“How great is their vanguard?” Baltazar demanded. “What’s its composition?”
Recha remained motionless. Her body refused to move while her mind screamed for action. As the two impulses fought, she became numb to the incessant heat.
“Calleroses, Field Marshal,” the scout replied. “Our outriders merely got a rough estimate, but they were certain at least three thousand calleroses are riding through the easterly gap. Infantry is following them, sir. However, we couldn’t get a good count before having to report.”
In their argument, Recha had failed to notice the sweeping landscape beyond the rise. The scout’s gesture at what he called the easterly gap forced her to take it in.
Finally free from the winding remains of the riverbed, the hill’s sloop widened into a rolling plain, stretched between a vertical cliff to the north and more steep hills to the south. Farther east, the plain expanded and split from the rise of steep, jutting ridges, creating two passes—one continuing east while the other trail curved southeasterly.
Another hot breeze rushed over the rise Recha was standing on and into the plain. The blades of tall, yellowish-brown reeds and grasses swayed in the wind, holding fast in the dry ground in the vain hope for rain.
The Third Army’s vanguard was filtering down into the plain. Companies of calleroses dotted farther out, dismounted and letting their horses rest as they stood guard at predetermined positions ahead of the army’s advance.
“How soon does Marshal Bisal expect the vanguard to reach us?” Baltazar continued.
“He can’t be certain, Field Marshal,” the scout apologized. “However, he fears the calleros companies will reach us within the hour.”
Baltazar pivoted on his heels and stormed away. Recha followed him to see Narvae and Cornelos rushing up the hill with every staff member they could find behind them, undoubtedly alarmed at the sight of a scout rushing through all junior officers and protocol to report to the armies’ commander.
“Marshal Narvae!” Baltazar bellowed down at them. “Order battle formations! And get General Ros and Marshal Olguer back up here!”
Narvae skidded to a halt. He grabbed several of the staff officers around him and dragged them back down the hill, sending them scurrying in different directions.
“Send word to Marshal Bisal,” Baltazar ordered the scout. “All outriders are to converge on the last sightings of the enemy’s vanguard. I want constant reports on their movements! Go!”
The scout saluted then turned his horse around in one motion. He galloped down the hill, sending dirt flying in the air. A bugle sang out in the distance. One of the calleros companies in the plain was saddling up.
Drums began to tap. The company of sword marching over the hump of the rise was the first and, like a ripple, it spread forward and behind them. A hurried, quick-paced beat of sharp raps. Officers sprang alive, waving and urging their men forward. Lone officers on horseback raced up the column, outpaced by the drums as they galloped toward the calleros companies in the field.
The taps filled the plain below by the time answering bugle calls from the other calleros companies in the plain mounted up. The company at the head of her army’s column turned and peeled off to the left in square formation. The company behind did the same, except marching off to the right.
On it continued, the drums urging the marching column into line, stretching farther and farther across the plain. Baltazar’s intent was obvious.
He’s going to march them across in battle lines. The thought was enough to spring her into motion.
“I need to do something!” she blurted out. “I’ll set up our camp preparations. Are you suspecting casualties? No! We need to get the water wagons up here to fill and resupply the companies coming up.” She raked her fingers through her sticky hair as she racked her brain to hastily think of everything that needed doing. “Maybe even get army cooks, as well. The men in the back must be hungry by now! We need to make sure—”
“Recha!”
“What?”
Baltazar took her by the shoulder with a firm squeeze. “I need you to stay right here.”
“What?” Her voice cracked. The tremor ran from her throat down to her hands, making them tremble until she balled them into fists. She gripped her parasol like a sword again. “I can’t just stand here and do nothing!”
“You won’t be doing nothing.” Baltazar’s voice was both gentle yet firm, a combination in tone with a commanding presence and fatherly touch. “You’ll show the men what they need to see—their marquesa standing firm on this hill, waiting for the men coming up to join her and watching those in the field fight for her. They need to see you standing confidently right here, as if there is not a force alive that can move you off it. Stand fast, Recha, and let your armies do the work.”
Recha didn’t know why, but her heart was racing. She felt she could run a mile. No, she could leap from hilltop to hilltop and soar.
How does he do that? One minute we’re venting our frustrations, and the next, he’s making an inspirational speech.
