Recha snapped her eyeglass shut and dropped it into her lap with a deep, exhausted sigh. She leaned forward in her saddle, letting strands of hair fall over her face, and softly laughed.
Beautiful. Her shoulders bounced as her chuckles grew. Absolutely beautiful, Papa!
She blinked tears from her eyes, brought about from peering through her eyeglass for over an hour. She could feel the circular indention from the eyeglass’s lens on her face and would likely remain for a while. Her left eye was tearing up from being squeezed closed, and it struggled to regain focus. Neither bothered her. They helped keep everything she had witnessed fresh.
A double envelopment! A Savior-inspired double envelopment!
General Priet had marshaled nearly every pikeman he had and split the enemy’s line on the right flank. Those Orsembian companies left along the ridgeline were cut off and in divided pockets for the Second Army’s musketeers and swordsmen to maim.
Musketeers fired volleys behind the swordsmen’s shields, witling down the enemy until they made desperate attempts to break out and were crushed or surrendered.
Those companies that reached the southeast passage fared little better. The Second’s calleroses harassed them, forcing them to keep tight formations, unable to move swiftly to reinforce the companies left along the ridge. When the musketeers were able to turn their attention to them, a couple were left surrendered, while one disintegrated and men fled deeper into the passage. The calleroses gave chase, scattering them further before being recalled. There were likely many Orsembian soldiers still running into those hills.
Meanwhile, General Priet drove his pikemen along the ridgeline, turning Borbin’s left flank. The pikes’ long reach with the Second Army’s momentum made the Orsembian companies wheel and bunch together, their numbers working against them, making them easy pickings for her pikemen.
On the right, Hiraldo pushed forward. His hold and command along the cliff face on the right allowed him to turn the enemy on that flank, as well. Although, he deployed the First Army more aggressively. His army’s units weren’t divided like Priet’s, and the First Army’s rhythm was unparalleled.
Pikemen smashed into the enemy’s front line. Musketeers tore holes into those behind. Swordsman finished the rest. Each company and unit moved like seasoned bailer dancers, to the beat of their drums. Enemy companies either turned aside or got mowed down under their dance.
Yet neither armies’ success would have been possible had Borbin not been determinate, or maddingly fixated, on her center. While the Orsembian flanks buckled, more companies were sent against her center.
Calleros columns charged pikes head-on! It was insanity!
And the Third Army held.
That was how she found the field after Marshal Narvae’s rescue, and Baltazar had been right. There was only one order to give. Attack!
There was little for her to do afterward but watch.
Priet and Hiraldo simultaneously brought their men inward from both flanks. Ross, after all the Third Army’s punishment, ordered the center forward. The three armies squeezed in together like two hands squeezing a neck; the First and Second Armies being the hands and the Third Army the thumbs.
The Orsembian’s numerical advantage had become a liability, as the companies on the flanks were pushed against each other until they fell over each other, compacted in a tightening space and unable to fight back. Those in reserve in the center saw what was coming, and instead of countering to threaten Hiraldo’s and Priet’s flanks, a trickle of men started pulling away, running for their camp.
First, it was a handful of men. Then a few companies’ entire rear lines took to their heels. When the Orsembian center line was breached, Borbin’s entire formation crumbled like a hole in the bottom of a water sack.
Recha still shivered from the cheers that had erupted around her. She hadn’t been the only one watching. Officers and soldiers who, not half an hour before, fought for their lives around her were all standing around her, yelling . . . until Marshal Narvae stormed in and ordered them all back to their duties of seeing to the prisoners and putting the camp back in order. Even after giving the fateful command, Recha found there was little need for her intervention.
Afterward, she watched the battle’s fall-out. Orsembian companies crumbled and surrendered en masse. Some held up in the center. Companies of her soldiers had paused from pursuing the enemy and stood around Borbin’s banner. She couldn’t get a good look through the crowd at what exactly had happened. However, Hiraldo came in from the left to sort everything out.
Then it was a race to the enemy’s camp. No counteroffensive was launched. The Orsembians’ camp was taken. The day was theirs.
She had won.
Victory or death. She threw her head back up, tossing her hair out of her face. Her arms twitched and spasmed out of soreness from keeping her eyeglass raised until the Easterly Sun was disappearing behind the cliffs behind her, depriving her of light. Her shoulders, though, remained slumped forward.
She giggled. “We did it.”
“Should we retire?” Cornelos asked. “The cooks may be overworked, but I can still order something served to you.”
“After a day like this, I’m too exhausted to eat,” she lied. Her stomach growled the moment he mentioned food.
