The Golden Portifor - 23. Chapter 23

Boromeo von Tarlenheim scanned the valley as he listened to Andreas. It seemed the Turkish commander realised that while the Croat companies had been easy meat he now had a tougher target to deal with. The sipahis were summoned back into their companies by the braying of horns. There had to be two whole regiments of them. The fire slackened behind the two boys as Boromeo’s men realised the Turks were withdrawing out of range.

‘Perhaps you and the other young gentleman might get down from the wagon top, my lord?’ his sergeant suggested equably.

‘A moment, sergeant,’ Boromeo said. He pointed with his sword to the front ranks of the sipahis. ‘Ando, can you see that rider who’s coming forward? That’s their commander. That pole with a horsetail hanging from it next to him shows he’s their sort of general.’

‘Yes,’ Andreas replied, ‘and he’s working out how many of us he’s got to fight and how he’s gonna get past us to loot the wagon train. Not got long, Boro. But we can win this.’

Boromeo gave a twisted smile. ‘I think the best we can manage is to take a lot of them with us. If they break through the wagons, I’m going to set off the magazine and take them all to hell. It’ll blast the hill top clear.’

Andreas dropped back down behind the wagon, Boromeo jumping down beside him. ‘Nah, we won’t have to do that,’ Andreas declared confidently. ‘I’ll get Karlo over here, Boro. We all of us need to talk, and quick.’

‘Yes, but I have to sort the defence first,’ Boromeo said. He looked around. As well as his half company, there were a score of surviving Croats, fifty or so walking wounded and a few score waggoners, as well as thirty drummer boys and orderlies. Not that impressive a garrison. ‘Sergeant!’ he called. ‘Give the boys and the drivers muskets and post them at the waggons. At least it’ll fool the Turks there’s more soldiers here than there actually are, and it may make them a little more cautious.’

He turned back to Andreas as Karl ran up, another figure trotting behind him. It was Wilchin, who had been with the other drummer boys. He directed his wide, toothy grin at Boromeo and offered a very casual salute.

‘Great!’ Andreas exclaimed. ‘All three of us’re here. This is Willem Antonin, Boro, otherwise known as Wilchin. He’s another friend of Jonas. If only Jonas was here too! Now look Boro, like I already told yer the elf gave us these powers, and it’s time to put them to use. Seems to me that he foresaw this very moment, ‘cos here we all are, deep in the shit but we got the means to come out on top. So Karlo! We know you can talk to horses of all sorts and get them to do whatever you want. So it’s time to see if you can talk to Turkish horses too. I ‘spect they all talk Horse, whoever rides them. Right? So if they come at us in a wave, send them back again or something.

‘Wilchin. You can fool people and make them see what’s not there. Now I bet many of those Turkish soldiers out there are as nervous as we are behind the wagons. Seems to me that you can take hold of their fears and twist them into seeing things they don’t want to see.’

‘Like what?’ Wilchin asked.

‘Well, instead of a bunch of scared boys peeing down their legs, a garrison of hundreds of mean grenadiers, or a relief column creeping up on them behind out of nowhere. Yer can do it.’

‘What about you?’ Karl asked.

‘You made me this sword when we were in Faërie, Karlo, so maybe it’s time to see what it’ll do. If it can see off magical monsters, I wonder what it can do to Turks? Boro, can yer get them to bring Onyx, Brunhild and Jennet here? I think we’re gonna catch us a pasha.’

Whether it was the power within Andreas or just something wild and reckless native to the three street boys, doubt and fear melted away. They grinned at each other, and drawing and flourishing his own short sword Karl yelled ‘For the Conduit!’

‘Prinzengarde for ever!’ shouted Boromeo, getting into the spirit of things. And such was the rising inspiration of Andreas Wittig in the garrison, the boys and men behind the wagons raised a huge cheer and echoed Boromeo with ‘Prinzengarde and Prince Henry!’

Andreas took a look through a gap in the wall of wagons. Their defiance had been noted among the Turks, and a low, roaring blare of rams’ horns answered them, with wild whoops from the sipahis as they brandished their bows and lances.

