A Magic of Dawn (72 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn
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“Don’t be frightened, Sera,” she whispered against the low thunder of boots on cobblestones. “They’re here to protect us, dear one. They’re here to keep you safe.”
There was a soft knock at the door to the bedroom, followed by the the creak of hinges. “A’Morce, I’m sorry I’m late. The streets are a mess, as you can imagine. I had to come in the back way . . .” The wet nurse Michelle entered the bedroom, already striding forward and unlacing her blouse. “The poor little one must be starving. Here, let me take her for a bit . . .”
Varina handed Sera to Michelle, watching as the infant fussed for a moment before her searching mouth found the nipple and began to suck. “Yes, famished, aren’t we?” Michelle said, smiling at Sera before looking to Varina. “It feels so . . .” She stopped, and Varina saw moisture gathering in Michelle’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” the young woman said. “Sometimes when I hold her, I think of my own . . .” She stopped again, swallowing hard.
“I can’t imagine the pain you’ve felt, losing your own baby,” Varina told her. “I’m so sorry, Michelle.”
Michelle nodded. “The whole city seems to be in an uproar,” she said. The change of subject was abrupt and, Varina was certain, entirely deliberate. Michelle lifted her shoulder and leaned her head down to blot away tears. Sera stirred and settled again in her arms. “They say that you can see the Westlanders already from the top of the Bastida’s tower. Don’t know that it’s true, but . . .” Michelle shivered, and Sera stopped sucking for a moment, her large blue eyes opening, then closing again as she returned to the breast. “A’Morce, my husband wants me to go to my brother’s home in Ile Verte. I thought, well, I thought, if you wanted . . . I could . . .”
Varina sighed. She stroked Sera’s head. The child’s eyes opened again, finding Varina’s gaze. Sera smiled for a moment around the nipple, a white bubble escaping her lips before she returned to feeding. “I think that would be an excellent idea, Michelle. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Michelle answered. “It would be my pleasure to take care of her. A’Morce, you should come as well. My brother has a large home there, and I’m sure . . .”
Varina shook her head. She glanced again at the army marching past: it was the rear supply train now—wagons and horses. “My place is here,” she told Michelle. “When are you leaving?”
“This evening, after Third Call.”
“Then why don’t you come and get Sera at Second Call? I’ll have her things ready for you then.”
Michelle nodded. “She’s a beauty,” she said. “It a shame about her vatarh, and her poor matarh. She’s lucky to have you, A’Morce.”
Varina attempted a smile and found that she couldn’t. She stroked Sera’s head again. “Michelle, if something should happen to me—”
“Nothing will happen,” Michelle said quickly, not letting her finish. Varina shook her head.
“We don’t know that,” Varina said. “If something should happen, something that would mean that I can’t care for Sera, would you take her? Belle speaks so highly of you, and perhaps it might ease your own loss, if only a little.”
Michelle
was
crying now, her head down as she watched Serafina at her breast. “A’Morce . . .”
“Just say yes,” she said. She stroked Sera’s head. “That’s all.”
Michelle nodded, and Varina folded both of them softly into her arms. “Good,” Varina said. “That will ease my mind.”
 
Jan watched the offiziers directing the troops into position. He, Starkkapitän ca’Damont, and Commandant ca’Talin had taken a position on the second-floor balcony of a farmhouse, situated on a small rise a few hundred strides from the River Infante. On the roof of the farmhouse, Jan had placed pages with message banners as well as the signalcallers with their cornets and zinkes. A hole had been torn into the ceiling of the room behind them, with a ladder extending up to the roof so that pages could move from the command post to the roof and orders could be called up. From their vantage point, they could see the companies being placed on this side of the river, as well as the sappers who were placing obstacles along the riverbank against the Westlanders’ crossing.
On the far side of the river, closer to Nessantico, workers were digging a double line of earthwork ramparts, where the army—should it need to retreat—could fall back and hold at need.
Jan hoped that those wouldn’t be used, but he suspected they would be.