She shook her head and looked up, expecting to see red streaks of setting sunlight against the sparce clouds. Instead, she grunted at peering at the inside of her parasol. “Where did . . .?”
She followed the parasol’s holder down to Cornelos’s hand, discovering he was holding it over her head.
“How long have you been holding that?” she asked.
Cornelos shrugged.
She gave him a sly stare, which made him turn his head farther away, acting as if he was watching the surroundings.
“I wondered why the Easterly Sun wasn’t as hot as before,” she lied again, taking the parasol from him. She’d been too enthralled with watching the battle to have noticed.
She set the parasol handle on her shoulder and straightened herself. She put her eyeglass back in her saddle while keeping her pistol in her lap, just in case. With the battle over, the worry she had kept at bay flooded in.
“I must check on Baltazar. After that—”
Cornelos cleared his throat.
“What?”
Cornelos pointed, and Recha looked to see Hiraldo riding up through the center lane of the camp. Among his command staff and entourage, his calleroses carried a trove of captured banners. Bolts of cloth flapped in the air, representing baronies, individual calleroses, and Orsembian companies, all presumably captured in the battle, surrendered in the development, or captured when their camp had been stormed. Chief among them, flying just behind hers and the First Army’s standard, were Ribera’s White Sword and Borbin’s mellcresa skull.
“Huzza!” Men in camp rushed in from all sides, lining along the sides of the lane to cheer and raise everything from their weapons, fists, and tools in the air. “Huzza! Huzza!”
In salute, Hiraldo raised a scabbarded sword in the air. Its bone-white polish gleamed in the last of the Easterly Sun’s rays and made the men shout louder.
“Huzza, La Dama!” Hiraldo yelled, spurring his horse quicker upon seeing her.
Recha’s horse snorted and shook his head at the oncoming hooves, probably still anxious and tired after all the excitement. Recha comfortingly patted his neck and smiled at Hiraldo from under her parasol.
“Come to show off your trophies, General?” she teased.
“Show off?” Hiraldo barked a laughed and pulled his horse up to hers. “Never, La Dama! Merely coming to offer the prizes of battle to their rightful victor!” His tone was a mix of showman and formality. His command staff formed a column behind him, allowing for the onlookers to gather in and watch. “La Dama Mandas”—he stuck out the white sword, long ways by the scabbard, rattling the blade within—“it is my honor to present the white sword of Marshal Fuert Ribera!”
Recha took in the sword. The scabbard was bleached white from age yet held a polished shine. Same with the hilt, polished from constant handling. It lacked any orientation and was larger than most swords. Older. It only had simple handguards that extended out at the top of the hilt instead of one that encased around the wielder’s hand.
Recha placed the handle of her parasol in the crook of her elbow to reach out toward the sword with both hands. Hiraldo waited until she had a firm grip then let go. Recha’s eyebrows jumped, surprised by the weight. The hilt tilted down, threatening to slide out, and she was forced to reorient herself to prevent it.
Loud and startled grunts went up around her. Men jumped in their saddles, Hiraldo included, hesitatingly reaching forward to catch the falling blade, and others took sharp steps forward. Recha caught it in time, though, and pulled it close. She felt her cheeks flush.
“Got you!” She giggled, grinning broadly to play off the slip as a joke.
Hiraldo blinked at her with his protective hand still outstretched.
Fortunately, Cornelos broke the silence by laughing. “La Dama got you, General.”
Other men started to laugh, and finally, realization struck Hiraldo.
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh!” he said, smiling and leaning back, joining in with the laughter. “Pardon me, La Dama. You know I can be too serious at times.”
“I do indeed,” Recha said, letting the men laugh while she rearranged herself. She swapped the parasol handle for her left hand and firmly gripped the sword by the scabbard just below the handguard with her right. It also gave her flushed face some cover, as well. “What of this sword’s former owner, General?”
The laughter died down, and Hiraldo straightened in his saddle to report, “Marshal Ribera surrendered it and himself upon engaging combined companies of calleroses from the First and Third Amies. Both companies closed in on him, and his retreating force, before they made it back to the pass. Instead of fighting, he surrendered.”
Recha breathed a soft sigh of relief. Although he’d led a force that had almost captured her, it would have been a waste to be forced to kill such a renowned man. Also, he shared a resemblance to Baltazar.
“When the field is fully secured and the prisoners sorted, reunite Marshal Ribera with his grandson,” she ordered. “I understand they’ve been separated for far too long.”