“Very well,” she replied staunchly, putting on a commanding tone of her own. “I’ll heed your advice, Field Marshal. See to our advance. I’ll have Cornelos and my guard tend to whatever needs I might have.” The Easterly Sun glaring down on her head was one need. She popped open her parasol to shade herself.
Baltazar took his hand away and snapped his heels at attention. “Yes, La Dama! I promise you I will take as much control of the field as I can before the enemy’s vanguard arrives.”
They shared a nod, and then he was off, marching quickly down the slope toward General Ros and his staff waiting on horseback.
“Make sure the battle lines aren’t spread too thin!” Baltazar roared. “We need to stretch over as much of the plain as possible, but leave the wide flanks to the calleroses. Once Olguer is satisfied with resting the horses coming up, he’ll send them to reinforce them.” He groaned loudly as he heaved his old body up into the saddle.
“Yes, Field Marshal!” General Ros replied. “Should we leave any men in reserve to make camp preparations?”
“Keep your men coming!” Baltazar swung his horse around, and the rest joined him. “Leave making camp until we claim as much ground as possible. We need all the men we have . . .” His voice drowned out with distance.
Recha watched them go. Baltazar pointed out across the plain in multiple directions. Here and there, a staff officer or dispatcher would peel off, riding back to some unknown destination behind her or up to the still forming battle line now stretched out across the plain. And more companies were moving up.
“Did everything get resolved?”
Recha jumped, snapping her head around to find Cornelos had snuck up on her while she was contemplating. “Hmm?” she hummed.
“Between you and Baltazar,” Cornelos clarified, “did you get everything worked out? Uncle and I nearly got into an argument of coming up here to pull you two apart.”
Recha allowed herself a small smile at the thought of both Narvaes throwing themselves into danger to protect their commanders. “It could have been worse,” she admitted. “But what was said was said. Some of it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Bugle calls and a change in drumbeats drew her attention back out to the plain. A forward battle line had completely formed and was advancing at a march, a company of calleros led the center ahead of the pikemen with two more companies at each flank. As they began their march, another battle line began to form out of the steady flow of more infantry.
A cry of horses came from her left, and Recha looked to see calleroses ride up from the other side of her rise and gallop onto the plain. She then noticed her banner, posted into the ground a few feet away and leaning slightly at an angle. She frowned at it.
“Cornelos,” she called.
“Yes, La Dama?”
“Send someone to find a bigger banner,” she ordered. “The biggest they can get their hands on. And plant it”—she checked for a spot on the hill that would be seen by the men marching up and the men in the plain then stomped her hill to mark it—“here! For everyone to see. Is my guard seeing to the horses?”
“Yes.”
“Once they’ve been taken care of, I want them to bring their horses and form two lines on the forward slope of the hill.” She pointed down the hill facing the plain. “I want everyone to know that I’m here, both our men and the Orsembians.”
“As you wish.” Cornelos gave her a sharp nod then turned on his heels to perform her orders.
“Oh!” She remembered one more thing and yelled after him. “And Commandant! Fetch my looking glasses! I’m going to want to observe what’s happening!”
“Yes, La Dama!” He yelled over his shoulder without looking back to rush on down the slope.
Recha remained behind, planting her heel in the impression to remember where she wanted the new flag placed. She angled her parasol to keep her shaded and squinted against the haze farther into the plain.
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she spotted dust clouds drifting up over the eastern horizon.
~~~
Recha’s knees ached. A hot throb pulsed in her heels. Her feet desperately wanted her to sit, but she couldn’t take her sights off the plain in front of her. She only moved to periodically switch her hands between holding her eyeglass and the other holding her parasol.
She scanned the line of Orsembian calleroses stretched out across the eastward passage and advancing at a trot. They held their lances high, broad heads gleaming in the Easterly Sun, adding to the haze and swirls of dust. A dozen banners of barony families she didn’t know flapped in the air among them. While she would admit three thousand calleroses advancing in stretched-out lines were impressive, they lacked a sense of intimidation as her battle lines continued their advance, as well.
“Any word from General Priet?” she asked.
“None,” Cornelos replied, standing beside her, as always. “The last of the Third Army is still moving up. The path should be clear for Priet to send an estimate of the Second Army’s arrival then.”
“Marshal Feli,” she called, “how goes setting up the camp? Are the wagon trains still moving?”
“Well, of course,” Marshal Feli replied, hesitantly puzzled, “as you can see . . .”