***

It was on the third day of the march on Spalato that the pickets of the army of the League encountered Turkish troops. Prince Henry rode forward, reined in his mount, and put to his eye a rather expensive English telescope, a gift from the Countess of Vesterborg. That morning he had donned blackened steel half-armour, its clasps gilded.

‘So, Dudley, those would be the famous sipahis, yes?’

‘Indeed, Your Royal Highness.’

‘They look quite as dated in their equipment as I do; rather as their ancestors in Anatolia must have done when they fought the armies of the Crusade. Bows, arrows, shields and chainmail, eh?’

General Tedorovic was riding that day in the prince’s staff. ‘You’ll find, Royal Highness, that such weapons can be deadly in their hands, and they will loose from horseback with remarkable accuracy six arrows for every shot a musketeer can get off,’ he observed. ‘Not so great a range of course, but they can ride up to our lines, unloose their missiles and dart away before we can reload. They also carry sabres, and their Agas – their officers – have pistols and carbines.’

‘They do not seem to be in great numbers in front of us.’ the prince noted.

‘They know their business well, sire,’ Dudley said. ‘They’re trained to screen the movement of their main columns and drive our scouts back on our main body. They will not engage us directly nor will they concentrate in any large formations.’

‘So you believe that they’re masking the disposition of the army of Pasha Mehmed? Then they must not be allowed to hinder our advance. We must clear them away and push on. What do you advise, gentlemen?’

General Tedorovic spoke up. ‘Our dragoons will be a match for them, sire. Our men will move forward, dismount and open up on them; sipahis cannot stand long against the volley fire that our mounted infantry can deploy. They will retire or try to outflank us.’

‘Then gentlemen, the Glottenburger dragoon regiments will have the honour of advancing along the road ahead and our light horse will guard our flanks. Press on, sirs. We will not be delayed by these military mosquitoes.’

‘There is one thing more, sire,’ General Tedorovic interjected with an emphasis that got him attention. ‘When I rode with Sobieski against the Turks and Tartars, that great man was more than once bemused by a particular stratagem of theirs. In hilly country like this, their generals would use the terrain and the skills of the sipahis and their other light cavalry to confuse us as to how much of their strength was actually present, as a screen of smoke so to speak.’

Prince Henry frowned. ‘So what are you saying, general?’

‘Sire, we are assuming that the bulk of their army is between us and Spalato, as the distracting energy of the few sipahi companies along this stretch would lead us to suspect. But what if indeed their main force is elsewhere, and this is merely a feint?’

‘What? Damn me. So they’ll have slipped past us along the side valleys inland.’

‘It’s a possibility, sire.’

‘Then what’s to do?’

‘I would say that Spalato can look after itself behind its walls for the moment, and we should follow this road no further, at least not without better knowledge of what is toward. These sipahis may well merely be tempting us to carry on in the wrong direction. Pasha Mehmed and his army are elsewhere I would suggest.’

‘Damn me! The supply train!’

‘Indeed, sire. My fear is that Mehmed may even be to our rear by now, and the depot at Sebenico would be a great prize for him. We risk being cut off and stranded in these barren lands. We should consider retiring on Sebenico, and with some dispatch.’

***

The four boys knelt up on an empty wagon, peering over its sides at the enemy cavalry. It was one of the wagons which had been packed with the now unloaded gunpowder barrels, and it was, as Boromeo observed, as good a command post as they were likely to find.

‘Yer did well to unload the powder, Boro,’ pronounced Andreas. ‘That was clever. I just hope yer don’t have to follow yer plan of blowing us all to kingdom come.’

‘Sergeant!’ the ensign called over his shoulder. ‘Is everybody’s musket primed and ready to fire?’

‘Yes, my lord!’ the sergeant replied. ‘Even the kids are armed. Hopefully they’re pointin’ the guns the right way.’

