A Test of Mettle

A Test of Mettle

by

Doug Ricketts

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Doug Ricketts

License Notes

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1: Invasion

2: Alvendor

3: Krulan

4: The Chassels

5: Flying Column

6: Brailot

7: South Bend

8: Fern Island

9: Dalibar

10: Pital

11: Keledan

12: The Rushing

13: Previtch

14: Trewondail

15: Cuillmor

16: Branadin

17: Zhatano

1

Invasion

Gentlemen, the invasion begins tomorrow!

The officers crowded into the banqueting hall knew the invasion would be launched the following morning. Betan nearly dropped her cup at the eager, almost hungry growls of anticipation responding to the formal announcement.

She stood in a cluster with the other officers of the vanguard. They were the only people she knew in the ancient nation of Branna, apart from the sergeants and soldiers she'd brought through the Beddisae Channel from Durannia. The declaration had fallen to her commander, Brigadier Reigh. No speech was necessary. This was home to the gathered rebels, estranged and violently opposed to them though it was.

Drink! Colonel Goldopan shouted in what passed for a Brannan toast. Betan didn't join the cheer but swilled down the tangy meadowlander drink with everyone else. A party the night before such an undertaking didn't seem very wise to her, but Branna in the Central Lands did things their own way.

A portly gentlemen bustled through the crowd, the local alderman filling glasses with his own hand, overjoyed that his troublesome guests would soon be leaving.

Luck good much for you and the like, yes, gentlemen? he burbled as he clinked against her glass, pouring more whatever drink it was in.

Betan closed her eyes and translated his felicitations properly. The word gentlemen was the problem, again. It was a Tzendro word adopted by the reformation. Karakra, Brannan or otherwise, had no cognate. Which was ultimately why they were all here.

With her wide, shallow vessel filled she drank again to general laughter.

Damn. That was supposed to be another toast.

Eager, are you, highness? Goldopan stamped his foot in glee. Brannan nobility, the Select, were elevated and discarded at whim by the Brannan king and cultivated an air of silliness in the face of their uncertain fates. Traditional hereditary nobles like Goldopan had become positively giddy over the centuries in response. In three months Betan had been unable to determine how much of that was sarcastic.

Betan suffered to have her cup topped off yet again. Goldopan shouted and they quaffed once more.

He'll be glad to see our asses, Ayfrin said after the aldermen left.

No less direct in speech than he was leading his men over a wall, the grenadier captain had required a direct order to make an appearance.

Yes, yes, Goldopan agreed. The traders were rather foolish to offer free land to us.

Those traders handle a third of Dorway's commerce, Betan said, her mind on her already spinning head.

Did I eat lunch?

The others were looking at her.

Well, your highness, I'm flattered our economics make it across the Beddisae, Goldopan said.

All those receptions when I first arrived, Betan said weakly. Still, our landlords can afford the loss.

They're all refugee Select anyway, Ayfrin said. They owe us.

Thanks to our efforts, maybe they'll be able to go home, Reigh said as he entered their group. Is there any food here?

I was just about to check, Betan said.

The kitchens have been working since endnoon, Goldopan said.

And who paid for that? Reigh arrived and fixed Goldopan with a glare. At sixty or so, Reigh had been one of the best commanders in the Brannan Royal Army much longer than Betan had been alive. Such accomplishment had vaulted him into the Select himself. Still he'd joined the revolution, the reformation they called it, and never looked back.

Goldopan only shrugged, his exquisitely tailored pajama slithering over one fine shoulder. The vast wealth of the Goldopan family's latifundium dwarfed his rebel share of the Brannan toll bank.

Captain, are your men ready? Reigh asked in his feathery grandfather voice.

They are, Brigadier, Betan answered. My deputy says we have not received any ammunition, she suddenly added. Dem had been pestering her about that problem since the Brigade had returned to town from maneuvers.

Still having trouble with your caliber, Reigh answered. Master Aplel himself is prevailing upon the foundries. You've enough for the time being?

Yes, Brigadier. Betan didn't know what it meant that the leader of the Brannan reformation was personally involved in her logistical support. The idea he knew of her was sufficiently frightening. She’d met the man several times, but it always seemed strange for him to be troubled by a mere captain. Not that it was her military rank that made her interesting. She sipped her drink, taking refuge in dipping her head.

There's our feast now, Ayfrin noted. Frankly, I'm disappointed.

Betan took advantage of the respite offered in jockeying for food. It was a great deal better than the normal fare dished out even to officers in the crowded Brigade camp. It was one thing she'd miss about this busy, hectic time in camp. Marching rations would be worse than the ship food on the voyage here.

