At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “Are you listening to me, Highness?”

  Vlad looked up, water dripping from his unshaven chin. “I hear you very clearly, Bishop. I explained this morning that you could have a half-hour.”

  “I said proper service, sir.” Bumble twisted to point back at the work crews and nearly toppled when a foot came free of a shoe. “It is bad enough that they are working on the Lord’s Day!”

  Vlad, exhausted, knew he shouldn’t say anything, but he couldn’t hold himself back. “I would submit to you, Bishop Bumble, that if the Good Lord didn’t want us working on this particular Sunday, He’d not have had it raining Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. He’s given us, in His infinite wisdom, a perfect day to get some construction done.”

  Bumble’s eyes narrowed. “Is this how it is, Prince Vladimir? You think yourself higher than God?”

  “No, sir. I gave you your time for a service. This is now my time. We have a purpose here, sir. It is to build a road so that our army can go and smite a godless enemy.”

  Bumble raised a hand toward Heaven. “You blaspheme, sir. God will smite His enemies, and you shall be among them. I shall report your behavior to God and to Lord Rivendell! I demand you give me an escort back to the real army.”

  I’d rather give you an escort to Heaven. Vlad, standing again, nodded. “Find Captain Strake and send him to me, please.”

  Bumble snorted and started to walk away dramatically, but having to reach down and dig his shoes out of the muck robbed the gesture of its vehemence.

  Vlad leaned back again and patted Mugwump on the flank. “Humbling duty for you, my friend, but without you we would be no where near this close.”

  The wurm glanced back, blinked a golden eye, and went back to drinking.

  The road-building enterprise had been one huge frustrating exercise. The Colonials were called upon to build tracks eight feet wide whenever necessary, but no one thought that would be for the entire two hundred miles to Hattersburg. Unfortunately the long winter had produced greater snowfall and huge runoff. Major Forest’s men had worked around things like marshes, but Rivendell insisted that these detours unacceptably lengthened the route.

  Even under the best of circumstances, the work would have been grueling. Spade-and-pick crews would carve their way into the sides of hills to widen paths to the required eight feet. Woodsmen would chop down the nearest trees and hack them into eight-foot lengths. These would get laid down on the bare earth, and dirt would be shoveled over them to smooth things out. The resulting “corduroy roads” lived up to their bumpy reputations.

  Rains, which had plagued them since the start, simply made things worse. What had been a perfectly good stretch of road suddenly became a sodden mess. Earth eroded, logs slipped, and crews that should have been cutting the path further ahead had to go back and do repair work, all the while being derided by redcoats.

  The friction between forces led the Colonials to work at a more leisurely pace, especially when it meant the Norillians camped on the edge of ponds from which great black fly populations rose. Despite being warned against it, troops drank from brackish pools, resulting in chronic cases of the trots. While Kamiskwa and the Altashee had pointed out useful plants for combating such things, the Norillians didn’t trust them, and the Mystrians, who were busy brewing up mogiqua syrup by the gallon, kept suggesting the Twilight People cures were witchcraft.

  Mugwump had proved invaluable to the effort at road construction. Whereas everyone else seemed worn down by the work, he thrived and grew stronger. He seemed to take it as a personal affront that the earth defied his master’s wishes. He also grew in size, bulking up muscles, but also getting bigger. Vlad had to mount via an elbow before he could reach the saddle, and did his best to record measurements when he had time.

  Mugwump faced every challenge without reluctance. He dragged logs toward the road and then, chained to a massive log, would smooth the bed before other trees got laid down. At one stream he spat large stones further down stream. Later, at a marsh, they used that strategy to dam the marsh’s outflow. They raised the water level and set up a ferry to carry wagons while the soldiers marched around. The Mystrians named it Mugwump Pond and cheered as the wurm swam across, dragging the first ferry rope.

  The few ravines that needed bridging resulted in the hardest work, but there Count von Metternin displayed his worth. He culled the smartest of the Mystrians from the work crews and had them range ahead to locate problem areas. They quickly designed bridges, blazed the trees with specific cuts to show where they would fit in the plan, and left one man behind to oversee construction. Work crews would come up, cut wood as needed, and build the bridges even before the road had reached them.

