,” she said. “But I do prefer both of you keeping the other in line rather than teasing me.” Recha gave them both a smirk.
“We only meant you don’t need armor to impress the army,” Cornelos said.
“Your reputation alone succeeds in that,” Hiraldo added.
“Oh?” Recha tapped her riding crop against her thigh again. “And what reputation would that be?”
“Your reputation for promoting competent, confident, and loyal officers,” Hiraldo replied.
Cornelos grunted in agreement.
Recha clutched her riding crop in both hands. And for . . . killing—being the most honest, yet not so damning term—my uncle, his family, and anyone else in my way of taking over Lazorna. She left the thought unspoken so as not to dour the mood.
Another company marched in front of them, and Recha’s jaw dropped. Row after row of men marched by carrying muskets on their shoulders. They wore the same breastplates, and their clothes were the same color as the other columns. However, they wore wide-brimmed hats with their right sides pinned to cap of the hat and leather straps running diagonally across their breastplates with several dangling appendages hanging from them.
What surprised her most was the number of them. A company of two hundred musketeers marched by, followed by another column of sword-and-shield-men, then another company of musketeers after that. The column’s bannerman waved a violet standard with their company number and emblazoned musket.
“Hiraldo,” Recha said, rubbing her jawline with her riding crop while adding up the number of muskets in her head, “do I have to ask what you’re requesting more funds for?”
Muskets were a relatively new addition to the battlefield. Several marcs had started employing the powder and shot weapons some thirty years ago. There were many types, designs, and sizes and no one had a uniform method of deploying them, unlike crossbows. The development of bombards proved more and more powder weapons were being developed, despite most marcs’ and officers’ unwillingness to use them effectively. Another holdback by the Rules of Campaign.
They had one thing in common, too—muskets were expensive.
“No,” Hiraldo replied. “But I assure you, Recha, they’re worth every deber. They’ll make up for our armies’ smaller numbers and aid us in reaching our campaign’s objective when the time comes. That’s why I made advance promises to try to requisition as many as I could.”
“I’ll hold them to that.” Recha pressed her lips together and studied another column of pikemen. She put her riding crop under her arm and folded her arms. “And you.”
“I guarantee they will perform their duty. As will I.”
“As will we all,” Cornelos added.
Mounted calleros thundered by. Their leading officer raised his rapier to her while the riders behind him dipped their lances. Recha nodded to them, but her mind was still considering the implications of having so many muskets and Hiraldo purchasing more.
How many did he buy? she thought, suddenly fearing the bill.
“I will need a demonstration,” she said.
“Everything is prepared,” Hiraldo promised.
“Of everything!”
“Yes, La Dama. The officers have their orders, and the men will be ready. But there is someone who wants the speak with you first. He’s the merchant who’s providing us with our firearms.”
Recha pursed her lips. Wanting a promissory note, no doubt.
“After the parade,” she said then grinned as another column of pikemen marched by cheering. “I’m enjoying this.”
~~~
After the parade, Hiraldo offered her an inspection of the entire army. Fort Deber was a sprawling fortification, nestled in the shadow of Cimave Mountains. The high, snow-covered peaks offered the perfect boundary for Lazorna’s northern border and the perfect place to recruit, train, and build her new armies. Away from the inquisitive eyes of the neighboring marcs.
However, Recha couldn’t have hundreds of men stand around just for her to look at while passing by. They had already done that on parade.
One unit is just as good as the whole army, she supposed while walking down a row of pikemen with her hands clutching her riding crop behind her back, inspecting their ranks.
“Did you replace all our spear-and-shield-men with pikemen?” Recha asked Hiraldo. “Or did you take their spears away in favor of swords?”
“An innovation of both,” Hiraldo replied. “It’s something we noticed during the Pamolid Campaign. Spear-and-shield formation was meant to close in on the enemy while blocking arrows. But in Pamolid, we didn’t encounter a single troop of archers. Crossbows, yes; but archers, no.” He snickered. “Sebastian almost ordered the entire column to abandon the shields to get them to march faster, but we convinced him otherwise.”
“It would have been a waste of metal and marc resources,” Cornelos concurred.
“Pikemen are better,” Hiraldo continued. “The pikes give them longer reach and better protection against cavalry. And with less weight to carry, they can march and deploy faster on the battlefield. So long as they keep their formations tight.”
