The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (39 page)

Part because of their pride, part out of sheer misery, the army commanders believed the Eracian forces would finish off the nomads quickly. Mali was not so sure. They had little knowledge about the position of enemy troops, their supply lines, their morale, how well they fought in the cities, how well they knew the terrain by now, and, most importantly, their accurate numbers.

Monarch Leopold’s folly of inviting the Kataji to the capital had left everyone in shock. Any rules of war that might have existed were gone now. A complication, in military terms.

Well, she had an advantage.

The rumors told the nomads did not kill women. In the first weeks, they had systematically murdered or banished the male population and raped the other half, but now, the survivors were mostly left in peace. The enemy needed a work force to maintain the land, after all, so they were content with women taking over their husbands’ and sons’ jobs.

Which meant Mali could send her scouts deep into the hostile territory, posing as common villagers. She already had her lot of volunteers, hard women who had seen so much in life they weren’t scared of anything.

Mali headed for the observation tower. It was ten paces tall, good enough to survey the training grounds in one swoop of the eye. Alexa followed her. The other majors went with their separate companies.

She climbed the sturdy switchback staircase onto the platform. Suddenly, the world was that much smaller.

The companies were supposed to practice a mock engagement today. It would show how well the combined elements fought together. One of the companies was going to bunker down on a low hill. The other two, plus the small accompanying horse auxiliary, would try to break their formation. There would be no actual fighting. Mali just wanted to see if the units could time their actions on a larger scale.

Soon, it began. First, the screening force of light cavalry rode behind the would-be enemy encampment, trying to bait them, but they held and did not break the formation. Then, the skirmishing force, comprised mostly of men, rushed the east flank. The rules of engagement were simple; you pushed with your shields only and tried to snatch the company banner.

Mali was watching through a looking glass. You would assume the shields-only practice would be innocent enough, but the trainees fought with vigor. The men were pushing, jostling, their teeth bared in snarls. The female soldiers were pushing back, hammering their shields into the mass of attackers. Mostly, the large pavises just scraped against one another, making a loud grinding noise, but some of the soldiers, practice or no practice, were trying to swing the shields as weapons, hoping to ram them into other people’s faces. Wooden splinters snapped off the shields. A gaggle of curses erupted from the tightly pressed mass. A fist or two flew, and a bloodied face went down. All friendly competition.

Mali winced.

While the defenders were engaged with the skirmishers, the bulk of the attacking force advanced in two wedges, driving against the north and west flanks of the box. Within minutes, more than a thousand women were panting, swearing, and hollering into each other’s faces, the line of shields buckling and snapping and twisting like a snake. There were going to be a handful of broken noses at the end of the day, Mali noted.

“Not bad,” Alexa commented.

The cavalry force had rushed from the south side, encircling the defenders completely. Dangerous business, using horses for the exercise, but Mali could not think of any other sensible way of getting her ladies ready for battle apart from real killing.

She knew that other all-male units did not share in her techniques. Some commanders thought she was being too brutal, causing injuries even before the battles started. Some felt it was unnecessary to go to such extremes. Mali only hoped her soft games would be enough to make a difference in real combat.

Just a few minutes into the wrestle, she could see the strength sapping from the soldiers, especially in the front lines. But this was the critical moment. Could the second and third and fourth rows of soldiers step forward and rotate their exhausted comrades, both defenders and attackers?

Well, they sort of did it. The centers held well, but the sides wobbled dangerously. An earnest fistfight had erupted on the east flank. A man was trying to snatch a shield from a girl, and he was obviously stronger than her. Then, he went down with a kick to his stomach. Someone punched the girl without the shield, and it was another woman.

“A rather rough scuffle,” Mali said.

Alexa grunted. “I will talk to Major Sophie.”

Mali lowered the tube for a moment. “Yes, you need to explain to her that her soldiers really should not be attacking their own side.”

“You know how some of these women are,” Alexa almost whispered.

The colonel sighed. “Let’s hope they do the right thing in battle.”

It was almost an hour later when the attackers finally gave up and retreated, their hands empty. The company banner remained on its standard, stuck in the ground in the center of the defense formation. A weak, throaty cheer exploded from the victors. The other two companies, the skirmishers, and the small horse retreated.

Mali climbed down from the tower and went to inspect the troops. Then she went to talk to her officers. “Any casualties?” she asked them inside the command hut at the end of the practice grounds.

Sophie was panting, her hair plastered with sweat as if she had spent the entire battle running rather than standing near that standard, shrieking orders. But Mali knew how demanding the command could be. Abigail was wearing a grim expression on her face. Major Theresa looked rather calm. Meagan, the cavalry commander, was a low-ranking noblewoman who had lost her husband to the nomads, and she was wearing a defeated look on her narrow face. She was not a gutsy type, but she was smart enough and could ride well. The one man in the lot, Captain Gordon of the skirmishers, was trying to look smug, probably for having come against the highest concentration of breasts in his entire life. But Mali could read anger and contempt there.

“Some broken arms, one broken leg, a whole lot of bleeding noses and lips, sir,” Sophie said. She looked at Gordon as if it were all his fault.

“And what do you think, Captain?” Mali turned to the skirmisher.

Gordon snorted. “Not as good as I’d have hoped for,” he offered. “Sophie’s bitches—”

“What did you say, prick?” the company commander snapped, moving forward. Theresa put her arm up and blocked her passage.

Mali cut them off. “Captain Gordon, if I hear you using that word again to describe your comrades, I will have you stripped of rank. You’ll end up as a lowly scout in some obscure unit somewhere. If you are unhappy with your commission, just speak.”

