At the Queen_s command cc-1

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Muskets roared.

  Tharyngians fell.

  The men of the Mystrian Third streamed over the wall, firing as they came. "To the Top!" they yelled as if it would protect them from shot and steel. Men captured the nearest Ryngian battery with a bayonet charge, then levered the functional cannon around to the west. A Mystrian clapped a hand over the firestone. Golden-red flame exploded from its muzzle. The load of grapeshot slashed through the next battery below on the wall. The Mystrian gunner shook his hand as if it had been hit by a hammer, but urged men to reload as quickly as they could.

  Another Mystrian crew levered a cannon all the way around. They aimed at the Platines. The Tharyngian ranks fired on the Mystrian troops and then evaporated after the cannon spoke. Mystrians, dead and wounded, filled the courtyard. The survivors pressed on, taking the gate. They fired into the main compound while even more Mystrians lined the upper fort's parapet and fired on the Platine troops defending the north wall.

  Mugwump leaped forward, pouncing on a moving pasmorte and devouring it. He seemed almost playful. He'd dig his nose beneath a body, flip it into the air, and snatch it with his mouth. His tongue gathered in arms and legs, then he'd swallow them whole, ambulatory or not.

  More Mystrians poured over the wall in a muddy river of men. They didn't organize themselves in ranks as much as they did small teams of three or four. As one man reloaded, another would spot targets and the third would shoot. While their musket-fire was not terribly accurate, the sheer volume of it, aided by the occasional cannon blast of grape, cleared a length of parapet.

  Vlad slipped from the saddle and, hugging his arms to his chest, staggered up to the captured battery. "You see that small hill there, in the middle of the fort?"

  The Mystrian crew stared at him for a moment, then followed his line of sight. "Yes, Highness."

  "Put some solid balls on it, as many as you can." Vlad smiled. "It's a hornets' nest and I want it smashed."

  Only with the second broadside could Owen confirm what he'd thought had happened. The Ryngian sloop had somehow fired into its own formation. When sharpshooters started sniping, the fort fired on the sloop, and a familiar figure ran toward the bow, the truth became apparent.

  "By God, Hodge, the ship is ours!"

  Hodge, his face streaked with powder, spat a ball into his musket's muzzle. "Not so loud, sir, because they ain't ours."

  The Platine Guards rear ranks pulled back from the sloop's assault. Men ran for the fort. Owen picked up a Ryngian musket, then grabbed Hodge by the shoulder. "Come on!"

  They ran with the retreating Ryngians, hidden plainly in the midst of unreasoning men with fear-filled eyes. A Ryngian pulled ahead of Hodge, casting his musket away, and held his hands out as if asking to be bound. Hodge shouldered him out of the way. The man tumbled to the ground and other men stampeded over him.

  "Are you sure this is wise, sir?"

  "Stay with me, Hodge."

  Owen rounded the corner through the gate. Ungarakii were in full retreat from the upper fort. On the left, cannon-fire swept the ramparts. Another cannon launched a ball from the high fort. It overshot the hill and bounced through the troops packed in the gate. Men screamed.

  Through the chaos Owen ran, and Hodge came hot on his heels. Another cannonball sailed over their heads and hit the grassy stronghold. A couple of soldiers moved to stop them, but Owen shot one and Hodge charged with his bayonet. The remaining Ryngian soldier read the determination on his face and fled screaming.

  Owen ran past the flagpole and straight to the small shack Rivendell had drawn on his map. He kicked the door in. The room beyond it did indeed appear to house a wine cellar, but the back panel had slid open, revealing the passage Owen had limped through almost a year before.

  "Follow me and shut this panel. No one gets out."

  "Yes, sir." Hodge shouldered the panel closed and panicked screams dulled, but not so the full-throated cannon roars.

  Owen entered the passage, sparing a glance at his old prison. Blankets, neatly folded, showed where troopers had waited while Rivendell and the others feasted. Owen moved past, going deeper, passing the dark doorway where he'd once believed Makepeace had been imprisoned. He didn't know who du Malphias had tortured in there to break him down, and could only hope it had been someone like Etienne Ilsavont.