The Westlander troops were discernible in the verzehen—a lensed tube, designed by the Numetodo, that allowed one to see at a great distance. Through the warped and somewhat blurred, circular vision granted by the verzehen, Jan watched the offiziers of the Tehuantin, their High Warriors, giving their own orders. He saw the banner of a snake on an emerald field. Their troops marched through fields that had been farmland and through the groves. The very trees of the woods that bordered the fields seemed to sway under their numbers. They were already approaching the village of Certendi.
There were too many. Too many. Like the swarming scarlet ants of Daritria, it appeared that they could simply cross the Infante on the bodies of their own dead. Jan handed the verzehen to ca’Talin. “They’re here,” he said. “They’ll be within arrow shot of our lines by evening. If I were their general, I’d stop there to mass the troops and attack in the new light, but . . .” He shrugged. “They’ve done the opposite before. We may be fighting in darkness. Are the war-téni here?”
“They came in last night, most of them, Hïrzg,” ca’Damont told him. “Nearly all of the Holdings’ group, and most of ours. They said that Nico Morel told them to come.”
“Then Sergei was good to his word,” Jan answered. “Excellent. Cénzi knows we’ll need them all.” He gestured to one of the pages; the boy came hurrying over. “Have the horns call back the a’offiziers.” The page saluted and scooted up the ladder; a few breaths later, they heard the clear, shrill call of the cornets.
“We’re set, then,” Jan said. “We’ll talk to the offiziers, then it’s time to go to your commands and get yourselves ready. We’ll see if we have the pieces placed where they need to be. Let’s pray to Cénzi that that’s the case.”
He looked through the verzehen once more, watching the blurred forms of the warriors approaching. He doubted that the person commanding them felt the same burning doubt that he felt. “We’ll hold them here,” he told the others, “because we must.”
 
The great ring boulevard of the Avi a’Parete had once defined the limits of the city of Nessantico, with a fortified wall running its entire length except for the Isle a’Kralji, which was adequately protected by the waters of the A’Sele. All of Nessantico had fit inside the wall—and that wall had been necessary in those times of endless war between the fiefdoms of Nessantico and those of her neighbors.
Now, most of that ancient city wall was gone, its great stones buried or reused in the city’s buildings, with only a few small sections of the edifice still remaining. Nessantico had spilled well outside the confines of the Avi a’Parete, though less so in the south than other directions. Not far outside the remnants of the old Sutegate of the city, there were still open fields and farmland, and it was there that Allesandra watched the new sparkwheeler corps practice. They were dressed in normal clothing, most of them looking as if they’d just been plucked off the streets of Oldtown—which was actually the case. Talbot walked away from the group as Allesandra approached. He helped Allesandra down from her carriage; he was still dressed in his palais staff uniform. Allesandra peered across the field toward the men. “Forgive their appearance, Kraljica,” Talbot said, as if realizing how they looked. “I’ve only had two days to work with them.”
“Where’s Varina? I thought these devices were her idea,” Allesandra asked.
“She’s settling things with the child. Then she’s going to the northern front with the Hïrzg, along with most of the Numetodo. I thought you knew. The Hïrzg asked for as many spellcasters as were available.”
Allesandra nodded—had Varina told her that, or had she forgotten? Someone in the group of sparkwheelers shouted the order to “fire! ” The reports of the sparkwheels barked, and white smoke bloomed at the end of metal tubes. Across the field, paper targets set on straw bales fluttered as lead pellets peppered them.
The horses jumped in the carriage’s traces, their eyes white and wide. The driver yanked back on the reins, calling to them.
Allesandra found that she’d taken an involuntary step backward herself at the violence of the sound, nearly falling back into the carriage. “You might stuff some paper in your ears, Kraljica,” Talbot said. “These devices do make an infernal racket.”
“Unless the enemy is stationary, it would seem that one shot is all that your new corps are going to have before the warriors are on them,” Allesandra observed—the sparkwheelers were all reloading their weapons, and that process seemed to take an inordinate amount of time. “The Tehuantin are used to the noise of black sand; they’re not going to be frightened away by it.”