Recha brought her hands in front of her and tapped the riding crop against her palm. She was trying to envision how the squares of pikes would move and fight, but she was still uncertain. Theory was one thing, but nothing compared to seeing an army fight in a real battle.
“Ah!” Hiraldo’s raised voice brought her back to the inspection. “This is the special group I wanted you to see.” He stepped up beside her and ushered her toward a company of swordsmen.
“Company!” its capitán, standing three paces in front of his men, shouted. “Attention! Present swords!”
As one, the company raised their sword before their faces, their blades dividing their faces while their round shields hung at their sides.
Recha raised her riding crop to them then stopped, squinting at their company standard in the center of their front rank. They were her colors, and as the rest underneath the First Army’s I in its center was their company number, 1, with an emblazon sword beside it. However, beneath them were the words sewn in red, “Puerlato Marching Home.”
“Puerlato,” Recha said under her breath and turned to Hiraldo.
Hiraldo nodded and stepped up to the company’s officer. “At ease, Capitán. You may remove your helmet.”
The capitán sheathed his sword, loosened his chin strap, then slid his helmet off. Dark hair, parted down the center of the man’s scalp, spilled out over the sides of his head, down to his ears. The middle-aged man’s prominent nose was bent slightly out of shape from numerous breaks. His mustache was thick and bushy, along with the rectangular strip of hair that ran horizontally down the center of his chin.
“La Dama,” Hiraldo said, “may I present Capitán Alon Queve, First Sword Company of the First Army.”
Recha’s eyes widened, recognizing the name. “You were with the rearguard retreating from Puerlato.”
Capitán Queve’s face darkened. “A dark night that was, La Dama,” he said. His voice was higher than Recha had expected.
She could only imagine—fleeing one’s home while it was being overrun, witnessing an enemy claiming it, and stalling their advance long enough to allow the fortunate few to escape. She did know the loss, though.
“Were you there when”—her throat clenched, but she swallowed and forced it open—“when Commandant Sebastian Vigodt fell?” Her uncle had promoted Sebastian the day before he had given him the ill-fated command. Recha had glowed with pride that day. It made her want to vomit thinking about it, even now.
“Yes, La Dama,” Capitán Queve replied. “I was on the line trying to hold an orderly retreat on the road when it happened.”
“Do you recall how it happened?”
“Pardon, La Dama,” Cornelos interjected and tried to move between her and the capitán, “but are sure you—”
Recha slapped her riding crop into Cornelos’s chest without a glance and pressed against him until he moved back. She stepped closer to the capitán to make sure Hiraldo didn’t get the same idea.
For the past three years, she had scraped for any shred of information, any witness to tell her how Sebastian had died. She had a few pieces, but her heart still craved for the entire story.
“Do you recall how the commandant died, Capitán?”
Capitán Queve took a deep breath and set his shoulders. “The commandant was rallying us to withdraw in good order and hold our formation. The commandant insisted on riding with us at the rear, wanting to be the last in the column. But it was raining, and the road churned with mud. Before we knew it, three Orsembian calleroses came charging out of the dark.
“The commandant held his ground. You’d have been proud of him, La Dama. He charged them alone, one sword against three. Swords flashed and clashed like thunder and lightning, they did. He slew two before we could reach them. The third, though . . . got lucky. His sword struck the commandant under his arm and plate.
“We sprinted to the commandant’s aid, but it was too late.” Capitán Queve hung his head. His gloved fingers tightened and squeaked while holding his helmet. “Forgive us, La Dama. We couldn’t do more. The commandant fought nobly until the end.”
Recha’s eyes drifted closed. Her nostrils flared as she went over the events in her head. She could smell the rain and hear its pattering on the armor. The pattering gave way to pounding hoof beats, and then steel slicing against steel. Men yelling and crying in pain. Sebastian being the last to cry out.
“Very noble,” she agreed, nodding. “Almost romantic.” She slowly opened her eyes. Then she slapped her riding crop in her palm and twisted her grip around it, making the leather squeal.
Capitán Queve’s mustache started to quiver. His lips pressed tightly together, and lines of sweat ran down his forehead.
“How did he actually die, Capitán?” she whispered coldly.
