At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  With four of them, and Makepeace being as big as he was, they could no longer travel in one canoe. Owen partnered with Makepeace in a second. This made their journeys a bit faster and, despite the aching shoulders and chest, Owen enjoyed the added work.

  The giant’s presence also made Nathaniel a little less reserved. He’d called Nathaniel “Magehawk,” too, but Owen didn’t press for that story. That would have violated the trust they’d been building up. Instead he would sit back at night, writing in his journal, as the other three men shared stories they’d obviously heard before but enjoyed nonetheless. And Makepeace, for all of his understatement, told as good a story as the other two.

  Listening to them over the next several weeks Owen realized they all had a sense of freedom that he’d never known. One night Nathaniel told a story about his having been caught stealing eggs from an old woman’s farm when he was a child. He’d tried for years and years to redeem himself in her eyes. He’d chopped wood in the winter, he’d brought her skins and meat, he’d carried messages, fetched packages, and always stopped in when he was near her home just to see if she needed anything.

  “Then, ’bout five years ago, I came up on her farm and there weren’t no smoke from the chimney, no chickens in the yard. I was thinking the worst, of course.” Nathaniel rotated the spit on which he’d skewered a crow. “I went into Oaktown, asked. They said she was feeling poorly, been taken in by the Preacher and his wife. So I went to see her. She was in her bed and when she saw me, she started cussing a blue streak, calling me all kinds of thief.

  “I reckon the Preacher he done read my face. I was disappointed to see her in such a state and all. And he says to her, ‘Grannie Hale, you been hating this boy for nigh on to twenty years over a handful of eggs he didn’t even get away with. Can’t you forgive him, even now?’”

  Nathaniel smiled. “So she looked up at him, all toothless grinning and says, “I don’t hate him. I done forgive him twenty years ago, Reverend. I just hain’t tole him I did. Iffen I had, who’d a-brung me venison and skins? Who’d a-been chopping my wood, hauling water, and patching my roof?’”

  “And the Reverend said, ‘Maybe he would have found it in his heart to do so anyway.’ And she spitted him with a stare was clear-eyed and cold. ‘You preach redemption, but it’s at a word and a dunking. I make him work for it. It sticks that way.’ And ain’t no two ways about it, she was righter than rain.”

  Owen never could have told that sort of story on himself. It would have opened him to ridicule. He got enough of that just because of the circumstance of his birth. And yet the ease with which they shared such stories revealed an inner confidence that he craved.

  Is it this place that breeds these men, or the freedom that encourages them? He jotted that question down. He stared at the empty page below it for a long while, and he found himself unable to compose a satisfactory answer.

  Three weeks out of Hattersburg, as dusk was falling, they paddled across Pine Lake. Small, not particularly deep, it lay nestled in a small valley, with thick forest right down to the water. A few islands dotted it and fish jumped at bugs. The wind stirred the water a bit, but Owen felt that if he had to live out his days with that vista visible from his front porch, he could die happy.

  The wind blew out of the north, slowing their progress, but brought the sound of voices. They came from a long, slender island running northwest to southeast. On the leeward side, where the island’s central spine blocked the wind, a fire’s golden hints glimmered.

  Nathaniel and Kamiskwa immediately cut east. They headed out and around, approaching the island on the windward side. As they got close enough to land, Makepeace and Owen paddled toward the small, sandy beach on the island’s lee side. They readied their muskets before they came within range then, fifty yards offshore, changed course to run parallel to the beach.

  Makepeace cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Hello, the fire. Bonsoir.”

  Brief movement eclipsed the fire. A voice called back cautiously. “Bonsoir. Who is it, please?”

  “Makepeace Bone. That you, Jean?”

  “Yes, my friend.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Etienne Ilsavont. You might like to choose another island, non?”

  “Tain’t very friendly, Jean.”

  “My friend, I will shoot if you try to land.”

  “You shoot, I’ll be sore disappointed.” Makepeace picked up his paddle and lowered his voice. “We go in easy. You shoot, then me, iffen they start a fight.”

