7th of Andril, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Recha gazed out into the night, vigorously searching for any flicker of light. She tapped her riding crop against her leg.
Did it have to be this cloudy and mirky?
An inky blackness covered the expanse before her. A rolling mist had settled between the lower hills below, with an overcast rolling in from the Desryol Sea, blocking out the stars. Being several hours from dawn, the light from fires, whether they be from torches, lanterns, or open braziers, gave the only hints to where things were. The added difficulty was keeping straight what light belonged where. And to whom.
“You shouldn’t wander away, La Dama,” Cornelos chastised, coming up behind her. His armor grated against each other, and his rapier tapped against his tassets on his thighs.
“Why?” Recha smirked. “Think I’ll be mistaken for an enemy soldier?”
Cornelos stepped beside her. “That’s not funny.”
“Just some battle humor,” she said, tapping his breastplate with her riding crop. “I heard it takes the edge off.”
Cornelos frowned at her in response.
Recha sensed another worried speech from her dutiful secretary and rolled her eyes. “Speak, Cornelos. Get it out now before we go to the war council.”
Cornelos looked around, checking to see if anyone was near, then stepped closer. “With all due respect, Recha, this is a battlefield. As commandant de marquesa, I need to know where you are to make sure you have the proper guard.”
Now that the campaign had begun, Recha had commissioned Cornelos an officer’s rank to go along with his station. He would command her personal guard while also screening her correspondence from Zoragrin and other civil matters. She believed it prudent to ensure the others wouldn’t think less of him, but he was taking the commission with his usual zeal to duty.
It was starting to grate.
He followed her more intently than before and was the only high-ranking officer she had seen wearing armor over his uniform. Although it was just the breastplate, pauldrons, braces on his forearms, and tassets on his thighs, it was noticeable.
“Cornelos,” she said, rounding on him. She cast an intent stare at him to reflect off the light of the campfire behind her. “Relax! I’m perfectly safe in my own army’s camp.” She snickered. “Well, in one of my armies’ camps.”
Cornelos’s frown darkened, unamused. “You can’t be sure of that. Even with our rushed deployment, we’re drawing hundreds of camp followers. Any one of them could be an assassin. Or an opportunist.”
“I’m not some baroness who’s come to see her husband off and believes an army camp is a picnic!” Recha snapped, but instantly regretted it.
She looked away, thinking over what he had said and found it reasonable. In her eagerness to begin the campaign and see the battle preparations, she had let protocol slip. She was accustomed to it after three years of ruling Lazorna her way.
“That was uncalled for,” she apologized. “Follow your duties, protect me, but please, Cornelos, don’t coddle me.”
Thum!
Recha snapped around. In the distance, off to her far right, she faintly made out the last remaining percussion of a bombard rising in the air—a small fire, dancing and withering in an instant. The smoke and burned powder disappeared into the night and melted into the surrounding mist.
Boom!
A thunderous crash of stone, iron, and dirt shot out through the night, killing any sense of tranquility. Recha couldn’t see where the bombard impacted, but she made out the distant lights flickering in a loose square in the sky.
“The First Army is testing their range,” she surmised.
“Hiraldo guarantees those new bombards will breach the fort’s walls in a day, if not hours,” Cornelos said.
Between Puerlato and the road winding into Orsembar was an old hill fort, centuries old and decades unfit for current military innovations. Their strategy for Puerlato aside, the logistics of the fort left them with one option.
It had to be taken. And quickly.
Recha and Baltazar knew their armies couldn’t be held up on a siege of a minor fort, a mere pitstop on the road, no matter how prologued it was. One day wasted on it might be too long.
Thum!
Another bombard fired. This time, she caught the sight of the barrel flare, lighting up the small hill the First Army’s artillery had set up on and could make out the five bombards and shapes of people before the fire flared out.
How impressive would it be if they all fired at the same time? Recha danced from foot to foot. Or when the Second Army brings theirs?
“Let’s get to the war council,” she said, turning on her heels, “before Papa sends people looking for me, too.”
Two armored guards were waiting for them between two of the picket tents. Recha spotted the red strips on their violet uniforms under their breastplates, marking them as her guard. Cornelos probably had brought them with him.
She casually flicked the ends of her divided riding skirts with her riding crop, and they fell in beside her without a word.
The camp of the Third Army was bustling, despite it being hours from dawn. Stockades and ditches were being dug around the perimeter, provost guards were directing where different companies were to be stationed, and tents were going up.
It made things rather chaotic.
One of her guards jumped in front of her, his arm spread wide as a small group of horsemen thundered through a wide lane between the tents.
“You would think we were under attack,” she said over her shoulder, breathing deeply.
“Would have been safer back in your tent,” Cornelos teased.
Recha warningly glared at him. He held his hands behind his back and pretended to look up at the stars that weren’t visible.
“Don’t be smug.” She turned back and found the guard still standing protectively in front of her, waiting. “Go on.”
Deeper in, the camp became more organized. Being the first thing mapped out by the provost marshal, most of the tents were up and filled with sleeping men, snoring. Recha’s party passed through a lingering haze of smoke from dying and smoldering campfires, making her cough and her eyes water. She waved the wisps out of her face.
Well, it’s not the worst thing I could have smelled or walked into. The idea of latrine pits was the one aspect of campaign life she planned to make every effort to avoid. Because she was the marquesa.
The lanes of tents widened, and the tents themselves grew larger the deeper in they went. In the center was a large, octagon-shaped tent from its multiple posts. Its black and violet striped canvas absorbed the lantern light trying to escape, barely casting shadows of tent’s occupants inside. It was raised on a wooden deck, surrounded by provost guards, and stood apart from the other tents.
While anyone would think it was her tent, it was the field marshal’s command tent.
