The Easterly Sun’s blazing noonday rays stung Recha’s eyes, making her tilt her head to shade her face with the brim of her silver hat.
That also limited her vision to the carnage before her.
“Clear a path!” the calleros at the head of her escort ordered. “Make way for the marquesa!”
Soldiers of the First Army scrambled out of the way of the galloping squadron of calleros in their full, varnished black-plate armor riding up the steeping slope toward the hill fort. Their closed visors gave them quite an intimidating appearance with their round eye holes with curved slots arching downward from them like makeshift corners of eyes that followed the bridge of a metal nose.
Recha rode in their center with six members of her guard, one carrying her personal violet banner. Save for her hat, she hadn’t changed since last night. She’d been awoken an hour ago and, between having to decide to eat or change clothes, she had chosen to eat.
She was regretting that choice now.
She put on a strong face and tried not to grimace at the sight of her soldiers limping, leaning on fellow soldiers, or being carried on stretchers to the camp doctors and surgeons who had set up their stations on the slope of the hill after the fort had been taken. The smell of bile and blood mixed with the heavy scents of smoke and dust lingering in the air.
How many did we lose from taking one measly, old fort?
Recha raised her head to avoid the sights of men gripping wounded legs and hastily bandaged heads. Trails of gray smoke still rose from inside the fort. It was thickest still on the north side.
Cornelos had informed her that the wall had come down right at dawn. That was when the battle for the breach had begun. From the reports, it sounded like the defenders had fought in earnest from the start.
Recha ground her teeth together. And he let me sleep right through it! I must remember to give him extra work, or have Papa assign him to latrine digging, or . . . or—she grunted from her right hip having fallen asleep, forcing her to shift her weight—or make him ride sidesaddle for a couple of days.
The old fort of weathered stone stood a couple stories tall, a monument to centuries long forgotten. The ancient royal crest of Desryol—a shield depicting a hand and forearm that should have been black, reaching up to grasp a blazing sun out of reach—was still carved on the turrets of the fort’s castle gate.
The crest of a long-dead bloodline wasn’t important.
Recha’s chest swelled at the sight of hers fluttering in the wind on the turrets themselves, alongside the banners of the First and Fourth Army, the latter having arrived to take up the siege of the city a couple of hours ago.
The fort’s gate stood open. Squads of pikemen stood guard on both sides, as if an honor guard to the wounded lumbering and being carried out to the doctors below.
“Make way!” the calleros capitán, marked by the red feather sticking out on the back of his helmet, bellowed. “Clear the gate for the marquesa!”
The pikemen snapped to attention, stamping their feet and pounding the butt of their pikes into the ground as one. Men rushed to clear the gateway for the calleroses.
Recha casually raised her riding crop to the pikemen before instinctively ducking her head to pass under the portcullis. She didn’t want to risk one of those iron points snagging her hat and ripping her hair back. She had pinned the hat to her hair, bundled up and propped to the side to forgo brushing after rolling over it during her sleep.
Riding into the fort was like riding into the past. The wide, square curtain walls surrounded a centuries-old keep, five stories of brown stone. The bailey yard was a mixture of ordered chaos and a charnel house.
“Any wounded who can walk need to make their way to camp doctors outside the fort,” an officer from a sword regiment, distinguished by the shield strapped to his back, ordered to a group of men helping the wounded. “The rest of you, break up into teams and carry the wounded who can’t walk. We need this yard cleared!”
“Easy with clearing those rock!” a sergeant bellowed at another group of men, most of them camp workers because they weren’t in uniform, clearing rubble in the breached north wall. “We need this breach cleared but don’t bring the rest of the wall down! Careful where you step, too! What’s left of some poor bastards are under there.”
Recha watched one man stumble back. His face was struck pale from picking up a stone and finding the squished remains of an enemy soldier who hadn’t been quick enough to avoid the bombards blasting through the wall.
“What did I just say?” the sergeant snapped.
A woman’s scream tore Recha’s attention away from those cleaning up the pieces of men and stone.
“Where do you think you’re hiding?” a soldier snapped, dragging a woman out from the side door of the keep by under her arm. Her white apron was stained with blood, her brown dress torn in several places, including her right sleeve, and her face was gray from stains of smoke with only streaks from tears offering to wash them off.
“All prisoners belong by the stables,” the solder, another swordsman, ordered. “That includes you!”
“No!” the woman screamed. “Mercy! Please! I don’t want to be taken as sioneros!”
The soldier carried out his duty, dragging the begging woman, a fort servant who most likely worked in the kitchens, out of sight with stern conviction.
The woman’s pleas pinged Recha’s heart.
“Capitán!” she called. Upon entering, she and her escort had simply waited while Recha surveyed the damage.
The capitán wheeled his horse around, lifting his visor open in salute. “Yes, La Dama?”
“Go after that soldier,” she ordered. “Remind him, and whoever’s in charge of overseeing the prisoners, that all prisoners are to be treated with respect unless so ordered. Tell them the marquesa herself will be very displeased if she hears of any mistreatment. Especially to the women. We are a professional army. And our reputation begins here. Tell them, if the I hear of any man tarnishing that, she will oversee their discipline personally.”
“By your command, La Dama!” the capitán replied. He slammed his visor down and gestured to a few of his fellow calleroses, tearing away half her escort as they left.