Capitán Queve’s face scrunched, as if a sword were thrust under his arm. “It wasn’t three calleroses,” he said. “They were regular soldiers. We didn’t know who they were in the rain and dark. Even the commandant thought they were stragglers, wandering around like they were. He rushed out to them, trying to get them to join the line.
“He was pulled out of the saddle before any of us knew it. Before we could rush in and help, an Orsembian had his boot on the commandant’s back and speared him.”
Recha’s stomach pitched and rolled. She pressed her fists and riding crop against her belly to hold in the urge to scream.
No! She didn’t want to scream. She wanted to rage! Her teeth cracked together, barely holding her desire to cry out until her voice echoed to the highest peaks of the Cimave Mountains!
“Recha!” Cornelos whispered worriedly.
Recha breathed in sharply.
Capitán Queve’s face was drenched with sweat. The tips of his mustache were starting to droop. Hiraldo had precariously distanced himself, as well. Even the soldiers stood straighter and more apprehensive.
Oh no! Recha felt her cheeks warm. Don’t tell me I grinned!
She took a deep breath to regain her composure. “We will make them pay, Capitán,” she said. “You have my word.” She turned to the men and raised her voice.
“Soon, men of Puerlato! You will all be marching home!”
Capitán Queve snapped his heels together and raised his fist in the air. “Huzzah, La Dama Mandas!”
“Huzzah!” the company shouted, raising their swords in the air. “Mandas! Hoorah!”
The chorus of over a hundred men shouting her name stirred Recha’s blood. Her whole body flashed, and her hair stood on end, unable to contain the rush. A grin split her face and, caught up in the moment, she raised her riding crop in the air like a sword.
“Huzzah, Puerlato!” Recha yelled. “Huzzah!”
The infectious cheering spread to the other companies and echoed through the fort by men in the barracks or on duty. It took a while to die down, but Recha didn’t want the feeling, the rush, to leave her.
“Do you approve, La Dama?” Hiraldo asked when it finally did.
“What?” Recha gasped, nearly out of breath. She nodded and regained her composure again. “Yes. Yes! I approve. This is all splendid.”
Her gaze tracked across the pikemen, the swordsmen, and finally landed on the musketeers. The final company for her to inspect and one she wanted a more thorough demonstration of.
“Dismiss all the companies save for the musketeers, Hiraldo,” she ordered. “Tell their officers their men are given an extra ration of wine for their excellent performance!”
The officers didn’t have to relay the message. The men at the front heard and raised a cheer that rippled through the ranks like fire. It took the officers minutes to get them back in order to dismiss them. When they were, the men kicked up clouds of dust that swirled in the yard as they lumbered and dispersed toward the armories and their barracks.
Recha waved the dust out of her face. She turned away then paused seeing Cornelos standing rigidly with his hands behind his back. His head was hung, and his cheeks were sucked in.
“Did I handle that badly?” she asked softly.
“It’s not my place to say,” Cornelos replied.
Recha gave him a dry look and poked him with her riding crop. “Cornelos. Don’t hide things from me.”
“You shouldn’t . . .” Cornelos shook his head and bit his bottom lip. “You shouldn’t hurt yourself, Recha. Sebastian wouldn’t have wanted that. He wouldn’t want you haunted with the images of how he died.”
Recha stepped in front of him to ensure he couldn’t look away from her and gave him a stern look. “I’ve been haunted by his loss since I saw his body laid out in Zoragrin, Cornelos. Knowing how he died doesn’t add to my loss. It only furthers my resolve to see it answered for. Understand?”
Cornelos raised his head but remained tense. “Yes, La Dama.”
That could have sounded more convincing. It was probably the best he could do though.
Recha left it be to turn back to Hiraldo’s musketeers.
“Recha?” Cornelos whispered. His brow was furled, and his eyes shifted.
“Yes?” Recha raised an eyebrow, unsure what he was about to say.
“How did you know the first story was a lie?”
“Because it was romantic.” She chuckled. “Like Papa told us growing up—no one dies romantically on a battlefield.”
Cornelos’s mouth fell open. They had all grown up together under Baltazar Vigodt’s tutelage. Some were actual lessons, while others were just sayings or random thoughts that stuck with her. The man knew how to phrase a sharp remark.