Feli sat at a field table under one of the trees with some of his staff, the last Recha had checked. He likely looked back to find her fixed on her eyeglass and chose to change his initial response.
“The Third Army’s wagon train continues to be brought up, La Dama. The rise is more manageable now that we got block and tackles to help pull up the heavier wagons. We should be able to take full advantage of the ground the field marshal is gaining and bring up the Second Army when it arrives.”
“Have the last of the Third Army’s calleroses been deployed?” she inquired.
“Marshal Olguer’s checking on them now,” Cornelos answered.
Recha clicked her tongue out of annoyance. “Send another request for them to hurry. Most of the Third Army’s infantry is deployed, but Baltazar needs more cavalry.”
“Yes, La Dama.” The crunching of boots against the hard-packed ground signaled Cornelos’s departure.
Recha knew most of her demands for updates were probably becoming incessant. Everything was well in hand. Everyone was still moving forward and following their orders. Necessary tasks were being taken care of and seen to with the best speed they could under these conditions.
And yet, she couldn’t contain herself. Her being an encouraging figure for advancing troops had lost some of its glamour the instant she’d peered through the eyeglass and spotted the Orsembians riding up from the eastern passage.
She swung her eyeglass down, passing over the tall grass and rolling patches between the approaching armies, over the front columns of her battle lines to the men on horseback behind them. A body of officers rode in a wedge formation, with lower ranked officers surrounding the higher ranked in the center, where Baltazar was.
He was ordering a steady march across the plain. Behind the wedge marched a second line, though more spread out with gaps between the company squares. The two lines weren’t comprised of the entire Third Army. A third line stood between the forming camp of army wagons moving onto the plain and the rest of the army, held back to guard the wagons, Recha deduced.
Her ear twitched at the clumps of approaching footsteps, heralding Cornelos’s return.
“Marshal Olguer reported back,” he said. “The calleroses’ horses have been watered and fed. The remaining companies should be mounting up soon.”
“Very well.”
Recha’s focus returned to the distance between the Third Army and the Orsembian vanguard. She bit the inside of her cheek as she struggled to pull the eyeglass’s field of vision out, but that did little to help. She struggled to judge their exact distance from one another from the angle of hill and the plain’s rolling slope.
At a casual glance, the plain deceptively appeared to stretch on for miles to the east. Upon a closer look through her eyeglass, however, Recha saw it had a gradual slope to it. In a situation where they needed every early advantage they could seize, having the high ground was a fortunate boon. However, they lacked any maneuverability to retreat, and the angle made it difficult to judge distances the farther the battle line advanced.
If only I could move closer—
Cornelos cleared his throat then whispered, “Olguer also respectfully asked if we didn’t send him requests to hurry every five minutes.”
“Then he needs to get all our available cavalry out there,” she quietly sniped back. “That vanguard can’t be stupid enough to face our battle line head-on. Sooner or later, they’ll remember they’re calleroses, see they have more horses on the field, and try to drive ours away to go for our flanks. It’s obvious. We need more calleroses!”
A bugle rang out from the left, answered swiftly by another on the right. The steady rhythm of drums changed to swift claps and fell silent. As one, the forward line stomped to a halt. Pikes swayed in the air, and the companies’ standards flapped in the breeze.
“We’ve stopped,” she mumbled. “Why?”
“The Orsembians have halted, too,” Cornelos said.
Recha pulled her eyeglass up. The enemy calleroses pulled their mounts to a stop. Their distance from her soldiers was still obscured, yet she assumed there was enough for them to build momentum should they charge. It would be reckless, but she wouldn’t put it past some calleroses to be arrogant in the face of infantry.
“There’s movement on the horizon, too!” Feli said.
Recha glanced away from her eyeglass. Feli stood from his seat, peering through his own eyeglass. Several other staff officers on the hill did the same, the rest resorting to shading their eyes in a momentary pause in duty to take in the change to the battlefield.
Free of the eyeglass’s narrow view, the broader picture opened to her. The forward battle line stretched from ridge to the left to last of the hills to the right before they fell away and led to the southeast passage. She estimated they had to be a few miles away. Maybe more. Plenty of space to move out the Third Army’s wagon train and have enough space for the Second Army when it arrived.
A holding action then?
It made sense. This was Borbin’s host. While her armies individually worked splendidly in smaller engagements, they would need them all combined to face what was coming over that horizon. Holding the best ground to build up their strength was a good move.