Talbot smiled. “That was my concern also, Kraljica. We’ve made a few small modifications to Varina’s original design. The black sand and pellet packets are all premade, so no measurements need be made in the field. We also thought by extending the barrel somewhat, we could increase the distance and accuracy of the shot. That seems to be the case, though it’s made the weapon heavier and bulkier.” Out in the field, men were replacing the targets with fresh ones. The sparkwheelers were still reloading.
“Accurate or not, it’s still one shot. If all I were given was one strike with my sword while the enemy was allowed to hit me freely as often as he wished, then the battle would be over quickly. It wouldn’t matter if I had the sharper weapon.”
“Indeed,” Talbot said. “Which is why we’ve given some thought to tactics. Let me demonstrate . . . Cartier—form a squadron into lines of four,” he called out. One of the men bowed slightly toward them and shouted more orders. A dozen men formed three wide-spaced lines of four as Cartier arranged them. Talbot stepped forward toward them.
“First line, kneel!’ he shouted. “First line, fire!” Four sparkwheels spun and ignited, the echo of the reports rolling across the field. The men from the first line stood, each took a step to the left, and stepped backward to the rear. They began to reload their weapons. “Second line, kneel,” Talbot shouted. “Second line, fire!” Again, reports sounded and white smoke drifted away. The men stood and fell back behind the first line. “Third line, kneel! Third line, fire!” Another roll of thunder, and the third line fell back. The first line had finished reloading by this time. “First line, kneel! First line, fire!”
Another volley, and Talbot grinned at Allesandra. “Stand down!” he called to the sparkwheelers, then walked back to Allesandra. “Kraljica?”
The flanks of the horses were trembling as they pulled anxiously at their bits, the driver working hard to stop them from bolting. Allesandra’s ears rang with the noise of the weapons. “That was impressive, Talbot,” Allesandra told him, and Talbot’s grin widened.
“A three-line squadron can fire three volleys in nine breaths, and continue to do so until they’re out of black sand packets, though after several shots, the sparkwheels become too hot to safely fire.”
“But it’s one thing to stand here with nothing but straw bales to face, and another when it’s a charging enemy who intends to kill you,” Allesandra continued. “These aren’t soldiers, Talbot. They’re not chevarittai. They’re not even Numetodo. They look like they’re just bakers and grocers, butchers and apothecaries.”
“That’s true of most of them,” Talbot admitted. “I
don’t
know how they’re going to react when it comes time. But the effectiveness . . . The black sand weapons we’ve used before required large quantities of the material, and they’re indiscriminate—the explosion might kill no one at all or several people, or might kill your own people if you’re not careful. Spells are costly in time and exhaustion and they require years of training before most people can use them well. To use a sword or pike effectively requires weeks or months of training, too. These . . .” He gestured toward the field. “Varina’s sparkwheels use very little black sand, they’re as precise as a spell, and they require only a turn or two of training to use. They change the entire equation.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Allesandra interjected. “The power you’ve given the untrained rabble . . .”
“I’m afraid that the rabble is nearly all we have between us and the Tehuantin at the moment, Kraljica, unless you think that the Garde Brezno can do the impossible.”
She frowned. “I know,” Allesandra answered. “Still, something about this . . .” She clapped Talbot on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Talbot. I worry what this means for the future : for the Holdings, for the Faith, for our society.” She pressed her lips together, cutting off the rest of her thought. “You’ve done a fine job,” she told Talbot. “Everything we’ve asked for and more. I just hope it all works when the time comes—because it will have to.”
She drew herself up, mounting onto the step of her carriage. “Continue your work. In the meantime, I need to check with Sergei and the Garde Brezno.”
Talbot bowed to her; she stepped fully into the carriage, gesturing to the driver. He slapped the reins on the back of the horses, and with a grumbling of wheels, the carriage lurched forward.

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