18th of Iam, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
“Your days of sitting out the Campaigns are over.”
Recha eyelids flickered rapidly. She caught faint glints of light from some unknown, distant source. She neither slept nor lay awake. She hung somewhere between, waiting for either her mind to collapse to unconsciousness or some excruciating body pain to force her awake. Alone with curses echoing in the dark.
“May you know nothing but betrayal and paranoia.”
Sleep rejected her, and an enveloping numbness separated her from her body. Her head swam in a nauseating void. Every vein felt compressed that it was questionable whether this was the beginning of a serious illness or the worst headache of her life. Her nostrils flared, bringing in the scent of stale, musky air, laced with foul after-traces of blood.
“May the others drag you down and suitably rip you apart like the bloody marquesa you are.”
Gruesome images flashed in her mind. Corpses piled in heaps. Men lay in fields, clinging at their horrendous wounds. Surgeons frantic to treat as many as they could, failing, and their patients wailing as they bled. One such patient resembled Baltazar.
Papa!
Her mind’s scream sent a groaning grumble reverberating in her ears. It rolled through her mind like a bucket of water being shook from side to side. When she groaned back, she realized she had tried to speak her choppy complaint and it had come out a mumbling, moaning mess from deep in her throat.
“And on that day, on that gloriously justified day, may the Savior himself forsake you, Recha Mandas!”
She saw herself in the middle of that blood-stained field. From head to toe, she was coated in the gore of the dead and bleeding surrounding her. The world began to shake. And as an endless tide of calleroses stormed her from every direction, she wore an enormous, maddening grin on her face and laughed at that tide. Until it swallowed her, and that laugh became a maddening scream.
That scream allowed all her feelings to rush in. She gasped and recoiled. Her back arched. She was laying on something. Something cushioned with fabric that caught her hair with the slightest movement. She lost all control of her body, as every muscle decided to simultaneously stretch.
Her left leg caught on something. A sheet maybe? The fabric draped over her leg, pulling tight without any room to give, and her limb refused to—
Her entire calf muscle balled into a tight, stinging fist!
Recha snapped her eyes open. She sprang forward, grabbing the cramping muscle with both hands as tightly as she could. A hiss ripped through her throat.
“Gah!” she cried, squeezing her eyes together until tears dripped through the corners.
She rolled her head into the cushioned mattress of her tent’s bed. Instantly, the scent of sweat overwhelmed her nostrils, yet the pain in her leg immobilized her. She squeezed hard. Her fingernails dug through the fabric of her underskirt—not a sheet—with her teeth clenching as the ball of muscle stubbornly refused to loosen.
When it did, everything became worse! The cramp began to loosen, the blood began to pump through, beating and tightening. The veins in her head did likewise. Recha let out a deep groan as her head swam, becoming ten times heavier, and forced her face into her lumpy mattress. The pounding heartbeat consumed everything, starting from her head and spreading like fire to her toes. Her body went limp and pulsed with every beat against the mattress fabric.
Her only comfort was being on her stomach. She pressed her head into the cushion to shut out the faint glint of light to the embrace of total darkness. She didn’t know what was happening to her, expect that there was no fighting whatever fit her body was having. She accepted her fate. To lay there. Let whatever tantrum she was trapped in run its course.
Bit by bit, the pumping slowed. The pounding softened. As they did, so did her breathing. She avoided the stale smell by breathing through her mouth, and with each slow, deep breath, sleep finally opened its embrace to her. Everything, after all that pain and suffering, became warm, cozy, and comfortable.
The warmth became heat. It spread from her cheeks and forehead until her whole face was set on fire. It raced through her scalp, and sweat followed. It broke out over her body, turning her skin into a sticky paste, clinging to the mattress. The skin on her face itched, her hot breath dried her throat. She gasped, throwing her head back.
“Why?” she cried in frustration. “Why? Why? Why?”