“And tell them that comes straight from the marquesa herself!” Recha added, pushing up in her saddle to yell it louder.
She didn’t hear a reply, probably because the helmet muffled it, or the thumping horse hooves did. Either way, she sat back, smiling, satisfied in giving an order and seeing it carried out. True, her agreement with Baltazar meant she couldn’t interfere with the chain of command, but she would be forsaken if she saw her army abusing people in front of her and must ask someone else to make it stop. She didn’t have to ask. She could command that!
“Huzzah!” someone shouted to her left. “La Dama Mandas!”
Recha turned and saw Capitán Alon Queve exiting the southeast corner turret with two fellow swordsmen following him.
She beamed a smile at him. “Huzzah, Capitán Queve!” She raised her riding crop to him. “I trust the battle went well for you and your company?”
Queve stopped a couple of paces away, stamping his feet together. The two following him did likewise. He held one hand on his sword hilt while carrying his helmet underneath his left arm. His breastplate couldn’t conceal the fact that he was puffing his chest out, although it did make the dark smear of dried blood that raked diagonally across it stand out more.
His hair was matted from dried sweat, and his cheeks were a little sunken in. He looked tired and yet still alert, either from the last remaining adrenaline from the battle or inner discipline.
“It was hard fought, La Dama,” he reported. “But the First Swords upheld the honor of Lazorna and Puerlato with distinction.”
“That’s excellent to hear!” Recha couldn’t help but crookedly smile at his boast, a proudful, soldier’s boast.
“Thank you, La Dama!” Queve gave a sharp nod, lowering his chin to his breast then snapping it back, like a bow without bending. “Also, General Galvez’s compliments. He wishes for you to join him and Commandant Leyva in the southeast turret’s observation room.”
Recha glanced up at the turret but couldn’t see anything through the turret’s slit windows. She shifted her divided skirts so they wouldn’t get caught when she dismounted. Holding the reins in her right hand, she moved her left leg over the pommel simultaneously while sliding her right foot from its stirrup. Once she was sitting completely sideways, she simply hopped off before any of her guard had dismounted to offer to help her.
She straightened her skirts then handed her horse’s reins to her nearest calleros. “Take our horses and wait with the others,” she ordered.
“Yes, La Dama,” the calleros replied, taking her reins.
They took the reins of her guard, as well, and Recha waited for them to ride past before heading toward the capitán. Her guard fell in behind her while Queve led them to the turret door.
The yard was covered in weeds and patches of sand. Her heels dug into the loose dirt with every step, threatening to trip her.
She was relieved to reach the turret door but paused at the threshold. “You two remain here,” she ordered two of her guard, keeping her voice low. “Members of the Viden should be arriving soon. Escort them to me when they do.”
The guards nodded and took up positions beside the door.
“Capitán!” Recha called, alerting him on the staircase that she had paused. She rushed to catch up, past his fellows, to walk up the steps beside him. “You mentioned the battle was hard fought,” she said, using the rickety railing to steady her up the stair’s steep incline. “Were you referring to the enemy or your company’s losses?”
“The First Swords fought well,” Queve assured her. “The men stayed together, storming over the breach’s rubble. None broke off to fight alone, kept each other covered when they could, and kept up the pressure to widen the breach and get more companies through. All in all, our losses were manageable.”
Despite his positive report, Recha noted some strain in his voice and his furled brow, as if he was holding something back. She was about to ask him more when a potent, acidic scent struck her, making her wince. She put her hand over her nose then took the final step to the third-floor landing and stopped.
The room, which must have been for the soldiers to relax in between patrolling the walls, was in complete upheaval. Every piece of furniture was overturned in a makeshift barricade. It was as rickety as the stairs from apparently being made in haste, and musket-ball holes peppered the wooden tabletops, backs of chairs, and marked some of the back wall with black spots. The stinging smell of burned powder still hung in the air, along with the faint scent of blood, because of the turret’s small slit window.
“It was getting the musketeers on the walls that finally broke them,” Queve said from beside her. “Once they started volleying from above, the defenders broke.” The capitán’s sternness remained, and his former pride was replaced with what Recha thought sounded like regret.
“Is everything truly all right, Capitán?” she asked in concern. “You don’t have to remain stoic in front of me because of your rank or because I’m the marquesa. If there is something wrong, I would prefer to be told.”
Queve drew himself up again, pressing his lips tightly together, as if to keep quiet, but Recha fixed him with an intense, unblinking stare.
“It’s nothing serious, La Dama,” he replied, relaxing. “Some of the men . . . During the battle, it was dark, and most of the men were trying to stay alive while pressing the attack. Afterward, though, some of the men admitted they weren’t sure how hard to press.” His frown deepened. “They couldn’t be certain if the defenders they were fighting were Orsembians or men of Puerlato.”
Recha softened her stern expression. She glanced at the swordsmen with Queve. Although they gave nothing away, she was sure they probably held the same lingering thoughts. They’d been sent to attack their own people.
It was easy to see the possibility. With the city being under Orsembian control for three years and she having all but relinquished claim over it by pursuing peace, those left in the city might have found it natural to serve and defend it alongside the Orsembian garrison.
And now the Puerlato soldiers in my army are wondering if the carnage here is going to spill over into the city itself, she thought. The very home they’re trying to liberate.
