At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The other three exchanged glances, then nodded. Nathaniel tossed him a ragged salute. “Lead on, Captain Strake. Into the mouth of Hell and back out again.”

  Caution slowed their pace so that they reached Anvil Lake at noon a week later. It took them until mid-afternoon on the day of their arrival to locate and repair two canoes. Makepeace, using bark, some pitch and prayer managed to duplicate Kamiskwa’s work. The patch held just as well, though did not blend seamlessly. When they launched Owen watched for any signs of leakage, but the canoe remained intact.

  They kept to the northern shore and moved at night. They worked their away along carefully, never more than twenty yards out from shore. This afforded them some cover from the northern wind but, more importantly, made it harder for anyone in the fortress to see them.

  They made good time on the water and by the third day, they stopped near the headland where the lake made a jog to the north into the anvil’s beak. The northern island lay northwest of them. A sliver of moon provided them enough light to reach it undetected.

  As they approached the island, Owen collected his thoughts and wrote his conclusions into his expedition journal. The trip from Pine Lake to Anvil Lake convinced him how difficult bringing an army up to assault the fortress would truly be. Transport ships could carry an army to Hattersburg, but from there they would have to go on foot. They would have to build a road through primeval forest, an undertaking that would take a month or more and that would be without bad weather or harassment by the Ryngian forces.

  At Anvil Lake they’d need to create a flotilla of flat boats, since approaching by the southern shore would add fifty miles of road-building to the campaign. The forests would yield ample raw materials to build the fleet, but any hope of surprise evaporated. The fortress would have to be taken by siege, which required yet more men and supplies.

  The smartest plan for the Norillians would be to build their own fortress at the outflow into the Tillie. The Ryngians would have to destroy it before moving down the river. That would buy ample time for Norisle to raise other defenses.

  Owen made a solid case for that plan. Someone like Lord Rivendell would never see the wisdom in it. Owen’s uncle, on the other hand, would. He would appropriate both the plan and the acclaim that came from it. Anger sparked at that idea; Owen smothered it.

  Finally they reached the northern island. The rectangular plot of earth and stone rose up twenty yards, with a deep bowl in the middle. It had started life as a jumble of rocks, but over the years had grown up with trees and mosses, flowers and shrubs that completely hid the rocks beneath. They drew their canoes all the way up into the interior and made no fire. They kept watches, but aside from calling loons and a moose taking a shortcut across the island, they neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary.

  In preparation for their scouting mission, each man put together a satchel with twenty-four rounds and changed their firestones for new. They assumed, quite rightly, that if they could not escape pursuit before they exhausted their ammunition, they were as good as dead or worse.

  Owen left behind his journals, his pistol and pens. He included in his load two pencils and A Continent’s Calling. He would jot his notes in it, then expand them into his journals. The other men likewise abandoned non-essentials. If all went well, they would make a trip to the western shore, take a look, return to retrieve their gear, then head east again.

  Taking advantage of a low mist on the water, they struck out for the western shore in the early morning. They navigated up a small stream, then hid the canoes on the northern side. Kamiskwa pointed out a few other cached canoes on the way and holed one of Ungarakii manufacture. They crossed the stream and headed south. Kamiskwa found a game trail that brought them to a marsh between hills. They skirted the mire to the lake side, then headed directly up a wooded hill

  Just beneath the crest Nathaniel smiled. “One more hill and we’ll see what needs to be seen.”

  Makepeace, already at the crest, turned, his face ashen. “May God have Mercy on our souls.”

  Owen scrambled up the rest of the way, then flattened onto his belly.

  To the south, where there should have been a wooded hill, construction had scraped a reddish scar in the earth. The hill at the lake’s edge had been chopped in half, with the back hauled away, lumber, stones and all.