Recha had followed Baltazar’s lead on having a more conservative tent, comparable to the other marshals, but still a little bigger for her womanly needs and, again, because she was the marquesa.
“Wait!” she said, suddenly stopping in the middle of the open ground between the other tents and the command tent. She put her riding crop under her arm and went to straightening her clothes.
“What’s wrong?” Cornelos asked, sharing puzzled looks with the guards.
“Making sure my clothes are straight and hair is right,” she replied.
The checkered velvet and black riding dress was appropriate for her station and let her travel more freely. She straightened her jacket and ran her fingers over its lower buttons still done up. Then she made sure her white chemisette was properly tucked in under the jacket, leaving the gold embroidery on the garment’s front exposed.
Her guards casually looked away while she looked to her divided skirts, but in limited light, she couldn’t tell if they were badly stained with dust or not. As she ran her fingers through her hair, keeping her misshapen ear properly covered, she spied Cornelos biting his lip, as if trying not to smirk.
“Hush,” she said.
Cornelos gaped at her. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Mmhmm,” she hummed, finishing her preparations. “I’m ready now.” Recha strolled through her flabbergasted guard, leaving them to step lively to catch up to her before she reached the command tent’s step.
“Halt!” one of the tent guards near the entrance ordered. He and his companion stepped out, gripping their halberds defensively, ready to lower them. “State your name and business!”
“La Dama Recha Mandas,” she replied, stepping up onto the deck and into the light of the deck’s brazier, “your marquesa.”
Both guards snapped to attention, slapping their halberds against their breastplates. Recha smiled at that. One of them moved to open the tent flap to announce her. She, however, turned back to Cornelos and her guard.
“Have the guard stand with these men, Commandant,” she ordered. “I’ll only need you to accompany me.”
I can’t have more personal guards than Papa, she thought, considering her tact. Not in front of his—my—other senior staff. It’s probably muggy with everyone else in there, anyway.
“As you command, La Dama,” Cornelos replied.
Recha nodded as he set about relaying her order then turned back to enter.
The guard slammed the butt of his halberd on the deck before opening the tent flap and yelling, “La Dama Recha Mandas!”
Laughter from within was suddenly cut off as the tent flap was pulled back. Recha flinched from being bathed in the orange light spilling out from within. She blinked rapidly, adjusting her sight.
“Thank you,” she said to the guard then ducked inside.
The grating sound of multiple wooden legs scraping against the floor greeted her. The command staff rose to their feet around a large, white maple table, shaped like an octagon in the center of the tent. It was littered with maps, scattered rolls of messages, piles of dispatches, quartermaster lists, and provost camp reports. A few cups of water and small glasses of liquor were spread about, as well.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Recha greeted them as she strolled to the open seat by the tent flap to the left of Hiraldo and directly opposite of Baltazar. “I trust I didn’t keep you waiting long. I had to see if I could make out Puerlato. Unfortunately, it’s too cloudy tonight.”
“Not at all, La Dama.” Marshal Josef Bisal laughed. “We were just trading old campaign stories.” He was two chairs to her left, standing tall in his new uniform. His broad shoulders kept the starched collar of the jacket flared out, but he failed to suck in his gut, ruining his posture. His sandy-brown hair hung from its natural part in the center of his head down to his ears, needing a trim. The crook in the bridge of his hooked nose stood out in the candlelight by the near comical grin he wore, which was missing a tooth.
Recha kept her smile as placid as possible. Having one of Baltazar’s staff picks speak so candidly to her was strange after she had placed him and his family under house arrest for a year. She’d expected him and the others to be sourly apprehensive at seeing her.
Baltazar cleared his throat, frowning at Bisal. “What my marshal of scouts meant to say is we serve at your pleasure, La Dama.”
Recha gave him a respectful nod. “Thank you, Field Marshal. Let us get on with the business, then. To your seats, gentlemen.”
As the generals and marshals took their seats, a servant from off to the side came up and pulled her chair out. The walls of the tent were lined with servants and staff officers standing or sitting off to the side. Recha spied Sevesco siting in a corner and took the mental note of his uniform jacket being half-open.
I’m going to scold him about that later. She sat and placed her riding crop on the table.
“With your permission, La Dama,” Baltazar said, “may I give a report on where things stand?” He was a far cry from the retired, stately grandfather she’d met with several weeks ago. His uniform naturally fit him, as if no other clothing was worthy. His face was clean shaven, revealing the aged, stern wrinkles on his hard cheeks. The mustache remained, but trimmed and barely curled over his upper lip. His hair was slicked back, and he showed no sign of weariness, despite the early hour. Even while sitting, Baltazar was at attention.
“By all means,” Recha replied.
“Upon the arrival of the Third Army, we now have twenty thousand troops at the outskirts of Puerlato.” Baltazar flipped through a couple of dispatches. “Commandant Leyva’s latest dispatches put the Fourth Army a day and a half from us and has met no resistance while marching down the west side of the Laz River.
“The latest dispatch from General Priet confirms the Second Army has engaged the enemy at the old river fort on the east bank of the Laz. The general couldn’t give an estimate of the enemy’s strength there, but he expressed his confidence of taking the fort and the east bank either today or tomorrow.”
“The sooner, the better,” Marshal Manel Feli commented, tapping his finger on the table. “We may need the Second Army’s bombards to support the First’s if that old hill fort’s defenses are stronger than they appear.” Baltazar’s marshal of logistics both grimaced and squinted at an open ledger book. His close-set eyes made his spectacles balance precariously on the bridge of his nose. His uniform looked ill-fitting, as if a size too big on his thin frame.
“The First’s bombards will breach the fort’s walls by noon tomorrow,” Hiraldo promised, folding his arms. His chair squeaked from his shifting weight.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Marshal Ramon Narvae chuckled, spinning the tin thimble cup with his fingers on the table. “That’s quite the boast. You’re putting a lot of faith into those metal tubes.”