But I also looked at Sebastian’s body, Recha lamented. After her coup, she had to know where the killing blow had been struck and discovered the massive wound in his back. She knew it didn’t come from a sword.
“Let’s leave that rest, shall we?” she said, turning on her heels. “I still need a demonstration of—”
Recha’s voice caught, and she squinted in the noon-day’s glare.
“Cornelos.” She pointed her riding crop at a man walking across the yard from one of the buildings. “What’s that?”
The man’s light tan wardrobe stood out starkly in the sea of dark violet. His doublet was unbuttoned and open at the collar, exposing his white shirt underneath. His trousers were merely shin length, leaving his tall socks and buckle shoes at the mercy of the dust. He fanned himself with his round, crowned hat instead of doing the sensible thing of wearing it and protecting his pale skin from the Easterly Sun.
The man’s pale skin stood out the most. He lacked the look of a soldier entirely. His cheeks were flushed and puffed. His light brown hair stuck to his glistening, sweaty forehead. He coughed violently while walking through a thick cloud of dust.
“Looks like a lost, sweaty man,” Cornelos replied.
Recha sniffed sharply. “You’re a big help.”
“That is my duty as your secretary, La Dama.”
“Shut up.”
The stranger staggered by and gave the musketeers a respectful nod. He brightened when he saw Hiraldo returning from dismissing the other companies.
“Commandant Galvez!” the man shouted with an accent that drew out his vowels. He rushed Hiraldo with a broad smile and threw his hand up to clasp Hiraldo’s in a vigorous shake. “I hope you don’t mind me joining the proceedings. It was terribly hot in your office and to open a window only invited dust and flies.”
“Not at all, Sir Averitt,” Hiraldo said. “We were just about to see a demonstration of your firearms.”
“You were?” Sir Averitt’s eyebrows leaped into his drenched hairline. “What fortuitous timing! Splendid! Splendid!”
Recha frowned and tilted her head. Fortuitous timing? Splendid? Who talks like that? Either this Sir Averitt’s putting on strange airs or he comes from a stranger place.
“But first,” Hiraldo said, motioning to Recha, “allow me the pleasure of introducing you to La Dama Recha Mandas, Marquesa of Lazorna.”
Sir Averitt’s emerald eyes widened and sparkled, drinking her in with one absorbing look. His eyes were closer set than what Recha originally thought and, despite his happy expression, she got the impression they just weighed her.
Sir Averitt stepped closer and made a flourishing bow, sweeping his hat out to the side. “It is an honor to finally meet you at last, Your Ladyship,” he said while rising. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Lord Basil Averitt, humble agent and representative of the Wesson Manufacturing and Shipping Company.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lord Averitt,” Recha said, nodding and formally pulling the left side of her divided skirts. “I trust you and your company are the ones I have to thank for supplying my marc’s army?” And the undoubtedly massive bill I haven’t even seen! She flashed Hiraldo knowing a look.
“It is indeed.” Sir Averitt obliviously smiled. “I can’t express how thrilled my company is to service you. What you are doing here is visionary. Absolutely visionary! But please call me Mr. Averitt, if you wish. I’m still getting accustomed to having a title. Oh!” His eyes went wide. “I would be Sir Averitt here, wouldn’t I? Forgive me, I’m still getting used to being an agent abroad.” He chuckled bashfully and rubbed the back of his head.
Recha shared a look with Cornelos, eyebrows arched. Definitely a merchant. Too talkative, though, for an arms supplier.
“You don’t say,” she said. “Well, thank you for the service, Sir Averitt. Commandant Galvez was about to perform this visionary demonstration for us.”
“So I heard! May I join you? I prefer to be on hand in case my company’s clients have any questions or needs.” Sir Averitt’s eagerness shined through his sweaty visage. He appeared on the brink of jumping up and down in excitement.
Recha’s first instinct was to decline his offer and have Cornelos see to the merchant. His personality wasn’t the most taxing she had met, and she held no animosity toward his profession. Merchants, simply by their nature, always had more things to sell and, most of the time, very tempting things. The best way Recha knew how to handle the temptation was to keep at a distance, from both hers and the marc’s pocketbooks.