  And beyond it, in all its dark and angular glory, stood the fortification that would soon become known as the Fortress of Death.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  July 7, 1763

  Anvil Lake

  Lindenvale, Mystria

  Owen had seen many fortresses during Continental campaigns. In medieval times stones walls had risen very high, but with the advent of cannon, such walls fell easily. As a result, engineers designed new fortifications that involved the creation of a glacis: a low slope rising ten feet or more. From the distant hilltop, the glacises gave the fortress an irregular, star-shaped footprint.

  The glacises extended out from the walls for a hundred yards and came to a point. Their sides sloped gently back toward the fortress and stone faced them. Cannon-shot hitting the stone would bounce up over the fortress’ wooden palisade wall. Getting cannons close enough that they could hit the walls directly, or moving mortars into range to lob shot over the walls, would be a long and laborious process. It involved digging endless trenches, working ever closer while under enemy cannon-fire from the fortress.

  As bad as that was, other defenses made things worse. The ground above and below the glacises had been set with sharpened stakes. This would slow infantry assaults. Abatises made of logs with stout, sharpened branches crossed the only access near the two small gates on the west side. Those sally-ports would allow Ryngian troops to rush out to counterattack the Norillian trenchers.

  Beyond the stakes, and a dozen feet before the wall, a berm had been thrown up, also strewn with stakes. Beyond it lay a trench which made the walls even taller. With the easternmost part of the fortress being built on the heights, flooding that trench wasn’t possible, but down where the assault was likely to happen, sluice-gates by the river would fill it.

  At the lake, the palisade wall came close to the edge of an eighty-foot-tall cliff. Naval gunfire could obliterate that narrowest portion of the fortress, but to get a ship of sufficient size into Anvil Lake would require a transit through Ryngian-controlled rivers and lakes. The final passage would take it past the Fortress of Death cannons.

  The fortress formed a rough triangle, though the walls did boast a few projections that would allow troops to pour a murderous crossfire on any besiegers. With the high point on the east at the cliffs, the fortress spread out downhill to the base, which ran parallel to the Green River. As the scouting party moved west it became apparent that any ship trying to make it through the river would be under the fortress’ batteries for five hundred yards. That sort of pounding would reduce the ship to a hulk before it ever made Anvil Lake.

  And to complicate matters further, a smaller fort had been erected across the river on the western plain. Owen suspected chains could be strung between them to completely restrict transit.

  Somehow, all of that wasn’t the worst aspect. Pallid, shuffling human beings—or what he supposed once had been human beings—formed a different chain, one of constant motion to and from the hills. Some carried axes and shovels, felling trees and digging into hillsides. Others that moved haltingly carried sacks of earth on their backs, or were roped into teams that dragged trees from where they had been felled. These creatures performed labor that others might have reserved for oxen. While they did not move with great speed, they moved constantly and showed no sign of fatigue.

  After the initial look, Owen signaled for a move to the west. Though the walls had not been completed, and work crews were refining trenches, the vision of what it would become blossomed full in Owen’s mind. Without precise measurements and drawings, however, observations would be of little military value.

  They went west a
nd slowly worked their way back east to the shore. Owen made notes and maps in the back of his book. Kamiskwa stayed closest to him, with Makepeace and Nathaniel out and back to keep watch and provide cover. Owen used an average man’s height to judge the length of logs, and then used them to provide a scale for the fortress.

  It wasn’t until they had returned to North Island, and he began transcribing information into his journals, that he found any reason to take the least bit of heart. “The one thing I didn’t notice was enough cannon to destroy a ship.”

  “I reckon that’s good.” Nathaniel drew the fortress in the dirt with a stick. “They probably started with the fort on the hill, then expanded down. Second one down where the river meets lake. Put up a wall to link them. Then the third point, link that.”

  Owen nodded. “Makes perfect sense.”

  “Well now, we didn’t see none of it because of where we was, but if they still have them internal fort walls up…”

  Owen groaned. “You have smaller fortresses that still have to be taken.”

  Makepeace stirred their little fire. “’Member Jean saying du Malphias was digging down, too? If they build themselves tunnels and redoubts, that’s a trap waiting to be sprung.”