She kicked her feet into the mattress and smacked her bare heels against the cloth wall of her tent. She slid her arms under her, braced herself, then pushed. Her arms wobbled, and her elbows buckled, crashing her back down on the cot. She punched the mattress, but her meager strength barely pressed the stuffing in.
“La Dama?”
The tent flap burst open, flooding it with searing light and a gust of fresh air.
Recha was blinded instantly. Her eyes burned as rainbow splotches blurred her vision. She rolled on her side, throwing her hands before her face.
“Savior forsake you!” she screamed. “What are you doing, Cornelos?” She skuttled back into the shadows on her cot, rubbing her eyes. Each rub made the splotches worse.
A shy cough came from the door. “My deepest apologies, La Dama,” someone who wasn’t Cornelos said, his voice lower in tone, “but Commandant Narvae hasn’t reported yet. I was on guard and heard—”
“Where’s Commandant Narvae?” she demanded, keeping her hands shielding her face to block the sunlight. “What hour is it? What do you want? What’s going—”
“I’ll take it from here, guardsman,” Hiraldo said. His deep voice made her ears twitch. “Return to your post.”
Recha peeked through her fingers. The shadows of two figures blocked out most of the retched morning—at least she thought it was morning—sunlight. She sat up, bringing her legs up and resting her knees against her chest. Her toes wiggled against the cushions. She took advantage of her hands at her face to rub and dig the crusts of sleep from the corners of her eyes.
Hiraldo’s heavy footsteps thumped on the rug carpeting the bottom of her tent upon his entrance, blessedly closing the tent flap behind him.
“Hiraldo?” Recha asked, picking the last of the hard crusts from her eyelashes. “What are you . . .? You should have—”
She sniffed sharply, freezing. She sniffed repeatedly to get the scent. Her mouth watered before her mind fully confirmed it.
“Pork!” She instantly sat up straight, perking her head up out of her hands. Skillet fried pork! It was impossible to mistake that scent!
Hiraldo walked into sight in full uniform, wisely not wearing armor. He came up to the cot and held out plate. “I commandeered some pork my officers found this morning, along with eggs and bread of all things,” he said. “Leave it to officers to be the best scroungers.”
Recha made out the slices of ham on top of each other, the outline of a couple of eggs pushed together over to the side, and a husk of bread in the dim light. She seized the plate like a ravenous mellcresa, folding her legs to hold it, and viciously attacked the bounty.
She bounced a scalding piece of pork between her fingers to raise it up for a bite. The slice of flesh was perfect—not too thick, not too thin, not overcooked, not undercooked, with the right amount of crisp to have a crunch. The salty, greasy texture urged her to eat faster while the heat burning the roof of her mouth urged her to eat slower. She took a bite of bread as a compromise to cool her mouth but refusing to slow.
A drawn-out creak announced Hiraldo opening the tent ceiling flaps to let in light and air. The light was enough to illuminate her tent without being blinding.
Recha tore off a shred of pork with her teeth and dabbed the bread into the yoke of one of the eggs, breaking it and soaking a mouth full in the gooey, yellow contents. She was still chewing the pork when she bit off the bread, adding it altogether in her mouth.
She moaned and rolled her eyes, her cheeks bulging as she indulged in the salt, grease, yeast, and yoke mix. Her eyelids fluttered back open, and she stopped mid-chew at Hiraldo staring blankly down at her.
“Waath?” she mumbled with her mouth full.
Hiraldo straightened his uniform. “Careful not to eat too fast,” he advised.
“I—” She swallowed. “I’m hungry! I can’t remember when I ate last.” She scooped up more egg with her bread and ate it. She frowned as she chewed and watched him step away and ease himself down on one of her wardrobe chests. “What are you doing here, Hiraldo? Shouldn’t a general have more pressing duties after a battle than bringing me breakfast?”
“Midday meal.”