“Yes, La Dama!” Hiraldo exclaimed, a little too loudly. “But it won’t be necessary to wait. All enemy forces have been routed from both valleys. Any remaining companies have surrendered and are being disarmed, and their camp has been seized and secured.” He beamed broadly, prouder than Recha had ever seen. “Recha, the field is ours!”
Recha grinned back just as broadly, unable to contain herself, and lifted Ribera’s sword in the air. “The field is ours!”
“Huzza!” the men around her cheered.
“With your permission, La Dama,” Hiraldo interjected, “may I order my command staff to store the banners taken this day, and then dismiss them to enjoy the festivities?”
“If you’re that certain the field is secured, and they can be excused from their duties.” Recha shrugged then paused to point behind him. “Although, I must insist on claiming Borbin’s banner for myself.”
“Of course!” Hiraldo nodded. “Stow the banners!”
The parade behind him broke apart. Men whooped and hollered, waving their captured banners. A thousand stories started up in every direction as men relayed how each had been taken in, each more exorbitant than the other.
Recha waited for the crowd to disburse before turning to Cornelos to say, “I’m going to check on Baltazar.”
“You may want to summon him.”
Recha snapped around to Hiraldo suddenly pulling his horse alongside hers, towering over her in the saddle. His jovial expression was gone, replaced with a sharp, cautious frown.
Recha raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said the field was secured?”
“It is,” Hiraldo replied. “But I held back something from my report. Something . . . I’m sure you’ll want to see to personally. Without much fanfare.”
“You’re terrible at being vague and secretive, Hiraldo.” Recha’s eye twitched. She cradled the sword in her arm to rub the frustrating spasm. “Just tell me. We’ve been through enough excitement for today.”
“Marqués Borbin is being held, secured and alone, in your command tent.”
Recha’s eye twitch instantly stopped at Hiraldo’s cold as steel tone. She glanced up from underneath the rim of her parasol, seeing Hiraldo staring down at her, as serious as an executioner. She then looked over her shoulder at Cornelos, who was sitting as stiff as a statue in his saddle.
“Did you have the ammunition I spilled picked up?” she asked him.
Cornelos swallowed. “As much as we could recover.”
Recha turned away, hiding herself for a moment under her parasol.
Borbin can wait, she debated. Papa’s been with the surgeons for what . . .? A couple of hours, at least? He needs to be there, too. I should wait until . . . until . . .
She tightened her grip around Ribera’s sword until her arm shook, rattling the sword within its scabbard. Borbin’s armies were routed. Borbin was captured.
Borbin killed Sebastian.
Sorry, Papa. Her arm instantly stopped shaking. I can’t wait.
~~~
Her command tent had been put back up and in order after the attack. A couple of the anchor ropes had been cut, and one side had collapsed, but the tent, fortunately, hadn’t been ransacked.
Recha spotted a few tears leaking lantern light out of the side as she and the rest rode up to it. Seven calleroses stood guard around the tent. The flaps were closed to prevent anyone wandering by from peeking in.
“It’s a good thing Narvae is busy coordinating all the after-action,” she said to Hiraldo, who rode on her left while Cornelos took her right. “What of these men? Do you trust them?”
“As much as you trust your own guard,” Hiraldo replied sternly.
“Very well. Cornelos, my guard can join Hiraldo’s at their stations.” Eight of her guard remained fit for duty; the rest were among the wounded under the care of the camp doctors or dead. After today, she trusted them explicitly.
“Are you sure you want to do this now, Recha?” Cornelos asked. He winced and frowned with concern when she snapped around toward him. “It’s been a long day. Your life was in jeopardy multiple times. You haven’t had time to eat or check on Baltazar. Surely, this can . . . can wait? Maybe tomorrow morning?”
Recha fixed him with a flat stare. “Yes, I am hungry. I’m tired. I’m worried.” She swallowed. “But I’ve waited for three years, Cornelos. I’m not waiting another morning. If you don’t have the same resolve as you had when you led soldiers through Zoragrin, then you can stay out here. Take command of my guard and—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Cornelos said coldly.
His resolve returned as he turned over his shoulder to order, “Take stations around the tent. No one is to be allowed entry!”
Her guard kicked their horses, surrounding the tent and dismounting beside Hiraldo’s calleroses. Both gave each other wary looks, keeping their distance between one another with hands on their swords.
“You have my ammunition, correct?” she asked Cornelos.
“Yes,” he replied, nodding. “The ammunition, powder, and cleaning kit.” He reached back and tapped his saddlebags with a muffled tap.
“Good.” Recha picked up her pistol from her lap and handed it to him. “Put this in my kit and bring it all in with you. Just put it on the table.”
