The plan we came up with called for fast action, which suited us fine! It was now close to harvest time. The first phase of our plan was to return to our valley, where we would travel around its edges, keeping where possible to the wilder places. We would let farmers and villagers see that a Rostov had returned. I would also talk with the fairy people—the Nymphs, Dryads, and Elves—who would be very happy to see me back! Their dislike of the Kalnichovs was part of the reason those bastards had not come south sooner.
A key to our plan was speed: The closer we came to being everywhere the Turks weren’t at the same time, the more impact the country uprising would have.
Father Caspar would play a major part in this by keeping us healed, and even more important, keeping our horses healed. The strenuous riding we were planning on would likely lame even good horses like ours about a quarter way through the journey.
The morning we were to depart, my friends and I were ahorse, gathered before dawn on the road north, waiting for Father Caspar, when a hooded stranger rode up and growled, “What an odd time to start a journey to the Balkans!”
That was scary to hear from a stranger; Grigor and Josif put hand to sword. Before we could do more, the stranger laughed and pulled back his hood. It was Father Caspar! But how different he looked! In Rome he dressed as a humble ascetic priest with no interest in worldly things. Now he looked like a minor noble who favored display. He also looked bigger somehow, and he carried a large sword sheathed behind his back.
From its scabbard Father Caspar pulled out a thin meter-long stick with a big sword-like hilt.
“This is Mary,” he said grinning, “Mary Making, and you would do well to avoid her kiss.”
“That’s a weapon?” said Grigor. “That wooden sword?” And he couldn’t help himself, he giggled. We all stared.
Father Caspar got off his horse. “What you are looking at, my good Grigor, is disguise. This is a covert operation we are conducting, so it is best not to look like what we really are. But … it will help if all of you have a little more confidence in me and Mary.
“Grigor, hop down and take a swing at me with your sword.”
Grigor looked at me. I nodded, and he hopped down.
Father Caspar dropped his robe. Underneath was leather armor. He rapped the chest plate with his hand.
“Take a swat at this. Don’t try to kill me, but do try to let me know I’ve been hit by a sword.”
Grigor obliged him with a fast, strong whack. Upon contact, the armor flashed a little, and Father Caspar stood as if nothing had happened.
“Given to me,” he said, “by a Knight Templar, who took it off a Barbary corsair. I won’t go into the details now. Let’s spar for a minute, my friend.”
Grigor rushed Father Caspar again and, knowing how well he was protected, put full speed and full force into his attacks. This time Father Caspar defended with skinny Mary Making and a small buckler shield. By all the saints, he was remarkable!—fast and agile, and watching him you almost got the impression he was boxing, not sword fighting. He neatly dodged Grigor’s attacks, moving that light, thin stick so fast, as though he were punching Grigor, or tickling him, not winding up and launching big swung strokes, but poking. His pokes were so fast that many got through and hit.
The skirmish went only thirty seconds before Grigor stopped, held up his hand, and laughed. “I concede! I’m happy sweet Mary is our friend,” said Grigor. We all agreed.
On the journey, Father Caspar and Grigor became particularly good friends, and they often talked shop about how to be covert.
When we arrived in the Kalzov Valley, the serious riding began. To the Turks we were like phantoms. They would hear rumors and send detachments, but the detachments would find nothing; we had moved on. Frustrated, they increased their violence against our farmers and villagers. Sadly, I could not prevent their damaging my people.
Occasionally a detachment would get close to us, but I clouded their minds so they immediately forgot the spotting. Once a detachment surprised us and Father Caspar led us in a charge that completely wiped them out. That added an adjective to our description; we became “dangerous phantoms”.
The second phase of our plan was to introduce the Turk to the wondrous properties of thorn apple. Our farmers had gathered grain to pay as taxes to the Turks. Colonel Gülen intended to use that part of the early harvest to feed his men, saving him enough gold that he could finally afford to pay them. I suggested to the Elves that some good mischief would be to mix a leaf of thorn apple, dried and crushed to powder, into some of the farmers’ tax payment sacks.
Several days after these grain taxes were collected by Kalnichov tax collectors with Turkish guards, an odd plague began to afflict the Turks. Every so often soldiers would start behaving strangely. Some tossed feathers into the air and tried to hit the feathers with pebbles. Some got naked and behaved like monkeys, including turd-throwing and fondling each other. Others would just sit for long hours doing not much, or wander around being blubbering idiots, with or without clothes. The afflicted would recover after a few days, with little memory of what had happened.
Those who saw this behavior were mostly amused. A few were horrified. Colonel Gülen was livid with rage. He muttered about drunken idiots and more Rostov glassware found its way into the manor fireplace.
Soon after, the third phase of our plan came into effect. A rider brought orders for Colonel Gülen to join the army mustering on the Bulgarian Plain as quickly as possible, to face a new threat.