But his company is the one supplying my army, she mulled. And I’ve not paid them yet. One thing the campaigns had taught everybody was that arms merchants didn’t need a reason to sell to your enemies. Therefore, it was best to avoid giving them a reason to sell to your enemies and not you.
“Not at all, Sir Averitt,” she replied, smiling diplomatically. “Please, join us.”
“Thank you, Marquesa.” Sir Averitt bowed. “Thank you.”
“La Dama,” Cornelos said pointedly.
“Huh?” Sir Averitt stared obliviously.
“The proper way to address her is La Dama Mandas,” Cornelos sternly informed him.
“Oh! Yes! I beg your pardon again, La Dama Mandas.” Sir Averitt apologetically bowed his head repeatedly.
“No offense taken, Sir Averitt,” Recha said. “You’re still learning, yes? Let’s observe this presentation the commandant has prepared for us.”
“Thank you, La Dama,” Sir Averitt said, putting on his floppy hat. “I’d be delighted.”
When his back was turned, Recha gave Hiraldo a narrow-eyed look, hoping to convey his demonstration better be worth it even more now. Hiraldo, for his part, took it all in stride.
“Capitán Urban!” Hiraldo yelled. “March your company to the firing grounds to perform exercises for La Dama! We will join you.”
“Yes, sir!” Capitán Urban replied, snapping his heels together.
“The firing grounds is a new addition to the fort,” Hiraldo explained while Capitán Urban repeated his orders and got his company of musketeers on the move. “The old archery range wasn’t big enough and too close to the stables.”
“You didn’t shoot any horses, did you?” Cornelos asked.
“No,” Hiraldo replied without a hint of catching the joke. “The noise spooked them.”
“It does take time for animals to grow accustomed to powder combustion,” Sir Averitt added, shaking his head. “It took me a while myself.”
“I guess this is your way of telling me we’re walking,” Recha said to Hiraldo.
Hiraldo’s brow furled, but before he could reply, Recha gave him a soft smile and set off after the marching company, giving her uptight Companion a tap on the arm.
The company wasn’t hard to follow, leaving a large trail of dust in their wake, and the taps of their drum easily cut through the bustling returning to the fort.
Most common folk bore the impression that forts were places were men put on armor and weapons and stood around, waiting for orders. In truth, forts were more akin to small cities where most of the men held the same job.
“I must say, La Dama,” Sir Averitt said, squeezing between her and Cornelos as they walked. “This is a very impressive fortification. The buildings all look new and evenly spaced. Did you recently build it?”
“Hiraldo can tell you more about that,” Recha replied.
“The fort itself is over fifty years old,” Hiraldo continued. “Upon taking up my post as commandant, it was obvious work was needed to make it equipped to house and train the kind of army Lazorna needed. We tore down nearly every building and redesigned it.” He threw his hands out and waved them down the street, pointing at numbers above the doors of the three-story square buildings lining the dirt pact street. “Every barrack is now laid out in formation with every squad, every company, and every regiment. The men eat, train, and sleep together as a unit.”
Children laughing caught Recha’s ear. A group of children were playing in the shade between buildings. Four of the children eagerly kicked a balled to the next person, determined not to be caught with it by the time their fifth member stopped counting.
“Only officers and those men with certain qualifications can move and live with their families here,” Hiraldo said, nodding at the children and the smaller, single-story houses on the other side of the street.
“Very efficient,” Sir Averitt said thoughtfully.
The hairs on the back of Recha’s neck stood up at the merchant’s tone. He’s not fascinated by it. He’s impressed. And storing it for memory.
“Have you seen many forts in . . .?” Recha pretended to think. “Where do you come from, Sir Averitt?”
“Hmm?” Sir Averitt blinked then smiled. “Oh! Forgive me, La Dama. I’m currently based out of Crescent Bay of New Hartland. Although, my heart will always belong to Tradon.”
“And that, too, is in New Hartland?”
Sir Averitt chuckled. “Of course, La Dama! Tradon is the greatest city of commerce in the kingdom. If not all the world, even!”
“Oh.” His pride of his home aside, Recha didn’t have much knowledge of foreign places. They were so far away, removed from the struggles she and the rest of Lazorna faced each year.
We might as well be as distant as the suns.
“And are there any forts in your country?” she asked.
“Forts. Castles. But all antique and ancient compared to what you’ve built here,” Sir Averitt replied.