“Yes, La Dama.” Cornelos took her pistol and began digging out her kit.
In the meantime, Recha closed her parasol, took both it and Ribera’s sword under her arm, and arduously dismounted. Her right leg was asleep from being wrapped around the side saddle, and her knee nearly gave when she pushed out of the saddle and caught herself against Hiraldo’s horse.
Hiraldo reached his hand down to her, but she waved it away. Instead, she planted Ribera’s sword in the ground and used it for balance.
Huh, she grunted, closing her parasol, swords make good crutches.
At least while standing still. When she started toward the tent, she had to switch to her parasol because the sword wanted to slide out of its sheath.
Hiraldo and Cornelos fell in beside her, leaving their horses to the calleroses rushing up to meet them.
“La Dama!” one of the calleroses snapped to attention in front of them, the officer Hiraldo had left in charge, Recha assumed. “General! As ordered, the tent has been kept secured. No one but those under yours and the La Dama’s orders have been granted entry.”
“Very good, Lieutenant,” Hiraldo replied. “La Dama’s guard will be joining your perimeter. Divert everyone away from here. No one, not even the general staff, is to be allowed entry. Do you understand?”
The lieutenant clicked his heels together and sharply nodded. “Yes, General!”
Recha walked around them, leaving Hiraldo to have everything well in hand. There was no need to order the same from her guard.
Commotions were growing in the camp—laughter and cheers from the soldiers coming back from the field, distant screams and yells from the wounded in the camp hospitals, faint instruments starting to play.
After a battle like today’s, everyone should be too occupied to notice—
“Here’s to you, Si Don, and the women we’ve loved.”
Recha stopped. Sevesco!
She dashed for the tent, thrusting her parasol between the flaps and tearing them aside.
Sevesco was pouring wine into a silver cup, sitting before a man in chair with his back facing her and left leg splinted and raised in another chair.
Sevesco was dressed like a vagabond. His black trousers were uniform-issue, but his white shirt hung unlaced around his neck and rolled up at his sleeves, the front of which was stained from dirt and sweat. He wore a maroon bandana over his head, turned darkly brown from his sweat.
“And speaking of women, there she is!” he cheered, raising his bottle of wine to her in salute. “The woman of the hour! Please, come in. Your table is almost set, La Dama.”
Recha glared back at him. “Capitán,” she said in a calm, warning tone, “what are you doing?”
“Keeping your distinguished guest company, as ordered, La Dama,” Sevesco replied. “We were just discussing our mutual acquaintance with Baroness Liamena over some refreshments.”
He turned to Borbin. “You must pardon La Dama if she abstains from sharing a glass, Si Don. It’s been three years since she’s partook in wine with anyone. Although”—he shrugged and strolled around the table with a smile—“after a day like today, she may break that fast tonight.”
Recha’s cheeks warmed. She bit her lip to keep from yelling. She wasn’t in the mood for his machinations. Not in front of . . .
Borbin hadn’t moved since Recha had entered. Not even a glance back at her. He sat as straight as he could manage with his leg propped up. His clothes were wrinkled and pressed to his body, likely from being compressed by his armor. He rested one arm on the table. The tips of his fingers rubbed the bottom of a silver cup, like Sevesco’s. His hair was a disheveled mess, especially in the back of his head where a large knot had formed.
Did he fall from his horse?
“Capitán Viezo!” Cornelos exclaimed upon stepping into the tent behind her. “Explain yourself!”
Sevesco smirked at him and stepped away from the table. “At the cost of repeating myself,” he whispered to them when he walked over, “just keeping Borbin company until you arrived.”
“And how did you learn Borbin was here?” Hiraldo asked warningly, having slipped in without Recha hearing.
“You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?” Sevesco winked at him then shot glances at all three of them.
For her part, Recha stared flatly at him, weighing the options of having Cornelos and Hiraldo throw him out. The flush on his cheeks was more than being in the Easterly Sun all day. She didn’t want his behavior to spoil this, yet he’d been one of Sebastian’s Companions, one of hers, too, and had been there for her three years ago. He had just as much right to be here as Cornelos and Hiraldo.
She slammed her parasol into his chest, holding it there. “Put this away for me,” she ordered. “And behave.”
“Yes, La Dama,” he replied, taking her parasol. “Your audience awaits.”
With him taken care of, Recha turned attention to Borbin. The captive marqués still hadn’t moved, facing forward as if patiently expecting to be waited on. His head bobbed, as if it was difficult to keep raised. Besides that, his poise remained regal.