  The crews averaged just over four miles a day, and at the start had hit eight. The early success caused all of the disappointment later. Granted that circumstances had turned against them, and the work was grinding them down, but everyone thought they should be doing more. They pushed themselves, but Norillian derision sapped their strength. Most grumbled that the redcoats should hold their tongues and hold some spades. A few suggested they’d be happy digging graves for the soldiers.

  “You sent for me, Highness?”

  Vlad tipped his hat back and smiled. “I did. I have onerous duty for you.”

  Owen waded into the stream in his Altashee leathers, knelt and dunked his head. The water washed away mud. His head came up, his hair dripping as he cleared it from his face. “The Bishop told me. I am to take him back, not just a message.”

  “Can you possibly convince him to go off on the winding path?”

  “I have a feeling the spirits wouldn’t want him.” Owen got up on his feet again. “Long walk will do him good.”

  “Give him one of our draft horses. I’ll need it returned immediately. Give you an excuse to come back.”

  Owen nodded. “If we leave now, I should get him there in time for Lord Rivendell’s Sunday supper with his officers. Couple of his men are old poachers. They got pheasant and deer. He will eat well, off hanware plates with a silver service.”

  “Can you suggest to him that he ask Rivendell to let him deliver his sermon to the troops?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” Owen sighed. “And since Rivendell will ask…”

  Vlad shrugged. “We have another week to Hattersburg, weather permitting. Two bridges, one ferry, twenty-nine miles uphill, three down. I hope we have a week’s rest before we push on.”

  Owen sloshed forward and patted Mugwump on the flank. “Lord Rivendell believes we have surprise on our side.”

  “Rivendell is an ass.” Vlad shook his head. “I’m sure someone has let du Malphias know about the brimstone, shot, and other supplies piling up in Hattersburg. Depending on how his forces are arrayed, he could just raid the town and burn everything.”

  “Or cart it back to his fortress.” Owen nodded. “I’d do it. He won’t. He wants us to come to his fortress and be destroyed.”

  “A great victory here would win him much support among the other Laureates.” Vlad folded his arms over his chest. “Raiding Hattersburg is not his only option.”

  “Agreed. I fear he might build his own Fort Hope. He would block our access to Anvil Lake.”

  “Another wise strategy, and a contingency for which we should be prepared. I will have von Metternin scout ahead when we are in Hattersburg. You will go with him.” The Prince pulled of his hat, soaked it in water, then put it back on. “Have you shared your thoughts with Lord Rivendell?”

  Owen opened his arms. “I would have to be invited into his counsels to have a chance to offer an idea.”

  “He doesn’t realize that you actually have experience out here?”

  “He does, but he is invested in proving me wrong. Colonel Langford, for obvious reasons, as well.” Owen unslung a canteen, unstoppered it, and sank it, bubbling, into the stream. “A couple of sergeants have spoken with me. The soldiers will fight and fight hard, but they have a flock of featherbrains to le
ad them.”

  “That is a lament often heard among soldiers.”

  Owen shot him a sidelong glance. “Did my uncle give you a packet of sealed orders to be opened in the event Lord Rivendell loses his mind?”

  Vlad shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

  “He told me he did. He asked if you were sane and ambitious. And he asked if you would be able to take over the expedition and lead it militarily if Rivendell’s sanity were in question.”

  Vlad’s eyes narrowed. “He said nothing of this to me. He encouraged me to use our men to build Fort Hope, since Rivendell will not use us in the battle. Your uncle never suggested a combat command, and, quite frankly, I am not suited to it.”

  “He said you could use the Count as an advisor.”

  “And I’m sure he would be most able. What are you thinking, Owen? There’s a look in your eye.”

  The soldier blinked. “I’m thinking that I’ve not been thinking. My uncle only ever does things for his own benefit. So his speaking to me as he did was for his benefit. He said nice things and apologized to me. I thought it was sincere, but how would I know? He’s never been sincere before.”

  Vlad nodded. “He told me that Rivendell would fail, and that next year he would be back with enough troops and artillery to destroy du Malphias. Fort Hope would be a stepping-off place. He would lead them, reap the glory.”