  "Right. Tomorrow, then, we’re going to have take a look from the hills on the other side of the Green River. We should be able to see from inside.”

  Nathaniel stood and rubbed his fort out with a foot. “If we’re going to do that, best move now.”

  They took the expedient of hacking some branches off trees to decorate the right side of their canoes, then started back toward the narrows, then across. In the distance, in the stingy amount of light shed by a sliver-moon, they would look like nothing more than debris in the water. As they traveled, Owen watched the ramparts with his telescope, but he could see little. At best he thought he saw the silhouettes of a couple sentries marching along the high wall.

  Once they reached the southern shore, they worked their way west and entered a small stream about a hundred yards shy of the Roaring River outlet. They dragged their canoes out of sight on the western shore, then found another hollow where they built a fire and stashed their gear.

  Owen tore the maps he’d drawn from the back of A Continent’s Calling and tucked them inside his journal. He secured them in their oilskin cases, and then stuffed them into his large pouch. In doing so he found the doll Agaskan had given him. He smiled and, on a whim, tucked it into his smaller pouch, along with the book and the pencils.

  They got on the water again before dawn and used the mist to provide cover. They had to paddle out onto the lake to avoid being pulled in by the Roaring River. Though the mist largely hid it, Owen still made out dim rock teeth through which the water flowed. The river’s thunder hinted at torturous cataracts below.

  Once past, they made for the western shore, as close to the mouth of the Green River as possible. They brought their canoes in through a marshy area then stashed the canoes and went directly overland toward the fort.

  The view confirmed what Nathaniel had suspected. The fortress’ river wall bristled with cannon ports. Likewise, the river side of the smaller fort, a miniature of the larger fort, complete with glacises, trenches, and palisade walls. It had been built on an artificial hill created by taking the earth down all around it. While that provided a flat battlefield, it presented two problems. Trenches would end up running below the water-table, so would quickly become mires. Any army caught in the plain might also be subject to sudden flood if du Malphias could breach the riverbank.

  Owen explained this to Nathaniel. The guide nodded and pointed at the river’s southern bank,just east of the small fort. “I might just be seeing things, but looks like the bank was shored up there, by that little dock.”

  Owen studied it with his telescope. Pilings had been sunk along the bank. At a casual glance it looked like a wall erected on either side of the little jetty. “But there’s no reason for a jetty there.”

  He collapsed the telescope. “A southerly breeze will shroud the field in smoke. Any army laying siege to the smaller fort would never see the bank collapse. Du Malphias must have the angles marked, the range measured. Blind men shooting at midnight could hit it with every shot.”

  “And see there, in the fort—you have your internal walls and that stone fort in the middle.”

  Owen nodded. What had once been tall external walls on the two lower forts had been chopped down to half their height, making the interior of the fortress a wonderful killing ground. Moreover, in the heart of it, du Malphias had created a stone star. Glacises and spikes protected it and the roof of the circular enclosure at its center only rose four feet high. Soldiers within could shoot out at all sides of the fortress, and the lack of doors hinted at tunnels that fed into it.

  “Short of lobbing a mortar shell on top of it, there is no way to destroy it from outside.” The soldier’s shoulders slumped. “This is a lock on the heart of the Continent, and I cannot see that we have the key.”

  “Yep. And busting this lock will take more than a big rock.”

  A gunshot split the morning off to the left. Another, closer, followed. Both men snatched up their long guns and dashed toward the sound. Off to the south Kamiskwa paralleled them. Two more rifles fired in the distance, and a grunt prefaced a return shot.

  At the edge of a clearing Makepeace sat with his back to the thick bole of a tree. Blood marked his left shoulder, but he still was using that arm to ram a bullet home. He saw them, jerked his head to the west. “Squad of blues. Ilsavont with ’em.”

  Owen took cover behind a tree, then ducked his head out. Ryngian regulars were moving forward. Three men advanced, three shot, three reloaded, and an officer marched behind with Etienne. The blue coats had gold facings, marking them as part of the Or Regiment.