Recha watched him for a moment. Her grip gradually tightened around Ribera’s sword. Her heartbeat rose louder in her chest. She licked the roof of her suddenly dry mouth.
I have him! Sebastian, I finally have him! And yet, she didn’t know what to say first.
Cornelos softly cleared his throat and whispered, “This can still wait, Recha. If you want?”
She broke away from him, stalking around Borbin. She watched him like the mellcresa he was, looking for the slightest movement. Borbin kept his gaze forward, not sparing her an acknowledging glance until she stood directly in front of him.
His thin mustache bristled in every direction. Puffy bags hung under his eyes. The sides of face were smeared with dirt, dried and caked to his skin from his sweat. His head strained to look up at her, as if his neck would break, revealing a great purple bruise wrapped around it.
He looked . . . tired, lacking the arrogance, resentment, terror, or hate she would have if she were in his place.
Say something! she yelled to herself to speak. Three years of planning, finally winning, and now I can’t say what I’ve been wanting to all this time? Say something!
“Thank . . . you,” Borbin said hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper, lifting his cup at her, “La . . . Dama Mandas. For your generosity.” He brought the cup to his lips and sipped with shaking hands.
Formality then.
“You’re welcome, Si Don Borbin,” she replied.
In an instant, Cornelos walked around her to pull out a chair for her. Recha gave him a thankful nod, placing Ribera’s sword on the table in front of her before sitting.
“The famous Ribera family heirloom,” Borbin commented, his voice clearer after the sip of wine. “When I received reports that his standard was spotted charging out of the pass after the explosion, I still expected his strike to succeed.”
“He nearly did,” Recha admitted. She crossed her legs and smoothed out her dress. “But he ran out of time.”
Borbin frowned and set his cup down. “So, he fell, too.”
Recha studied him for a moment. Borbin’s gaze grew distant, staring down into the contents of his cup.
Is he regretful or disappointed? She folded her arms and leaned back against her chair.
“He wasn’t killed,” she clarified. “He pressed his attack for as long as he could but withdrew when my reinforcements arrived. He surrendered to my calleroses after they cut off his retreat.”
Borbin drummed his fingers on the table. His eyes wavered back and forth, sorting out his rapid thoughts. “Very well, to the matter at hand,” he said, lifting his head, his frown vanished. “The battle is yours, La Dama. As such, Puerlato will be conceded. I will sign any declaration to that effect. The question I have, and one I wish you to consider yourself is: how much more are you demanding? This campaign of yours has been . . . unusual. How far did you actually march, and did you leave garrisons anywhere or just marched through? If neither of us knows preciously who holds what, I’m afraid some things can’t be fully agreed on until—”
“Are you . . . negotiating with me?” Recha asked, surprised.
“My dear La Dama, I have been trying to negotiate with you since the start of this tragic affair.” He folded his hands in his lap. “As you recall, it was you who rejected every proposal I sent without you returning one. However, now that the events of today are settled, it is only right that I offer the obvious concessions before we get to the final details.”
Recha stared at the man. He sat there calmly, as if they were discussing some menial trade agreement.
She searched his eyes, expecting rage or contempt to be staring back at her. Yet, there was none. Not even a hint of hate. She’d had his son killed, executed, and he patiently waited for her. She bit the inside of her lip, not understanding why, but it was . . . frustrating.
“I would think, after everything that’s happened, you’d finally realize I’m not interested in negotiating,” she replied. “And now, my armies have shattered yours in the field. Those who remain free are in flight. And I have you. You’re in no position to negotiate anything.”
Borbin snorted. “That is a most disagreeable assertion. La Dama, we are rulers of marcs, we are always in a position to negotiate.”
Recha arched an eyebrow. There’s that arrogance.
“Oh really? I doubt you would say the same thing if our places were reversed.”
Borbin shot her a sharp look. “You can accuse me of being many things, La Dama—a traditionalist, a pragmatist, a manipulator. But, what no one can ever accuse me of being is a hypocrite. You are the marquesa of Lazorna. Were you in my position, I would lay out the terms of your surrender the same, and likewise expect negotiations on them.”
Recha tilted her head. “That seems pointless. You would take all of Lazorna. There would be no need for negotiations.”
“You’re overestimating my resources.” Borbin waved his hand dismissively. “I would have only insisted that a third of Lazorna’s lands be ceded directly to Orsembar. You would have remained marquesa of what had been left. Only the manner of your position would have depended on your acceptance or refusal of my second offer.”
Recha grimaced, easily guessing the second offer. “Whether I agreed to marry Timotio.”