Boromeo called out to the whole company. ‘Nobody is to fire until I say. Make sure the cover over the magazine is damp. There’ll be smouldering pieces of cartridge wadding and sparks in the air which we mustn’t let settle on those barrels. I don’t want them going off unless it’s actually necessary.’ He turned to Andreas. ‘Once they begin their assault we won’t have long. You think they’ll rush the barricade?’

‘They must know how few we are, and how much loot yer’s escorting, otherwise, why’re they here? There’s paychests full of silver for our wages in them wagons, munitions, forage and food. So I think they’ll risk the casualties in the race for treasure and all these supplies, not to mention the horses and guns. I know I would.’

‘Right. Then I’m going back to check the fuses my men have laid. If it all goes wrong and the Turks break through, I’ll be the one who sets them alight.’

Once Boromeo had gone, Andreas quirked a smile at his mates. ‘Come on a bit the past year, ain’t he? Quite the officer. So tell me, Karlo. Can yer hear the Turkish horses?’

His friend grinned. ‘Oh yeah. Brunhild’s already talking to them. She’s ever so pleased to meet all these new friends from so far away.’

‘But will they do what she ... you ... say?’

Karl rolled his eyes. ‘No horse disobeys a Queen like Brunhild, and all them Turks’ horses is stallions. There ain’t no rival to her out there. She’s more like an Empress of Horses than a Queen really.’

‘How ‘bout yer, Wilchin?’

‘Dunno. I’ve only done this magic a few times. There was that time when I woke up the statue of the Lady Fenice of course, and since then ... well.’

Andreas scoffed. ‘I knows yer. Yer’s been using it to cheat at cards and dice, yeah?’

‘Sorta. But only grown-ups. Never the kids. I remembers me oath. So I made them see cards that ain’t there, or they miscount the dots. But I gave up doin’ it. They won’t play a kid with the devil’s luck, one said.’

‘Huh! That’ll teach yer,’ Andreas sniffed. ‘So can yer feel them Turks’ minds?’

Wilchin frowned in concentration, then nodded. ‘This whole hill’s alive with fear, and though those behind these waggons is nearer to panic than them that’s outside, the Turks’re nervous too. ‘Specially the younger ones. A lot of all this whooping they do is juss to cover up how scared they is, believe me.’

‘Then do your stuff and make it worse for them.’

‘Shall do, Ando. But what’re yer goin’ to do after me and Karlo let loose on them?’

‘We’ll see, won’t we.’

The boys did not have long to wait. The horns brayed again and with a wild ululation the hundreds of sipahis rode howling for the barricade in wave after wave. ‘Hold it! Hold it!’ yelled Boromeo, sword aloft, standing tall on his wagon careless of arrows. He brought down his blade. ‘Now men! Fire!’

The volley made a respectable crackling bang and a billow of grey smoke, which the breeze off the sea behind the Ruritanian lines blew straight into the faces of the oncoming riders. It was then that Karl and Wilchin struck.

Suddenly the Turkish horses either baulked hard or began bucking, trying to rid themselves of their inconvenient riders as they were impelled by Karl into a desperate herd reflex to flee from the horrifying danger he placed in their minds with Brunhild’s help. Some sipahis flew over their mounts’ heads to crash stunned into the ground. Others lost their seat and were hurled out of their saddles. Most clung on, but their uncontrollable stallions began galloping back the way they came in a frenzy and lather and could not be curbed by bit or whip. In the meantime the Prinzengarde had a chance to empty several more volleys into the chaotic melee.

‘Now Boro! Everybody! Pull back this wagon! Time to charge!’ Andreas yelled, as he leapt on Jennet, followed by Karl and Boromeo on Brunhild and Onyx.

Out from behind the barricade the three boys rode, followed by the hallooing garrison on foot. But it was not a motley crowd of boys and men that the sipahis saw coming upon them, but a surging line of grim-faced and invincible warriors. Those on the ground scrambled to their feet and ran, but most threw themselves down begging quarter. Only a few managed to control their horses and rally. And in amongst them rode Andreas Wittig, his eyes glowing, his sword once again the blazing silver brand that it had been in Eden when he routed the Guardian of the Well.