  “That’s part of it.” Owen frowned. “But it makes me wonder, given what he told you and me, what has he told Rivendell?”

  “That’s a very good question.” Vlad glanced down, shielding his eyes with a hand from the sun’s shifting reflection in the water. “Your uncle succeeds if Rivendell fails. This explains the paltry number of troops in Rivendell’s command. A victorious du Malphias is a threat, so Norisle must increase the troops and resources sent next year.”

  Owen’s jaw dropped open. “Which would give my uncle the largest and most formidable force in Mystria. He could do what du Malphias’ has threatened: make his own nation.”

  “Possible, though a grateful queen could easily grant him a holding of the land he has secured, allowing him the benefit he seeks and giving him more power in Norisle.”

  Owen chewed his lower lip. “There was another thing, Highness. He instructed me, when we take du Malphias’ fortress, to secure possession of all du Malphias’ papers. My uncle wants the secret of how to control the pasmortes.”

  Vlad’s head began to hurt. “So the only way to thwart your uncle is to see to it that Rivendell is successful, and that du Malphias’ secrets never fall into your uncle’s hands.”

  “Impossibility stacked on impossibility.”

  “So it would seem.” The Prince nodded, then pointed back to the roadway. Bishop Bumble, clad in new white hose and with silver buckles gleaming on his shoes, waited impatiently. “Go, relieve me of this tiring cleric, and I shall see if I can find a way to unstack these impossibilities.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  July 6, 1764

  Lindenvale, Mystria

  Owen Strake remaining crouched, turned back toward Lieutenant Marnhull. “For the last time, shut your mouth. Your babbling will get us killed.”

  The blond officer sniffed. “I am not a coward, Strake! And this sentry duty is ridiculous.”

  Owen could have taken Rivendell’s little provocations easily. Picket duty had never bothered him, but to be stationed in the woods with a chatterbox put him over the edge. Shifting his musket to his left hand, he filled his right with his tomahawk. He darted forward, not certain if he just wanted to scare the man or murder him.

  Because of his sudden move an Ungarakii warrior’s warclub only grazed his right shoulder instead of crushing his skull. Owen twisted from the impact, pain shooting down his arm. As he came around, he whipped his musket up and across the Ungarakii’s painted face. Though deerskin sheathed it, the heavy steel barrel still cracked bone and spun the man away. A second warrior darted in from beyond the first, his warclub raised high for a heavy blow. Owen lunged, driving the musket’s muzzle into his stomach. As the Ungarakii doubled over, Owen buried his tomahawk in the man’s skull.

  “Sound the alarm!” Owen abandoned the tomahawk, and stripped the cover from his musket. He had no time to shift hand or aim. He simply thrust the musket at another Ungarakii, pressed his left thumb to the firestone and invoked magick.

  The brimstone’s flash lit the small sentry post. The ball blew through the middle of the closest attacker and caught the one behind him on the hip. Flipping the musket around, Owen clubbed the wounded man to the ground. Another step and he smashed the butt into the first Ungarakii’s head, crushing his skull.

  He glanced toward the others. Lieutenant Marnhull sat on a bed of rusty pine needles, his hat gone, his right ear missing as well. His right shoulder, shattered by a warclub, sank lower than the left. He rocked side to side, mumbling a lullaby and staring at nothing.

  The third sentry lay face down, his hair matted with blood, not moving.

  Owen tossed his own rifle aside and snatched up the dead soldier’s. “Be quiet.”

  The Lieutenant’s voice shrank, obeying as if he were a scolded child.

  There has to be more out there. Owen kept slowly turning, not wanting to present his back to any direction for very long. He peered out into the darkness, waiting, listening as best he could. Nothing.

  His heart pounded and sweat stung his eyes. One of the Ungarakii grunted his last breath. Something snapped in the darkness. Owen turned, thumb on firestone. Silence again fell, broken only by the soft whisper of Owen’s moccasins on dry pine needles.

  Then a new set of sounds arose. A squad of troopers came crashing through the woods to the sentry post. A Sergeant entered the clearing. Blood drained from his face. “What happened here?”