But that feels too timid.
She choked down a frustrated growl for not being out there to suggest they give the Orsembian vanguard a bloody nose before their infantry support joined them and brought her eyeglass back up.
Feli was right. Blocks of infantry marched steadily over the eastern horizon and in a battle line of their own. They were too far away for her to make out what kind of troops they were, though their formation told her someone down there had some sense.
“Do you think the White Sword’s commanding them?” Cornelos asked.
Recha sharply shushed him. “Don’t say that too loudly,” she whispered. “But yes, I think we better assume so. Baltazar probably is.”
After all, it stood to reason that Borbin would have Ribera lead his vanguard again. Borbin wasn’t a complete incompetent. Sevesco’s reports depicted the effectiveness of that move in seizing the fields outside Compuert. He was out there, either with the infantry coming up or the calleroses.
He must be. Stay sharp, Papa.
Thumping hooves sent tremors up the hill and rumbled under her heels. She peeked to make sure the last of the Third Army’s calleroses were riding up, beside the wagons, and into the center of the plain to join the other companies.
“Finally.”
“The enemy’s moving on our right!” a staff officer yelled.
Recha joined everyone on the hill, swinging their eyeglasses in that direction. Close to five hundred Orsembian calleroses on the far right peeled off from their line. They walked their horses at a slow angle, keeping their lances coached and pointed at Recha’s battle line. Their measured movement made their intentions clear.
They meant to circle around the eastern ridge and into the southeastern passage.
“They can’t flank us,” Feli assured his officers. “They’re not sending enough calleroses to dislodge ours on the right.”
“But if they take command of the southeastern passage, too . . .” Cornelos said under his breath.
“Yes,” Recha whispered back, “they’ll have more room to move, and we’ll be trapped in here.” If Borbin was bringing the numbers Sevesco’s espis had reported, it was likely they were going to be trapped in eventually.
A rider broke away from the wedge around Baltazar. It rode off to join Recha’s calleroses on the right, and they began to move. One company moved out in a slow walk, matching the Orsembians. They didn’t charge out to drive them back, just kept pace, stretching out the battle line into the southeastern passage.
Recha expected the Orsembians to stop and form up when they saw her calleroses move. They were evenly matched and farther away from the threats her infantry posed. Instead, they kept stretching out into the southeastern passage.
Where are they going?
“Recha, there’s a hole.” Cornelos said, alarmed. “Our calleroses are moving too far out!”
She widened her eyeglass’s focus. A widening hole in her battle line expanded the further her calleroses followed the Orsembians. If the Orsembians pivoted and charged, they could smash into her battle line’s far right or attempt to sweep behind it.
They could make an attack straight at Baltazar.
“I need a dispatcher!” Recha yelled. “Someone—”
“Wait, La Dama!” Feli said, pointing to the middle of the field. “Look to our center. The second battle line.”
Recha took his advice. The center right of the second line was moving forward. They creeped without the rap of drums and curved inward toward the hole. The tempting gap to strike at Baltazar and his command was still open, however, the right side of the second battle line curved in to face it.
Waiting at an open door. Recha smirked. He’s trying to lure them in.
If the Orsembians charged through that hole, Baltazar and his staff could quickly swing their horses around the opening in the second battle line. As the enemy came face to face with the second line, her calleroses could sweep in behind them, effectively closing the door on them.
But will they take the bait? She bit the left corner of her lower lip. They can’t keep moving into the other passage like that forever.
A sharp bugle call sounded on the left.
Recha snapped around too quickly. Her left foot nearly slipped out from under her, kicking a few pebbles in the air. Her knee buckled, but she fortunately caught herself. Everyone’s focus absorbed with the battle beyond to see her almost falling over was another blessing.
Her calleroses on the left were moving straight forward, not swinging around to charge the Orsembians. They resumed their steady advance as before and, within several minutes, they were completely exposed out of the battle line.
Recha shifted from foot to foot, trying to work out the strategy in her head. Is he trying another bait?
Before the calleroses got too far forward, the infantry column on the far left started to advance. It took minutes for the faint echoes of their tapping drums to reach back to them.
They marched at a steady pace. Pikes still raised. Once their rear column stepped beyond the battle line, the company beside them began their advance.
The cascading maneuver became apparent. When the advancing company marched completely ahead of the battle line, the one beside it followed. They formed a creeping wedge, encroaching on the Orsembian right.