Recha had been avoiding glancing at the man sitting to Baltazar’s right. She had hoped she could look each man in the eye, see them in her uniform, and trust they were loyal. Loyal to Baltazar if nothing else. Ramon Narvae, however, was still hard to accept, and his manners made it even harder.
The years of house arrest had not been kind, either. He looked worn out and sat slumped back in his chair. The crown of his head was now bald, and the hair around it was all gray. A black eyepatch stood out, covering his right eye, and a thin scar ran from his temple to his cheek.
He slammed his cup on the table. His remaining eye shot a glance across the table at Hiraldo. The lamp light caught his cold, icy look of contempt. He shifted his shoulders and appeared a little nervous, as if avoiding something.
Or someone.
Papa, why did you have to pick him? Recha squeezed her riding crop until her knuckles went white. Baltazar might have promised all his old comrades would be steadfast, but she was not impressed with his choice as marshal second.
“I assure you, Marshal Narvae,” Hiraldo said, “my army’s gunners will demolish the fort’s defenses, and we will take that fort tomorrow. The marshal may not be aware of this, but we have proven and tested many things while he has been out of service.”
Recha’s eyebrows shot up, snapping around at Hiraldo.
He was the levelheaded member of her companions, never jumping into anything impulsively or quick to anger. Now he sat there, glaring at Narvae with his chin in the air, as if answering a challenge. His pride, or rather his pride in his army, was on full display.
Recha held back a smirk. Well done, Hiraldo.
Then she remembered where she was and whom he had said that to. Her impulse to smirk drained away. She glanced about the table, and then the rest of the tent. Everyone sat or stood on edge. Every adjutant was up, standing stiffly on the balls of their feet. The adjutants of the command staff watched those of Hiraldo and General Ros, general of the Third Army sitting to Recha’s right, and vice versa.
Those at the table sat a little stiffer, glancing back and forth between Hiraldo and Ramon. Except Baltazar, who sat with his head hung and arms on the table.
Recha caught the faint vibrations of his mustache, and then she looked down to find his hands balled into white-knuckled fists.
“You”—Narvae growled, sneering at Hiraldo and moving to stand—“stuck up, insubordinate, son of a—”
“Enough!” Baltazar yelled, slamming his fists on the table. His head snapped around and bore down on Narvae, halting the other man halfway out of his chair.
The two men held each other’s gaze and only heightened the tension in the tent.
This must stop! Recha’s mind raced. If it doesn’t, my army will fall apart right when we’re about to begin.
She swallowed, recognizing she was the only person in the room who could do that and prepared herself. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself before putting on a calming appearance for everyone.
“Indeed,” she said as firmly yet serenely as she could. “With your permission, Field Marshal, before this meeting can continue, I believe there are things that need to be discussed first. Things I need to discuss with the officers at this table. May I have the floor?”
Baltazar and Narvae stared at each other for a moment longer before he blew out a deep sigh from his nose. “The floor is yours, La Dama,” he said, turning around, with Narvae settling back in his chair.
“Thank you. First”—she gave Hiraldo a stern stare—“General Galvez, apologize to Marshal Narvae. Your pride for your men is understandable, but it is still unbecoming of a junior officer to insult a superior. No matter how surprisingly tactfully.”
The color in Hiraldo’s face drained. Maybe he had gotten carried away with his pride or let Narvae’s dislike for Recha cloud his judgment. It didn’t matter.
“My apologies, Marshal Narvae,” he said, lowering his head. “I meant no offense.”
Narvae sat hunched over the table with his hands folded in front of him. He worked his jaw, dancing his one good eye between Hiraldo and Recha for a moment, before glancing at Baltazar, who was scowling at him. “I accept your apology, General,” Narvae finally said.
A ripple of slumping shoulders rolled across the tent, accompanied by deep, deflating breaths. Narvae began to sit back—
“Stay, Marshal Narvae,” Recha snapped. “All of you, stay in the light. I want to see your faces.”
She glanced about the table. Narvae remained leaned forward on his arms, hunched low enough Recha could see him rolling his shoulders. Baltazar’s scowl had soften some, but his deep frown pulled his mustache’s curls down. Meanwhile, Marshal Bisal’s head gently wobbled, as if he were on a horse, with a half-grin that made Recha worry he was slightly simple. By contrast, Marshal Feli took his spectacles off, put them in his breast pocket, and then sat straight, as if expecting a scolding.
Recha’s generals, Hiraldo and General Ros, both turned to her. Ros was a middle-aged man and the oldest general in her service. His long face and uniform still showed signs of his long march. His mustache and tuff of hair on his chin were bristly, and he needed a shave. His eyelids drooped, and bags were forming under his dark eyes.
Recha locked eyes with was Marshal Tonio Olguer last. Baltazar’s choice as marshal of horse had been oddly quiet. He sat rubbing his broad knuckles with light sheen of sweat on his face. The stout man had gained weight in his years of house arrest but was more darkly tanned than the rest. He had spent his days in forced retirement as a horse trader, breeding and examining horses from his estate.
“I know some of you might hold some animosity for me,” she began, “maybe even hatred”—she shot a look at Narvae—“but I’m not sorry for what I did, or the things I have done.”
A collection of grunts sounded around the table, but Recha ignored them.
“I will not suffer betrayal.” Her voice became stern and harsh. “Of any kind. If I did not make myself clear three years ago, I will do anything to keep Lazorna from the futile, petty squabbles the rest of the marcs indulge in. And I must be honest; when I heard the four of you were involved in that conspiracy, my first instinct was to have you all executed with the other conspirators.” She looked into the eyes of each of her marshals.
The marshals’ faces each went white. Bisal’s smile was finally gone, Olguer was sweating more profusely, and Feli shifted uncomfortably. Narvae, though, stared back at her, unflinching.