Recha stepped up and took Queve by the arm, squeezing it comfortingly. “I promised you and your men—all of you—will be marching home,” she said. “I further add now that I will not turn your homes into slaughterhouses. You’ll learn it all in time.”
Queve stood a little taller, though the serious frown remained, a soldier’s frown who knew nothing was a guarantee in war. “Thank you, La Dama,” he said anyway.
“Let’s join the general and commandant.” She pivoted sideways, like she was leading him now. “Shall we?”
“Of course, La Dama!” Queve snapped to attention, as if suddenly remembering something he had forgotten. He raised his arm, ushering her further. “This way.”
They continued in silence. The stomping of heavy boots and creaking wood from another poor staircase the only thing breaking it until they reached the switchback.
“I wish I could move the bombards up more,” a man’s voice, a young man by its tenor, who Recha didn’t recognize, said. “But that’s the only spot we can cover the seaport and defend properly.”
“That will leave the eastern part uncovered,” Hiraldo said in warning. “If the bombards on that side of the city can’t fully cover that area, then you might be leaving a corridor for ships to sail in and out of.”
Recha and her escort walked up the landing and found Hiraldo standing with his hands behind his back next to another man, presumably Commandant Leyva, who was bent over and looking through a long spyglass propped up on the windowsill. Unlike their soldiers, both men were dressed in their uniforms, which were both equally disheveled from being worn all night.
Queve stomped forward then snapped to attention, the stomps reverberating against the observation room’s wooden floors and wooden vaulted ceiling.
“Begging your pardons, sirs!” he announced loudly. “La Dama Mandas has arrived, sirs!”
Hiraldo turned smoothly on his heels. Deep bags hung under his eyes from being awake all night. It was a wonder he was still standing. Meanwhile, Commandant Leyva leapt around, startled and mouth agape.
Recha kept her expression as placid as possible to hide any surprise.
Leyva was young. Reaching as tall as Hiraldo’s shoulders, his curly auburn hair and bright brown eyes gave her the impression of a young man fresh off a farm. He even had freckles on his cheeks, for Savior’s sake, and not a hint of stubble after forcing a night march. Unlike Hiraldo.
“Good morning, La Dama,” Hiraldo somberly greeted her with a respectful nod. “Sleep well?”
“It’s past noon, General,” she replied, approaching them. “And yes, I slept well. Thank you for asking, but I’m afraid I slept too long. I missed too much, and now I’m rushing everywhere to get caught up.”
When she stopped in front of them, she glanced at Leyva, expecting a greeting or comment from him. However, he remained silent. Recha watched a trail of sweat run down his face before shooting a glance at Hiraldo.
Hiraldo simply stared back, forcing her to stare harder at him.
Is he so tired he can’t introduce the commandant to one of my own armies? She considered ordering to rest, but unfortunately couldn’t. They all still had work to do.
“Hiraldo,” she said calmly. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your fellow officer?”
Hiraldo took a deep breath, blinking rapidly. “Yes! La Dama, may I introduce”—he gestured to Leyva—“Commandant Leyva, Commandant of the Fourth Army.”
Leyva sharply nodded, pressing his chin against his chest before snapping his head back up, like Queve earlier.
“Welcome to Puerlato, Commandant,” she said. “My compliments on your swiftness getting here. Was your forced march successful?”
“Yes, La Dama!” Leyva shouted unnecessarily, making Recha wince and her ears ring. “Very successful, La Dama!”
Recha stepped back, rubbing her right ear and working her jaw. “At ease, Commandant”—she waved at him—“at ease. It’s too soon after waking for people to be shouting.”
Leyva’s face went pale. He hung his head then folded his hands behind his back. “Apologies, La Dama,” he mumbled.
Recha gave him a small smile but, still rubbing her ear, it probably wasn’t as comforting as she thought. “How go the siege preparations?” she asked, wanting to change the subject to dispel the awkwardness.
“Preparations go as schedule,” Leyva replied, suddenly perking up. “The general and I were observing the bombards’ emplacements just when you arrived.”
“Really?” Recha arched an eyebrow then glanced at the spyglass. “May I see?”
“Certainly!” Leyva jumped, excitedly clearing a path to the spyglass.
Recha crookedly smiled, stepping up to the window. His reaction reminded her of a child wanting to show off something they had done to a parent.
The spyglass was mounted on a small tripod, wooden legs fastened to a brass mount for the spyglass to be set in, pointed southward. The windows for this room were long and narrow, probably to give the archers a wide range of fire around and below the corner turret while the slanted ceiling proved protection for arching return fire.
Recha bent over to peer through the glass, and she grinned.
Gone was the morning mist. Now the tall walls of Puerlato stood out bright and clear, along with the top of the city’s white belltower. The outlying buildings outside the walls, the surrounding farm fields, and hills around the port city stretched out clear in every detail. Beyond them was the deep blue of the Desryol Sea. She could faintly spy the light-green traces of water from the Laz River mingling with the sea water behind the city.
She easily picked out the hill she’d overheard Hiraldo and Leyva discussing when she had entered. Her banner flew over a hill outside the east side of the city, near the sea. She turned the spyglass, first to the right and then the left, learning how to adjust it until she could see men digging emplacements and trenches around the hill. Already, the bombards of the First Army had been moved up the hill after last night’s work.
The glint of metal drew her attention away, making her angle the glass to watch a squad of pikemen march around the perimeter of the hill.