“Precisely.” He softly smiled. “I know the two of you weren’t introduced in the best of circumstances, but time and your similar stations could have worked that out.”
The edges of Recha’s lips curled. She snickered. Her laughter poured out of her that only putting a hand over her mouth and tightening her other arm around herself could stop it.
“Never!” she gasped, her shoulders fell up and down as the laughter refused to stop. She took long, deep breaths, slowing her breathing down to calm herself. “Pardon my outburst”—she slid her fingers off her face and straightened—“but after everything that’s happened today, that’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!”
“How fortunate for you then that you don’t have to make such a decision.” Borbin warily watched her, his posture slightly recoiled in his seat. He cleared his throat to regain his composure. “Well then, La Dama Mandas, with our current positions, what are your terms of capitulation? I’ve already conceded that Puerlato will be yours, but how much more do you think you can—”
“All of it.”
Borbin blinked at her. His mouth hung open in mid-speech. His eyes searched her face for a moment. Recha remained perfectly still, waiting for him to realize.
“Clearly, you jest, La Dama,” Borbin said, shaking his head. “I may be your captive for the time being, but if you believe this grants rights to my entire dominion, I must warn you that is a youthful simplification of war. Victory in one battle does not mean victory over an entire marc.”
“I strongly disagree, Si Don,” Recha retorted, dropping her smile to be as stern and serious as her tired body could muster. “My victory here today, along with your capture, does grant me rights to your entire domain. At least, it will if I take it.”
Borbin stared at her. All expression, emotion, and nearly his color, save for the bruising around his neck, drained out of him. Yet, he didn’t give any spark of fear. Almost . . . disappointment.
“That would be unwise, La Dama Mandas,” he warned.
“It’s nothing less than what you intended to do Lazorna if you had won.”
“On the contrary, I stated you would have ceded a third of your territory directly to me. The rest would have remained to you—”
“Either through a forced marriage or as your hostage,” Recha snapped. “If I was to be dictated on how to rule my own homeland, then all of it would have been yours.”
“Delegated.” Borbin raised a finger. “You are correct that certain policies would be out of your hands; however, rule of your lands would have been left up to you under your current laws. But I would have delegated certain duties to you, as well.”
“My opinion on that remains the same,” she replied dryly.
“And yet, in our reversed positions, you find yourself in the same place I would have been. You are in a place to dictate the most favorable terms for yourself. However, instead, you declare you want all of Orsembar. I say that is unwise because, frankly, that’s impossible.”
Recha snickered. “After what was accomplished today, are you sure you should use that word so freely?”
“It’s true that you won an impressive battle today.” Borbin took up his cup. “You defeated an army three times your size. A terrific upset!” He saluted her with his cup then sipped. “However, you still have a limited size army to try to seize control of a marc over thrice the size of your own. I say this is impossible, La Dama, because you have neither the manpower nor the resources to take and hold all of my marc.”
“Do you think it wise to lecture me, Si Don?” she asked warningly, eyeing his wine cup.
“Lecture you?” Borbin raised an eyebrow over the rim of his cup then set it down. “No. This is part of the negotiations. It is best for both of our interests to point out terms that wouldn’t do either of us good.”
He really thinks he’s going to talk his way out of this!
It struck her like a lightning bolt. His poise and demeanor were the same as when they had met on the battlefield. His tone, mannerism, everything screamed he still held control despite his defeat.
Recha worked her jaw, finding it all unsatisfying.
“Except you keep forgetting, Si Don,” she growled, “this isn’t a negotiation. And our interests are not the same.”
“Our mutual interest now is peace, isn’t it?” Borbin said bluntly. “For you, the peace of Lazorna, and to me, the peace of Orsembar. However, if I ceded all of Orsembar to you, that would grant us neither.”
Why couldn’t you have cursed me when I first came in? Spit at me! Declare some form of vengeance! Beg! Any of those, and I could have ended this already. She could still end this. A simple order to Cornelos, a few final words, and then . . .
It didn’t sit right. It was too quick. Too easy. She had loathed this man for three years, and now, when he was at her mercy, he showed not an ounce of fear or remorse.
I want to see that smug arrogance ripped from his face.
“Please, enlighten me.”
“If Orsembar were ceded to you,” Borbin began, “that would require you to garrison the entire marc. My army may be shattered, but I’d wager a remnant managed to withdraw. You would have to fight them, along with the rest of the Orsembian barony who didn’t march with me. This campaign would continue, and Orsembar would be engulfed in war.