The man wiped his neck of a spatter of wet earth. “My apologies, sir. In the heat of the battle, you know.”

“So how did it go?” Mali pressed.

He raised one shoulder. “Well, when there was that opening on the left flank, we didn’t take advantage of it. I should have shifted all my troops there, right.”

Mali nodded. “You could have. Abigail was holding your right side, so you could have afforded to expose your flank. The defenders would not have rushed, because that would have meant opening a gap in their own line.”

Theresa lifted a cup of cool water and drank, sloshing it in her mouth. “My line was staggered, as much as five paces end to end. I should have pressed more tightly, sir.”

Mali was pleased her officers could see the problems in their execution. That was the first step to becoming good leaders. Now, if only they could react in time and correct the problems while they were happening. But she should be glad they had made that much progress in the last two months.

Meagan raised her hand politely, waiting to be allowed to speak. Mali arched her brows at the woman. “I should have led my horse around into the gap once the scuffle broke out, sir.”

“Not bad overall. Tomorrow, we do it all over again.” They groaned ever so slightly, but they could appreciate the importance of rigorous exercise. “Dismissed. You, too, Alexa. Captain Gordon, please stay.”

The officers filed out. Gordon remained, looking somewhat uncomfortable. Mali did not envy his position. He
served with women, under a woman, and most men found it somewhat hard to accept this hierarchy. Gordon was no exception. He was doubly cursed for having a fair dose of disdain for women. But Mali could not be picky when it came to her young battalion. She had gladly accepted whatever help Royce had cooked up for her. At least Gordon was not an outcast who could barely speak and only yearned for blood. He was a fairly skilled officer, when he decided to use the capacity of his brain for thinking rather than his loins.

Mali had no intention of changing him. Men his age—no, men any age—were incapable of changing. The best you could hope for was to dump them in a situation that brought the best out of them. With Gordon, she hoped to make him forget his comrades had a slightly different anatomy.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, somewhat nervous.

“Your combat skills are decent. At least out there,” she lectured. “There’s the simple matter of your attitude. Unacceptable. Some of those women might be bitches,” she said bluntly, and his face went blank, “but that does not mean you’re allowed to say it out loud. Make sure you give those women their proper respect, even if you think it’s undeserved, because your life will be depending on it. And the lives of all your troops. Do you understand?”

He swallowed. “Yes, sir. Won’t happen again.”

Mali inclined her head. She looked him up and down. “How old are you, Gordon?”

The captain frowned. “I’m forty-two, sir.”

Mali pursed her lips. “Did you leave your wife at home?”

Gordon rubbed at his upper lip; a thin moustache was outlined there. “No, sir. Never got married, sir. Military life, you know how it is.”

Mali was silent for a moment. Her return to the army had made her acutely aware she had not enjoyed a cock in twenty years. Somehow, ever since coming to Windpoint, she had pushed down her former life into a dark corner and kept it hidden there, suppressed. Perhaps a mistake, but now, she was no longer burdened by that decision.

Gordon was younger than her, quite a bit, but what did it matter? He was handsome enough.

“A question for you, Captain, and you may speak freely. How do you feel about fucking your superior?”

His eyes went wide. He looked left and right, as if expecting to see a leering audience there. “Eh, sir?”

“Mind, this will change nothing in your duties. You do not get any special privileges out there.”

The look of amused panic on his face was priceless. “I am not sure I fully understand, sir.”

Mali smirked. “You have fucked women before?”

He nodded stupidly.

“Your commanding officer is asking you to perform a similar task with her. With discretion.”

Gordon dared glance below her face, at her chest, her hips, her long legs. She was not exactly the best-looking woman in the camp, but she still had some of her youthful figure hidden under her uniform. Wishing for bigger, perkier breasts or less fat on her rump was not going to change anything.

“Sir, am I going to get into trouble?” He sounded like a boy, frightened.

Mali stepped closer. “You may refuse, and no harm done. This will change nothing. All I’m asking is for some fun before we all die. Your rank, your pay, your duties all remain the same. You do not hold my hand; you do not call me ‘dear.’ No mushy
feelings, no hugging, no tears, no poetry, no stupid sentiments. Just some decent fucking.”

The captain was silent for a long while, probably using all his intellect to weigh all the different angles and snares. Then, his face went slack. “Well, sir, I guess I can do it.”

Mali patted him on the shoulder. “Good. See you tonight.” And she strode out of the hut.

CHAPTER 29

S
onya stared at her extended fingers, at the fresh layer of dark red lacquer on her long nails. “I don’t like it,” she snapped.

The maid lowered her head. “I am truly sorry, my lady.”

Sonya pushed off the sofa and bowled past the girl, brushing her thigh against the woman’s shoulder, tipping her over. “Stop behaving like a fool! You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Sorry, my lady.” The girl scrambled up to a kneeling position, still gripping the fine-grained nail file.

The countess ignored her and walked to the wall mirror, a new one Pacmad had given her, tall and wide enough to let her admire her figure. Since he had allowed her freer access around the palace, she had managed to shed some extra pounds of fat off her waist and thighs. She was beginning to look presentable again. Carefully, she smoothed her hands over her belly, over the soft bulge of her bottom. The pearl-colored samite dress, worked in silver thread, looked exquisite.

“I must look my best for General Pacmad, and now you ruined it, you silly girl.”

The maid was on the verge of tears. “Please, my lady, do not tell him. He will hit me.”

Sonya spun around. “And you deserve it, you clumsy twat. You’re useless as my maid.”