“He’s moving around their right flank,” she said, grinning. “Either they’ll move to stop us, or they’ll have to pull back.”
“They could always charge,” Cornelos suggested.
“Right into our pikes and shot.” She giggled and shook her head. “If only Ribera could be so accommodating.”
Recha figured that would be convenient. If Ribera was among the calleroses, he surely had a grasp of what he faced. Hiraldo’s formation design was meant to put an end to the calleroses’ bluster. No longer would the threat of a heavy calleros charge carry the same weight as before. No more will calleroses gallivant in a Bravados to intimidate the ranks. Not without getting stuck on the end of a pike!
“If we get in close, our calleroses can charge and swing around their flank.” She bounced on her heels. “If the pikemen charge with them, we could crush their—”
The Orsembians sprang in multiple directions. A quarter of their number wheeled their mounts and charged her calleroses leading the encroachment on the left. The rest aimed for the gap on the right, including the company encroaching into the southeast passage.
The plain erupted into a flurry of activity. Recha’s calleroses on both sides of the field countercharged. The advancing infantry companies halted. Officers scrambled across the line, and the front rows lowered their pikes, planting them in the ground and forming a bristling wall of outstretched spearpoints.
Baltazar and General Ross wheeled around with their trailing command staff behind the second battle line. Those companies nearest the gap lowered their pikes, as well, unable to make quick march to plug the hole and not wanting to be caught when the enemy calleroses dashed through without their pikes down.
The thundering of over forty-five hundred horse hooves drowned everything in the field. The tremors vibrated under Recha’s feet. She winced at the impact as horses collided and reared. Lances shattered or found their marks. Men were pulled out of their saddles, flung into the air, and came crashing down in heaps or disappeared under the maelstrom of hooves.
On the left, the charge was evenly matched. Lazornians and Orsembians collided like combining torrents of water. Some calleroses were able to charge all the way through to the opposite side of the enemy, but most of each side hit and wheeled away. From Recha’s distance, it appeared they bounced off each other and rode back the way they had come in wide circles.
Her calleroses on the right fared worse. They charged into the enemy they had followed into the southeastern passage, making an even fight of it, like their comrades on the other end of the field.
They didn’t have the numbers to match the rest of the Orsembian vanguard charging down on them. Her calleroses, their momentum lost after their first impact, were crushed by the Orsembians’ second charge. Those who weren’t unhorsed fell back the only direction they could—into the southeastern passage, away from the safety of their infantry’s battle lines.
And the Orsembians pursued.
“We need more calleroses!” Recha screamed, grimacing.
“Reinforcements are galloping to the flank,” Feli pointed out.
The calleroses who Olguer had held back raced for the flank, but they weren’t in an attack column, and thanks to the deceptive distance of the plain, they were minutes away.
Not enough time!
Her hands trembled, shaking the eyeglass and the world as she could do nothing but watch her calleroses be overwhelmed.
Musket fire erupted over the roar of galloping hooves. A plume of mingled, gray smoke rose in the wind from a line of her musketeers on their far right. They stood outside the protection of the pikes, and another line stepped forward, leveling their muskets at the mingled Orsembians struggling with their startled mounts.
“Fire,” Recha hushed under her breath.
Another eruption and plume of smoke came. Orsembians twisted and tumbled out of their saddles. Horses reared, throwing their riders. A few collapsed, as if their legs had fallen out from under them, rolling over their riders.
The combined Orsembian pursuit of their fleeing calleroses fell apart. Only a quarter continued the chase, oblivious of their rear being filled with shot. Half of it turned to face the new threat, out of the protection of the pikes.
The musketeers sensed the danger and raced back behind the hedge of pikes before the Orsembians could charge. They charged, anyway, around their right flank.
Recha traced their trajectory.
Four companies of her second battle line were moving to plug the hole in the line. They weren’t marching in step—one was too far forward, another too far back. The reinforcing calleroses were still minutes away.
More calleroses from their left were galloping around the battle line to join them, but they were too far away, as well.
“Ribera’s insane!” she hissed back to Cornelos. “Even if they break our second line, how does he expect to get away from our calleroses?”
“Maybe breaking our battle lines is all he wants?” Cornelos suggested. “If he breaks our line, he may suspect we’ll pull back and leave more of the field to them.”