“Has the city garrison tried to fight us for the hill?” she asked. There didn’t look like there had been a battle yet—no bodies lying around or being moved like what she had ridden by into the fort but wanted to be sure.
“No,” Leyva replied. “They seem content to watch us and keep their gates closed.”
“They probably don’t want to risk opening the gates,” Hiraldo said groggily. “Especially knowing there are a couple companies of calleros stationed around those fields.”
Recha glanced up from the spyglass and found the tall man leaning with his back against the long, thin seal, partially against the stone and partially against the wood. His arms were folded, and his head slightly drooped.
“How would they know for certain that we have calleros stationed around fields?” she asked. They were there to be a defensive screen to allow the Fourth Army to set up their positions for the coming siege, meet any counterattack from the city’s garrison, and give the other armies time to mobilize. They weren’t supposed to expose their own positions.
Hiraldo gave her a reprehensive sideways glance, watching her for a moment.
I’ve missed something, Recha realized.
“What’s happened?”
Hiraldo turned around slowly then bent down to squint out the window, looking for something before he reangled the spyglass. “Some of the defenders of this fort tried to flee during the battle. There’s another exit near the stables. Our calleroses had to give away their positions to stop them from reaching the city, and they made a fight out of it.”
Recha peered through the spyglass again and grimaced. The riders had gotten down the hill and into a field below, beyond a grove of trees and wagon track. Dead horses lay scattered in the field on their sides with a flock of alca-viotos—razorbill gulls—squawking over them.
One large gull had ripped open the stomach of a horse. The tips of its folded, leather wings pointed into the air, along with its long, rigid tail, providing the finely-haired scavenger balance while perched on top of its meal. The beast’s bill, with its upward curve and jagged, interlocking, scissor shape, more suited for snatching fish from the surface of the water, now dug and pulled red flesh from the horse’s belly.
Recha’s stomach rolled, forcing her to look away. She hid behind her hand for a moment so the men wouldn’t see her stifling a gag. She cleared her throat to collect herself.
“Were any captured?” she asked.
“Yes,” Hiraldo replied. “The commandant of the fort, several capitáns, a couple of adjutants, and a sergeant were the highest ranked. Those who died were mostly their guard, but once they fell, the officers surrendered quick enough. The commandant is the nephew of some Orsembian baron. Sir . . .” He grunted then frowned and squeezed his eyes shut. After a moment, he gave up and shook his head. “I can’t remember.”
Recha shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They must have gotten spooked, like their compatriots at the river fort, once our bombards opened up.” She smirked at the rest of her soldiers, hoping they would join her. “Instead of facing us, they fled as soon as their walls collapsed.” She smiled wider, but no one joined her.
“They fled before we breached the walls,” Hiraldo added.
Recha blinked rapidly up at him. “What?”
“They fled the fort as our bombards were finding their range.”
Recha frowned, turning it over in her head and trying to find a reason for that. “The fort commanders fled before the fight? But Capitán Queve was kind enough to report to me the defenders put up a desperate defense until the muskets started firing.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have a solid answer yet,” Hiraldo replied gruffly. “If I was to guess, from the looks of it, it seems like they abandoned their post. Their former commandant, though, has already declared he wishes to speak with you . . . under the Rules of Campaign.”
Recha’s pondering frown drained away. “Did he?” Her voice sounded cold, even to her own ears.
Hurrying footsteps drew her attention to the stairwell as one of her guards, whom she had left below, rushed up. He slid to a halt the moment he hit the landing, and everyone stared at him. He came to attention smooth enough, breathing heavily.
“La Dama,” he panted, “I come to report”—he took a deep breath—“the Viden have arrived. Their leader—a blind priest—is requesting to . . . see you.”
Harquis.
His arrival wasn’t surprising. In fact, Recha had planned on him being the one Verdas would send. Now that he was here, he could be of use.
“I believe we can settle the question of the fleeing commanders, General,” she said, folding her arms. “I saw a soldier dragging a woman to the back of the fort when I arrived, something about all the prisoners were to be gathered there. Is this true?”
“Yes,” Hiraldo replied.
“Out in the open?” she inquired further.
“Yes.”
Recha harrumphed. “Then let’s have a look at them. From on the wall.” She turned to the door she assumed led out to the wall.
“Escort the Viden up to join us,” she ordered her guard before looking over her shoulder at the rest. “And someone bring up those fleeing commanders. All of them. If they want an audience with me”—she grinned—“I suppose I shall oblige them.”
~~~
Recha clasped the brim of her hat against the sporadic gusts of wind as she studied the pitiful sight below her. Of the seven-hundred-man garrison, less than two hundred and thirty remained, and it was debatable how many of them would last the week.
They sat huddled in a great mass by the stables, no uniforms or insignias to mark where they had come from or what company they were in. Their clothes were ripped and torn. Many of their sleeves had been stripped off to use for makeshift bandages and slings for their arms and legs. Every face was smeared with soot and dirt, with blood accompanying many. They sat hunched over with heads bowed between their legs.
Defeated.
Just away from them, huddled the fort’s servants, women, young men, and some children. Each clasped another as if a gale threatened to swoop in and snatch them away. Every now and then, Recha would catch a glimpse of one of them or a soldier glance up at her then quickly snap away.
They think I’m selecting which ones would make the best sioneroses.