Recha paused, a bite of pork halfway to her mouth. “Huh?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Then why did you bring me . . .?” She held out the pork, yet her question got mixed with a mass of others. She shook her head back and forth, attempting to sort them all out at once. “Why hasn’t Cornelos . . .?” She gasped, dropping the pork on the plate, her eyebrows shooting up her brow. She tossed the plate aside on her cot and threw her legs over the edge. “Papa!” She hazily remembered going to check on him but couldn’t remember his condition. “I got to go check on . . . Oh!”
Her stomach rolled and gurgled. She wrapped her arms around her belly and doubled over, collapsing on the cot.
“Easy!” Hiraldo warned with his hand out. “Don’t push yourself. Sevesco said this might happen.”
“Sevesco? Ah!” Recha groaned at the rumbling pain inside her belly. She squeezed tightly, closing her eyes and holding her breath—everything she could to hold herself together. Sweat pooled and dripped out of her forehead. For a moment, she feared she was going to burst. Just as suddenly as it’d started, the rumbling stopped, and the pain slowly drained away. She relaxed with an exhausted gasp yet remained bent over with her arms around herself just to be safe.
She slowly raised her head, arching an eyebrow and doing her best to grimace with her mouth open, puffing in air. “What . . . did . . . he . . . do?”
Hiraldo kept his chin up and met her eye. He pulled his hand back and sat stiffly straight, as if making a report. “Nothing. You went to the field hospitals after . . . last night, to check on the field marshal,” he said. “From what I was told, you walked in the middle of his second surgery, and the sight of the field marshal’s condition made you . . . demanding.”
Recha had a feeling he was being delicate not to say hysterical. Yet, the retelling did refresh the memory of the field hospitals, the wounded men laying in rows, and walking in to see Baltazar on the surgeons’ table, pale and sweating while the surgeons frantically stitched.
“Oh,” she said, dropping her head.
Every hair on Recha’s body stood on end, and a rush of goosebumps spread down her arms. The sweat became so cold on her forehead as images, each far worse and more embarrassing than the other, played in her mind.
“Oh, by the Savior, please don’t tell me I did anything stupid,” she begged.
“Nothing stupid, embarrassing, or undignified,” Hiraldo assured, shaking his head. “The doctors had to give you something to calm you down. You became lightheaded, and then unsteady on your feet. Cornelos caught you before you fell and had you taken to your tent.”
That explains why I can’t remember how I got here.
“Where’s Cornelos?” she asked.
Her heart sank at Hiraldo’s blocky face tightening, his lips white from being pressed together, and his chin trembled. “Resting,” he replied. “After awkwardly explaining why you need help to undress by two women camp workers, he stepped out to take first guard. When the women came out, they say they found him collapsed on the ground. I had my soldiers stationed to guard you to let him and the rest of your guard rest.”
Recha dug her fingernails into her elbows. “Savior help them. I pushed them too hard yesterday. Especially Cornelos.”
“They performed their duty,” Hiraldo said. “It speaks well of Cornelos to have picked such men and the lengths he’ll go to keep you safe.”
Recha snickered and hung her head. At what expense to himself?
She held that pose for a few moments until the final knots in her stomach unraveled and whatever it was passed. She didn’t want to risk it, though, and kept her arms around her. She merely lifted her head, swinging her hair out of her face.
“Well, I—” Her eyebrows leapt again. “No! Papa! How—”
“The field marshal is well!” Hiraldo said. “The surgeons said it was difficult to make sure the artery was closed and sewn up. They had to operate a few times, but luckily, they didn’t have to amputate his arm.”
A rush of relief swept over her, every muscle in her body relaxed at once. She laid her head back, exhaling loudly and slumping her shoulders. She squeezed her eyelids shut, holding the tears of joy in, although a few slipped through the corners. There was nothing to hold back her broad grin.
“Bless the Savior.” She giggled and rolled her up.
Hiraldo, though, had a stiff upper lip, almost a scowl. “Was there something else?”
“Recha”—his voice sounded choked, his chin wobbled—“he’s finished. He’ll never be fit for duty for the rest of this campaign. The amount of blood he lost . . . He was very pale when I saw him.” He drew himself up with a deep breath, restoring his officerly calm. “The surgeons recommend he not be moved for a few days, but after yesterday’s battle, that shouldn’t be a problem. After that, they recommend he be sent home to rest.”