“With our numbers?” Recha shook her head. “We can recover—”
“A company’s breaking!” Feli shouted.
The day’s heat disappeared. Goosebumps raced up Recha’s arms.
Men were fleeing from the company too far forward. One man. Then a couple more. All from the back of the square, like grains spilling from a ripped bag. That rip was growing, too.
“No!” she gasped. “They’ll get run down! They’ll . . .”
Their company banner caught her eye.
It was black.
The freed sioneroses!
“I warned you, Papa.” She gritted her teeth. Her throat clenched to swallow her yells. “I warned you!”
The remaining men lowered their pikes in an uneven hedge. The calleroses guided their horses toward the fleeing men. Hunters barreling down for a slaughter.
“If any man from that company survives,” a staff officer commented, “they should be flogged.”
Another grunted in agreement.
“No!” Recha pulled her eyeglass away to snarl at them.
All of them, including Marshal Feli, jumped.
“None who survive this will be punished!”
“But with respect, La Dama,” an officer said, head bowed, “the discipline of the men—”
“None!”
The officers returned to their duties and vigil. Recha, begrudgingly, returned to hers.
The Orsembians dashed around the isolated companies, avoiding the square of pikes to chase the lone, fleeing men. Several of those fleeing had abandoned their pikes and were brutally rode down. Those who kept their pikes were ganged up on, their lone pike outmatched by the calleroses combined efforts. Only those men who stopped running and, out of desperation, held their pikes firm stood a chance.
A trumpet call, repeating four short blasts from the eastern passage, cut the Orsembians’ sport short. They turned their horses and galloped around the way they had come, but not before the Lazornian reinforcements finally arrived.
Lazornian calleroses charged in from two directions—the right and front. Again, lances unhorsed men and toppled horses. This time, however, the Orsembians got the worst of it. Their signal to withdraw had come moments too late, and now they were the ones being pursued.
“Get them!” Recha snarled. “Chase them! Let them feel what it’s like to be run down!”
“Recha,” Cornelos whispered warningly, “you’re scaring the—”
“I don’t give a damn!” She sucked air through teeth, her heart thundered faster and faster in her chest. “I want them to bleed for what they did! Drive them into the dirt!”
She knew this was a cost of war. Infantry that broke became the target of cavalry. A fact as old as warfare, even under the twisted Rules of Campaign. But the fire in her breast would not abate with the mere knowledge. Those were her men. They flew her banner, despite the color. And the Orsembians had run them down like animals.
The fire inside her wanted one thing—for them to receive the same.
The musketeers in the first battle line took the Orsembians’ withdrawal as another opening. They sprayed them with shot from the safety of their pikes. Only two of the far companies had the range and, while only a few Orsembians fell from their horses, every one of them was one more to feed the hunger inside her.
The Orsembians abandoned the southeastern passage entirely, hounded by her calleroses.
“Drive them,” she gasped. “Drive them all the way back to their infantry and make them run.”
A bugle call dashed her dreams. Her calleroses drew up at the entrance to the eastern passage. Behind them, the infantry reformed their lines. Officers on horseback were riding up down the second line, moving the injured companies back and those intact to the right flank to plug the hole in the calleroses’ absence.
Another bugle sounded on their left flank, followed by drums. The infantry companies that were stretched out in an angle were pulling back in an ordered withdrawal, back to their original positions, reforming the forward battle line.
Recha followed the withdrawing Orsembian calleroses with her eyeglass. They galloped to join their advancing infantry, now closer with spears leveled. While Borbin’s mellcresa skull banner waved in their center, the shimmering orange silk flapping like a dancing flame in the air, it was the smaller black banner with a white, unsheathed sword that caught everyone’s attention.
The White Sword had finally made his presence known.
~~~
Recha eyed the dispatcher galloping up toward them. She sat at the table with Marshal Feli and some of his officers. A lull had fallen over the field.
The Orsembians held their battle line across the entrance to the eastern passage. Baltazar held his original battle line. Both armies had stared at each other for nearly an hour now, unmoving.
Recha’s feet couldn’t take it anymore, and she had to sit down. Her heels still throbbed when Baltazar and his commanders trotted out to meet with the Orsembians in the space between the two armies. By the time she managed to stand and get her eyeglass up, a dispatcher was racing back to her.
Terms, undoubtedly. She tapped her eyeglass to her lip. Maybe to retrieve the dead? If they’re terms of surrender . . ..