  He turned left at the end of the corridor, down another, toward a doorway to a larger room from which came a shifting orange glow. He advanced slowly, his bayonet at the ready. He hesitated at the opening, confused by what he saw.

  The room had been dug out and down, with steps at the doorway. A large table dominated the room. Maps, many of them, created an overlapping mosaic. Small bronze disks with what looked like firestones set in them all gathered at one spot and jockeyed for position. Some, toward the east, had stopped moving.

  A huge orange glass sphere hung in a bronze helix lattice above the table. It looked akin to a firestone, but was clearly hollow. It rotated as a light burned inside. Though it gave off light, it put out no heat and, instead, seemed to be sucking warmth from the room.

  And at the edge of the orange glow stood du Malphias. He'd raised his right hand toward the sphere, not even close to touching it. Still, the fire quickened in response to his gesture.

  The Laureate smiled at Owen. "Captain Strake, you look well."

  "I am very well."

  The Laureate shook his head. "This pleases me. You know, Rivendell never would have found his way here without you. I am glad you didn't let his capricious whim keep you from this meeting."

  Owen, with the bayonet held firmly in both hands, descended the stairs. "Thanks to you, he put me under arrest. He will court-martial me."

  Du Malphias laughed. "How little you truly understand of the world. He will do nothing of the sort. You have captured me. You will be inviolate. He will, if he survives, write scurrilous things about you. Few will believe him."

  Owen came around the table. "But what if I don't intend to capture you?"

  Du Malphias raised an eyebrow. "Kill me? You won't." He reached for one of the brass disks at the table's edge and slid it across to Owen. "Quarante-neuf."

  "What?"

  "The disks represent pasmortes. That disk is Quarante-neuf."

  Quarante-neuf's firestone had a glimmer of light. Others, those that did not move, had blackened, like spent firestones.

  "Is he alive or dead?"

  "He's quite dead, Captain." Du Malphias' smile grew. "You should ask if he is strong or weak."

  "Well?"

  "Strong, for now."

  The Laureate traced a fiery sigil in the air. The sphere's light flared, then the glass blackened and sagged inward. Like candle wax, it flowed onto the maps, which began to smolder. And the disk firestones melted along with it.

  Except for Quarante-neuf's.

  Owen looked up. "His firestone glows. What does it mean?"

  "I wish I knew." Du Malphias' eyes tightened. "I fear I shall not have time to study the matter, for now I am your prisoner. Will you treat me as I treated you?"

  Owen shook his head. "Not that you deserve better."

  "Not that you could inflict worse." The Tharyngian gently waved his left hand as if dismissing a rebuke. Owen's musket moved to the right, trailing steam, offline of the man's slender chest. "I promise I shall go as any man would go, with you, to surrender my forces and my fortress. The pasmortes cannot be raised again."

  "You could raise more."

  "I shall not." He smiled easily. "That line of research bores me. There are other things I wish to investigate."

  Owen looked around the room. "Notes on your experiments? Journals? Books?"

  He laughed. "Concerning the pasmortes? All gone. As for those on the healing concoctions, they are in my private quarters. But do not be in haste to get them. A copy of my research has already been sent to Feris to be published in the Tharyngian Science Journal. You are mentioned as Patient Ten. I shall have a copy sent to you."

&nb
sp; "You're so kind."

  "You know that is manifestly untrue." Du Malphias raised his hands above his head. "Now, shall we go stop this battle? I have no more use for corpses and I imagine there are a few men you should like to see yet alive."

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  August 1, 1764

  La Fortresse du Morte

  Anvil Lake, Mystria

  W hat in Heaven's name? Prince Vlad stared, disbelieving. As if they were all puppets controlled by the same strings, the pasmortes jerked suddenly in unison. Their backs bowed as if their shoulders were being drawn to the earth. Their mouths gaped open. Those that had eyes stared at the sky. Some even seemed surprised. And then, all at once, they snapped upright for a heartbeat before collapsing in a tangle of limp limbs.

  The Prince shook his head, not certain if in his fatigue he had slipped into some malaise where he was dreaming. He could not believe his eyes. Then Mugwump shuddered beneath him, and vomited forth a black puddle of quickly dissolving bones. The wurm shied from the steaming mire and scraped dirt over it with his tail.