The image of Baltazar laying on a table, pale and sweaty from loss of blood, played in her mind again. His skin clammy to the touch. His breathing labored.
Her heart ached. A great man like him shouldn’t be in such a state. Not after the greatest achievement of his life.
“The Half-Conquering Hero of Lazorna,” she said, “has commanded his last battle.”
“Aye.” Hiraldo slapped his knee, sticking out his broad chest. “And what glorious battle it was! I don’t think I’ll ever see anything that beautifully done again. A double envelopment!” He shook his head with a lopsided smile.
She smiled with him. “A fitting retirement, but will we be able to continue the campaign without him?”
“We’ll be able to continue the campaign,” Hiraldo said with certainty.
Recha eased up, her legs throbbing, on the verge of going to sleep. Her stomach thankfully seemed to have fully settled. “How’s the First Army?”
“Casualties were manageable. The worst came in holding the left against the oblique. That press was”—his fists clenched, turning his knuckles white—“brutal. We paid them back, though.”
“Yes, I noticed.” Recha crossed her legs and spotted him raising an eyebrow. “When the envelopment came together, the First Army pressed it the hardest. You even charged in with your calleroses at the first opening. I was watching.”
“I knew the situation on the field and was given the order to attack. I saw no reason to restrain my men. Besides, I wanted to get to Borbin.” If his chest could tighten any more, his uniform would rip open.
Recha smirked. I can make him a general, but he’ll always have a calleros’s pride.
“What about the other armies?”
“The Second is in good order. General Priet reported that controlled withdrawal and stretching his line back allowed him to manage the enemy better and keep casualties low. The Third took the . . . heaviest losses.” He frowned and licked his lips. “Recha, General Ross reported this morning that he’s looking at possibly a quarter-percent casualties, wounded and killed.” His eyes went misty, distant. “He didn’t sleep last night. I think he and his staff were too busy figuring out who made it out and . . . who didn’t.”
“The price for holding the line. I guess they won’t be ready to move in a couple of days, either.”
“If Marshal Narvae gives them the rest. He’s already given Marshal Bisal orders to scout the fastest way out of these hills, and Marshal Olguer has orders to pull available calleroses from all the armies into a strike force to pursue Borbin’s army that got away. I think he plans to finish where Vigodt left off and march the armies up the Compuert Road.”
Recha frowned at that. “Even with the number of our wounded and prisoners?”
“That I don’t know.” Hiraldo folded his arms. “I’ve been busy with my duties, and he’s been busy taking over the field marshal’s. I’m just surmising off his orders.”
That would be the natural course of action. We didn’t catch all of Borbin’s army in that envelopment, and it could always reform. But . . .
She pushed herself to her feet to think better. Her stomach swam again and made her legs wobble. She stuck her arms out for balance and held her hand to Hiraldo, who brought his up to catch her. Luckily, her stomach settled, and she slowly set to pacing, folding her hands behind her back.
We still have enemies out there. We still have fighting ahead of us. But how do we win? Borbin is dead. His son is dead. But the campaign still goes on. How do—
She stopped suddenly in front of her tiny cupboard used for a writing desk. The memory of Baltazar playing jedraz again making everything clear.
“A query for you, Hiraldo,” she said, turning on her heels. “What is the fastest way to declaring victory?”
Hiraldo frowned at her, as if she had asked something obvious. “Defeating the opposing army, of course.”
“We’ve done that”—she held a hand up in a shrug—“but are we able to declare victory?”
He opened his mouth to answer yet paused briefly. “No?”
“No,” Recha agreed. “We’ve defeated the enemy on the field. I . . . executed the enemy marqués.” She swallowed from the mental image of Borbin with a hole in his head. “However, the campaign will still go on. What’s the fastest way we can declare victory in this situation?” She knew she could come out and say it but felt like showing off.