  “Nathaniel, the officer.”

  The Mystrian fired. The officer slammed off a tree and fell, a chunk of his face missing.

  The Ryngians fired back. Makepeace’s tree lost bark. The giant laughed, rose, and fired in one smooth motion. He didn’t even bother to use his left arm, he just thrust the musket forward in one massive hand. The shot spun one of the Ryngians to the ground, but the rest kept coming up.

  “Makepeace, Nathaniel, fall back. Kamiskwa and I will cover.” Owen caught a glimpse of a Ryngian moving north to flank them. He waited for the man to poke his head out past a tree and fired. The shot gouged the tree and the man screamed.

  Owen fell back twenty yards. He pulled out a cartridge and bit the bullet out of the paper. He upended the paper cylinder, pouring the brimstone down the barrel, then stuffed the paper after it. He pressed the bullet into the barrel, drew the ramrod, and forced it down. He hit it twice to pack it tightly, then withdrew the ramrod, reversed it, and slid it home beneath the barrel.

  The Ryngians hesitated at the far end of the clearing, then darted across. Makepeace and Nathaniel both shot. Two men went down. One got back up and dove to the far side of Makepeace’s tree.

  Off to the left, Kamiskwa shot and dashed back through the trees, chased by a hail of bullets. Owen aimed for the man on the other side of Makepeace’s tree. The man had crouched and his white-breeched bottom stuck out, made an inviting target. Owen shot. The man yelped.

  Owen looked east and ran for a fallen log. He leaped, grabbing the top with his left hand to slow himself, and brought his legs over. He twisted in mid-air to face the enemy. His toes touched earth.

  Then a Ryngian bullet skipped off a rock and slid through a gap between the log and ground. It caught Owen in the left thigh, midway between hip and knee. It shattered his femur, cutting his leg out from under him. He smashed face-first into the log. Lights exploded. Suddenly he was on his back, blood in his mouth, his leg twisted impossibly beneath him. Pain roared through him.

  Nathaniel loomed over him. “Just a scratch.”

  “What?”

  Nathaniel stood, tracked, and fired. Another man screamed. The Mystrian ducked down again.
“Throw your arm over my shoulder.”

  “No.” Owen grit his teeth against the pain. “Go. Get the journals to the Prince.”

  “You’ll carry them yourself.”

  “No, Nathaniel. I can’t travel. I’m likely dead already. Go. That is an order!”

  “Now I ain’t…”

  Owen grabbed a fistful of Nathaniel’s tunic. “You promised. The journals are how you save Mystria. Get them and go. Go!”

  Nathaniel snarled, reloaded, and shot again. “You ain’t seen the last of me, Owen Strake.”

  “I’ll save you a seat in Hell, Nathaniel Woods.”

  Nathaniel ran and the other two shot to cover him. Owen tried to grab his musket, but it had fallen too far away. He did manage to catch hold of a rock and twist around so his leg straightened out a little. A wave of nausea washed over him and darkness nibbled at his eyesight, but he refused to pass out.

  Shifting his leg didn’t do anything to ease the pain. He pulled himself into a sitting position, then took his belt off and wrapped it around his thigh above the wound, yanking it tight.

  Grabbing the rock again, he slid over to where a mogiqua fern grew. He stripped off leaves with a bloody hand and shoved them into his mouth. He chewed, welcoming the bitter taste, then spat the mulch out and stuffed it in the wound.

  In the name of the Almighty, please work.

  Owen tried not to whimper, but he couldn’t keep silent. All the times he’d bit back cries when, in school, he’d been beaten all because remaining silent seemed the noble thing to do came back to him. How silly. Pain cut past nobility.

  It cut past humanity.

  A Ryngian came over the log and swung his musket around.

  Owen opened his empty hands.

  The man smiled coldly. About the point where Owen noticed the man’s cheek had been opened by a splinter gouged from a tree, the solder reversed his rifle and slammed it into Owen’s thigh.