“As for Lazorna, once our neighboring marcs learn of your victory today and become aware of your intentions to conquer my marc, they will turn against you.” A wide grin spread across his face that made goosebumps run down Recha’s arms. “Your days of sitting out the Campaigns are over, La Dama. You’re in them now, whether you plan to sustain from them or not.
“Your treaty with Quezlo will likely be voided. Saran will try to reclaim the lands I took last year before seeing what else they can quickly claim. Pamolid will also have to reconsider its western border with you. If you are overextended trying to cement your hold over my marc, you’ll be less prepared to defend yourself when the others attack. And they will attack, Mandas. Maybe not all together, maybe not all with the same strength, maybe not all at the same time, but they will.”
I should just shoot him now! Recha leaned forward with her arms still folded. Her hair fell over her face so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She squeezed her elbows, biting her tongue to stop from screaming. I should—
“However,” Borbin’s tone reverted to formal, “take my offer, and you avoid all of that. You reclaim Puerlato, I cede a portion of my western territory, preferably along the coast of the Desryol Sea up to the Compuert Junction, and your position with the other marcs becomes more . . . manageable. That’s why it’s impossible for you to claim all of Orsembar, Mandas—you need me in Manosete. You need me to be the balancing force to keep all the other marcs from coming against you. You need me for the same reasons I needed you for my eastern buffer state. If you put your emotions aside and look at the larger picture, you’d agree this negotiation would be best for your marc.”
It was all so reasonable. So pragmatic. In a grand scheme, the offer would be agreeable. Any other marc would jump at the chance to regain whatever they had lost with a little extra territory. Any other marqués or marquesa would have happily agreed to take the tremendous victory, the settlement, and keep the status quo so that the other marcs would be kept in check.
However . . .
“Cornelos,” Recha called and tapped on the table, “my kit.”
She waited until she heard the thud of the silver box on the tabletop. She turned and lifted her head around to the kit, avoiding looking at Borbin altogether. She raised the kit’s lid, flicking it back with her fingernail. Despite being in complete disarray, she easily dug in and pulled out her pistol.
“I shot my uncle with this pistol,” she said, holding it up. She ran her index finger across the pistol’s lock, watching the candlelight flicker on the silverwork. “It was at his campaign feast, surrounded by his picked barons and chosen marshal. They were laughing and drinking as if we hadn’t just been invaded. As if Puerlato was still ours. As if . . . they hadn’t just attended my beloved’s corpse.”
She set the pistol on the table and peered sideways through her draping strands of hair to check on Borbin. He shot wary glances between her and the pistol. A trail of sweat ran down the side of his face.
“Neither my uncle, my cousin, nor any of their barons or calleroses showed an ounce of concern about your invasion,” she retold. “My uncle announced that evening that he was in communication with Si Don Dion to jointly invade you from Compuert. He said”—she snickered—“we could negotiate a trade with the land you took with the land he would take.”
“A common response.” Borbin nodded approvingly.
“A fool’s response!” Recha snapped. “Ribera would have had Zoragrin surrounded in weeks. But worse, none of them cared that Puerlato was lost. No remorse that they had left a man they’d hailed a Hero a season before without any help. To fight alone. To . . . die.” She straightened back in her seat. “I shot my uncle in his forehead, watched my cousin’s skull be smashed in, and the favored barons and calleroses were slaughtered at their tables.”
Borbin was pale, stiffly leaning back in his seat and eyeing her as if she were the mellcresa now. “Why—” He swallowed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because”—she ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it back out of her face and behind her shoulders, exposing her misshapen ear—“I want you to finally understand what kind of woman I am. What kind of marquesa you’re talking to.” She leaned her head back against her seat with a deep exhale. “I despise the Rules of Campaign, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand them. And after three years, balancing between you, Dion, and Hyles, I’ve become a pretty good watcher of how each of you follow them, too. Tell me, if I accepted your offer, how many years would you give me, Borbin?”
“I . . .” Borbin’s frowned. His brow furled. Either what Recha meant was completely lost on him, or his practiced composure was finally starting to crack. “I’m not sure what you’re implying?”
“I’ve waited . . . planned . . . dreamed of this campaign for three years. Three years for this moment, to have the last man responsible for killing my beloved in my hands.” She lifted her head. “How many years will you wait before you retaliate and campaign against me? The woman who killed your son?” She held up her fingers, counting down. “Three? Two? One?”
Borbin’s frown darkened. The last of his calm demeanor slipped, and glaring vitriol filled his eyes.
“I suspect one.” Recha wagged her finger. “I accept your offer, and we will be at war again this time next year, over the same ground you claim to be ceding tonight.” She curled her fingers into a fist. “But I’m not here for ground. I’m here for you.”
