At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Instead of the skull he’d been expecting to find, he’d come face to face with a fully mounted and articulated cat of enormous proportions. A few dark spots haphazardly dappled the short, tawny fur along its spine. Tufted ears flattened back against its skull. Its snarl revealed the saber teeth ready to drive deep into prey. Clawed paws reached for him, ready to hook and hold. From its nose to the tip of its stubby tail the creature had to have been at least eight feet long and would’ve been about five feet at the shoulder.

  The glassiness of the creature’s dark eyes and its rigidity left no doubt that it was dead, but its lifelike pose made it a creature of nightmares. Owen peered closely at it, both admiring its size and looking for some sign of what had killed it. The creature appeared to be in full health and Owen found no obvious wounds.

  The Prince appeared, smiling. “Bravo, Captain Strake. You didn’t scream. That was not true of Colonel Langford.”

  “What is it?” Owen brushed a hand along its back, feeling the fur. “I’ve been to zoological gardens, but never…”

  Prince Vlad stroked the creature’s other flank. “It has many names. Some call it a lion or a tiger. It doesn’t have enough spots to be leopard. I prefer sabertooth cat. Many Mystrians call it a jeopard. I believe it’s a play on the words leopard and jeopardy. It’s rather accurate so I may give in and adopt it.”

  Owen shivered. Displays and pictures in Norisle had been completely inadequate. He assumed stories of fabulous beasts had been intended to scare children and credulous individuals who would never set foot on that distant shore.

  The Prince smiled. “I apologize for sending you here unawares. I’ve closed off this little corner of my workshop as a test for visitors. Put it down to my odd sense of humor, perhaps?” He patted the nearby shelves. “I even reinforced the woodwork, since the common Norillian reaction is to flee gibbering madly.”

  Owen smiled, imagining Mr. Wattling’s probable reaction. “Colonel Langford considered me as welcome in his office as he would a jeopard, I think.”

  The Prince nodded and waved Owen back out toward the desk. “Langford never was much of a field commander. He does well for himself as a glorified quartermaster. I understand he rents his men out for work details and pockets the money.”

  Owen blinked. “And you have not reported him for this?”

  Vlad sat at his desk. “It is a game we play. He knows that I know, so occasionally the work projects are for the common good. Oh, Captain, don’t look so surprised. I really have no other alternative.”

  “Highness, there are regulations and duties.”

  The Prince nodded easily. “Were I to prefer charges, Langford would be sent to Rivertown, down in Fairlee. General Upton would hold him and send my request for a court martial back to Norisle. Six months later, after Parliament has argued about things, the request would be denied. Langford would return and the cycle would continue.”

  “That hardly seems…”

  “Fair? Equitable? It isn’t.” Vlad got up, moved books off a stool, and brought it over for Owen. “Sit, please. Norillians who come to Mystria greet this land in one of two manners. Some see it as a land of great riches. They harvest as much as they can, and return home. Some are refilling their families’ coffers, others are social climbers. The motive doesn’t matter. They each have their personal goal and they strive for it, and nothing more.

  “The others, though, they have the spirit of the redemptioneers, even if they are here of their own free will.” The Prince hunched forward, his elbows on this thighs. “They see this continent as a place rich in possibilities. A man can be anything he wants to be here. He can be free.”

  Owen found himself grinning at the Prince’s enthusiasm. It struck Owen as incongruous because here he was, sitting with the man who was third in line for the throne of Norisle, and yet there was no pretense. While the man may have tested him earlier, Owen felt accepted as an equal.

  Vlad straightened up. “Your reaction to my jeopard and Langford tells me something about you, Captain, but I need to know more.”

  Owen nodded. “As you desire, Highness.”

  “Who is it that hates you so much that you were given this assignment?” The Prince tapped the unfolded orders. “The cover letter is rather plain. The phrase here, ‘…the mission, to be carried out to the best of his abilities,’ usually means they won’t mind if you don’t come back.”

