At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Another ball ricocheted off a rock as Owen scrambled to the treeline. Tharyngians shouted orders, looking for a place to beach their boats. Quarante-neuf shot past Owen, then grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him further into the woods. Keeping the lake on their left, they plunged into the forest, seeking hollows to work their way up and in while remaining hidden.

  They fought through deep drifts. The sound of pursuit came quickly. “They must have snowshoes.” Quarante-neuf shoved Owen up to the crest of a small hill. “Go, I will delay them.”

  “No, I can’t make it without you.” Owen stood and turned, then a musket barked. A ball caught him in the left flank, pitching him backward. He spun, slammed into a tree, then started tumbling down the hillside.

  Owen reached the bottom, new pain rippling through him. The bullet had only caught flesh and maybe a little muscle, but smashing into the tree had stunned him. Stars evaporated from his eyes, but the forest took on an odd quality. The snow had tinges of green and hints of deep blue. Stones began to shift shape and trees began to part. To the south a whole avenue opened, welcoming him.

  Two more gunshots and Quarante-neuf crashed down beside him. “How bad, Captain?”

  “I will live. Did they hit you?”

  “Once, in the stomach.” The pasmorte spasmed, as if to vomit, then spat the bullet into his hand. “It is nothing.”

  “We have to go.” Owen struggled to get up. “South, there, can you see it?”

  The pasmorte nodded. “The winding path. It will kill us.”

  “But it will not return us to du Malphias.”

  Quarante-neuf pulled Owen up. “Then the winding path it is.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  October 15, 1763

  Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

  Nathaniel would have laughed had the situation not been dire. With snowshoes strapped to his feet, Makepeace sailed down the hillside, taking huge long steps and leaps. His bear robe, which he’d peeled down to the waist, had sleeves flopping, making the man look like a four-armed nightmare creature.

  Kamiskwa and Nathaniel followed quickly in his wake. The Altashee cut left well above the spot where Makepeace had stopped, and Nathaniel turned to the west two steps later. In parallel, they filed through the woods, coming on through the shore zone.

  More guns fired before them, closer this time, and the trio broke into a run. They caught voices distantly, the words unintelligible, but recognized the cadence as Tharyngian. Then, as they came around a hill, three shots fired in volley. The muzzle-flashes revealed an infantry squad in blue jackets tearing up a hill, and over a dozen ragged pasmortes coming on through the snow.

  Nathaniel raised his rifle, sighted, and pulsed magick into the firestone. Forty yards, at night, even with the moonlight, would be a tricky shot, but the Tharyngian soldiers silhouetted themselves against the snow. His rifle spat fire and metal. A man halfway up the hill, calmly reloading his musket, grunted and collapsed, snow dusting his corpse.

  From his right and left his companions also fired. One man screamed and kept screaming. Two men shot back, one shot hitting the tree behind which Nathaniel had taken cover. The shot hit high. The Ryngians were shooting blindly. Then someone shouted orders and the Ryngian regulars returned no more fire.

  Nathaniel ignored the bluebacks and crouched. He worked the lever, cleared the breech, reloaded and levered the assembly back into place. He peered out, saw two silhouettes still on the slope, and pasmortes on their way.

  “Remember, the Prince wants one of them things.”

  Makepeace laughed. “I’ll try to save him a piece, anyway.”

  Nathaniel tracked and shot. One pasmorte was loping forward on all fours. The bullet caught it high in the chest as it rose to spring ahead. It nearly stood like a man again, then flopped over onto its back, arms and legs spasmodically clawing at the sky.

  A single gunshot answered him, chipping bark from the tree. “Careful. One has a gun.”

  “By the rock.” Kamiskwa pointed due west, then raised his musket and shot. Another pasmorte went down, raising a cloud of snow. The Altashee ducked back, but didn’t bother to reload his gun. Instead he unlimbered his warclub.

  Makepeace shot. Nathaniel, just finishing a quick reload himself, didn’t see if the big man hit anything or not. He came up, sighted the rock and, when he saw movement, fired. Whatever had been moving stopped, but that didn’t matter much.

  The pasmortes had reached them.

  Kamiskwa screeched at the top of his lungs and lunged from behind the tree, his warclub held high. His first blow crushed a skull and the second caught a pasmorte in the chest. Ribs snapped and the creature flew off into the underbrush. The Altashee stalked forward, his club whirling, not waiting for them to close.

  Makepeace similarly waded into battle, clubbing his musket. He brought it down sharply, bashing a skull in, then levered the body aside. Two more came at him, more by happenstance than planning. He smashed one with the rifle, but the other lunged and bit him on the thigh. Makepeace roared, dropped his rifle and ripped the thing away from his leg. “Back to Hell with you!” The very avatar of wrath, he hoisted the thing aloft, then slammed it down, snapping its spine over his knee.

  Two of them had come for Nathaniel, but a snowdrift slowed them. Nathaniel buried his tomahawk in one’s skull, then sidestepped the other. He smacked it in the head with his rifle’s butt and it dropped, but only for a moment. It kept clawing at the snow. He hit it again, crushing the skull.