Hiraldo closed his mouth, folded his arms, and sat back. His eyes bounced back and forth, working his jaw in thought.
Recha put a hand on her hip, about to harmlessly chastise him for taking so long until his eyes lit up.
“The capital!” He snapped around to her. “You want to march on Manosete!”
Recha grinned. “We capture Manosete, we roll up the rest of Orsembar. Even if Borbin’s remaining army reforms, how great will their morale hold once they hear they’ve lost everything.” She fished out parchment, ink, and quill then set to scratching in the dim light. Hunched over, she ignored the knot quickly forming in the small of her back to write everything speeding through her head. “You still willing to deliver orders for me?”
“Always.” Hiraldo grunted, standing and hunching his head under the tent’s ceiling. “Are you sure you want me to deliver them?”
“I don’t have time to dress, and these orders need to go out as soon as possible. Marshal Narvae will remain as acting field marshal for the time being, and Bisal’s order to find the fastest way out of these hills will remain in effect. I’m countermanding Narvae’s orders to Olguer. All calleroses are to remain assigned to their armies and tend to their horses and wounded.
“Send dispatchers with Bisal to Commandant Leyva. He and the Fourth Army are to proceed with the seizure of Puerlato with all haste. Bombard the gates and walls until they have gaping holes and collapse, get the garrison to surrender, convince Puerlato’s inhabitants to revolt, which ever he can perform.
“To General Priet, the Second Army is to rest today and be on the march by dawn tomorrow, out of these hills and to Puerlato. They are to support the Fourth Army in taking Puerlato if it has not fallen by the time they arrive.”
“You, Hiraldo, will march the First Army out the day after the Second, marching all the prisoners we captured here with you. It’ll slow you down, but once you get to the Compuert Junction, turn the prisoners over to whatever holdings Commandant Leyva has built, and then march west to Luente. If Puerlato’s taken by then, or when it is, General Priet is to march there, as well, and combine forces with you.
“As for the Third Army, it’s to wait until the others have marched and follow a day later with the wounded. If Puerlato’s taken, then the wounded are to be given rest and hospital there. The Third Army is to rest and recover until ordered.
“Once Puerlato is taken, the Fourth Army is to march up Compuert Road and take as much as it can. Me and the rest of the general staff will make our way to join you at Luente after leaving the Third Army at Compuert Junction. We’ll march on Manosete together.”
Recha wrote furiously. She flipped back and forth on different pieces of parchment, making them out to their respective officer.
“If I may add,” Hiraldo said.
Recha held her quill in her inkbottle and looked up.
“All of that will take some time to coordinate. Manosete may be well fortified and provisioned. We may not be able to besiege it with only two armies.”
“That’s the reason I’m giving Sevesco his own set of orders,” Recha replied. “Rather, I’m going to let him run loose for a while and spread every rumor he can think of. He should be able to think of plenty. Just so long as they think Borbin is still alive and we’re not a threat. Until it’s too late, of course.” She winked and went back to writing.
It took her several minutes to get everything written out. She glanced up several to times to catch Hiraldo grimacing out through the tent ceiling flap. The corners of his mouth drooped and drew back up repeatedly.
“Is there something else I’m forgetting?” she asked. “Hiraldo?”
Hiraldo rolled his head back, his scowl instantly gone and back to being a placidly waiting officer. “No,” he replied.
“You sure?”
Hiraldo’s drooping scowl returned, and his brow furled. “I . . . I’d just like to say, what you did last night . . . you did it well.”
Recha’s quill fluttered. Its fluff’s muted-green color wavered. It took a second for her to realize her hand was trembling. She put it back in her ink bottle then went to sorting her pile of orders.
The attempt at distraction failed. The memory of the shot repeated itself over and over in her mind. Her final goodbye rang in place of the powder’s ignition. Worst was the coldness afterward. She hadn’t felt any joy. No satisfaction from seeing the man who’d taken her beloved from her brought low. Finality, yes, but a cold finality. A sense of an action taken that could never be undone, for good or ill.