  Owen, his mouth going dry, watched the island as they paddled closer. He’d long since learned better than to stare intently at any one spot. Instead he broadened his focus, watching for movement. Yearsasa skirmisher had taught him that motion was easier to see than men who wanted to be hidden.

  Every stroke, the ripple of water around the bow, filled ears straining for any noise. Owen saw nothing. If they shot, he’d first see fire, then hear the blast. Every stroke brought them deeper into lethal range. Even the most inept shot had an even chance of hitting them. At that range, a .75 caliber ball would crush bone and blow right through a man, possibly even pitching him out of the canoe.

  “Come on in. They’re inclined to be peaceable.”

  At Nathaniel’s call they sped up. While Makepeace and Owen had distracted the Ryngians, Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had slipped onto the island from the windward side. Having seen them move through the woods, Owen had no doubts that they’d taken the Ryngians completely by surprise.

  Owen leaped clear of the canoe as it first touched sand, then dragged it forward. Makepeace climbed out into ankle-deep water and grabbed one of the crosspieces. Without grunt or grimace, he lifted the whole canoe out of the lake and carried it up to dry sand. He set it next to the smaller of two canoes that had been overturned to shelter a thick bale of pelts.

  Carrying his rifle, Owen jogged up a slight incline to a flat spot where the Ryngians had built their fire. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa covered two men. The captives were seated on the ground; their muskets lay on the far side of the fire. Both weapons resembled Owen’s carbine for length, but were much older and wanted for maintenance.

  One man vaguely resembled Pierre. Owen figured him to be Etienne. Thick like his father, possibly brother, and not terribly tall, Etienne looked much younger and had a thick shock of brown hair. He looked more angry than sour, while his compatriot looked just the opposite. Jean looked as much like a drowned rat as he did a man, with his ears and nose warring for prominence. He had no chin to speak of, which he compensated for with a thick and droopy moustache. If not for a high forehead and decently spaced eyes, it would have been simple to dismiss him as a lower-class wastrel.

  Makepeace circled around to stand to the right of and behind Jean. Nathaniel sat, but still kept his rifle leveled at their captives. “Now we don’t mean you no discomfort or ill will. I pert near forgot that time when you and your pa were emptying my traps, Etienne. How so ever, I do have me some questions.”

  The younger man glared sullenly at Nathaniel.

  Jean smiled half-heartedly. “My friend Nathaniel, you are not one to point a gun unless you mean to use it.”

  “Just as you was a-pointing at my friends.”

  “This is true. A misunderstanding, non?” Jean lowered his hands. “We shall start again. Welcome to our fire. Please, share with us.”

  “Ain’t you a mite east of your normal range?” Nathaniel watched them closely. “I don’t recall ever seeing you in these parts.”

  Jean shrugged. “The land, it is so beautiful. We just kept going.”

  “And I don’t recall you traveling with the Ilsavonts.”

  “These are difficult times, my friend.”

  “Part of that difficult being your father up out of his grave, Etienne?”

  Blood drained from Ilsavont’s face. He started to say something, then his shoulders sagged and he began to cry.

  Jean rested a hand on his shoulder and said someth
ing softly. He turned to look at Nathaniel and Owen. “Please, gentlemen, he has been tortured by this. This is why we are here.”

  Nathaniel pointed his rifle toward the sky. “Tell me.”

  Jean and Etienne exchanged glances, then the younger man nodded. Jean let his hand fall from his shoulder and hunched forward. “It is like this. Two months ago a ship arrives in Kebeton from Tharyngia. A man, tall, a scarecrow, a Laureate, they say, he comes with troops and many boxes of equipment. Big boxes, small, and he has servants who help unload, but only at night. He offers good money, much money, for scouts, and for other things. I just found paths for him, yes? I knew of the other things he wanted but he was a Laureate. Like your prince, non? Who can know their minds?”

  “What did he want?” Owen dropped to a knee. “The other things?”

  Jean stared into the fire. “He wanted bodies. He wanted to know where the Shedashee, they bury their people. He came to some of the resting grounds, but the bodies, they did not suit him. So he asked for other bodies. I hear, you know, men bring him murder victims. There was one small town where we hear there is a frozen body. They keep it in the ice house and charge for to look. And he sends for that body.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “And that would be Pierre?”