“But I couldn’t,” she admitted, working moisture into her mouth. “I couldn’t . . . and lose the love and respect of the most respectable man I’ve ever known.” Recha turned to Baltazar, still sitting stoically with his back straight and arms folded. His hard mask didn’t crack, but the light reflected a twinkle in his eyes. “Nonetheless, I couldn’t have any of you avoid punishment. Having you all stripped of commissions and placed under house arrest was the most lenient punishment I could have granted each of you. Making each of you destitute would have been paramount to execution; therefore, house arrest it was.”
She turned back to each of them. “I don’t expect any of you to like me or obey my every whim. I have called you back to service because you are the only men Field Marshal Vigodt will serve with. He has personally vouched for each of you. And as I said before, I hold him with the highest respect. His word is all I need to know each of you are loyal soldiers of Lazorna and will strive to do your duties to best of your abilities.”
Recha leaned forward against the table, hardening her expression one more time. “But if any of you cannot forgive or stomach serving me, then speak now. I will dismiss each man that says they can’t and allow them to leave here without facing any punishment, their house arrest ended, their liberty unrestricted.”
A tense quiet settled over the tent. A gust of wind sent ripples across the canvas ceiling and tugged on the tent flap. It also carried the distant, muffled thunders of the First Army’s bombards. It sounded like they were all firing now.
“Well”—Bisal coughed loudly, startling several people, Recha included—“I’m good with that. Let bygones be bygones, eh?” His chuckle sounded forced, perhaps nervous, but nonetheless accepted.
Olguer grunted approvingly next, nodding his head. He still dripped sweat on his uniform collar, but at least color was returning to his cheeks.
Recha nodded back.
“La Dama,” Feli said humbly, “after hearing your reasons and choice, I am honored to return to your service and the service of Lazorna. You have my pledge. I shall follow my duties to the letter.”
You don’t have to overdo it, Marshal, she wanted to say, but let it be.
That left only Narvae.
The old calleros sat there, staring at her. He remained motionless, ignoring everyone else in the tent turning toward him, Baltazar included.
“Is that it then?” he said finally. “A long-winded explanation, a sob story of making hard choices, and an offer to let things be is all it takes for the rest of you to forget what she’s done? What she’s been doing?”
“Oh, come now, Ramon,” Bisal protested.
“Don’t ‘come now, Ramon’ me!” Narvae snapped, slamming a fist on the table before pointing at her. “You’ve killed a lot of good men. Some of them were conniving, scheming barons, I grant you, but how can you sit there and justify having calleros—good, experienced officers—executed just because their sworn barons spoke ill of you one night over wine and brandy?”
Recha’s eyebrow twitched, and try as she might, she couldn’t hide the growl in her voice. “How can you justify sitting with some of those same, conniving, scheming barons against the marquesa who pledged to avenge the death of the son of your sworn friend?” She expected him to blanch at that, but Narvae didn’t flinch.
“Young Sebastian’s death, as tragic as it was, was a casualty of campaign and can happen to any of us. What you did, La Dama, amounted to purging anyone you saw as your rivals without allowing a lot of good men to prove themselves.”
The tension Recha had wished to dispel was quickly returning. Baltazar himself sat uneased on the edge of his chair, watching her intently.
She squeezed her riding crop again until she heard the leather squeak against her palm. He still has his brazen pension for saying the unspoken out loud.
These men were Baltazar’s oldest companions and had visited his estate many times in her youth. Narvae and Bisal were always in competition to retell all the old war stories in full detail, many unsuitable for children. Narvae, however, was always blunt about his commanding officers and barons, especially when their political agenda went against military strategy.
“I did purge my political rivals,” she admitted, pushing herself to her feet, scooting her chair back and making its legs grind against the floor. “But only after they conspired to betray me. I took no chances with the calleroses too closely sworn to them, either. It’s irrelevant if that shocks your sensibilities of honor, Cal Narvae, but if any of those conspiracies had succeeded, or if their calleroses felt it their duty to carry them out, they would have done the same thing to me, everyone who supported me”—she gestured to Cornelos behind her—“and probably anyone they believed to support me.” She shot a glance at Baltazar.
Narvae gazed behind her at Cornelos. The faint creak of wood hinted at her secretary-now-commandant shifting his weight.
Steady, Cornelos, she prayed. Don’t let him intimidate you.
She couldn’t imagine his feelings on this. Upon his request, he had been with the troops who had gone to arrest the conspirators. He’d taken his uncle into custody personally. He was the one who had taken Narvae’s eye and left him with that scar. In the years afterward, Cornelos had avoided talking about him and that night.
“We all have to choose sides,” Narvae said through gritted teeth, as if strained to admit it.
“That we do,” Recha agreed. “The only thing that matters is what side you choose now, Ramon Narvae. Again, you don’t have to like me. You can go on hating me. I ask you, though, to look at what I offer each of you. A new, model army, with no interference from barons making demands on the march. No calleros wanting to make grandstands and challenges. A professional command. And I also wish to remind you that you are here at the personal request of Field Marshal Vigodt.”
Narvae folded his hands, flexing and relaxing his entwined fingers while pursing his lips. For the first time, the harsh look in his eye faded, replaced by a thoughtful one.
“What about you, La Dama?” He flashed a look up at her. “What’s your role in this campaign to be?”
Recha allowed herself a small smile, more out of seeing a way to give someone else the chance the lead the conversation. “I believe Field Marshal Vigodt can explain that better than me,” she said while sitting back down. “Field Marshal, if you please?”
“The La Dama and I have agreed that all military strategy and decision be run through this staff,” Baltazar said, seemingly happy to take back over and have everyone’s returned attention. “Everything is to go through proper command channels without having to receive La Dama’s approval first.”