She grimaced to hold in the bile it brought to her throat. She forced herself to look away and spotted one of her guards leading Harquis toward her.
The blind cultist walked with his usual, deliberate pace; his fingertips pressed together in front of him. Gone were the robes. He wore a bright red, high-collar uniform jacket with the pink eye emblazoned across his chest and brass buttons running down the front. Upon the belt of his black trousers hung a war hammer, the head and curved, reversed spike perfect for cracking skulls. He led two other cultists behind him. They, however, only wore black jackets, but that only made the pink eye stand out more and, like their leader, carried war hammers on their belts.
Recha gently elbowed Hiraldo beside her, making him grunt, raise his hung head, and open his eyes. He had taken the reprieve while they waited to nap, but their reprieve was over.
“Look,” she whispered, gesturing toward the cultists, “the Viden have come to war with us.”
Hiraldo squinted at the sight. “Will they be of any use?”
“For what I plan on using them for,” Recha replied, smirking coldly, “yes.”
She took several deep breaths then straightened, preparing herself.
Plans or no, Harquis was still unsettling. His milky eyes peered toward her as if he could still see. His expression was placid, making him completely unreadable.
Just behave, she prayed, mentally preparing what she wanted to say. Stand here, look menacing . . . and don’t do anything unless—
Harquis suddenly stopped mid-step. A deep scowl broke his blank expression as his head slowly turned off to the side, casting downward, as if he were peering into the yard below. Recha tracked his glossy eyes. He was staring at the prisoners.
He noticed them? The hair on the back of Recha’s neck stood up, sending a creeping crawl across her scalp.
When she turned back, her guard was looking back at the cultist, frowning with trepidation.
Recha slipped away from Hiraldo and waved the guard away. While his underlings watched her closely, Harquis didn’t move as she approached him, stopping only a breath away.
“What do you see?” she whispered.
“Scorched,” the cultist growled. “They are a mound of gray, like piles of ash.”
Recha’s heart began to beat faster. Her breathing quickened. Her mind spun as if a piece of a puzzle she didn’t know was missing had suddenly fallen into her hands. The fort’s commanders fleeing before the walls fell didn’t match the remaining garrison’s desperate defense. Unless they believed it wouldn’t be desperate.
She pressed her lips tightly together to prevent a snarl.
“How many?” she asked, lowly fuming.
Harquis turned his pale eyes upon her and replied, “All of them.”
Recha’s cheeks started to warm. She ran her hand along the left side of her dress’s waist, feeling her small pistol’s outline nestled in its special inner pouch, loaded and primed.
“General Galvez!” She snapped around. “Where is—”
Leyva and Queve were leading five well-dressed men from the southwestern turret toward her. The air of nobility hung around them, each walking with their heads in the air, unabashed and unashamed of the travesty that had befallen their post. Rather, what they let happen.
I don’t know that for certain, Recha reminded herself.
She got a better look of the lead prisoner behind Queve. He walked with a swagger. His forest green doublet hung open with the slanted, overlapping folds flapping as he walked, clicking the brass buttons together and revealing his white shirt underneath. He was almost Hiraldo’s height, but not as broad shouldered. The wind ruffled his curly brown hair and the lace around his doublet’s collar sleeves. His crooked smirk made his pointed, square chin jut off to the side. He also saw her and none-too-subtly ran his dark eyes up and down.
Recha patted her secret pouch in her waistline again. But I’ll find out.
She rejoined Hiraldo, with Harquis and his fellow cultists trailing behind.
“La Dama,” Leyva greeted with a sharp head bow before gesturing to the swaggering man behind him, “may I present Sir Pel Mazo, commandant of this fortress.
“Commandant”—Leyva gestured toward her—“Her Excellency, La Dama Recha Mandas, Marquesa of Lazorna.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, La Dama,” Pel said, bowing with his right hand to his heart. His tone was as brash as his smirk. “I offer my sincerest apologies. If I had known I would be presenting myself to you, I would have requested to surrender my sword to you.” He held out his hand to her expectedly.
Recha arched an eyebrow and left it untouched. Instead, she folded her hands behind her back. “You surrendered in battle, Commandant,” she replied. “Your sword properly belongs to the commander who defeated you—General Galvez.” She gestured with a curt nod at Hiraldo beside her.
Pel coughed, although he quickly recovered, retaining his smirk. He rose from his bow, dropping his hand away. “Please, La Dama, let’s dispense with military ranks and speak as the nobility we are. People of quality, such as us, shouldn’t be held to such rigid orders as guardsmen.”
He ignored the hard looks her soldiers gave him, but Recha wasn’t surprised. The smug fool thinks I view my soldiers the same way he views his, she mused, seeing an opening.
“Then, do I take it that you wish me to address you as a noble of Orsembar?” she asked. “You and the rest of your staff?” She tilted her head to peer over his shoulder. The rest of the prisoners were perking up, smiles blossoming on their faces as they gave each other encouraging nods. Except one young man in the back. He was looking down at prisoners with a pained grimace on his face.
Recha turned her attention back to Pel, finding him beaming.
“Absolutely!” he replied excitedly. He let out a small laugh and rocked on his heels as if he were about to jump for joy. “I cannot express how honored we are to finally speak with someone as clearly cultured and refined as yourself, La Dama.” He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “We have been citing the Rules to every officer we’ve met. Forgive me for saying so, but several of them need to be reminded of the proper ways of doing things.”