In her grandparents' day it was common for quality across all the civilized worlds to make the trip to the Central Lands, probable birthplace of alchemy. Branna, with no fewer than twelve trans-world connections, was the crossroads of that region, swollen with easy wealth from crossing tolls. The vain struggle against the absolutist reign of the Zhu'von kings had put an end to the visits. The accession of young King Pandar caused a brain drain from en masse defections of the professional class. The opponents of reform, usually called Oldsters, responded with purges, betrayals, uprisings, street fights and skirmishes until the reformation fled to the dour, out of the way meadowlands province and began organizing.

And calling for help.

Betan approached a table with some kind of large roast inside a glass warmer cabinet. Judging from the thin tendrils of faintly glowing smoke drifting up from the warmer's tall chimney it was an efficient model, which meant enchanted glass, or perhaps the newer spaced glass. She stepped up and the server handed her several neat slices and an eating spear on a glass plate. After a few other stops she had a meal and ended up at a table with the vanguard officers.

They're in his office with pitchforks most days, Reigh said as he cut his food up.

He must be confirming Ayfrin's suspicions regarding the alderman.

He was gracious at first, the farmers weren’t exactly asked if we could have their fields, and reimbursement had to be approved through the meadow assembly. But they're mostly ethnic Brannans anyway so he finally resorted to shouting them down. They all looked at the still ecstatic politician, darting from table to table filling glasses.

Muster might seem rather early to some people tomorrow, Goldopan observed before taking down another drink.

The invasion begins today! Reigh declared into the speaking cone.

The men of the Fourth Yellow Brigade howled in response, waving their caps of an eye watering shade of that color which was the signature of the reformation. The company of seventy-four Durannian riflemen, minus one injured and one ill, standing in neat formation to one side had a more measured response. Betan was slightly surprised by the regular soldiers' enthusiasm. It was probably more due to Reigh's fame as a commander than the political goals of the reformation. Mostly she felt relief, the wait at the marshaling field might have been the worst few hours of her life. It was a soldier's cliche that waiting was the worst part of war. This cliche without doubt sprung from fact.

By letting her mind wander, Betan had missed much of Reigh's speech, but she'd heard plenty of those. She cast her mind back to morning orders to ignore the rest. There were about six hours to march until the Army reached the Malia mountains, the boundary between the meadowlands and the Province of Dorway.

Move out! Reigh announced.

Betan fought the urge to bury her face in Merkor's neck. Her mount was placidly standing, bearing the pressure with an aplomb his mistress couldn’t find. She squeezed his reins until her hands hurt and struggled to breathe.

I've been elbow deep in drill manuals since I could read. I've been on maneuvers for the last month and I'm damn well not failing after bullying father into this.

It took a few minutes of jaw aching clenched teeth before the threatened panic subsided. Betan found her legs moving, foot into stirrup and then she was astride.

First Sergeant! she shouted. Move the company out. In column.

Yes, sir! The veteran turned and shouted orders.

Back home in Durannia the developing Branna Civil War had been a constant subject of conversation long before Betan had wrangled this deployment out of her father. Now Betan was watching companies stack into battalions that turned into the entirety of the Brigade. The rest of the fifteen odd thousand Yellow Army’s First Corps was coming out of the rapidly disappearing camp’s vast gray cloud, all waiting for their turn to follow a nineteen year old girl who had never fired a shot in anger.

Her men turned to the left and began marching. Their immediate goal was the eastern camp gate, then east by south until they encountered the Malia foothills and the road that lead through them. Their route was open and empty, the Shepen meadowlands were aptly named. The horse scouts were in plain sight spread out a hundred yards off her flanks and as far ahead. Her company marched in loose column, rifles to hand. There was no terrain to scout, the only thing to eye were the Malia looming over the column. The mountains were low but exceptionally rugged. The saddle of the only good pass across it, the Barnal, was easily visible even at this distance.

The notes Betan had taken at Brigadier Reigh’s morning orders were seared into her: the hill wood, the stream, the green road. The meadowlanders seemed to have no intrinsic desire to name things. Malia and Barnal were both coined on the other side of the range. The long journey from her world and across an ocean had ended in what appeared to be the most unremarkable territory in all the broken worlds.

The horsemen in advance spotted friendly militiamen several miles distant and called them out to Betan. She got her looker to examine the picket lounging on the first slope of the foothills. Betan waved one of the horsemen on her right flank closer.

Yes, Captain?

I mean to ride ahead and greet these meadowlanders soon. Might I have a bodyguard in case there’s mischief?