  “Not enemies, Highness, family. My wife beseeched my uncle to let me have this assignment.” Owen sighed. “The Duke of Deathridge, my uncle, allowed himself to be swayed by her passion.”

  “Your wife must be charming indeed.” The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “Still, to send you to Mystria… I would guess you’re not his favorite nephew.”

  “Far from it, Highness.” If I didn’t make it home, his only concern would be getting me a headstone cheap.

  The Prince opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a crystalline disc. He held it so it fit neatly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, tucked deeply into the joint. He squinted for a moment, and the glass began to glow. The Prince stared into it as he traced it back and forth across the pages of coded symbols. He paused in his reading every so often, setting the disc down, making a note in the margin of Owen’s orders, then picking the lens up again to continue reading.

  Finished, the Prince sat back. “I can see your uncle’s hand in the mission document—not literally, of course, but close. While others have come on similar missions, your orders are by far the most complete and show the best understanding of the Mystrian situation. The way to defeat the Tharyngians on the Continent is to beat them here. Your uncle, it appears, understands that fact well.”

  The Prince got up and pulled a large, scrolled map from atop a shelf. He spread it over the table, pinning down one corner with the jeopard skull and another with a sharpened stone blade. One of the flower books held down the map’s left side, allowing the corners to curl in.

  “This is the entire continent—at least as much for which I have reliable information. The Tharyngians claim everything north of the Argent River and west to what are called the Four Brothers Lakes. They also claim everything on down the long, wide Misaawa River.”

  “Misaawa?”

  “In the native tongue—or one of them anyway—it means ‘life.’” His finger traced a line of mountains to the east of the river, almost halfway to the coast. “Our Colonial charters grant us rights to the land between the ocean and these mountains. A century and a half ago the mountains were deemed impassible, and no one imagined we would expand so quickly. The redemptioneers, it turns out, were more fecund and industrious than thought possible. But then, when you have to work to live, and more hands make working easier, you create an interesting cycle of life.

  “The Tharyngians have not been so fortunate. The north has a much shorter growing season. They regularly import food from Tharyngia. But because they work more closely with the Twilight People than we do, they’re sending a great deal of money back to the Continent. Fur sales finance their war effort. Timber and potash production and even limited amounts of gold contribute as well. To protect themselves, they’ve begun to establish a series of forts at critical river junctions and on the myriad small lakes in the west. They’ve chased off our trappers and settlers.”

  The Prince tapped the Misaawa River with a finger. “I believe the Misaawa River Valley to be every bit as fertile as the best of our lands. If the Tharyngians establish settlements there, like the one they have at the base of the river, it won’t be long before their population will meet or exceed ours. Once that happens, we will be trapped. We will face open warfare here, just like on the Continent.”

  Owen studied the map. The mountains had been sketched in with black ink, and rivers traced in blue—save for the Misaawa. That river had become a long, thick sepia line, looking like dried blood. That same hue had been used to create several other features, mostly in the south and west.

  Owen frowned. “Have
you just not put roads on the map?”

  “Wouldn’t waste the ink.” The Prince shrugged. “Would you call the track you rode out on here a proper road?”

  “No, Highness.”

  “You’re not alone. Colonel Langford cannot imagine how troops could march into battle lacking good roads. And our tiny patches of cleared land are nothing he recognizes as proper battlefields.”

  Owen smiled. “I remember the Mystrian Rangers fighting throughout the Artennes Forest against the Platine Regiment. The lack of a cleared field didn’t seem to bother either unit.”

  “Good, very good. If you understand that much, then perhaps you are the man for this job.” The Prince stroked a hand across his chin. “I’m going to make certain you see what needs to be seen. Langford will assign you a couple of his scouts—competent men, but lazy, I’m afraid. It won’t do.”

  “No, Highness.”

  “I will write him a note telling him that I’m sending my man with you. Langford will protest, but I have dealt with that before.”

  Owen nodded. “Your man is good, Highness?”