Despite his closeness, his arrogance, and mildly sour breath, Recha struggled not to grin. He had taken the bait.
“General”—she lifted her head up at Hiraldo, who stood stiffly beside her—“you heard him. Sir Mazo wishes to be treated as nobility instead of military officers. That makes them mine.”
A light sheen of sweat formed on Hiraldo’s face. His feet shifted under him, grinding his heels against the rock. “The prisoners are yours, La Dama,” he said, stepping back hastily.
Recha grinned at that. Now I don’t have to worry about what Papa might say. This isn’t a military matter anymore.
A loud clap snapped her out of her musings.
“Excellent!” Pel exclaimed, rubbing his hands together and still far too happy for Recha’s liking. “Shall we retire and discuss terms, La Dama? Preferably someplace out of the wind with drink.” He turned on his heels and joined his fellows, laughing together as if they were at a banquet.
“Actually, Sir Mazo,” Recha called back, stepping up to the parapet and gazing out at Puerlato, “I thought we might talk here for a moment. I’m getting used to the view.” She let out a small laugh as a light gust tugged on her hat, making her angle her head slightly so as not to lose it.
Her poise must have been alluring to her prisoners because their laughter had stopped, and they were all staring at her.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen Puerlato. Tell me, who commands the garrison?”
“Why, surely La Dama jests.” Pel ran his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to straighten it then buttoned his jacket before stepping up to join her. “My sworn sovereign, Si Don Borbin, bestowed Puerlato to the illustrious Baron Ejarque three years ago. Are you in need of an introduction?” Pel’s eyes widened and twinkled. “Or maybe someone to act as a go-between for negotiations?”
“Negotiations?” Recha snickered at his attempt at charm. “What negotiations?”
Pel blinked rapidly. “Why, to come to an understanding before this nasty business grows out of hand,” he replied, as if stating the obvious. “Your army performed a marvelous demonstration last night, La Dama, but surely your calleroses have warned you that attacking Puerlato is a hopeless cause.”
“Oh really?” Recha feigned ignorance. “Is Baron Ejarque’s defenses really that strong?”
Pel scoffed and shrugged. “The garrison is strong enough to answer any challenge.” His condescending tone made Recha want to rip his tongue out. “Baron Ejarque’s calleroses will answer any duel and win. Heed my words, La Dama, there is no chance of besting them in such a Bravados.”
“Oh.” Recha pretended to pout and think.
That was an element of the Rules of Campaign. Before battles were drawn up, calleroses of each side were given a couple of days to challenge each other in front of both armies. To the victor went whatever spoil the calleroses determined on their own. It was meant be a boon to the morale of the victor’s side and a blow to the loser’s. All while their marquéses bargained with each other out of sight. A waste of time and blood.
“Then perhaps we’ll just skip formal challenges”—Recha shrugged—“and just attack.”
Pel gawked at her. “You can’t . . .” he stuttered, as if too flabbergasted to complete his thoughts. “With the deepest respect, La Dama, you know you can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Rules—”
“Or, how about we just besiege the city until this Baron Ejarque comes out to fight or gives up?” Recha smiled, enjoying Pel’s face growing paler and paler as she teased.
“La Dama”—Pel coughed then turned a growl into a struggling laugh—“please. We realize you haven’t been on campaign for three years, but still”—he smiled, but his cheeks were tense, the corners of his lips twitching—“this is not how things are done.”
Recha let the silence hang in the air. The satisfaction of his once boisterous attitude struggling to remain intact was too delicious to end prematurely.
“You’re right,” she relented.
Pel and the rest of his fellow Orsembians sighed, but she wasn’t done.
“I am a little rusty on the Rules. Tell me”—she took a step closer to him and lowered her voice—“which part of the Rules allows for a commander to abandon his post and his soldiers just as a battle starts?”
Pel blankly stared at her. “What?”
“That’s what General Galvez reported to me.” Recha gestured toward the dead horses, still being fought over by the alca-viotos in the fields. “He said that’s where my calleroses caught you, fleeing the fort just when the first bombards struck the walls. The battle hadn’t even begun then. Which part of the Rules is that?”
Pel snickered then drew himself up, his smug air returning. “La Dama, the Rules don’t mention things like that, or care. They understand that the noblest among us must look out for what’s best in all situations.”
“And it was best that all of you leave your soldiers behind while you fled?”
“Of course! Look at this place.” Pel gestured at the inner fort with his chin. “This crumbling-down, pile of rocks is hardly fit for people such as we.”
A couple of Pel’s fellows grunted and nodded in agreement.
“But what about your men?” Recha gestured to the prisoners below. Many had noticed their conversation. Grim-covered and bloodied faces gazed up at them with bleak expressions and slumped shoulders.
“What about them?” Pel scoffed.
“They fought bravely for you.” She watched him intently from under the brim of her hat, wanting to catch every moment of his next reaction. “Surely that must mean something.”
Pel simply shrugged. “They fulfilled their purpose. They are soldiers after—Ah!” He held up a finger, that beaming light returning to his eyes. “If you’re wondering if they can be included in our negotiations, I assure you, La Dama, any number of them would make excellent sioneroses.”
Recha jerked her head up, making the bold Orsembian step back. The excitement left his eyes as his brow furled and cheeks twitched in a mixture of confusion and surprise. His reaction made Reach realize her smile had slipped and she now glared at him.