I’ll ask, Captain. With a salute, the rider wheeled away at a gallop. A few minutes later eight horsemen under a sergeant presented themselves.

First Sergeant! Betan called

Captain! Telman responded from his position to the left of the column.

I ride in advance to speak with our welcome party ahead. If trouble arises -- Betan halted. If the small group were the bait for an ambush, her and escort would be cut down in a trice.

-- I’ll have found your first lot of Oldsters to kill, she blurted. A cheer rose from the company, nearly knocking Betan from her seat in surprise. A grin forced past her guard and she spurred Merkor into a trot; the horsemen close in her wake, musketoons out of their scabbards, loaded and charged. Betan took a moment to admire the craftwork on their shortened muskets, brought from Royal stores, unlike the ugly planed weapons the Yellow army had commissioned.

It only took a few moments to reach the waiting group, who were clearly meadowlands militia. Eight men of wildly varying ages lounged about in farmers’ clothes, with only their guns and harnesses distinguishing them from layabouts.

Betan slowed as she approached them. She forced a calm mask onto her face; not everyone would be disposed to accept a lady adventurer as Brigadier Reigh was. Betan had cursed her small bosom and slim build countless times, but now she relied on them.

One of the militiamen stood as she approached and saluted.

The sun shines, Captain, he greeted her in the local custom, fortunately speaking Karakra. Betan eyed him, a sergeant according to the markings on his harness, for a moment before returning his salute.

The sun shines, Sergeant.

We are part of the guard for the entrance to the green road, Captain. He turned to point. The entrance is about two hundred yards yonder.

And how is it I find you and your squad at your ease? I have reports there are Oldsters in the hill wood.

We were sent to meet you, Captain. There are more guards at the green road entrance. I have heard no news of Oldsters in the wood this day.

Betan considered him for a moment longer. Very well, she said. The Yellow Army follows me. Are you to stay here?

Yes, Captain.

Very well. The sergeant saluted again, with more enthusiasm than precision. Betan returned the salute before spurring Merkor forward, the horsemen automatically accompanying her. The marker showing the entrance was a stela eight feet tall of a green so bright it hurt the eyes. Twelve militiamen stood guard around it. Betan could see more trying to hide behind trees.

Halt! One of the militia called. Who are you? The half crooked man of at least sixty winters challenged in a creaky voice.

Captain Lebornier of the Fourth Brigade of the Yellow Army, Betan called.

You do not wear a Branna uniform, the elder said.

I am a Captain of Rifles sent by His Royal Highness Drey IV of Durannia to help the reformation. As Betan’s eyes adjusted to seeing through the shadows of the broad canopy, her challenger came into clearer view. He wore better clothing than the other militia. The devices on his harness were the same as Betan wore on her shoulders. Two crescent moons facing each other. He was a captain of the militia.

And who might you be, Captain? Betan asked. The old man peered at her imperiously.

I am Captain Bolar Artis. I have been charged with defending the green road.

Good day to you, Captain Artis. I have been charged by Brigadier Reigh of the Fourth Yellow Brigade with leading the Yellow Army down the green road. As Betan finished speaking she heard footsteps behind her and Telman calling the order to halt.

The rifles approach, Captain, one of the horsemen announced belatedly. Artis had clearly already heard them. He peered through the horses facing him to see the dark-coated riflemen come to a stop.

Does the Yellow Army approach? Artis asked.

It does, Captain, Betan answered again, with emphasis to remind the old man he was addressing a fellow officer.

Artis only turned to the trees. Go to Medon and see if the Yellow Army approaches, he ordered one of the ill-concealed lurkers, who mounted a draft horse and plodded away.

I pray you indulge my caution, Captain, Artis said.

So long as your scout is quick about his task.

A few minutes passed before the scout returned. Thousands, Artis! Artis averted his eyes to look at the man. Marching in from the flats.

I trust, Captain, that you are now convinced we are not a party of eighty Oldster spies? Betan couldn’t help but let a little haughtiness creep into the question.

You may pass, Artis grumped. But I warn you, we’ve not enough men to guard the length of the road. Beware, Captain Lebornier, there are Oldsters in the wood.

Betan eyeballed him for a moment. I thank you for your words of caution, Captain Artis. Betan turned to the horsemen. Wait here until the vanguard arrives, then rejoin your troop. Their sergeant acknowledged the order and saluted.

Betan called for Telman as she dismounted Merkor. The first sergeant presented himself.