Men fell and died as he headed for the pasha, one of the few who still kept his seat. Boromeo by his side cut down the standard bearer and wrenched the staff from him. Then Andreas traded blows with his man, his sword sending the other’s spinning. ‘Aman! Aman!’ the pasha cried, Andreas’s blade at his throat. ‘Je me rends!’

Andreas looked around, and laughed from the pure joy of battle, as a hero of old legend would have done, as a warrior would who had drawn such a blade in ages past. The enemy were scattered, lying dead or on their knees imploring mercy from the boys and men of the wagon train.

Andreas and Boromeo’s eyes met, and they exchanged triumphant grins, for despite the social gulf between them they were now forever friends and comrades in arms.

***

‘Really Phoebus, your soft heart surprises me. You’re consumed with guilt over two servant boys?’ Prince Henry had enquired as to the depressed and agitated state of his aide and military secretary. ‘I’d have thought a Tarlenheim would have more sang froid about the chances of battle.’

‘I am not my father, sire,’ Serge replied. ‘I sent those two children where I thought they would be safe, and instead put them in the way of captivity, mutilation or death.’

‘Hopefully not, Phoebus. We must press on.’

The prince’s impatience had impelled him to take personal command of the army’s vanguard, thirty companies of horse and dragoons, which he was urging back along the road to Sebenico. The main body of the army was a day’s march behind them, and already riders were dropping out. Serge had changed mount to Erebus, leaving an exhausted Acheron with Boromeo’s Prinzengarde servant to rest and follow on. They had encamped only four hours that last night and had risen before the dawn. Riding over a ridge, the early-morning sea a pale blue on their left, a rider was seen cantering towards them along the dusty road.

The prince reined in, his telescope at his eye. ‘White coat and blue facings. One of my Prinzengarde I do believe. Rally, my dear Serge. Some news, good or bad, is upon us I think.’

The rider drew up hard and seeing who was in front of him, removed his hat and sat silent.

‘Your news, man! What of the supply train? What of Sebenico?’

The rider, a corporal, in the fullness of his emotion burst out in Rothenian. ‘Vitesczij, kungliche hochheit! Turcij siend snicjend! Ir voijvode ist in vniculs!’

‘Damn it all to hell!’ the prince snarled. ‘I’ll have to master that damnable language. What did he say, Serge?’

Serge sat gaping and took a few seconds before the news sank in. ‘He said, sire, that there has been a victory, the Turkish force is destroyed and their general is in chains.’

It was Prince Henry’s turn to gape. Then he turned fiercely on the rider. ‘In German, you fool! Give me details. Who defeated the Turks and with what force? Was it the Croats?’

‘Nein hochheit. It was your Prinzengarde and the soldiers of the train. They stood a siege and smashed the Turks. Hundreds are prisoner and their general too.’

‘But there was only a half-company escort. How could this be? Who was in command? Had there been reinforcements?’

‘It was Ensign von Tarlenheim, sire. He took their standard himself!’

‘How is he? Is he wounded? What casualties were there?’ Serge was impelled to demand.

‘The Croats panicked and ran at the first onset, sir,’ the corporal said. ‘They were butchered by the sipahis. But the Prinzengarde stood fast behind the wagons. My lord von Tarlenheim had drawn them up into a fortified camp. And he stood a siege and then ...’ suddenly the man seemed unsure of himself.

‘Then what, damn you!’ demanded the prince.

‘Sire, the lord Tarlenheim had us fire volleys, then led us to sally out with the others, boys and men and ... the enemy ran in panic. I’ve never seen such a thing. It was God’s miracle, sire!’

The prince sat silent for a while. He put his hand in his coat pocket, and pulled out a purse of coins. ‘Man! You bear tidings of victory, however ineptly. Take your reward, and henceforward bear the rank of corporal major of your regiment. Phoebus, let’s ride on. This miracle is one I really must see.’