  Jean shook his head. “I do not know.”

  “My father, yes.” Etienne lifted his head, smearing dirt as he wiped away tears. “I fetched the body. I thawed it out. I saw it was my father. And a week later, I saw my father alive again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  June 27, 1763

  Pine Lake

  Lindenvale, Mystria

  Owen ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “No lie?”

  “It was my father. The frostbite, it had nibbled, but no mistake.” The young man hung his head. “And yet, you know, it was not my father.”

  “Meaning?”

  Etienne closed his eyes tight. “His eyes. I saw some of him there, but very little. Hints of him. He was an echo, a faint echo, in his body. Physically able, yes, but mostly gone.”

  Jean looked up, fear etching lines around his eyes. “This is not possible, non? One cannot return from the grave.”

  “I reckon the Good Lord did.”

  “Yes, but if you believe such things, Nathaniel, he was the Son of God. No man can do this.”

  Makepeace spat. “That ain’t exactly true. In the Good Book, Elisha done raised men from the dead, one man just on account of that man touched Elisha’s bones. Saint Paul done raised a boy what fell out of a window and died. Saint Peter brought Saint Tabitha back.”

  Etienne’s eyes opened again. “But the man from Tharyngia, he is no saint.”

  “Du Malphias.”

  Both the Ryngians looked up at Owen. Etienne shivered. Jean shook his head. “He is the Devil himself.”

  Nathaniel chuckled. “Here I thought, Jean, you didn’t believe.”

  “He is enough to convert me. Gods, demons, evil thoughts in his head, I do not know, but I have seen what he has done.”

  Owen held a hand up. “What the boy said about echoes. I remember men who had head wounds. They didn’t die, at least not immediately. They weren’t in pain. They could remember some things. They were almost childlike.”

  Etienne nodded. “Yes, it was like that, a bit, but my father was not hurt in the head.”

  Nathaniel stood. “I’m a-wondering, Owen, why you’s fighting what they’re telling us. You said yourself this du Malphias robbed graves there on the Continent. Supposing he had found a way to raise the dead?”

  He pointed at the Ryngians. “How many like Pierre did you see?”

  Jean shrugged. “A dozen. Two.”

  “They eat much?”

  “I never saw them eat. But when they would be broken, the devil would fix them.” Jean glanced at Kamiskwa. “The pasmortes, he would use them to frighten the Ungarakii.”

  The Altashee nodded. “Wendigo. Very bad.”

  A chill puckered Owen’s flesh. “Where is he?”

  Etienne’s eyes grew wide. “You are mad if you go there.”

  “Where is he?”

  Jean’s expression sobered. “You doom yourself. Nathaniel, Makepeace, you know Anvil Lake. The Green River flows from there to Lac Verleau—on the northern heights, he is building a fortress. He has cannon and soldiers. It cannot be taken.”

  Owen frowned. “Anvil Lake? How far?”

  “Due west a week.” Nathaniel scratched his jaw. “Anvil drains out the Roaring River south and into the Misaawa River south of Long Lake. It also drains east into the headwaters of the Tillie.”

  “He cuts us off from the interior and threatens Lindenvale.” Owen lowered his musket. “How far built is his fortress?”

  Etienne threw his arms wide. “It is huge. His workers are tireless. They shift stone, they chop wood.”

  “Can you draw me a picture of it?”

  Jean shook his head. “It would do no good. He builds in pieces, tearing things down, putting things up. And he builds down, my friend. Deep. Into the depths are where these pasmortes go. From the bowels of the earth Pierre emerged.”

  Owen chewed his lower lip. “How reliable are these two?”

  “Reliable? Not much.”

  “Can they be trusted to carry a message?”

  Jean laughed. “If carrying it will get me far away from du Malphias, you shall have no better courier, my friend.”

  “There’s a pound in it for you, a gold pound, if you get it to Temperance.”

  Jean nodded avidly, his partner dully.

  Makepeace growled from behind them. “And a lead pound if you don’t.”