“No going above anyone’s head,” Narvae simplified, shooting a glance at Hiraldo before turning back to Baltazar.
“Exactly.” Baltazar nodded.
Narvae shifted in his chair, appearing more interested. “Still, if I’m allowed to ask again, what is La Dama’s role going to be?”
“To oversee the campaign’s political needs,” Recha interjected. “Communications from Zoragrin, dealing with local barons, and any negotiations with enemy commanders who invoke the Rules of Campaign. The boring things I’m sure you’d find tedious.”
Narvae drummed his fingers on the tabletop, but his thoughtful expression remained.
“But I’m sure we can trust you to share everything important with us, correct, La Dama?” Feli requested. Being marshal of logistics, it was natural for him to ask a question like that.
“Of course,” Recha affirmed.
That settled, the waiting quiet returned, broken only by Narvae soft, drumming fingertips. However, the tension wasn’t as suffocating as before.
“What say you, Ramon?” Baltazar asked. “Satisfied or not?”
Narvae jutted his jaw out, passed another glance between Baltazar and Recha, before snorting deeply. “I’ll serve,” he replied finally. “For you, Baltazar.”
The men gave each other an understanding nod, and Recha had to accept it.
“Then let’s continue discussing our strategy,” she said, trying to get the meeting back on course. “Field Marshal, if you please?”
Baltazar moved a few papers out of the way to reveal a map of the surrounding area. “Some of you may believe,” he began, “we are making a lightning strike to retake Puerlato before the Orsembians can send a relief force. However, the recapture of Puerlato is not the main objection of this campaign.” He pulled out another map showing the greater interior of Orsembar. “The goal of this campaign is to march into Orsembar and break Marqués Borbin.”
The heart of Orsembar, Recha mentally added while everyone at the table leaned forward to look at the map and all the adjutants passed hasty whispers amongst themselves. It would have sounded better to say, “the heart of Orsembar.”
“By our initial reports, Marqués Borbin has taken personal command of his army this season and has marched it against Quezlo.” Baltazar ran his finger along the map, tracing the Compuert Road and stopping at Compuert. “We believe the Orsembian army’s vanguard should have reached Compuert a few days ago and begun siege preparations.”
“Believe?” Narvae inquired, raising an eyebrow. “Are we not sure?”
Baltazar folded his hands together. “Our information is based on Capitán Viezo’s informants.” He turned, and the rest of the table followed his gaze, to look back in the corner at Sevesco, who was snoozing. He had moved an empty chair beside him, that an adjutant must have abandoned, and braced his arm on the top of the back of the chair with his cheek pressed against his fist.
“Capitán Viezo!” Baltazar roared.
Sevesco snorted, jerking awake. “Time to go?” he grunted and half-stood. He blinked rapidly, clearing the sleep from his eyes, then paused when he found everyone in the tent staring at him. “Guess not.”
Sevesco! Recha gritted her teeth to stop the impulse to scream at him. Instead, she folded her arms, leaned back in her chair, and crossed her legs to prevent the impulse to throw something at him. There were enough clashing egos under this tent without him causing trouble.
“Good morning, Capitán,” Baltazar said dryly. “Glad you can join us. Do you want someone to bring you a coffee, or can you stay awake long enough to give us your report?”
Sevesco brightened. “If you’re offering—”
His snide remark died in his throat, and his face made a sudden pinched expression, like a child who had pressed their parent too far. Recha couldn’t see Baltazar’s face, but she was certain his glare could curdle milk.
“I can give any report you wish,” Sevesco said before hastily adding, “sir.”
Baltazar continued to stare at him.
A new tension fell over the tent, though not like last time when everyone felt the meeting was going to disintegrate into shouting and blows. This was the tense, strained silence of a commanding officer bearing down on a junior, waiting for something, expecting something, and Recha knew Baltazar wasn’t going to continue until he got it. She could see Sevesco faintly sweating even from across the tent.
Sevesco finally broke, rising to his feet while buttoning up his uniform jacket. Once done, he stood at attention with his head up and hands behind his back. “Capitán Viezo reporting, sir!” he shouted, though unenthusiastically.
“Better,” Baltazar said before glancing back to his map. “Capitán, can you confirm Borbin’s army has reached Compuert?”
“Their vanguard should have, sir,” Sevesco replied. “The latest reports I’ve received said the Orsembian main army should have marched out of Orona a few days ago. Their baggage train, though, is probably still stretched between there and Huarita.”
“That’s a long baggage train,” Narvae grumbled, squinting at the line marking the road between the cities. “It’ll take days to get food to their vanguard. How large is Borbin’s army?”
“The vanguard was supplied food from Pisemo,” Sevesco replied. “As for the Orsembian army”—he shrugged—“last count had it around eight-five thousand.”
Everyone under the tent jerked awake at that number. Even Bisal gaped.
“Well!” Narvae sat back, throwing his hands up. “With an army that big, what in damnation are we supposed to do? Last I counted we had . . . what? Thirty-five? Thirty-six thousand troops? With the numbers Borbin has, he can dispatch a quarter of them to block us while we’re stuck here retaking Puerlato, and still take Compuert.”
“Which is why,” Baltazar said, looking toward Recha, “La Dama and I agree that we will not remain here to besiege Puerlato.”
The flow of everyone’s attention returned to her, and Recha got the hint Baltazar wanted her to take over.
“The field marshal and I went over the intelligence reports and formed a plan,” she began. “Once the First Army takes the hill fort and the Second Army breaks the fort at the river mouth, the Fourth Army will remain here and hold Puerlato under siege with the First and Second Armies’ bombards to keep the city’s port closed.”
She caught Hiraldo frowning at her mentioning losing his army’s field guns, but she pressed on.
“The Third Army, General Ros, will march into Orsembar tomorrow, immediately after we are certain the road is clear, and secure . . .” She reached over the table but was just short. “Pass the map, if you please, Field Marshal.”