  By the time he wrenched his tomahawk free of the first, only one of the pasmortes remained. It was a small man none of them recognized. The pasmorte didn’t have any intelligence showing in the one eye he had left, but he crouched and hissed at them like a snake. He shifted to face each in turn, but Makepeace got behind and draped his bear robe over him. Makepeace gathered the whole bundle up and smiled. “Got your Prince a prize.

  Nathaniel quickly reloaded. Kamiskwa retrieved his musket and followed suit. They watched the bundle while Makepeace got his gun and reloaded. The big man also produced some leather straps. He opened up the robe a bit, bound the pasmorte’s ankles together, then dabbed a loop around a loose hand. He stripped the robe off, forced the pasmorte face down in the snow, and tied his hands together. The thing still hissed, but wasn’t moving much.

  Makepeace, back in his robe again, dragged the thing along by its ankles as they approached the rock. Before they saw anything, they heard the sound of breathing—more angry than labored. Kamiskwa went up and around the hillside to cover, then waved Nathaniel forward.

  The pasmorte behind the rock had taken the bullet high on the left side of his chest. He struggled to move his limbs. It almost looked as if he was drunk or asleep, but his eyes were open and he scowled when his eyes focused on Nathaniel. “This is the second time you have killed me.”

  “I’d do it a third, Etienne Ilsavont.”

  “This shot shouldn’t have hurt me.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “Special bullets. Prince Vlad cast lead around an iron core. Figured if you was magicked up, iron might magick you down.”

  The thing snarled. “The soldiers will find them, the Norillian and the traitor, and kill them, you know. Then they will come for you.”

  “The Norillian? Owen?” Nathaniel looked up. “Makepeace, stay with him.”

  Kamiskwa had already turned. Nathaniel tracked after him and the squad of Ryngian soldiers who had struggled up the hill. The man he’d shot lay dead. The other was shivering and making mewing sounds. His eyes didn’t focus and the red snow around him marked his time in minutes. Nathaniel crested the hill, found another Ryngian soldier dead, and Kamiskwa at the bottom of the hill.

  The Altashee looked up from where he crouched. “Blood, and it goes that way.”

  Nathaniel looked. “The winding path. Owen knew better. Why would he…?”

  Kamiskwa stood. “He knew to fear it, and hoped the others did not.”

  “We have to go after him.”
r />   “No.”

  “But your father and the bargain he struck. They could do us no harm.”

  Kamiskwa shook his head. “My father’s bargain was that no innocents would be taken. If we step on that path, we knowingly violate the agreement.”

  “They wanted Owen once.” Nathaniel sat down in the snow. “They ain’t letting him go this time.”

  “I fear you are right.” Kamiskwa turned from the winding path. “Tonight we have lost a brother. This is something for which the master of the wendigo will pay a dear price.”

  They returned to the battlefield and decapitated all the dead, including the Ryngian regulars. They put the soldiers and some of the pasmortes into one batteau and sent it drifting back west. They hoped the current would suck it down the Roaring River. They loaded their two captives and the ammunition from the dead soldiers into the other batteau and headed across the lake. Two days later they reached the outflow to the Tillie and were able to work the boat down quite a ways.

  Iced-over rocks made the going treacherous the few times they had to get out and pull the batteau past obstacles, but they learned a few lessons in the doing. The smaller pasmorte fell into the river and, despite having been underwater for five minutes, had not drowned. And when the sun came out, both pasmortes became a bit more active, though Etienne remained very weak and palsied.

  They brought the batteau almost into Hattersburg, but cached it west of the town and cut south to avoid the town itself. They visited Seth Plant just long enough to tell him where they had cached the boat and that he was welcome to it. From there they headed south, hoping to cut the Benjamin below Grand Falls. Etienne slowed them with his clumsiness, so they fashioned a travois and dragged him—a task actually made easier because of the snow.

  The party detoured to Saint Luke to tell Kamiskwa’s father of Owen’s death. They made a separate camp outside the bounds of the Altashee village and kept the pasmortes fully restrained. The Altashee mourned Owen in a ceremony both solemn and sincere, with many tears shed. Little Agaskan, however, maintained Owen would bring her doll back.

  The ceremony gave the men time to rest before heading out again. Once back on the trail they moved as quickly as was prudent, but the weather did not cooperate. Just over a month out from Anvil Lake, they camped below Great Falls and built a roaring fire. They let the little pasmorte huddle near it. The journey had not been kind to him, and the fire did little to revive him.

  Makepeace finally said what Nathaniel had been thinking. “Hisser ain’t long for this world.”

  “Nope.”

  The small pasmorte’s leathery skin had split and frayed. His fingertips were all white bone and one of his cheeks had opened beneath that empty eye socket. And something kept leaking out of that socket like tears, save that they were black and foul smelling.

  Makepeace squatted next to him. “Got a notion what is ailing him?”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “Ain’t nothing wrong with him but he’s dead and all.”

  Kamiskwa frowned. “The wendigo leaves the weak.”

  Etienne laughed, his jaw gaping open and out of his control. “You do not understand. Du Malphias could fix him easily. The man works miracles.”

  “He ain’t ’zactly here.” Nathaniel frowned. “I wonder iffen his magick gets weaker the further things get from him.”