She turned away, hiding her face under the brim of her hat to collect herself. Everything inside of her wanted to order her guards to drag these wastrels out of her sight and give them to Sevesco for questioning. Yet, when she caught sight of Harquis, his face a blazing red, on the verge of becoming purple, from his deep scowl and his white eyes fixed on Pel behind her, she got another urge.
“One more question, sir,” she said, tilting her head to watch him out of the corner of her eye. He had gone to whisper to his fellow prisoners, each of them sharing the same confusion as he had moments before. “My soldiers reported your men fought bravely after you departed. Even after the breach fell to my pikes and swords, and the gates were thrown open, they didn’t surrender until we raked them with musket shot. I find it baffling why you would leave when you had such brave soldiers.”
“La Dama,” Pel began with a sigh, as if suddenly tired, “while your comments about our soldiers are very flattering, it still doesn’t change the fact that this position was just . . . impossible to hold.” He shrugged then stepped forward a few paces. “The Rules are clear that, in such times, we of quality should look after ourselves, for the good of our marcs. The soldiers did their duty, fighting so long as they could. And if we had reached Puerlato, I would have sent reinforcements as I promised, but”—he shrugged—“that was doubtful.”
Recha gripped her waistline, squeezing her hidden pistol, her fingernails dragging against her dress’s fabric. “You promised your men reinforcements?”
“Yes.” Pel hesitantly chuckled. “But—”
“But you didn’t have faith in your men to hold out,” she finished for him. “You weren’t planning on coming back with reinforcements. You just left. All of you did. And left your men with false hope to give you more time.”
“Now, La Dama, please.” Pel waved her accusations away. The corners of his cheeks were twitching again, the smile clearly strained. “The Rules clearly allow—”
“The Rules of Campaign are dead,” Recha stated coldly, turning her head to glare at him. “And what you did to your men was abandonment. You betrayed them!”
“Now really, La Dama!” Pel loudly protested. “This has gone on quite far—”
Crunch!
The crunch of a flat, metal head splintering the side of the Orsembian noble’s skull was as sickening as it was satisfying.
The conceited sir had been fixated on only those he believed his equals, so he hadn’t noticed the cultist’s calm approach until Harquis had struck, swinging his hammer across Pel’s face and sending him spinning off the wall and falling into the fort’s yard below. The body landed with a splat, followed by the women prisoners screaming and surrendered soldiers breaking out into shocked shouting.
“How dare you?” one of Pel’s fellows bellowed, storming up to Harquis.
Before anyone could react, Harquis reversed his grip and brought the spike end of his hammer down on the man, embedding it into the man’s forehead. The man’s jaw instantly went slack as his eyes rolled up and blood poured from his caved-in cranium.
He’s going to kill them all! Recha realized.
“Stop him!” she ordered, pointing at the deranged cultist.
Queve’s men leaped, grabbing Harquis by the arms then dragging him against the parapet. His guard stepped to come to their leader’s aid, but Recha’s guards blocked them.
“Take those men away!” Recha ordered to the rest of her guard. “Take them to camp then wake up Capitán Sevesco. Tell him I want everything they know about Puerlato’s garrison, and if they don’t talk, give them to the Viden.”
The remaining nobles were still in shock as her guards ushered them away. Their world being torn away in seconds left them too stunned to cope with the one Recha was replacing it with.
But they’ll learn.
She rounded on Harquis, the cultist growling at the soldiers holding him. However, his gaze followed the imprisoned commanders.
She grabbed him by the chin and forced him to face her. “Only I tell you when to kill!” she hissed. “And who! Act on your own accord like that again, and I will send you back to your master and our arrangement will be over. I will not have you behaving like a madman in my army.” She squeezed his face, digging her fingernails into his skin. “Do you understand?”
Harquis’s milky eyes bore into her skull as he grimaced back. Recha, though, just kept squeezing.
“As you wish, La Dama,” he finally said. “I will await your command. But you of all people should know those wreathed in the blue flames can never be trusted again.”
“I said nothing about trusting them.” She pulled her hand away, scratching his face. “I just said I decide on when you get to execute them.”
Harquis’s grimace drained away, and his arms relaxed. However, the soldiers holding him tensed, their eyes flickered nervously between them.
“Return to camp,” she ordered Harquis, “and take your men with you. You’ve spoiled enough of my plans for today.”
The cultists left as chillingly calm as they had arrived, her soldiers giving them a wide berth. Recha wanted to rip her hat off and pull her hair out but settled on rubbing her palms together. She couldn’t go into a rage in front of her soldiers, not after their first victory.
She stepped around the body of the dead Orsembian and noticed Hiraldo frowning at her with his arms folded.
“What?” she asked, a little harsher than necessary.
“Was that necessary?” he asked.
“They had given up their military privileges, Hiraldo,” she reminded him. “As per my agreement with Baltazar, they were mine. And I can do with them as I wish.”
“And what about their men?” He nodded down at the yard below. “Whom do they belong to? Should we divide them up, too?”
Recha frowned up at him then looked about and found the remaining men around her—Leyva, Queve and his men, even her remaining guards—either refused to meet her eye or were shuffling their feet.
“Follow me,” she ordered then stormed through them, taking purpose-driven strides across the wall.