We move onto the green road. Call a man to hold Merkor until the wagon comes forward, then follow me. She turned and walked past Artis and his men, entering the green road. It was a well-maintained road of some kind of hard packed earth with shoulders formed by sloping hedgerowsers on both sides, rising head high with thickets atop. They were nothing strictly impassable, but they would definitely present a hindrance to large bodies of soldiers unless gaps were made in them. From the map she’d been issued the green road took several turns before it joined the other trade routes through the hillwood into the single road leading to the pass. There were several good spots for ambush it would be hard to flank with line troops with their scale armor jackets and heavy arms.

Captain, Telman announced himself behind her. Betan considered the road for a moment longer.

Deploy the company in two lines across the road, fifty yards between. She thought a few moments longer. Section into three, same section second line to support if engaged. Rest of company halts for orders. Her first command decision was a classic problem and her answer was straight out of the manual.

Yes, sir, Telman said.

Also. Betan turned to face her First Sergeant. Brigadier Reigh said there was a stream some ninety yards to the right of the road. Find it and put a dozen men to scout along it in advance of the first line.

Yes, sir. Does the Captain have further orders?

No.

Telman saluted her and turned to relay her orders.

Betan walked back to the entrance to the green road to watch her men form their lines. Apart from a few volleys fired to ward off bandits on the caravan from the port city of Gufris on Warmcoast to the meadowlands this was the first time Betan would take her men into the use of arms. She felt sure her company would encounter Oldsters, either scouts assessing the Yellow Army’s strength or skirmishers to slow the Yellow Army’s advance. It would be foolish of the Oldster army to have neither on the meadowlands side of the Malia.

Betan felt a tapping on her arm as the lines began to form. She looked down to find it was her own fingers drumming. A guilty glance showed no one noticed, the riflemen were too busy forming up. To busy herself, Betan checked her pistols. She carried two long-barreled rifled sparklock handguns. Their locks had been hardened to receive the blue-white stones of Kiltorn manufacture finding favor with military shooters in the Central Lands. One pistol at a time, she shook the stones from the locks and peered through the sparkhole to confirm powder and shot were loaded. She replaced the stone, closed the striking cover and lowered the hammer on each, stowing them under her belt again.

The company is ready, Captain! Telman called.

Very well, First Sergeant. I’ll join the advance squad. Move the company out in two minutes. Betan walked around the hedgerow and down the line, not looking to see if her men were watching her. She fought her stomach to be still and wondered if all new officers worried so. In addition, she sometimes feared they looked at her as men look at women. Her uniform was quite contrary to Durannian women’s fashions and certainly not flattering. The military breeches were snug and clung to her legs, but her officer’s coat covered her backside and much of her thighs in the back. Her broad shooter’s hat and, of course, her sword would be decidedly unattractive. In uniform her fine features made her look a bit like a boy, which was the hope.

She found the stream and part of the advance squad standing about it. They came to attention and the detachment's sergeant, Lokar the company's third most senior, saluted her. She returned the salute and counted the men again.

Flankers? she asked.

Ten yards off the stream, Captain.

Very good. She took up a position on one side of the stream, skirting the edge of the vegetation. The First Sergeant will give the order to advance, she told the men.

The wait was uncomfortably silent, with only soft noises from the stream to war with Betan’s thoughts. Then the low, quavering buzz of Telman’s caller filled Betan’s head with the signal for forward with stealth. At once the rifles moved forward, marching uphill slightly. The western face of the Malia sloped gently upward and its woods, thin at the base, grew thicker as the company advanced. The company was nearly silent, only an occasional snapping twig or brushing branch could be heard, and the rifles’ gray and dark green coats quickly became indistinct in the gloom of the forest. Progress was slow and small animals were the only spies the Durannians saw. There were no large trees near the stream, but the undergrowth grew fairly thick to within a few feet of its banks.

After a half-hour, the creeping men were noisy as dueling gongs. Every jingling buckle seemed a town bell to Betan’s ear, each footstep an avalanche. Her sword kept rattling in its scabbard. She pressed the hilt down to minimize the noise, shuddering at the thought of what their approach sounded like to any Oldsters lurking in the silent wood for hours.

Another twenty minutes’ advance brought out the sounds of the forest. Birds, crawlers, wind in the trees, all masked the tiny sounds of the soldiers. Betan looked around, the advance squad was apparently alone. She knew that if she stopped and looked downstream she would see the first line after a bit but she wanted to keep pace. Turning her attention back to the path ahead of them, Betan saw sunlight on the underbrush ahead: a clearing.

Sergeant, Betan whispered. Halt the squad and send two men forward to flank that clearing to see if it’s occupied.

The sergeant relayed her orders and they waited as two privates crept forward. A minute passed with only the forest’s sounds being heard. Betan noticed a pair of small birds sitting on a nearby branch; she was narrowing down their possible species when the sergeant called her.