Baltazar spun the map around then sent it gliding over the tabletop with a flick of his finger. Recha caught it before the parchment could slide under her arm and set it down in front of General Ros.
“Once you march into Orsembar, send your vanguard to secure this cove,” she instructed, pointing to a spot on the map.
Ros sat up, intently staring at the map, studying the route and surroundings. It was a cove on the Desryol Sea, five miles west of Puerlato and ten miles south of the Compuert Road Junction.
The general’s brow furled. “Forgive me, if this is being presumptuous, La Dama, but shouldn’t the junction be our primary target to secure?”
“In normal circumstances, yes,” Recha replied. “But what should be anchored in that cove is much more important than a road junction. A ship, carrying enough muskets, ball, and powder to outfit your army and the needs of the Second, should be there. We need those weapons.”
General Ros sat up straighter, and his eyebrows shot up the moment he heard that. “Indeed! But are we sure the ship is there?”
“We arranged it nearly a month ago.” Recha smiled assuredly. “And Capitán Viezo should—” She glanced and found Sevesco, still standing, only his head had fallen back with his mouth gaping.
“Sevesco!” she hissed.
Sevesco threw his head up, snorting, blinking, and grunting all at the same time. “Hmm?”
“The ship!” she demanded. “Is it in the cove?”
“Yeah”—Sevesco stifled a yawn before correcting himself—“I mean, yes, La Dama. An informant confirmed it when I arrived to camp this evening.”
“Good.”
At least we know his informants are working, she thought, turning back to General Ros.
“So, at dawn—or as soon as General Galvez guarantees the road is open—march the Third Army to the cove, secure it, and bring those weapons ashore as fast as possible.”
“Yes, La Dama,” General Ros affirmed.
“Speed will be vital,” Baltazar interjected and commandingly looked about the occupants at the table. “Not just in retrieving those weapons, but in every step of this campaign.”
“Naturally, we’re going to need speed.” Narvae snickered, as if stating the obvious. “We’re going to need to get up to Compuert before Borbin knows it and bite him in the ass while he’s focused on those walls.”
“Just like old times.” Bisal chuckled, rocking in his chair.
That brought about a few more people chuckling in agreement.
Except Baltazar.
“We’re not going to attempt a pincer maneuver. Borbin’s army is too large. Even while focused on Compuert, he could pull half his army around and overwhelm us.”
“What about the Quezlians?” Narvae asked. “Don’t we have an alliance with them?”
“Not with the terms of our agreement this year,” Recha piped up. “Quezlo agreed to come to our aid if Borbin invaded us. They didn’t agree to fight with us if we sent troops in response to Borbin attacking them.”
Their agreement was only enforceable to make Lazorna a charnel house in case Borbin tried to march through us to get to them, she mentally added. If we win this, I’ll have to talk to Marqués Dion about more mutually beneficial agreements.
“Besides,” she added, grinning, “why share the spoils?”
That brought more chuckles. The tension from earlier seemed to have disappeared, and Recha was grateful for it.
“And, by spoils,” Feli said, pointedly staring down his nose at a map, “I can’t help but notice the road to Manosete is open. If not Compuert, do you mean to march in and seize Manosete while Borbin’s away?”
Baltazar shook his head. “We still don’t have the numbers, nor the supplies to perform two sieges at the same time and have a reserve to hold off whatever relief force Borbin will eventually send. The plan instead is we march into the heartland of Orsembar and cause enough chaos and confusion that Borbin has no choice but to march his army away to stop us.”
“The barons will be in an uproar,” Recha added. “Once they hear rumors and news of us marching on their lightly defended estates while they’re away fighting for Borbin’s ambition, they’ll demand protection.”
“And an army that size will have to break up to pursue us,” Baltazar concluded. “That is when we strike. With our model armies, more mobile and able to work independently, we can draw these smaller units into individual battles, on ground of our choosing.”
“Crush them in detail,” Narvae said, his eye twinkling now that he saw the plan. A faint hint of a smile played on his lips as the old calleros grasped the strategy.
Defeating an army in detail was a tactic a smaller army could use to spread out a larger army and defeat the spread-out segments, one by one. Baltazar had convinced her it wise to use such a strategy here, and the same tactic Sebastian had deployed that had earned him his own fame. Like father, like son. All that mattered here was getting inside Orsembar and luring Borbin’s army away to be defeated piecemeal.
“Marching into Orsembar does present a problem, though,” Marshal Feli said, his frown making his close-set eyes squint. “Our supply lines will be stretched thin the deeper we go. If the enemy claims the Compuert Road Junction, we’ll be cut off from Lazorna.”
“Each army will have to live off the land,” Baltazar conceded, rubbing his hands together. “Every town, village, and estate we come across will have to be taken for supplies.”
“Especially the estates,” Recha added. “It’s vital for our plan that the barons make trouble for Borbin, and having their homes threatened will do just that.”
That came out a little harsh, she thought, noticing some of the adjutants shifting on their feet nervously. But this is war.
“As you’ve pointed out, Marshal Feli, there’s only one counteroffensive Borbin can take that will ruin our entire plan.” Baltazar stared right at her. “If he hears what we’re doing and, instead of marching to stop us, he moves to relieve Puerlato, this entire campaign is over. If he moves at full force toward Puerlato and takes the Compuert Road Junction, then no matter what any of our armies are doing or engaged in, I will order a retreat to Lazorna. Whether we all make it in time is irrelevant.
“If I receive word of such a move, I will have no choice but to order the retreat. If we get cut off completely from Lazorna, we are doomed. And if we allow Borbin to relieve Puerlato with his numbers and us still inside Orsembar, Lazorna is doomed.”
He sat up straight and folded his arms. “Do you understand, La Dama?”