  Vlad smiled broadly. “The best. He’s the one who killed that jeopard.”

  Before Owen could ask, the prince led him back to the large cat. He spread the fur on the creature’s throat revealing a small hole. The Prince then rubbed a hand over the jeopard’s spine. “Went in at the throat, came out there. A hundred yards. One shot.”

  Owen gasped. “Highness…”

  The Prince raised a hand. “First, Captain Strake, I paced the distance myself. And while you’re about to tell me that a musket cannot hit a target with a killing shot at that range, a rifle can, and this is what Nathaniel used. Fourteen-weight of lead, flying true.”

  Owen measured the angle between the entry and exit wounds. The thing was charging at the time, much as it is now. “That was quite a shot, Highness.”

  “Two winters ago, very harsh. It got a taste for men, came down hunting. We stalked it.” The Prince blushed. “I missed, despite using a fine rifle given to my father by a Seljuk Calife. Nathaniel dropped it and had his rifle reloaded before it had finished thrashing.”

  “I shall be pleased to meet such a remarkable marksman, Highness.”

  Prince Vlad looked Owen up and down again. “And I shall be interested in seeing what he makes of you, Captain Strake. In fact, I wish I could join you on your expedition.”

  “It would be an honor, Highness.”

  “You’re kind, but I would just slow you down.” The Prince’s face brightened. “But, speaking of honors, I have a favor to ask of you, if I might.”

  “Anything you desire, Highness.”

  “Well then, come with me.” The Prince headed toward the yard. “I’d like to know what you think of my dragon.”

  Chapter Four

  April 27, 1763

  Prince Haven

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Owen followed the Prince outside and down over a vast expanse of lawn gently sloping toward the river. There, just past the dock, half-hidden by a small stand of trees, lay a broad, squat structure. Rough-hewn timber framed it, and uneven boards sided it. Despite being painted red and having the requisite slate roof, it did not much resemble similarly purposed buildings back in Norisle.

  Traditionally wurmrests were built of stone—though it occurred to Owen this might’ve been because most wurmrests were centuries old. Enormously strong and often clumsier than anyone would wish, wurms smashed through anything less sturdy than stone walls. Bearing this in mind, Owen looked for any signs that the careless lash of a tail had knocked boards loose, but to no avail.

  As with all the wurmrests he’d seen, this one was situated close to the river. Come spring floods, water channeling through the wurmrest would thoroughly clean it out. An added benefit to such a location was that the sound of running water and cool breezes coming off the river calmed wurms during uncomfortable summer months.

  Something’s missing. Owen couldn’t identify what was wrong until he reached the building’s shadow. It doesn’t stink!

  Wurmrests usually had a rather distinctive odor about them, one that no one described as pleasant. The kindest description had likened the stench to the lingering stink of a battlefield after three days under a hot sun. Wurmwrights developed a strong stomach very quickly, or found another line of work.

  “Highness, you do understand I am not a wurmwright. If there’s something wrong with it…”

  The Prince nodded. “You mean the lack of stench? Mugwump has taken to eating some local berries. He still feeds mostly on fish and beef, but follows his meals with the berries. They make him decidedly less fragrant.”

  “Mugwump? I thought your wurm’s name was Gorfinbard.”

  “It was. Still is in all the official registries.” The Prince slipped the bar from one of the two broad barn doors. “Once, the chief of the Altashee—one of the Twilight Peoples—visited. I showed him my wurm. He called him Mugwump, or something very close in their tongue. Mugwump actually responded and seems pleased with that name. I have no idea what it means and I’m not anxious to find out, but if it pleases the beast, I will use it.”

  Owen grabbed the other door and pulled, then followed the Prince into the dark interior. They moved along a raised wooden walkway spattered with dry mud. A waist-high railing on the river side made it difficult for someone to accidentally fall into the wurmpit. The Prince leaned against the rail and nodded. “And there he is: Mugwump.”

  Owen stared down, admiring. Though the Prince had referred to the creature as a dragon, it was technically a wurm since it lacked wings and could not fly. “He is magnificent.”