The clearing seems to be empty, he said in a low voice. "

There's a small pool in the middle."

Betan looked ahead, although she couldn’t see more than ten yards or so. The stream was still the only noise. Lokar watched her with the same calm regard Reigh did. The one she couldn’t quite convince herself wasn’t judging.

It’s a bit obvious, but supposedly all the good officers defected to the reformation.

Keep watch on the flanks, Betan told him.

Yes, sir. Lokar relayed her orders and the squad moved out.

The slope increased again and the underbrush grew abruptly thicker as the squad moved along the stream. Betan found her hand on a pistol and her body crouched slightly as she moved along the left of the stream. To her left she could barely see the squad’s flank party; the party on the opposite side was totally obscured.

Don’t spill it!

Betan froze, the admonition had come from upstream. She drew her pistol and cocked it, chirping three times in the signal to advance and engage.

The squad rushed ahead, slapping through the brush. A soldier in Branna bright blue trimmed in white appeared ahead: an Oldster. He cursed and lifted a musket, a shot fuming from a foul silvery cloud took him in the chest. He fell and all was still except the echo.

Two more Oldsters stood and fired. Betan aimed at one and fired her pistol as the others in the stream fired. One Oldster fell and yet another fired. The sparkstones flared with a pop, setting off the muskets’ powder charge with a boom and a rush of smoke. Betan drew and cocked her second pistol as empty rifles and muskets were hurriedly reloaded.

Two more Oldsters presented themselves and Betan fired. Her pistol’s smoke obscured the result, but she was sure one fell.

She scuttled sideways to seek cover behind a tree to reload. She tore the end off a paper cartridge with her teeth and poured the powder down the barrel of one pistol. Betan flinched as the flank party from her side appeared and fired in unison, closely followed by the riflemen in the stream again. She swiveled the pistol’s attached ramrod around to tamp the paper, shot and powder and came to a crouch, drawing a sparkstone from a pouch on her belt. It went into the breech and she cocked the pistol. Betan looked around the tree, coughing as firesmoke seared her throat. She blinked water out of her eyes and suppressed another cough. She could see only smoke and branches, hear only the rasp of ramrods and coughs.

Throw down your arms, Oldsters! she shouted with a cringe. Her voice was clearly feminine.

Damn you, traitors!

Betan turned to the rifles in the stream and saw the smoke was thin enough to make the gesture to form an echelon. The half dozen riflemens did so. Betan used another gesture to order the left flankers into a line, hoping to catch the Oldsters in a crossfire. They were cooperating by not firing, which was a poor decision on their part.

Bayonets! she ordered, more for intimidation than any use they might be in such a small engagement. Sergeant! she called. She rested her loaded pistol on the leg that had ended up raised as she’d gone into a crouch. Captain! Lokar called. The wood was silent as she reloaded her other pistol. Come to me! Lokar was at her side as she fed a sparkstone into her second pistol.

Find the other flank party and get behind whoever we have here. We will all advance in half a minute.

Yes, sir. Lokar ran off, splashing across the stream. An Oldster chanced a shot at him and a rifle returned fire. Betan peered around the tree, pistol ready. She could see nothing through the smoke. Thinking about it made her throat tickle again.

Echelon, advance at the ready! she shouted. Fire on targets! Her men stood and marched up the stream bed, rifles leveled at waist height. Betan fell into step behind them, both pistols out.

A shot sounded in front of them, but not at them. A shot was returned, then another delivered.

Throw down your arms! Lokar shouted.

Don’t shoot me! a terrified voice sounded, then a shot followed by a pair of reports and more clouds of firesmoke.

Please! the fearful one again.

All is well, Captain Lebornier, Lokar called. One prisoner, seven killed.

Halt! Any losses, rifles?

One shot, sir, one of the men with her said.

Tend to him.

Yes, sir. The soldier turned and ran downstream.

The rest form a perimeter, Betan ordered as she advanced. Lokar became distinct through the haze as she approached him. She could hear others coughing, suppressing the urge herself, as she lowered the hammers on her pistols and tucked them away.

Sergeant Lokar, dispatch a messenger to the company to halt them. I need First Sergeant Telman.

Yes, sir. Lokar saluted and turned to find a volunteer. Betan let herself cough once as she stepped to the prisoner, a young man in Oldster colors, on his knees, hands up and bayonet against his back.

What was your party doing? Betan asked.

Watch party, sir. The prisoner didn’t look up to answer. To look out for a Yellow advance.

Did you have runners?

"Please, sir, I, I