“Must be nice to live somewhere not constantly at war.” Recha frowned. “Maybe someday, we can have the same here.”
Sir Averitt’s mouth hung slightly open. His eyes danced for a moment, searching for something to say. Blessedly, he closed his mouth.
Awkwardness settled over them. Dirt and gravel crunched under their feet. The drum tapping ahead of them had stopped moments before and allowed the noises of the fort to fill the void. Men laughed somewhere close. Distant shouting in unison of pikemen drilling. Metal clanged against metal in what could have been any number of things happening in the fort.
The barracks and houses fell away, but the lane continued. The company of musketeers slowly came into view, still in formation, standing ready in the center of a wide, cleared-out space.
The firing range was a level, dirt pact field with round bales of hay and mannequins in armor along the back stretch of it. In the far corner stood several storehouses, evenly spaced and far away from everything else.
“Did you replace all my crossbowmen?” Recha asked Hiraldo.
“No,” Hiraldo replied. “The Third Army and what makes up the Fourth still have crossbowmen.”
“Do you intend to replace all my crossbowmen?”
Hiraldo hesitated. “Depends.”
“Don’t make me ask,” she said with a sigh.
Hiraldo’s skills were a blessing and a curse. He excelled at organizing an army. He had promised her two new professional and trained armies after she had put him in charge of reorganizing Lazorna’s armies from scratch. He had given her three and a half. To do so, Recha had given him a free hand and hadn’t forced him to ask her permission to make major changes.
Maybe I should have.
“It depends on how the new techniques work in the field,” Hiraldo explained, “how many more muskets we can be supplied with, and . . . whether you approve or not, La Dama.”
Recha stopped.
Hiraldo licked his lips nervously, looking over the musketeers but clearly avoiding her.
Or maybe I didn’t have to.
“Present your demonstration, Commandant,” she said.
“Capitán Urban!” Hiraldo yelled, marching out onto the range. “Present your front rank on the firing line!”
“Sir!” Captain Urban saluted. “Front rank, light matches and form on the firing line!”
The first rank of musketeers, ten men, stepped forward and filed by the company’s drummer holding a small lantern. As each man passed, he lit a long cord and followed around to form a line in front of the mannequins.
“La Dama,” Hiraldo said, beckoning her beside the line with Captain Urban.
Recha hesitated for a moment. Firearms could be tricky things.
“It’s perfectly safe,” Sir Averitt said. “I assure you, La Dama, my company’s firearms are the finest in the world!”
You don’t have to over sell it. Recha bit the inside of her cheek. I’ve already bought them, for Savior’s sake.
The line of musketeers did make an intimidating sight looking down their line from the small haze of smoke lingering in their faces from their burning cords.
“Carry on, Capitán,” Hiraldo ordered.
“Muskets!” Capitán Urban yelled. “Charge pans!”
As one, the musketeers flipped open their powder pans on the right side of their muskets’ locks, blew on them, uncorked their lowest hanging bottles on their leather bandoliers, and then put powder in the pans before closing them.
“Load muskets!”
The musketeers set the butt of their muskets on the ground, uncorked their highest hanging bottles, carefully poured powder down their musket barrels, took a led ball from a pouch on their hips, then rammed the ball down with a stick from the underside of the musket.
“Prime match!”
The musketeers hosted their muskets under their arms, keeping their barrels up in the air at an angle. Each of them blew on their cords. The tips glowed red as they set them in a curved, metal device on the right side of the musket’s lock.
“Present!”
The musketeers brought their muskets up, pressing the butts into their shoulders while looking down the barrels. Recha spotted the closest musketeer flip his musket’s powder pan with a flip of a finger.
“Fire!”
As one, the musketeers pulled their muskets’ levers. The matches fell into the pans. Sparks burst into air.
Pow!
Ten small cracks formed one eruption.
Recha winced from a slight ringing in her right ear, her left protected by her hair bun. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of sulfur and smoke. The whitish-gray cloud hovered over the musketeers’ faces before catching the breeze and wafting away.
That was nearly thirty seconds, she reflected. It takes me a couple of minutes to load Sebastian’s pistol.
“Shoulder arms!”
The musketeers put their muskets on their shoulders and waited.
“Care to see the results?” Hiraldo offered, motioning toward the mannequins.