  “Sergeant, deploy your men in a square. They may still be out there.”

  “Yes,sir.” The Sergeant pointed at various men in his command. “You heard the Captain. Fix bayonets. Form square. Keep your eyes open.”

  Owen crossed to the Lieutenant. His mangled hat lay next to him, with the ear inside. An Ungarakii warclub had torn off his ear, then mangled the shoulder. How badly it had scrambled the man’s brains would remain to be seen

  Lord Rivendell arrived with his shadow, Langford. “My God. What have we here?”

  Owen stood. “Ungarakii war party. I killed the four over here. The pair that attacked the Lieutenant and the Private got away.”

  Rivendell frowned. “You say you killed four?”

  Owen nodded. “Clubbed the two at your feet, shot one, and my tomahawk is still in the head of the fourth.”

  “And you say they killed none?”

  Owen sighed. “You have the evidence before you, sir.”

  “I do, sir, and I know how to read it.” Rivendell glanced at Langford. “Get this down, Colonel. Captain Strake claims to have shot one of the raiders, but you will note that his rifle is unfired.”

  “This isn’t my rifle. I picked it up from the dead trooper.”

  “What happened here is very clear. The Twilight People killed the Private. Lieutenant Marnhull grabbed his rifle and shot one of the raiders before being gravely wounded himself. Citation for bravery. Captain Strake killed one man who had stumbled, and the cause of death of the fourth is still under investigation. Note that Captain Strake attempted to claim credit for all four dead men, clearly out of guilt at having led the raiders to this very post.”

  “I must protest, my lord, this is not what happened.”

  Rivendell’s eyes narrowed. “I think you would do well to understand, Captain Strake, that this is my expedition. I am the sole arbiter of truth. I have rendered my decision and, depending on how things proceed from here, I might be called upon to revise my view. I might find that in the excitement of the event, you misremembered what happened.”

  Owen tossed the Private’s rifle down and recovered his own. He made a show of wiping blood from the brass butt-plate. “I’d be rem
iss in my duty, sir, if I did not point out that hostiles are still in the area and killing you would go a long way to destroying your expedition.”

  Rivendell quickly shot glances into the darkness, but did not immediately retreat. “Sergeant, have two men conduct Lieutenant Marnhull to an aid station. Bring his ear. And you, Captain Strake. I have a message to go to Prince Vladimir immediately. Tonight.”

  Owen looked at him. “Tonight, through these woods, knowing the Ungarakii are out there?”

  “Yes, he must be warned. You are his liaison officer. You will bear the message.”

  At least, out there, I can kill my enemies. “Permission to reload my musket, sir?”

  “It should already be loaded, sir, but I shan’t write you up for that breech this time.” Rivendell sniffed with indignation. “The message shall be ready in an hour.”

  After an hour’s wait, Owen made it through to the Mystrian camp without difficulty. He had not traveled on the road, but nearby so as to avoid ambushes. Upon arrival he reported to the Prince and handed him the hastily scrawled note. Though Rivendell requested a reply to be sent back immediately by the same courier, the Prince declined to provide one and ordered Owen to remain with his party until they reached Hattersburg.

  This gave Rivendell two days of apparent joy at Owen’s death. It evaporated when he spied Owen in the frontier town on the ninth. His fury should have evaporated in the face of an even larger difficulty, but he immediately convened a court-martial with Langford at its head. Charges were disobeying a superior officer’s direct order.

  Prince Vladimir immediately invalidated the charge. “The order was never issued to Captain Strake by Lord Rivendell. The order was included in a confidential communication to me. I know his lordship would not presume to give me an order, nor did his message instruct me to instruct Captain Strake on what the message read. Since no order was issued, no order could have been disobeyed.”

  Even with that direct evidence, the panel deliberated long enough for a work crew to set up a flogging cross. None of the men were happy to see that, and the Mystrians became restive. Owen might be a Norillian, but there was no disguising the fact that the charges were personal. Their general dislike for Rivendell worked in Owen’s favor and the tribunal returned a verdict of not guilty, forestalling a general mutiny.