  Being a member of the Ventnor family and then the Queen’s Own Wurm Regiment had afforded Owen ample opportunity to study wurms up close. He often spent time on his grandfather’s estates caring for his uncles’ wurms, though he’d never been given the chance to ride one all by himself. Not being of noble blood nor possessed of great wealth, he could not afford to buy a commission in the actual wurm companies. That not withstanding, he was more comfortable around the great beasts than some of their riders.

  Without a second thought, Owen descended into the pit. He kept toward the edge where the mud remained shallow and worked his way toward the beast’s head. The Prince, who was better dressed for a foray into the pit, followed him. Owen moved slowly, taking great care not to slip—less out of concern for his clothes than not wanting to excite the wurm.

  Ten yards from Mugwump’s head he squatted, gathering the tails of his coat into his lap to save them from the mud. He smiled; he couldn’t help it. Of the many wurms he’d seen, Mugwump was by far the most impressive.

  Forty feet long, perhaps a bit longer, the wurm was covered with black scales. Though the wurmrest’s dim light made it difficult to be certain, the scales shone far more brightly than the dull wurmflesh common in the Regiment. The beast’s horns and claws appeared more substantial than on Regimental wurms. Moreover, gold and scarlet stripes and dots decorated the scales and horns. Owen had never seen anything like it on a living wurm.

  Mugwump lay his lower jaw in a puddle, a leafy branch from some bush sticking out of it. As the men drew close, he opened one golden eye, the tall, slender pupil narrowed slightly, and a semi-opaque membrane nictitated up over the golden orb. The creature raised his head slightly, dark water dripping from his jaw line.

  “Captain, beware.”

  Though Owen knew what was coming, he didn’t move.

  The wurm dropped his wedge-shaped head. A wave of mud splashed up, coating Owen from the waist down and spattering him above.

  Owen howled with laughter and the wurm snorted. The soldier wiped mud from his face and smiled broadly. “My uncle had one that pulled similar tricks. He was vicious at molt. We’d have to wait until he’d almost finished shedding, then deal with him.”

  Prince Vlad raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were not a wurmwright.”

  “I’m not, but the Ventnor
family wurmwright was a good man. Lost his wife and children to the Black Pox. He took me under his wing whenever I was home from school. Time in the wurmrest kept me out of sight and from having to deal with my cousins. It became my refuge.”

  “Then,if I might, I would like to avail myself of your experience.” The Prince whistled.

  Mugwump shifted. Plowing up a muddy berm, the great beast swung his head around and thrust his snout between the two of them. Hot breath came in short blasts from his nostrils, strong enough to almost knock Owen over.

  Steadying himself with one hand on Mugwump’s muzzle, the Prince moved toward his eyes. “Go over on the other side. You know where the aural canal is?”

  “Yes, Highness.” Owen advanced, ending up ankle deep in mud just behind the creature’s jaw, a couple of feet below one of the golden eyes. The wurm’s aural canal sat just behind and a little above the corner of the jaw. An armored scale as big as a dinner plate shielded it.

  “Now, if you will, Captain, take hold of the canal cover and try to shift it. Gently.”

  Owen cautiously slid his fingers under the scale. Dragons had two layers of flesh. One, the scales—hard like fingernails—were anchored in the lower layer. That lower layer felt supple and warm, much like a snake that had been sunning itself. Mugwump’s flesh felt normal, reassuring Owen.

  He manipulated the canal cover, slowly at first, then with a bit more vigor. It felt loose, like a tooth almost ready to fall free. For contrast he tried another scale, but it held firmly. A third had a moderate amount of give.

  “Have you discovered it, Captain?”

  Owen moved back to where he could see the Prince. Vlad leaned against Mugwump’s muzzle, his elbows and forearms resting there as if the wurm were just a piece of furniture. He paid no apparent attention to the golden-eyed stare. Or his proximity to a mouth full of razor-sharp ivory.