Recha swallowed, looking at the map. She understood the strategy. It was just like the jedraz game. They weren’t taking the distraction with Puerlato and marching into Orsembar to strike at Borbin’s heart. However, their plan was bold and risky. If Borbin deciphered it, he could, in turn, answer their maneuver in kind.
But this is my only chance, she told herself. If I don’t strike now, I never will.
“I understand, Field Marshal.” She stared back at Baltazar, holding his gaze. His stern, commanding expression never wavered, as if he wished to drive the point he would do as he said to her with his eyes alone.
“Very well,” Baltazar finally said. “Then the last order of business for tonight are some orders of transfers. While I agree the Fourth Army should be left to hold Puerlato, I wish to move some companies in and out of it. General Galvez, I understand you have several companies formed entirely of Puerlato natives, correct?”
“Correct, Field Marshal,” Hiraldo replied. “They are some of the First Army’s finest.”
“Very good.” Baltazar had fished a pair of spectacles and was already writing orders. “I want them all transferred to the Fourth Army. The Fourth Army is, in turn, to transfer the necessary companies to fill the spots left open in the First.”
Blood drained out of Hiraldo’s face. “May I ask why, Field Marshal?”
“For morale, General,” Recha interjected, touching his elbow. “The men of Puerlato want their city freed. It would harm their morale to order them to invade Orsembar while leaving their home in enemy hands. Therefore, those companies will hold the city under siege, using the field guns to stop any ships from providing provisions while starving, or waiting, the defenders out. The least amount of damage as possible. We all want to bring Puerlato back into the fold, not destroy it in the process.”
The men around the table nodded at that, most of the adjutants joined concurring.
Hiraldo frowned stubbornly, like a boy being told it was best for his favorite dog to be taken away and knew it had to be done. “Yes, La Dama.” He finally nodded. “My army, though, is deploying for battle, Field Marshal. With your permission, I request all transfers wait until after we’ve secured the fort.”
“Granted,” Baltazar said without even looking up from writing. “The fort will be the perfect transfer point, anyway.”
The tent fell into silence again, save for Baltazar’s pen scratching. Feet shifted. Boards softly yawned. Or that might have been one of the adjutants; Recha wasn’t quite sure.
She glanced and found Sevesco lightly sleeping again, this time with his arms wrapped around himself.
She ran through her mental lists and found it running low. She wasn’t sure if there was anything left to . . . to . . .
Her eyelids started to droop. Her head started to feel a little heavy. The soft scratches of the pen seemed to echo louder and louder. Sound seemed to muffle. The tent was getting darker. Or maybe it was just her vision? Recha couldn’t tell. Only, she felt very . . . relaxed.
“Halt!” the tent guard outside shouted. “Halt!”
Recha threw her head up at the sound of pounding boots on wood. She squinted and blinked rapidly as her eyes readjusted.
“Let me through!” a young man demanded. “I swam the Savior damned Laz to bring this dispatch!”
A cacophony of grunts, muttered curses, scraping armor, weapons, and boots burst into the tent as two of the guards struggled to hold on to a determined soldier, desperate to force his way in. Everyone who could reached for their swords, except for Recha, who looked around to see what was going on, and Baltazar, who calmly rose to his feet.
“What is the meaning of this?” Baltazar demanded sternly but kept his firm voice low, accompanied by a glare that could set wood aflame.
The scuffling men broke apart and snapped to attention. The soldier in the center, the one who the guards were struggling with, was drenched from head to toe. His uniform was soaked through and clung to his body, same for his curly brown hair sticking to his forehead. A pool was quickly forming where he stood.
“Sir!” the soldier shouted, quick to be the first to respond. “I come bearing an urgent dispatch from General Priet of the Second Army, sir!”
“Then deliver it, soldier!” Baltazar ordered.
“Sir!” the soldier hastily saluted before digging through his leather dispatch sack hanging from his shoulder and on his waist. As he pulled out a parchment, his eyes met Recha’s, and he gasped, “La Dama!”
Recha softly smiled.
The soldier held out the dispatch to her, his hand shaking from the wet.
Recha took the message without thinking and began to open it. Only when she had, did she see who the message was said to go to, written on top of the dispatch. She stopped, glancing out of the corner of her eye to see her command staff, Baltazar especially frowning.
Oops. She took a deep breath and looked up at the soldier. “Who were you ordered to deliver this to?” she asked.
The soldier swallowed then confusedly replied, “To Marshal Feli of the field marshal’s staff, La Dama.”
“Then follow your orders, soldier,” she said, handing the dispatch back to him, “and deliver it.”
The soldier lowered his head and hastily took back the note.
As he strode around the table to properly deliver his message, Recha caught a faint, approving smile from Baltazar.
She nodded back. I just promised them to respect the chain of command and almost broke it because I’m drowsy. If I don’t get sleep soon, there’s no telling what I’m going to do. She fought the urge to rub the corners of her eyes while also fighting to keep them open.
“The fort at the river mouth has fallen!” Feli announced, siting straight and alert while reading the message. “General Priet reports the defenders tried to evacuate after the first few volleys of their bombards. During the retreat, members of the thirtieth company of sword and thirty-second company of pike stormed and seized the gates. General Priet reports close to two hundred and fifty riders escaped, heading toward Puerlato. He has calleros in pursuit, but he cannot be sure if they can stop them in time.”
“Send dispatches to Commandant Leyva immediately!” Baltazar ordered, sending every adjutant in the tent into a frenzy, rushing the table for a surface to write on. “He is to change the course of his march and proceed down the Laz to ensure the Second Army’s crossing and send every mounted company he has toward Puerlato from his position to cut off the fort defenders.
“General Galvez, General Ros, which of your companies of horse are most rested?”
Hiraldo and Ros shared a look before Ros answered first.