“Do . . .?” She licked her lips, holding her stack of orders tight. “Do you think Sebastian would have understood?” She looked up at Hiraldo blinking at her.
“Understood what?” he asked.
“Me . . . executing Borbin,” she clarified. “I don’t regret what I did. It’s three years too late for that. But, to execute a wounded, helpless man with my own hands. Even with all the political, pragmatic excuses I could drum up, there’s no denying I did it because he hurt someone I loved!” The papers crumpled in her clawing grip. Rogue tears streaked down the lines of her face. “Would . . . Sebastian have understood? Or . . . not see me as a woman who could do such a thing?”
Hiraldo worked his jaw, as if chewing on his words. Recha wasn’t sure if he was trying to hold them in or find them. It surprised her when he knelt in front of her, propping his arm against his knee, his wide shoulders brushing into things.
“Sebastian would have understood,” he assured her.
Recha shook her head. “I keep telling myself that, but—”
“No, he would have understood.” Hiraldo rubbed his chin. “Back in the campaign for the Laz, he kept pushing the men to march faster. He set out orders with schedules, trying to get us to places hours, sometimes a day, before we could realistically manage. Some of the officers reported complaints from their men, which is typically their own concerns worded that the men were complaining, but”—he waved that away—“when they asked him why the brisk pace, he said he would set the fastest pace he could, whether that was attacking any enemy on sight or burning every in our path of march, just to get back to you.”
Recha’s cheeks warmed. Sebastian had been eager after he’d returned from that campaign. He’d gone to see her a day before reporting to his marshal or her uncle. That togetherness with him had been . . .
She blinked the stray, small tears away and turned her face away.
“Sebastian told me that he just wanted to drive out the Pamolidians twice as fast as my uncle thought he could,” she said.
“He did have a few wagers on us being the fastest companies in the campaign,” Hiraldo admitted. “But his main reason for speed was getting back to you. And I think, if he ever lost you, he’d have done just what you did. Only”—he snorted—“I don’t think he could’ve waited three years to do it.”
The warmth from Recha’s cheeks flooded down to the rest of her. It was hard to explain, yet it somehow felt like that was what she’d been wanting to hear. “Thank you,” she said softly, “Hiraldo.”
Hiraldo hummed and held his hand out. “If I may suggest, why don’t you rest for today? I’ll relay your orders, as promised, but there shouldn’t be anything pressing that needs your attention today. The officers can handle things.”
Recha snickered and turned over the orders. “Are you suggesting your marquesa be lazy for today, General?”
“Not at all, La Dama.” Hiraldo took the orders, straightening them in his hands as he rose with a grunt. “Even marquesas need a day after action to recover, same as any soldier. Only, unlike soldiers who are eager to take days off, marquesas seem more determined to work themselves to death. Them, field marshals, and the like. Just thought a friendly suggestion was warranted.”
Back to being the strict officer then. She smiled.
“Thank you, General. In that case, I will take it under advisement. Probably finish eating and wait for whatever the doctors . . . gave me to pass. I’ll likely visit the field marshal again later. If you need me, I’ll either be here or visiting the camp hospital.”
“Yes, La Dama!” Hiraldo snapped his heels together, went straight as he could, and snapped head down, the tent’s low ceiling preventing him from performing a proper salute. He then shuffled around and headed for the tent flap.
Despite her eyes having adjusted, Recha still kept her head turned against the Easterly Sun’s glare during the brief opening.
Once alone, she eyed the plate on her cot. It had likely gone cold with half remaining. Her belly squeaked, although she wasn’t sure if it was still ravenous or upset. She moved the plate to her stool and picked at the pork and bread, tearing off small bites and nibbling on them.
Her stomach didn’t revolt, so she decided to take her Companion’s advice and let everyone else take care of things while she lazed in her tent. She nibbled on her food, taking the first moment in a long time to relax, and desperately avoid thinking about those cursing voices that had plagued her the night before.