At a less forced pace, the prince and his vanguard resumed their road. At midday the prince and his staff came to the hill above Sebenico and there they found the supply train, now properly aligned on the road, and indeed its contents being unloaded by Turkish prisoners into shelters of planks and canvas, while others under guard were excavating up the sandy soil into a ditch and bank around the temporary depot. The toiling captives had been stripped of all but loincloths and many even lacked those. Hundreds of captured mounts were compliantly standing in ranks of pickets in the shade of trees, being watered by a crew of regimental boys, the horses preternaturally unconcerned about the whole business, as it seemed to Serge. In the centre, directing the activity, was Boromeo von Tarlenheim, with two young aides at his side, Andreas Wittig and Karl Wollherz, as Serge was deeply relieved to see. Boromeo looked up at the sudden arrival of the prince and his staff. To his brother he looked strangely apprehensive, considering the circumstances.

Boromeo walked over, removed his hat and bowed low to the prince. ‘So it’s true,’ Prince Henry said. ‘The damnedest thing. Ensign von Tarlenheim, you will have to account for this miracle and at some length. But first, your report. Casualties, prisoners and so on.’

Boromeo stood fidgeting under the prince’s gaze. ‘Umm, er ... sire. All but a handful of the Croat irregulars died when they broke and ran at the first onset of the Turks. About twenty of them took shelter in the wagon park. No casualties in your Prinzengarde I am pleased to report, sire. But the Turks butchered as many as a hundred of the sick we couldn’t get to the wagons, damn them. They’re just burying them now, them and the dead Croats. A hundred of the sick and wounded and their surgeons did make it to the wagons, as did all the drummer boys, sire. We took over four hundred prisoners in the engagement and killed about a hundred more. The rest threw away their arms and ran into the hills. We’ve recovered quite a lot of horses from the field and the surrounding countryside, as well as taken prisoner their pasha and seized his own baggage train.’

The prince looked around bemused. He shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard the like. General Dudley, have you heard of such a thing?’

‘Not since ancient days, sir,’ the general said with a smile full of very evident relief. ‘This is indeed a miracle.’

‘Tell me Major von Tarlenheim, as a scholar, would this rate as a skirmish in the annals of warfare, or as a battle?’

Serge grinned down at his brother. ‘Sire, in view of the numbers engaged and captured, as well as its importance to the campaign, the engagement must rate as a proelium rather than a mere certamen.’

‘Well then,’ the prince declared. ‘I name this engagement the Battle of Sebenico. Which means it rates despatches to Vienna and to Strelsau, which you my dear Phoebus must draw up this afternoon with the help of your brother, Captain von Tarlenheim. He will take the despatch under my seal as Vicar General of the Empire to the court of the Hofburg, and will no doubt receive the reward due to a victorious commander from his grateful sovereign in Strelsau.’

‘Captain, sire ...?’ a bewildered Boromeo responded weakly.

***

Andreas, Karl and Wilchin sat together round a fire Andreas had lit with a little sword magic as the sun began to go down. They were all hilarious with their victory, scoffing extra rations they had been awarded, and toasting each other with beakers of beer. The regiments of the army of the League had begun arriving, and a camp was forming around them. Turkish prisoners were being marched off in columns under escort back down the road to Spalato, barefoot and coffled together with rope, their ultimate fate yet to be decided, but most likely an unhealthy confinement crammed in the casemates of Spalato, unless they signed up to the service of the Republic.

The army’s quartermasters had already been busy. General Dudley had presented Boromeo late that afternoon with an enumerated receipt for the plunder his victory had secured, including 494 prime stallions.

‘Why do I sign this, sir?’ he asked.

‘Well, Captain von Tarlenheim,’ smiled the general, ‘when men go to war, this is in fact one of the things they most hope to happen. Plunder, dear boy. The articles of the army, had you bothered to read them, which you plainly have not, award a third share of what plunder is taken in battle to the generalissimo, in this case His Royal Highness; a third goes to the men who earned it by their sweat and blood, and a third to the officers who commanded them, which is you alone in this instance. In the case of the Pasha Selim Bey whom you took prisoner, the prince has graciously awarded you the whole of any ransom paid for his release as a recognition of your personal valour.

