Women of War (21 page)

“Apparently.”

“With pit traps.”

“Apparently.”

“How the hells did he dig them without being seen?”

Korama shrugged. “He's mage-born.”

She snorted. She'd had enough of mages long before she'd set foot on dry land. Her eyes caught the thread of Weston that she'd abandoned, and she read, her pale brows rising and falling as her eyes crested the words. In the end, she laughed.

“The main body of the three armies were nowhere near the scouting party; the scouts were returning from the front. It's unlikely that they expected this level of aggression within their own territory. The Ospreys took casualties,” Korama added.

“I can see that. How accurate are these numbers?”

“Ask the birds.”

She'd sooner ask the birds than the mages who flew them. She flipped the paper over. Turned it down and read on. The last page was written in a bold hand, thick, dark strokes of ink above the plain signature of Commander ABerrilya.

“Yes,” Korama said, before she could speak. “The commander wishes to know why you chose to deviate from your plan.”

“Tell him to get stuffed.”

At that, Korama's brow rose. Predictably and comfortably. “I will tell him,” he said stiffly, “that he was busy on the front, and you did not have time to confer with him about your change of plans.” He turned to leave, and spoke without looking back. “Primus Duarte has changed the dialogue of the war; I believe it is his intent to change the face of the Black Ospreys.”

Ellora said nothing. A lot of it. But some tightness of chest had relaxed, and she could allow herself to admit how worried she had become. Not for the war; that was its own burden. For Duarte. For the House Guard.

“Verrus?”

“Commander.”

“Tell the quartermaster the Ospreys have lost their standard again. Tell him we need a dozen.” It was their calling card, after all.

 

Auralis was swearing. In and of itself, that was not unusual. He was, however, swearing
at
the Ospreys under his nominal command. His swift action in the attack upon the scouting party had regained him the rank of sentrus, and he seemed determined to make the most of it while he had it. Gods knew, with Alexis' temper and Auralis' open lack of respect, it probably wouldn't be long.

But the tenor of the swearing was unusual. And because it was, Duarte listened. That he used magic to do so annoyed Alexis.

“Would you prefer I go in person?”

“Yes.”

She was in a mood. He could squelch it with a curt, cold word, but chose instead not to make his night miserable. He gestured, cutting the magical ties that girded the small encampment, and rose. Alexis followed, like fate. Or fury.

“... your armor is practically moving on its own!”

Duarte's brow rose. He glanced at Alexis. She smiled, but it was brief.

“We've done
three times
what the rest of the damn Kalakar House Guard couldn't do once. Shale, you lazy bastard, where the hell is your kit?”

There were no latrines to be dug; the Ospreys, as always, were on the move. But three of Auralis' men were on kitchen duty by the end of the tirade. Only one attempted to argue with the sentrus; he was in Cook's tent. A reminder, as Auralis made clear, that there was a step lower than private.

“This is your work?” Duarte asked Alexis, as they watched the men begin their practice.

“Not mine.”

“Why did he mention the House Guard?”

“Because we're part of the House Guard,” she said, with a thin smile, “and he's a competitive sonofabitch.”

“There's something you're not telling me.”

“Love, there's
always
something I'm not telling you.” But she caught his hand and squeezed it before letting it drop. Alexis' idea of a public display of affection usually involved bruises.

“Cook's men?”

“Medic tent.”

“We don't have a medic tent.”

“We do now.”

“Alexis—”

She said, voice low, “Cook is willing. He's knocked six heads together, he's broken two ribs, blackened three eyes. The men,” she added. “He doesn't usually try to hit the rest of us.”

“Alexis—”

“You told them what they had to do. You killed two men. They listened.” She looked at his face without touching it. “I want the rest of your cache,” she added.

“My what?”

“You're not drinking so much.”

“Alexis—”

“It's worth money.”

He shrugged. She laughed. One or two of the Ospreys looked up at the sound.

“You're enjoying this.”

“Yes,” she told him, smile creasing her lips. “You aren't?”

“I'm the primus,” he replied, with what dignity he could salvage.

“You are. But you take your chances with the rest of us. It's enough, Duarte.”

The Ospreys lost no battles. They were chosen with care, with the subtle magery that had been, in the end, unsuitable for the warrior magi with whom he had chosen to study. They struck quickly, moved quickly, burned forests when they needed an easy way to retreat. They carried food enough for lightning strikes, and lost days to foraging, but the days they lost were also days in which those who would walk again could take the time to find their feet.

But they always traveled back to the army; Duarte always made his report. Commander Ellora AKalakar spent more time with him in the presence of the House Guard, and he, in turn, more time in the company of the House Guard. It was not always easy.

But the last time they returned, their numbers winnowed, new members waiting, the Kalakar took him aside in full view of the House Guard, and asked him the most significant question she had yet asked where others could hear her speak.