She kept her pace down the turret, taking the steps two at a time without a care for how unstable they were. Not waiting for her guard to catch up, she threw open the door herself, slamming it against the stone, then charged out into the yard.
Every eye fixed upon her, the prisoners and her soldiers. She passed the frightened fort servants without a glance, heading to stand in front of the soldiers, with their dead, former commandant behind her.
Every man was on his feet. The bleak expressions were gone, replaced with wide-eyed trepidation. The second she met one of their eyes, they would quickly look away. Recha waited for the rest of her entourage to join her before putting her fists on her hips and addressing them.
“I am La Dama Recha Mandas! Marquesa of Lazorna!” Her voice reverberated around the yard and off the stones.
A rumbling murmur rolled through the crowd but quickly died down.
“And in my name, I promise each and every one of you”—she ran her eyes over them—“that none of you will be sioneros.”
Some of the prisoners stood straighter while other watched her suspiciously. The weeping women suddenly cut off, and they looked up from their huddled mass.
“All of you who are Puerlato born, step forward!” she ordered.
There was some hesitancy at first. Men passed nervous glances among themselves. A few shook their heads to one another. One man began walking forward for another to grab him by the arm.
Then one stepped out. Then another. The man whose arm had been grabbed pulled away to join his brethren. Many of the keep workers joined them, including most of the women.
Once Recha was satisfied those of Puerlato had identified themselves, she turned to Queve. The capitán and his men were watching her intently. Their rigid postures gave her the image of a rope about to snap.
“We have come to bring Puerlato back into Lazorna,” she said loud enough for all of them to hear, “not to make war against its inhabitants. We are all Lazornians! You are all my people.” She smiled as comforting as she could, but the people stared at her, flabbergasted and amazed.
“Capitán Queve”—she gestured toward those who had stepped forward—“they are in your custody now. I’m sure, Puerlato born yourself, there is no other man here more deserving to see them quartered and looked after.”
Queve stood off to the side. His quivering chin, twitching lips, and glistening eyes cracked the stoic figure he was trying desperately to maintain.
He snatched off his helmet, wet hair sticking up in every direction. “As you command!” he replied, his voice cracking. “La Dama!” He gave her a sharp nod before turning toward his people.
“My fellow Puerlatoians! Well fought!” He gave them a sharp bow, too, and then a broad smile split his face. “What say you to drinks?”
The Puerlato prisoners looked at each other then back at Queve.
The other two swordsmen stepped up beside their capitán, their helmets off and smiles to rival their commanders. More of the First Swords who had gathered in the yard when Recha had begun addressing the prisoners began to laugh.
“Aye!” one prisoner yelled.
Another followed. Then a chorus, followed by more laughter. Queve gestured them away, wrapping his arm around the shoulders of one man as they began exchanging street addresses of where they used to live in the city.
“Bless you!” one of the women praised Recha as she walked by, tears of fear turning to tears of joy. “Savior bless you!”
Recha simply nodded and let the woman dash off with rest.
Her heart thundered in her chest, forcing her to breathe deeply to calm the tingling fire spreading through every nerve in her body. The elation of using her authority to do one act of kindness threatened to overwhelm her.
However, she couldn’t let it. She still had work to do.
“As for the remaining workers of the fort!” she yelled, moving on. There was only a handful left—men, probably laborers who had come looking for work. “Once we know for certain who you are and what you did, you will be free to go. You can stay and find work in the camps or move on.”
A few mumbled thanks came along with some nods, but the guards made them remain.
Recha turned her attention to the soldiers remaining. A quarter of their number had been from Puerlato, leaving many sulking, longingly to be in their number.
“Soldiers of Orsembar! The Marc of Lazorna is now at war with yours. As prisoners of war, you will remain here until our campaign is over. Commandant Leyva”—she waved for him, and Leyva stepped up beside her—“of the Lazorna Fourth Army will be in command of Puerlato’s siege.
“Commandant, you will receive orders to use these men as laborers.” She gave him a commanding look. “Treat them fairly.”
“Yes, La Dama,” Leyva replied with a sharp nod.
“Work well, soldiers of Orsembar,” she told the prisoners. “And as I promised, once this campaign is over, you will all be free to go home.”
The prisoners looked at her somberly now. They were still uneasy, many thinking about what she had said and done, but none of them said anything.
“I leave them to you, Commandant,” Recha said, setting off again, this time not as fast.
She strolled around the keep. Queve and the First Swords had already led the former Puerlato prisoners away, their laughs still echoing in the distance. There were less people clearing stones from the breach now and, out of curiosity, Recha began to scale the few remaining rocks to stand on it.
“La Dama!” Hiraldo called, rushing after her. “Where are you—”
“Go get some rest, Hiraldo,” she said from over her shoulder. “You’re about to fall over. You can make your report to Baltazar later, but”—she shrugged—“he’ll probably agree I saved him a lot of time deciding what to do with those prisoners, even if he grumbles about me skirting the line.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Her Companion stared up at her, reaching out but wobbling on his feet. She gave him a soft smile, folding her hands behind her back.
“Go on. You’ve done enough for one night and day. It’s the Third Army’s turn.”
She looked out through the breach, down at the long column of men below. Companies of pike, swords, and musketeers followed a twisting road around the hill and into a valley westward, marching lockstep to drums.
Recha followed them with her gaze and grinned.
The way into Orsembar was open.