She shook her head, finding that unlikely. Orsembian arrogance aside, she was sure they would all leave Borbin that pleasure. Someone depriving a marqués’s fun never boded well them.
“Any word on the Second Army?” she asked again.
“Their vanguard should reach us within the hour,” Cornelos replied, still standing off to her side.
Still not fast enough.
The enemy’s vanguard, infantry and cavalry combined, outnumbered the Third Army one-and-half men to one, with more coming up.
The dispatcher rode through Recha’s mounted guard and dismounted. He raced up, dripping sweat from his face, and hastily saluted. “La Dama,” he said, breathing deep and out of breath, “Field Marshal Vigodt reports he has parleyed with the commander of the Orsembian vanguard. If you agree, La Dama, the commander wishes the battle lines be acknowledged and gives his word to not molest ours if we likewise do not molest theirs. If you agree, the Orsembians will retire, and they offer to allow us to collect our dead and ask to collect their own.”
Recha pressed her eyeglass into her lip. Retiring from the field with respected battle lines would give them time to rest the Third Army and fortify the camp while waiting for the Second Army. It meant food, rest, and treatment for her wounded. Reason begged her to accept instantly, but caution sparked in the back of her mind.
“Whom is the enemy commander that offers these terms?” she asked, knowing the answer but wanting to be certain.
“Fuert Ribera, La Dama,” the dispatcher replied. “The White Sword himself.”
Several of her staff officers grumbled under their breaths. A quick look from Marshal Feli made them hush.
“Also, La Dama . . .” the dispatcher added hesitantly.
“Yes?”
The dispatcher wetted his lips. “The field marshal ordered me to relay that he advises us to accept these terms. He holds them agreeable.”
It was Recha’s turn to wet her lips, from all the stares she was getting. “What does Ribera want to show I agree to terms?”
“Your seal, La Dama,” the dispatcher instantly replied. “Your seal was all he said was sufficient.”
A press of her seal into hot, red wax later, and the dispatcher was galloping through the plain again. The day’s battle was over, and blood for blood, Recha felt they had bled more. She hated it.
“Marshal Feli,” she said softly, “start—”
“Tell the army doctors to expect more wounded,” Marshal Feli told one of the staff officers. “We got those who crawled back here, but there are probably some still out there. Tell the cooks they’re about to get a lot of hungry mouths and they better have started cooking an hour ago, like I told them. And get the reserves ready. When the field marshal gets back, he’s bound to have the third line stand guard of our lines.”
He turned back to her. “Pardon me, La Dama, were you saying something?”
Recha gave him a soft smile and shook her head. She stood to get up, and her trembling legs gave out. She braced herself against the table with a hard slap, making everyone jump.
“La Dama!” a unified chorus of concern went up as every man in ten feet rushed toward the table.
“I’m fine,” she said, waving them off, though secretly finding it flattering that so many men would leap to her aid. “I’m fine. Just the heat. Cornelos, with me.”
She walked slowly away from the table, desperately hiding her limp from her stricken heels.
Next battle, I’m watching from a chair. No! Horseback. Definitely horseback.
“Do you need a hand?” Cornelos asked. “An arm to lean on?”
“No,” Recha replied. “I need someone to send a message to Sevesco and Harquis. I want every prisoner we’ve taken brought here before tomorrow morning.”
“That may be difficult.”
“I don’t care.” She’d had enough time during the battle’s lull to go over preparing for the next, and those prisoners were vital for what came next. “Either tomorrow or the next day, Borbin’s going to be here, and he’s going to want to follow those forsaken Rules to the letter. We need those prisoners up here. Especially Givanzo.”
“It’ll be done,” Cornelos agreed. “In the meantime, will you please go to your tent and lie down for a while. You need rest, Recha.”
Recha pulled up short. She was tired, and her aching legs and throbbing heels begged her to get off them. A lingering fire from the battle earlier still gnawed at her, though.
“Men died for me today,” she said somberly. “Poorly equipped and unprepared. Another conversation with Baltazar might see to the prepared portion for next time, but that still leaves the matter of their equipment.”
Cornelos frowned. “That sounds like a duty for their officers.”
She drew herself up under her parasol, as straight back as she could manage. “I am going to my tent to lie down for an hour. When you wake me, I expect to see every smith in the army you can find assembled for me. I have work for them to do.”