“Where are the fallen?”

The question made as much sense as any officer's questions did; Primus Duarte stared at her for a moment, as if trying to translate the words into a language he better understood.

“You've spent little time in the ranks of my House Guard,” she said, pitching her voice so that it carried. The wind helped. “So I'll make myself clear. Bring the fallen home.”

“It will cost us time,” he said at last, as the full import of her words made themselves clear.

“Bring them home,” she said again, “or tell us where you left them.”

“Beneath the banner of the Black Ospreys,” he told her.

She nodded. Turned to Korama.

Aside from the growing outrage of the quartermaster, Ellora heard few complaints. And she listened for them when she walked among her own. The House Guard spoke quietly of the Black Ospreys, but every now and then, they let the unit's colors blend with their own.

The black bird of prey was scattered across the front. The Ospreys chose to leave it when they left the scene of battle. It was their signature. And it was hers.

 

Devran ABerrilya was in a sour mood. Although she knew it was petty, she was satisfied. Commander Allen was diffident and calm. The map spoke for them.

“He's shaken the confidence of the Tyr'agar,” the commander said. “The Tyr has moved two of his armies onto the plateau, and one into the valley.”

“Valley's no good for cavalry,” she said with a frown. “Better for magic.”

“There isn't a surfeit of magery from within the enemy's rank.” He circled a large area of the map. “We can approach the army on two sides.”

“When?”

“Three days. Maybe four.”

She nodded.

“Commander AKalakar?”

“Commander Allen.”

“Good work.”

 

“The dead don't give a shit,” Auralis said, with a grunt. Fiara's complaint was more succinct.

“The commander does.”

“Tell her to carry them.”

Duarte's expression was about as soft as stone. “She does,” he said. And surprised himself by believing it. No one else offered any argument, and this surprised him as well. The Ospreys had taken the time to bury their dead, when they had it. They no longer left the wounded to fend for themselves. Once or twice, Duarte himself had stepped in to cloak the retreat of those who dragged the fallen behind them; he could not hide the blood trail left for long, but it was always long enough.

It took them an extra two days—two days' worth of food—to reach the army base.

The Kalakar was waiting for them.

The House Guard, in full dress, was behind her.

She ordered the House Guards forward, and they obeyed in silence, joining the Ospreys; the difference between the field and the camp evident in the state of their surcoats, the length of their stubble, the overall
smell
of a road that was carved by feet alone.

The House Guards took the dead. They handled them with care, with a solemnity that even the Ospreys couldn't have managed. Or so Duarte would have bet—which was probably why he didn't.

The dead served as a reminder to the living. They were accorded the full honors of the fallen, and if the medals that decorated them briefly meant nothing at all to their corpses, if they should have meant nothing to their comrades, they did.

“We need the Ospreys,” Ellora said quietly.

“Where?”

“With the House Guards.”

“With the army?”

She nodded. He waited.

“We need the colors,” she said, surrendering. “But you built them, Duarte. I would never have said they would become what they've become. I would have been willing to bet,” that word again, “that they'd give up the flag to the House Guard.”

“They might.”

She raised a pale brow. Her eyes were a shade of gray-blue, clear, far-seeing. “Ask them,” she said. “But ask carefully. Don't be surprised at their answer.” She paused. “And don't kill them for it, either.”

“She wants
what?
”

Duarte faced Alexis across about five feet of space. No desk to hide behind, no chair to sit in, no bed to lie on. The sun was high above them, and around them, in the loose, languid circle Commander ABerrilya so despised, the Ospreys waited.

“The Tyr'agar has moved his armies into position,” Duarte said, speaking, as Ellora AKalakar had commanded, with caution. “This could be it.”

“What could be what?”

“The Annies aren't well-organized. The Tyr's armies are, but they're not the only men on the field. We'll have armies across the plateau and in the valleys, and the commanders think the Tyr'agnate, at least, will be present in the valley.”

“And the Tyr'agar?”

He shrugged. “Less clear. We're not a large unit. We aren't accustomed to working within the main body of
any
army. We're not used to battlefield orders. The commander recognizes this.

“But she wants our colors to fly on the field. I think,” he added, taking a risk, “that if it were up to her, it would be
only
our colors.”

“And she'd take the colors without the
unit?
”

“Yes.”

“Sounds good to me,” Auralis said, stretching. Duarte considered busting him to private before Alexis could. It had become a bit of a contest—one of many. “But then again, I wouldn't mind mooning Commander ABerrilya.”

The mention of his name always had an effect on the Ospreys. Usually it wasn't useful. Today, it might be.

“Realistically,” Duarte continued, “it's the Osprey that bears weight. There probably isn't a man in the Annie armies that won't recognize it. And there probably isn't a man in the armies that won't make straight for it, either. Not a good bet.”