“Not a moment too soon!” snorted the Turkish commander, and he issued orders for his men to assemble and continue their march south in three days. His lieutenants were overjoyed at the news.
As it happened, Anton Kalnichov was out of the house when the rider came. Not at all coincidentally, he was investigating a sighting of young Baron Rostov. It had turned out to be just another story, but he returned to find the manor a beehive of activity. Soon after, it was rumored in the Turkish officer’s mess that when he tried to rush in on Gülen to find out what was happening, he found himself briefly surrounded by four Turks with very sharp knives. One of them whispered to him, “We just want you to know that if the Colonel changes his mind about leaving, it is your throat that we will slit first.”
Anton professed himself very sad to see the Turks go. Usually when Anton got sad about something, Colonel Gülen would change his mind, but this time he did not waver. So as the Turks packed, so did Anton. He said he wanted to take advantage of their protection on his journey to do family business in Istanbul.
“So much for the military threat,” concluded Father Caspar with a smile at our war meeting that night. “Now we must deal with the Kalnichovs and restore a government. These could be trickier tasks.”
They could have been, but turned out not to be. With their military backing making a sudden departure, the smart Kalnichov tax collectors headed north as fast as their horses could carry them. Those who were not so smart and tried to take a wagon load of loot with them or even stayed to brazen it out, they were about to find themselves dead. The rest of the Kalnichovs and their supporters saw no reason to stay south and they were only a few days slower in leaving, watched by jeering villagers, farmers, and the occasional huntsman or herdsman.
Our move was to travel swiftly again from village to village around the valley to call for order, beginning the day after the Turks announced their departure. As before, Father Caspar kept us and the horses going. Everywhere we came, I renominated the old Rostov representative or an acceptable replacement. Deadly chaos could come if no Rostov agent began maintaining or restoring order.
As the Turks marched away from Falcon’s Aerie, we watched on horseback with fifty volunteers from an overlooking hill. I’m afraid I had the temerity to let Josif fly the Rostov arms on a tall staff. When Colonel Gülen saw my golden-antlered stag on its red background, he sent an orderly with a message: “Please let the civilians who wish to leave go in peace. If you swear to this, I will continue my departure without interruption.”
This meant leaving Kalnichovs unmolested, but I agreed to it. Restoring order without further damage to my people was what counted now.
And there was one more thing: We couldn’t allow Colonel Gülen to look upon the Kalzov Valley as a kind of holiday residence that he could bring a small army to any time he was nearby. We felt he needed a more personal humiliation, to give him serious second thoughts about coming back. So I took this opportunity to issue a challenge.
“Your commander moved into my home without permission. As a matter of honor, he must submit to honorable single combat.”
I would have much preferred to take on Gülen myself, but he insisted on a fight between champions, and we reluctantly agreed. I chose Father Caspar, who announced himself truly as Caspar Strasbach; we saw no advantage in explaining that he was a Roman priest. The Turkish champion was a giant whose scimitar was a meter and a half long. Against any swordsman he would have been formidable, but it was not long before he tasted Mary’s kiss.
Back in Falcon’s Aerie, I found that the Turks and Kalnichovs had done some looting, but much less than I expected.
I walked into my parent’s bedroom. I sat on their bed, facing an ornate full-length mirror that stood against the wall opposite the door. We had won a complete victory but my parents were not there to see it. I wept for them.
As I was weeping, I looked up … and saw my parents in the mirror!
They were both smiling at me proudly, standing in front of my reflection. My mother was very obviously pregnant and they both looked a bit gaunt, as if they had been through some kind of trial.
I jumped up and walked to the mirror. My reflection walked forward until it was between them, near the glass. “Are you ghosts?” my reflection and I asked.
My father and mother laughed and walked out of the mirror, real enough to cast reflections behind them, real enough for us to hug each other … hug each other hard!
“Oh thank you!” said my mother. “We are so proud of you … so proud!” She hugged me again.
“We hid in the mirror,” said my father. “We would have done more mischief, perhaps enough for you to notice, but that Kalnichov girl-cousin whom her family sent to the Turkish commander was constantly moping around in this bedroom. It was very hard to sneak out.”
“And it’s well you didn’t dally,” said my mother. “A baby born when in a magic mirror becomes a mirror spirit, and cannot leave the mirror world. Of course I would have come out, even at the risk of my life and the child’s, before I let that happen.”
She gave me another strong hug. “Thank you, again, for your unborn brother or sister.”
It was then that I began to rule the Kalzov Valley from day to day in my father’s name. In a few days my sister, Shillara, one of the world’s greatest beauties, as declared by others than her admittedly partial brother, was born. Father Caspar attended her baptism as an honored guest. He had stayed for a while to research the Kalnichovs and the mystery of Nazadlan.
In that he had little success, but he did return to Rome with the reports of victory that the Pope had demanded. He gave Grigor Mary, his “wooden sword”, as a parting gift.
-- The End --