‘Once all this spoil has been sold by the quartermasters and their agents, you will be receiving a very substantial sum of money, as also will your men. The fewer hands to share, the bigger the head money, naturally. So even your drummer boys will likely receive a handful of gold each. But captain, you are soon going to be a young man of means, never mind what other rewards may come your way. The quartermasters of the army have already purchased four hundred of the horses you captured, which to you will be worth around 10,000 Ruritanian crowns. You must talk it through with your brother and his agent.’

Boromeo sought out his three friends after this stunning news was broken to him. He set aside his baldric, cuirass, gauntlets, sword and officer’s coat, shook free his long hair and assumed a shabby musician’s tunic he’d picked up, trotting barefoot and barelegged like an off-duty drummer boy down to the campfire. The boys hailed him cheerily as he sat cross-legged with them, incognito. Then they shared his astonishment at his news.

‘Wow! Boro, that’s truly amazing!’ Karl gasped.

‘No it’s not fellows, it’s unfair. This victory was earned by you three. It was Ando who inspired us and carved his way through the sipahis and took the pasha prisoner. It was Karlo who paralysed the Turks and Wilchin who terrified them. It’s your glory not mine.’

Andreas grinned and gripped his shoulder. ‘Boro, they’re already talking of the battle as a miracle. Yer can believe in miracles, but if they was ever to hear how it really was won, that they would not believe, ever. So we’ll tell them a story of how you captured the pasha, and we’ll make it sound good so it’ll be easier to credit. ‘Sides, you wuz the officer in charge and you really did a great job of commanding. That right, boys?’

The other two nodded vigorously. ‘You were amazing, Boro,’ Karl admired. ‘And blowing up the whole hilltop. I mean, you would have done that? Only a real, brave commander would have thought of that and carried it out, though I’m really glad you didn’t have to.’

‘Boys, it’s time’ declared Andreas. ‘You’re our mate, Boro, and yer’ve proved yerself a good ‘un. So you need to do like Jonas did and take the Conduit oath to join our gang. Right boys?’

The other two concurred. All four stood. Andreas spat on his hand and Boromeo spat on his; they clasped and the words were solemnly said. Then they hugged.

Karl declared it was time to get wet. ‘Come on. The sea’ll be warmer now the sun’s going down. Let’s go swim and clean all the sweat and filth off. Wilchin stinks like something crawled into his bum and died there.’

There was a scuffle and a lot of laughter, and after Karl ran off taunting Wilchin, the others trotted downhill to the seashore below the hilltop camp and back along the empty shingle. They stripped and splashed yelling into the sea, wrestling and hallooing. Eventually they subsided and just floated, rising and falling with the waves as the moon rose over the dark islands opposite and laid a rippling golden trail across the sea. Boromeo von Tarlenheim was utterly content with his life, for the first time he could recall.

Then Wilchin called out in his high, unbroken voice: ‘Jonas Niemand! Jonas Niemand! JONAS NIEMAND!’ and there were five boys bobbing in the water.

***

Meanwhile, an evening council of war had convened in a high chamber of St Michael’s Fortress down in Sebenico. Serge sat off to one side alternately tidying up the despatch announcing the victory to the courts of Strelsau and Vienna and making notes for the minutes of this meeting. He soon noticed a shift in the council. General Tedorovic was in the ascendant. His seasoned and effective counsel had earned him Prince Henry’s confidence, and partly retrieved a strategic disaster, while Dudley’s star was on the wane.

There was something in that fact which pleased Serge, rather unworthily, as he admitted to himself. He had always been impressed by Dudley’s efficiency and knowledge of his craft, and he was bound to him by family ties of friendship and for his kindness to his brother. But still there was a hidden something about Robert Dudley Bard that he couldn’t penetrate, a mystery behind his dark, closed gaze. There remained something suspicious in his association with Barkozy that had never been explained to Serge’s satisfaction.

The man was an enigma. Was it Dudley’s strange circumstances as the bastard of a tragic princely house that had created what increasingly seemed to Serge a false front, a mask? But the very opposite was true of his Willi, who lived his life as if he were the central attraction in a grand parade and sought only merriment in life, that and a lot of sex. Serge smiled at the warmth the memories of his madcap lover brought to his heart, and wondered how he was doing at Laibach. Shaking his head, he dragged his attention back to the deliberations of the council.