“Of course!” Recha replied eagerly. She moved before any of them, her divided skirts slapping against her legs as she rushed to the targets.
The mannequins were simple posts with a cross board for arms and a ball for a head. Their breastplates and helmets were standard for her army, although these had makeshift slabs and squares of metal nailed into them, presumably from repeated repairs. Several of the ten used for firing practice had punched in holes from where the lead balls found their marks. They were scattered and uniform, though. A few were in the belly. Some on the left side. Only two had hit near center or close to where the heart would have been. One was untouched, while another’s helmet laid a few paces behind the mannequin.
“Not very accurate,” Recha said, walking down the line of targets, haphazardly slapping her riding crop against her leg.
“Accuracy won’t be what’s important,” Hiraldo said. “Let me show you.” He crouched and began scratching out rectangles and squares in the dirt with a stick he found. “The formation is simple. A company of pikemen will form the center of every line.” He pointed at the center and biggest rectangles. “Between and among them”—he pointed at the two smaller squares of the rectangle—“will be a company of musketeers—fifty men each. And encompassing them will be a company of swords.” Hiraldo gestured at the three long, thin rectangles surrounding the other three. “A hundred swords and shields to ward of skirmishers that get too close, plug up holes until the pikemen can reform or withdraw, and take care of the rout.”
Hiraldo’s eyes grew more intense as he looked down at his drawings. “Each formation is to work as one down the line. As they advance, the musketeers will rotate their volleys, each rank firing and the next stepping up to fire after them. Once the lines close, the pikemen will crash into whatever remains of the enemy’s frontline. Their distance and weight will shatter any unorganized formation. And the swords”—he stabbed his stick into the dirt—“will rout any remaining resistance.” He looked up at her and caught her grinning.
Recha could see it now. She glanced back at the holes in the mannequins and could see volleys tearing into the Orsembar ranks. The pikemen’s long spearheads crashing into the poor souls who remained, unable to even reach their attackers. Then the swordsmen afterward, finishing off any foolish enough not to give up their fallen standards.
“We don’t have enough muskets for the Third and Fourth Armies, do we?” she asked, running a finger around a hole in the closest mannequin’s plate.
“We do, but . . .” Hiraldo stood, tossing the stick away.
“Your remaining shipment of arms are on my company’s ship in the Desryol Sea,” Sir Averitt said. “We’re happy to deliver, La Dama, but we’ll need a larger port to unload our cargo.”
“Sir Averitt and his company have been sending us arms through small shipments up the Laz River for a couple of years, in small shipping boats under Borbin’s nose,” Hiraldo said. “But now—”
“Time is of the essence,” Recha agreed. She slapped her riding crop against her skirts and turned to face them. “Commandant Galvez!”
Hiraldo snapped to attention.
“I am promoting you to general and overall commander of the First Army,” she ordered. “I want this army marching south within the week. The other armies will receive their orders to join you there.”
Hiraldo drew himself up. His chest stretched and stuck out a little further. “It will be done, La Dama.”
“Good. And give Cornelos a list of recommendations for generals of the other armies before we leave today.”
Hiraldo nodded.
Recha left them to sort that out and sauntered over to Sir Averitt. “And Sir Averitt”—she slid her arm through his, ignoring his sweat, and began leading him off the firing range—“I believe General Galvez made a few contracts as my representative to your company.”
“Yes, La Dama,” Sir Averitt replied, nervously glancing at her arm and tensing at her touch. “I didn’t want to mention them as soon as we met, but there are a few outstanding contracts in need of—”
“I’ll sign them.” Recha waved her riding crop nonchalantly. “And, as for our current delivery problem, I think I may have several solutions. But I’d like to discuss matters first with my field marshal, the man who’s going to command all my armies. Would you mind returning to Zoragrin with me when I leave?”
“I’d be honored, La Dama. But I must send word to my company’s contact in Puerlato in a few days to make the arrangements.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
“Excellent!”
“Excellent!” Recha chuckled.
She raised her riding crop to the musketeer company as they passed. “Perfect marks, musketeers! Huzzah!”
“Huzzah!” the company cheered back, raising their muskets in the air.
Recha grinned from ear-to-ear, listening to her men cheer but hearing and envisioning their musket volleys in her head.