Borbin let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumped, and his face drooped into a long, disappointed look. “Mandas, one victory doesn’t make you a conqueror.”
“I’m not a conqueror,” Recha agreed. She dropped her hand into the pistol kit, digging her fingers in until she brought out a second pistol. Sebastian’s pistol. “I am the woman whose beloved you took from her. And like my uncle, you will pay.” She flicked the firing pan open with her thumb and reached for her priming powder.
“La Dama.” Borbin’s voice was hoarse, and Recha ignored him to fill the pan. “Mandas! You cannot be serious! You’re being naïve. Unreasonable! The other marquéses and marquesas will—”
“Do what?” Recha slammed the pan closed. “Declare war on me for killing one of their rivals? Please!” She pushed up on the table, rising to her feet. Her chair grated against the tent’s floorboards. “I’ll face them all, be it in schemes, trade, or war—I don’t care which. Those who join me, I’ll welcome on conditions. But those who fight me, if anyone tries to hurt or take away the people I love, I’ll remind them”—she leveled the pistol at his head—“of how I dealt with you.”
Borbin trembled in his seat, his lips and jaw quivering, and his hands folded and unfolded in his lap. Then, just as briefly as it’d started, he fell still. He glared up at her, straight down her pistol’s barrel, with the vitriol returning and turning his eyes into burning amber coals.
“You petty, conniving girl,” he cursed. “May you be cold and lonely for the rest of your days. May you know nothing but betrayal and paranoia. May the others drag you down and suitably rip you apart like the bloody marquesa you are. And on that day, on that gloriously justified day, may the Savior himself forsake you, Recha Mandas!” His voice had risen until it reverberated in the tent. It drowned out the drifting camp noises from outside and left the tent as quiet as deepest night.
The clicks of the pistol’s hammer cocking shattered the silence like an executioner’s drumroll.
“Goodbye, Borbin.” She squeezed the trigger with all her strength.
POW!
Gray, acidic smoke filled the tent. It burned her eyes, yet she forced them open. Through the haze and sparks, she watched Borbin’s head snap backward.
Every muscle in her body tensed. Her arm remained outstretched, keeping the smoking barrel leveled at him. She waited, unblinkingly, for the smoke to drift up into the tent’s ceiling, insistent on seeing the aftermath.
Trails of blood ran down the lines and ridges of Borbin’s face from the hole in the center of his forehead. His jaw muscles remained clenched, even in death, keeping his scowl. His eyelids drooped yet couldn’t mask the hateful glare he’d died with.
A moment passed, and his right arm slipped from his lap and hung limp at his side. His body deflated in the chairs he was spread out in, but his cursing grimace held.
Still, there was no light in those eyes. He was dead.
Borbin was dead!
And Recha . . . was numb.
There was no excited glee, like witnessing the double envelopment. No righteous fury. She didn’t even feel the muggy evening heat. She was merely . . . numb.
She tried to focus on her heartbeat, hoping its pounding would bring her something. Instead, she heard the persistent ringing of the shot, refusing to fade, while her chest felt hollow, as if neither her heart nor lungs were there.
A large, callused hand grabbed her outstretched one. The strength broke through her arm’s stiffness, and her grip relinquished her pistol. Her entire body relaxed at once, and she gasped, deeply drawing air into her screaming lungs.
“Recha!”
She heard her name spoken in unison from three different voices. Hiraldo stood in front of her, Sebastian’s pistol in his hand. Cornelos stood beside her with a reassuring grip on her shoulder. Sevesco was a couple of steps behind her chair.
“Borbin”—her voice came out soft as a hush—“is dead.”
The three men shared a look.
“He is dead,” Hiraldo confirmed, looking down at the marqués’s body.
“It’s all over now,” Cornelos assured her, squeezing her shoulder.
Sevesco brought a silver cup of wine and held it out to her. “Your wine, La Dama.”
Recha stared at the cup, at the red, rippling liquid. For three years, she hadn’t tasted it, just as she’d sworn.
She gingerly reached up. The cup felt incredibly light in her fingers after holding the pistol. She gazed down into her own reflection, her face a pale mask staring back at her.
“To victory, Recha?” Sevesco asked, holding his own cup up.
She shared a look with each of her Companions. Hiraldo stood straight, hands folded behind his back. Cornelos watched on with concern. Sevesco attempted to smile, yet it never touched his eyes.
“To Sebastian,” Recha replied, softening all their expressions. Then she threw her head back and drank.