  The Mystrians, finding themselves with no pasmortes to fight, flew to the battlements and angled fire into the fort's heart. The Fourth Foot finally came over the north wall's top, toward the middle. They quickly formed up by squads, five men crouching in front, five standing, and hammered the Ryngians with deadly volleys.

  Mystrian cannon-fire smashed the central stronghold. As men would discover as they dug through it for survivors, cleverly hidden tunnels fed into it. What Owen had once seen as shooting ports had been shuttered with planking and planted over. Inside had been three swivel-guns and enough room for two squads to take turns firing. Taking the stronghold by storm would have been a bloody affair.

  The battling raged for another five minutes, then du Malphias emerged from his wine cellar. He ordered his men to lay down their arms and had the colors struck from the flagpole. Aside from a few shots on the battlefield, and a few more across the river, all hostilities ceased by mid-afternoon.

  Prince Vlad rode Mugwump down and then slid out of the saddle. He nodded toward Owen and the stocky little redcoat holding a gun on du Malphias. "Well done, Captain Strake."

  "Thank you, Highness. May I present Guy du Malphias, Laureate of Tharyngia."

  The tall Ryngian bowed crisply. "It is an honor, Prince Vladimir. I much enjoyed your paper on the relation between ursine hibernation cycles and formations of geese flying south at winter. With your permission, I should undertake a proper translation."

  Vlad's eyes narrowed. "You'll forgive me, sir, but that's hardly what I expected from you." The Prince turned and beckoned Count von Metternin forward with a purple hand. "You know Count von Metternin."

  "Too well." The Laureate's head came up with the barest trace of a smile. "If you wish, I could heal your hands."

  Vlad shook his head. "Thank you, but no. Prior to this, battle has always been an intellectual exercise. I would not be soon without my reminder."

  The Count snorted. "To a Kessian, this is nothing."

  "You disguise your distrust well, gentlemen." Du Malphias drew his hands together at the small of his back. "At the very least I can offer you an unguent made from bear tallow and the mogiqua to which I was introduced by Captain Strake. It will ease the discomfort."

  "Very kind."

  "And I wish it noted that I surrendered to Captain Strake and his companion, Mr. Dunsby. If you will dispatch Mr. Dunsby to my quarters in the southern fort, he can fetch my saber for a formal presentation. I would send one of my servants but…" He glanced toward a withered pasmorte and shrugged.

  The Prince nodded to the redcoat. "Go."

  Dunsby ran off and returned with du Malphias' sword. The Laureate smiled, then handed it to the Prince. "There. The formalities have been satisfied."

  Vlad accepted it, then extended it back. "I have your parole?"

  "Of course." Du Malphias accepted the blade and leaned on it as if it were a walking stick. "I have quite tired of war."

  Lord Rivendell finally forced his way through the circle of soldiers surrounding the Laureate. The Norillian commander had come up over the wall once the shooting had stopped, his appearance spoiled only by the bloody mud on his boots. He drew his own sword, gold tassel dancing playfully, and leveled it at du Malphias.

  "In the name of her most Holy and Terrible Majesty, the exalted Queen Margaret of Norisle, I, John Lord Rivendell, demand your surrender, unconditionally, and that of your troops and possessions." Rivendell made certain his voice carried, and filled his words with gravity to underscore the moment's drama. "Your sword, sir."

  Vlad held up a hand. "He surrendered to me, my lord, and I returned it. I have his parole."

  Rivendell's blade quivered. "Your sword, sir."

  "As Prince Vladimir has said, I surrendered it to him."

  "He is not a military man. He has no authority to accept your surrender!" Spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth. "For the third time, sir, and the last, your sword."

  Du Malphias, gracing Rivendell with a stare that could have etched steel, turned and presented his sword to Captain Strake. "I surrender."

  Owen accepted the blade, then gave it back.

  Count von Metternin stepped forward, brushing Rivendell's blade aside. "I suggest the men attend to their wounded and comfort the dying."