  “Calm yourself, my friend Makepeace. I will be your most obedient servant.” Jean smiled easily. “I live to serve, and if I serve you, I shall continue to live.”

  Owen wrote up two messages, coding the one to the Prince and another covering letter to Doctor Frost. He sealed the first, then sealed it inside the second. The four of them then split the night into watches and kept the Ryngians under guard. Finally, when morning arrived, they helped the Ryngians load their canoes and sent them on their way.

  With the canoes a dozen yards offshore, Etienne turned back with a dripping paddle across his knees. “Monsieur Woods, have you seen my father?”

  “Yup. Shot him dead. Burned his head. Ain’t no more need for no nightmares.”

  “Yes, I see. Merci.” He turned and drew deep water with the paddle.

  Makepeace spat in the direction of the departing canoe. “By the Grace of God I hope that boy done learned a lesson.”

  “Wurms sooner to grow wings, I’m reckon.” Nathaniel scratched at the back of his neck. “We’re a week to Anvil. Another week to paddle our way across, give or take. Couple islands we could lay up on, ain’t there?”

  Makepeace squatted and drew a rough map in the dirt. The outline resembled an anvil with the top running north to south, and the beak pointing north. The lake narrowed toward the east, then broadened out again into the anvil’s base. The Green River came in at the southwest quarter, and the Roaring River went out very close to it. The Tillie outflow split the eastern shore in half.

  “Couple small islands near that fort. Jumbles of rocks mainly. Two big ones, one to the north, one straight east of that fort. North we won’t see nothing. East we would have a good view, but your man would be an idiot iffen he didn’t have no troops there.”

  “Why won’t we see anything from the north?”

  The giant traced a thick finger through the earth. “Jean called it the heights. Mess of hills.”

  “Could we get closer in the hills than the island?”

  “We could up and just walk on in, but ain’t likely your man will let us get back out again.”

  Owen nodded. “I understand, Mr. Bone, but I need to study that fortress. I need to make maps. Just drifting past and running away isn’t enough.

  “I know this is a very dangerous proposition. You are all courageous men but no amount of money could c
ompensate you for this risk. I fully discharge you from any obligation. I’ll write a note to the Prince and would ask you to bear it to him. I have no choice but to go there. I do not ask the same of you.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes became slits. “Iffen there’s not money enough to pay for anyone to go take a look-see, how come you’re going?”

  “I am a sworn officer in Her Majesty’s Army. My orders are to survey Tharyngian positions in Mystria.”

  “Wouldn’t no one know if you just didn’t go. You’d not be the first to take a new name and adopt a new life.”

  “That would be true, Mr. Woods, but I would know.” Owen lifted his chin. “I do not choose to live a dishonored life.”

  “Seems to me you think we would.”

  “No, not at all.” Owen opened his hands. “Once we sail west of the shore, we will be in territory which, according to the 1760 Treaty of Mastrick, belongs to Tharyngia. Dressed as I am, I will be taken as a spy and shot. You will share my fate. And if a fraction of what we suspect is actually true, a fate worse than death may await us all.”

  Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. “This ain’t you being all noble and Norillian and all?”

  Owen shook his head ruefully. “You are my friends. I value your lives too much to put them in such obvious danger. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. I hope I’ve learned enough to let me complete my mission. I have no choice but to go.”

  Nathaniel stretched. “Well now, I is only speaking for me, but I don’t reckon I have a choice neither. See, when all them Branches and Casks was a-wagering on how long you’d last out here, I done took their bets. And I doubled up on them, saying you’d be coming back alive. I reckon I have an investment to be protecting.”

  Kamiskwa nodded. “My sister wants you to bring her doll back. I go.”

  Makepeace rose, clapping the dust off his hands. “I been a-waiting for whatever that shepherd done saved me for. I’d be a durn fool iffen I thought this weren’t it. Besides, last time I checked, killing Ryngians was more a virtue than a vice.”

  Owen nodded solemnly. “One more thing you’d best understand. We are going to be invading enemy territory. We’re going to war. I understand war the way you understand the wilderness. From this point forward, I am in command. If I give an order, you obey. Is that understood?”