“My companies are still resting from their march, Field Marshal, but their horses should have gotten enough rest by now.”
“Some of my companies are standing by,” Hiraldo replied, “in case there is a sally from Puerlato or those in the hill fort try to retreat.”
In all the flurry of activity, Recha slunk in her chair. The meeting was apparently over, and Baltazar was showing how fast he could take over his duties.
He passed a quick look between the two generals, as if weighing them, before finally saying, “Rouse your men, General Ros. I want three companies of horse blocking the road from the river mouth fort to Puerlato within the hour. General Galvez, keep yours in position. The men at the river fort have nowhere to go but Puerlato, and we also cannot allow one man from the hill fort to slip into Orsembar.”
“Yes, sir!” both generals replied then turned to their own adjutants.
Recha folded her hands in her lap and just watched the activity. Is there really nothing for me to do? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so agreeable to be cut out of everything.
“Recha,” Baltazar’s fatherly voice called through the upheaval. He was holding two pieces of paper in both hands, looking at her over the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “Go get some sleep. We got it handled here.”
Recha slumped. Did making him field marshal make him a mind reader, too? However, she was too tired to argue.
She pushed off the table to her feet. “Happy hunting, gentlemen,” she wished the generals.
Each of her staff paused what they were doing to rise and wish her goodnight. Cornelos cleared a path for her, and the guards held open the tent flaps.
Recha’s body felt heavy, and each step she took felt like she was walking on water. Then the night wind brushed against her cheek, it’s cool touch sending a chill down her spine and making her start awake before she tripped off the edge of tent’s support deck.
“Thank. The. Savior!” Sevesco yawned, stretching his arms high into the air. “I thought that’d never end.”
Recha groggily arched an eyebrow at seeing him, glanced over her shoulder back at the tent, then looked back to make sure she was seeing him right. “How did you get out here?” she asked.
“Hmm?” Sevesco grunted. He looked over his shoulder with half-lidded eyes. “Oh. I snuck out the moment all of”—he waved back at the command tent—“that started.”
You snuck away? She put her hands on her hips, more to keep herself standing. Why am I not surprised?
“Shouldn’t you be in there helping? Or . . . checking in on your espis?”
“Ah!” Sevesco waved a finger in the air then spun on his heels around in front of her. “I should check for more reports. In my tent. Excellent idea. But first, just to let you know”—he lowered his voice—“Silvaja’s party was a complete success. Lots of happy guests, and everyone on the list did not leave.” He gave her a wink.
I’m too tired for subtlety and subterfuge, Recha thought, getting his meaning, but her legs were starting to wobble.
“That’s nice,” she replied sleepily.
Sevesco grinned. “There he is!” He pulled back, waving at Cornelos, who was walking up beside Recha. “The most gallant commandant in the whole army.”
“Does that make you the most unlikely capitán in the army then?” Cornelos retorted, glowering at him.
Recha had told him about Sevesco’s prank, and he was still not amused.
Sevesco shrugged. “I’d rather not have a rank, but someone insisted.”
“Baltazar?” Recha guessed.
“Nope.” Sevesco shook his head. “Feli. Said he wanted information vetted by an officer to be sure it’s genuine. Bisal didn’t care one way or another. I knew I always liked him best.”
Recha grimaced. Baltazar had given her the recommendation of giving Sevesco an officer rank. She had assumed it was to make sure all her companions had a place in the army.
I should make sure I ask for reasons for recommendations for now on.
“Now, if you two will excuse me,” Sevesco said, “I’m going to my tent and stay there until they pull it down around me.”
“Don’t pickpocket the wrong person on your way,” Cornelos warned.
Sevesco snorted, shaking his head. “Cornelos, Cornelos. I’m too tired to pick anyone’s pocket. But seriously”—he dug into his trouser pocket, pulled out some folded papers, then tossed them at Cornelos, making him jerk and fumble to catch them—“you shouldn’t carry such important things around. A list of Recha’s guards? Such a list shouldn’t be put to paper.”
“You!” Cornelos yelled, but Sevesco was already scurrying off between the tents, leaving Cornelos fuming, breathing deeply through his nose. He mumbled angrily under his breath as he stuffed the papers into his pocket.
Recha shook her head. “You know he only does that because he enjoys picking on you, right?”
Cornelos about-faced, his face red, grimacing no doubt from yelling even more. He hung his head, deflating, and sighed. “May I escort you to your tent, La Dama?” he offered.
“Oh, by the Savior, yes!” Recha accepted, deflating a little herself. As groggy as she felt, she wasn’t sure she could remember where her tent was.
When Cornelos set off, Recha hopped off the command tent deck after him. She barely realized the guard she had left outside the command tent had joined them until she lazily glanced over her shoulder and found them following behind.
Her tent was slightly smaller than the command tent, several tents down and surrounded by more guards. Recha struggled to keep her head up and barely acknowledged them when they snapped to attention when they approach.
“Make sure I don’t oversleep,” she instructed Cornelos as he held open her tent flap for her. Her commanding air, though, was broken when she yawned loudly.
“Yes, La Dama.” Cornelos chuckled, his broad smile plainly lit by a nearby campfire.
“I’m serious,” she said, giving him a stern look. Though, again, she wobbled on her feet.
“I promise to wake you if anything happens,” Cornelos assured her.
Accepting that, and desperately wanting to get off her feet, Recha gave him a dismissive wave and slipped into her dark tent.
The servants hadn’t left a light lit, but luckily, there was nothing in her way. All her trunks were still stacked to one side while her bunk was straight back in the rear of the tent.
She stumbled through the tent, pawing at her clothes, trying to loosen them to take them off, but not having the strength or willpower. Finally, she flopped down on her bunk and stretched out, sighing. After a few deep breaths in time with the bombards’ distant reports, her eyes drifted closed, and she went fast asleep.