‘Our scouts are returning north with despatches from Spalato,’ Von Aufensberg, the general commanding the cavalry, was saying, ‘and they report the city was blockaded, but never invested. Only Ottoman mounted units were seen from its walls.’

‘But the great cannonade?’ Dudley protested.

‘The Venetian commander states it was from the Pasha Mehmed’s fleet as it sailed up from Antivari past Spalato having caught a favourable wind.’

‘Fleet?’

‘The fisherfolk of Karlobag report it sailed northwest past the islands beyond the bay yesterday evening, filling the sea to the horizon,’ Tedorovic said, ‘and I rather fear that damnable pasha has foxed us completely. The feint towards Spalato and the bombardment of the city were to misdirect us and draw us south, and even the attack on the supply camp was but another distraction. Mehmed and the winds of the world are in alliance. He and his allies of Ragusa have seized control of the Adriatic and he has loaded all available transports with an army for an assault on the lands of the Serene Republic. Venice is open to attack, while the army of the League is wrong-footed and out of the battle.’

’I have some information you perhaps have not yet heard, general, though it tends to confirm your thoughts,’ the prince observed. ‘The Turkish commander Selim whom young Captain von Tarlenheim captured yesterday was very willing to talk. He had been charged by Pasha Mehmed to simply create havoc in the vicinity of Spalato and pretend to be a bigger force than he was. Fortunately for us his greed to capture our vulnerable supply train outweighed his fear of his commander, and unhappily for him he found himself outmatched by a garrison of children and cripples. He’s actually sued to be given refuge in the Empire as he knows exactly what punishment his failure will call out from his master if he ever gets his hands on him. It gives me a high idea of the fear Mehmed instils in his men.’

‘So what do you propose, sire?’ asked Dudley.

‘Despatch riders will take the bad news along the post road to Carniola and Istria in time enough to alert cities and fortresses to put themselves in defence. But it will be eighteen days’ before the army as a whole can reach Fiume. The only things in our favour are that yesterday’s victory has more than made good our losses of horses, and young Tarlenheim’s efficiency has put our supply train exactly where it is needed. It will be a hard march, but we may yet cut short the Pasha Mehmed’s pillage of Istria, if that is indeed what he intends.

‘I cannot see him assaulting the Veneto, as Prince Eugene and the army of Lombardy will be hard upon him if he attempts it. That is, unless he is coordinating with the French, and in my developing respect for the man, I’m even willing to entertain the possibility that he is. But I rather think the wasting of Istria and coastal Carniola is what he has in mind. In French eyes that will serve just as well. It will force the Imperial army to withdraw from Savoy and give up their push into France so as to return to defend the coasts, and so Marshal Catinat will have every chance of seizing Savoy and Lombardy for his master, King Louis.’

***

The elf grinned happily at his friends. ‘All worked out, then?’ he asked.

‘You knew it would happen?’ Karl responded.

‘Not exactly,’ Jonas said, ‘but, as I told Wilchin, it was in the air. I knew all four of you would one day come together and fight shoulder to shoulder, and when you did, you’d shift the balance in a war between kingdoms and empires. And so you have.’

‘Wow,’ gasped Wilchin, ‘what sorta mischief have we done?’

Jonas laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter to you, though it will to your friends. But it’s up to them now. Boro can ride back home to get his reward and claim his fame, even though, as She said in Her prophecy, it was not exactly earned by his hand. Still, it couldn’t have been done without his leadership, could it?’ The other boys hastened to agree.

‘Now Wilchin, since this is all done would you come and play with me again? We can have huge fun in Faërie and make mischief all round this world and in others too. Please say yes. I’ve never had so good a playmate as you in thousands of years. You should have been an elf.’

Karl objected. ‘But if you take him away to Faërie we’ll never see him again till we’re all old and he’s been forgotten and yet he’ll still be a boy.’