  His suggestion, delivered in a calm but firm voice, fell as a command into all ears but those of Lord Rivendell. Men peeled away, forming squads. Many Mystrians headed back up and out the way they'd come in, to get their picks and shovels for grave-digging duty. They walked as men proud, heads held high, with the cry "To the top!" going up to cheers from time to time.

  Colonel Langford, ever Rivendell's amanuensis, followed his master doggedly, recording copious notes. Von Metternin, to Rivendell's displeasure, found a Ryngian from the Valmont region near the Kessian border who could read and write, and used him to record the Count's recollections. The Count shadowed Rivendell, driving him to distraction.

  Vlad wanted to record his thoughts as well, but because of his hands, had to employ a secretary. He chose Caleb Frost, who had come down from Fort Cuivre on the sloop. He found Caleb gifted at not only recording his thoughts faithfully, but adding quick sketches which enhanced the text.

  Recollections of the battle varied highly with the author-something which came as no surprise to the Prince. In Rivendell's account, no mention of pasmortes graced the page. He explained the myriad pasmorte bodies as simply being those of civilians who expired of fright when they looked upon a wurm for the first time. Langford did add a note that suggested the civilians were suffering from an unknown malady, which contributed to their diminished capacity.

  Rivendell's description of the surrender, of course, made no mention of anyone but Rivendell and du Malphias. It read as if Rivendell had taken the Fortresse du Morte all by his lonesome, and tracked du Malphias down in his hidden lair. Rivendell noted that he'd been aware of du Malphias' duplicity the whole of the time at Anvil Lake and, therefore, had not been surprised by it.

  The various battle reports most closely agreed when it came to matter of casualties. The Fourth Foot suffered 54 percent killed or wounded. The Third battalion, which had closed the gap, had suffered 83 percent casualties, with over half of those dead. The cavalry's cowardly First battalion had escaped lightly. The Second took 57 percent casualties, including Colonel Thornbury. Survivors within the First claimed that when the sloop had appeared under Ryngian colors, Thornbury had ordered them to withdraw, but no physical evidence of that order was ever found.

  The Mystrians came off the best on the Norillian side of things, having only one in five men killed or wounded. Among historians, this worked against them because military experts assessed unit performance based on casualties, rather than objectives gained. Thus historians deemed the Fourth Foot's effort as the most critical. They tied the Tharyngians up, freeing the Mystrians to do what they did. As for the sloop's crew, their advancing
under the enemy flag was seen as contemptible conduct. Norillian politicians seized upon that fact to besmirch the Mystrian effort and salve the wounded egos of those who had wished for a cleaner victory.

  The Ryngians were given muskets and sufficient shot and powder to defend themselves on the long trip home. They gave their parole that they would not fight against Norillian interests in the new world and headed up the Green River. Du Malphias traveled on the sloop along with a company of the Fourth Foot, led by the newly promoted Lieutenant Unstone, to take over the garrison of Fort Cuivre. From there the Laureate would be given passage to Kebeton.

  The Ungarakii melted into the wilderness and the Seven Nations announced their neutrality in all wars of the white men.

  The Fourth Foot garrisoned the Fortress of Death, which they renamed Fort Hammer-the name based on the fort's location at Anvil Lake. The Mystrians, the cavalry, and Lord Rivendell all headed back to Hattersburg, making the return trip in half the time.

  They could have made better time, but despite wanting to be home again in time for harvest, the men remained reluctant to break apart their company. Vlad understood and agreed. Combat had brought together men from all over Mystria. They had faced crack troops from Tharyngia and beaten them.

  The grumbling from the cavalry limping at the end of the column only made them feel better.

  In their absence, Hattersburg had been transformed. They returned on August twelfth to a town largely unlike the one they'd left a month earlier. Horses filled brand new corrals. Warehouses nearly burst with supplies. Men wearing Kessian blue sashes-locals with Seth Plant at their head-stood guard. They herded the redcoat cavalry away from the horses at gunpoint, and the Prince was directed to Gates' Tavern.

  He'd barely dismounted Mugwump when the door flew open and Gisella, her golden hair flashing, threw herself into his arms. He caught her as best he could, but she still knocked him back into the wurm's flank. His betrothed wrapped him up in a hug so tight that he gasped for breath, then she kissed him and clean took his breath away.