‘No, it’s not like that,’ the elf reassured him. ‘Sure, we can play for ages and ages in Faërie and the other worlds of the Beyond, but little time will pass in the real world. The thing is, his body won’t change there and he’ll stay a proper boy longer because there is no growth in Eden. But still the Change will be on him soon enough, and after that he and I won’t be able to play and explore the way I like best. And there’s so much to see, there and in other worlds I know.’

‘Hear that, Wilchin? Your balls are about to drop,’ Andreas sniggered.

‘I can wait. I seen how hairy you and Boro have got between yer legs. Plenty of places for yer lice to lurk. I’m game Jonas. Yer me best mate ever. But what’ll that amount of time outside the world do to me?’

‘I’m not sure exactly,’ the elf admitted. But you’ll learn so much and become a very unusual human, though I don’t quite know how it’ll turn out in the end. You’ll be able to ask the Lady for yourself maybe, if she lets you back to the Blessed Isles. But I know that whatever happens you’ll be a good person when you return, and I sense you’ll go on to do many great things as you grow in this world.’

‘What about me?’ Karl asked.

‘For you, I have a job, Karlo. Here, take my hand.’ Karl did and the next he knew he and Jonas were sitting alone, wet and chilly together above the moonlit sea on the cliffs of the island opposite where they had been bathing. ‘Now Karlo, I think you want to ask me something which is heavy on your mind,’ he said, ‘something you can’t ask with your friends around.’

Karl dropped his head between his shoulder blades. ‘You know?’

‘I told you. You’re one of those rare humans who partly belong in the World Beyond, Karl Wollherz, and so you stand between the worlds. All such as you are between-folk in other ways. You know that by now.’

‘Yeah. It’s other boys that I like to look at and want to touch, not girls. But that makes me Lustknabe, like the boys who sell themselves at the Leibgarde and Arsenal gates.’

‘But it also makes you like your friends, the Lord Serge and the Lord Bastard. Why’s it a bad thing? You humans are weird.’

‘You don’t know how it makes me burn inside. I’m already talking Ando into rubbing our schlongs together when we’re naked and hard together in bed until we spurt over each other. He loves it. Problem is, it’s not the spurting I like so much as Ando. I want him to do to me what Lord Serge does to the Lord Strelsau. I sneaked and spied on the two of ‘em doing it once. It was ... unbelievable. They kiss for ever. I gets hard all the time just thinking about Ando doing to me what Lord Serge does to Lord Willi. Look at my cock, just talking about it!’

‘It’s getting quite big these days,’ Jonas observed straight-faced, and then broke into giggles.

Karl couldn’t help laughing along with him, and somehow his confession and the shared laughter made him a little easier with himself. ‘So you’ve no answers then?’ he asked Jonas.

‘Not really, Karlo,’ said the elf. ‘It’s beyond my experience. I’m not permitted to pass the boundary that Wilchin soon will and you already have. But I do know this. The Lord Serge has found happiness despite it all, and so may you. Andreas is not like you, but he’s very willing to enjoy your body and is happy to have you enjoy his. I rather think he’ll be very keen to mount you, in fact I think he’s desperate to, but just daren’t ask. Many boys your age will do that, Lustknabe or not.

‘So here’s a secret I know. Prince Henry used to love fucking his cousin the bastard when he was your age and it went on for years. Now it may be true that he could never love his cousin the way his cousin wanted and it may be true Ando will never love you that way either. But you’ll have a lot of fun together and there’s more than one sort of love. Ando and you will always be more than just friends because of what you do in bed together. And if Lord Serge can find a man like the Lord Strelsau to love, well, you can too, and you are already a beautiful boy, and will get much more beautiful yet as a man as you grow in spirit. You’ll be easy to fall in love with. Have hope, little human.’

They sat together contentedly for a while, and the elf took his friend’s hand and squeezed it. He kissed Karl’s cheek. ‘Now I said I had a job for you, so it’s time for you to listen carefully,’ he eventually continued. ‘When all this stupid war business is over, the real struggle will begin.’