  Makepeace grunted. “That would explain Hisser’s problem. Don’t look good for you, neither, Pierre.”

  Ilsavont laughed. “He will be coming soon enough. Over the winter he will have the dead of Kebeton shipped to him. He will leave them frozen like my père until spring. They will be thawed and finish the fort. Then he will come for you. You will all die, then you will serve him, too.”

  Makepeace snorted. “Good God willing that ain’t a-going to be happening.”

  “Fools. Du Malphias does to us what your God did to His Son. The difference is that du Malphias does not seek salvation, but dominion, and he shall have it.”

  By morning Hisser had stopped moving. They built a pyre and laid him on it. Makepeace said a few words and they watched it burn down. It delayed them for half a day, but Nathaniel figured they owed it to Hisser or, at least, to whomever he’d been. They scattered the ashes into the river.

  Using two canoes, they headed toward Temperance. Makepeace volunteered to be in the canoe with Ilsavont. They tied the pasmorte up for transportation, stuffing him into the bow. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa usually ranged ahead, but occasionally they were close enough to hear Makepeace speaking to the Ryngian.

  “’Pears Makepeace ain’t too happy with Etienne’s Godlessness.”

  “Cutting out Ilsavont’s tongue would be easier than enduring his cursing.”

  “Well now, I reckon the Prince will want to ask him some questions.”

  From the point where Makepeace had offered words over Hisser, Etienne had taken to speaking an endless stream of profanity. The words alternated through several Shedashee dialects: Norillian, Tharyngian, and a couple other tongues Nathaniel couldn’t identify. Makepeace had countered with Scripture, starting from Genesis and working his way on up. Nathaniel couldn’t swear Makepeace got everything right—he was fair certain a Remian Governor hadn’t threatened to shoot the Good Lord—but the pure delight in Makepeace’s voice disinclined Nathaniel to be asking any questions.

  At night Makepeace would continue his recitations, volunteering to take the first watch so he could continue. After that, Etienne would beg Nathaniel to kill him.

  “Oh, I reckon you’ll be dying, don’t you be worrying about that.” Nathaniel smiled. “Prince Vladimir, he’s a smart man. Does a powerful lot of thinking. He done wanted us to bring him back a pasmorte, and we have.”

  “You are a fool, Woods, if you think he wants to know how to kill me.” Etienne looked disgusted enough to spit. “You know how. Crush a skull. Cut off the head. You knew that from my father.”

  “Then why is it he wants you?”

  “To learn how to make more like me.” The pasmorte shook his head. “You think I am stupid. That I always was stupid, no?”

  “Weren’t nothing you ever did took much thought.”

  “But I see things, no? I do. People everywhere. People dying. ‘Such a waste,’ they say when someone dies young. But du Malphias, he can make use of them. People, they will sell him their dead. He can use them to clear forests and till fields. We do not complain, we eat little, we do not sleep. And if one of us fails like my little friend, there will be more to take his place.”

  “Keep talking like that and I’ll wake Makepeace.”

  “But you know I am right. A man, he comes out here, he clears a farm, he works it, he makes a life. This is good, no?”

  “It is.”

  “Imagine the rich man, who buys the dead, has them work for him. When the single man has a bad harvest, his family suffers. He cannot repay debts, so the rich man, he buys the farm. He needs no food for his laborers. He can sell cheaply and still profit. But that is not the worst.”

  Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. “Do tell.”

  “That rich man, he fears only one thing. Death. And Monsieur du Malphias can ensure he will not die. How much will men pay for that, Woods, eh? You might be tempted yourself.”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “Not with you as an example. I’ll take my God-given and count it as good.”

  “But so many others will not, monsieur.” Etienne smiled. “Bring me to your Prince. Let him learn my secrets, and you guarantee the dead shall rule the living forever more.”

  Etienne appeared to have talked himself out, which was good. Saved Nathaniel putting a bullet through his skull. He didn’t appreciate the pasmorte saying those things about the Prince. Nathaniel didn’t believe a word of it, but the others things, they rang true. Nathaniel had no trouble making a list of wealthy men who would buy immortality—with Zachariah Warren at the top.

  He smiled and patted his cartridge case. “I reckon I’ll be saving a bullet or three for a good purp
ose.”

  The next day they started down the river in good spirits. Though snow still covered the ground, the sky started clear and the sun burned hot. Snow started melting off branches and a gentle, warm breeze came up from the south. The men stripped off their heavy robes and paddled only to steer, content to let the river bring them to the Prince’s estate.

  After two days they caught sight of the steam plume from the wurmrest. Coming around the last bend, Nathaniel put them on course so the breeze would guide them straight to the Prince’s landing.

  Up on the grounds, two figures stood wrapped in cloaks, with Mugwump nosing the snow out of his way. Nathaniel raised a paddle and one of them pointed. Smaller, with golden hair—it had to be the Princess.

  Beside her the Prince raised hands to his mouth. He shouted something, but the breeze carried his words off. The Prince started toward the dock.

  The wurm raised his head. Nostrils dilated, then his tail flicked. The beast whipped around and in two quick bounds, plunged past the Prince and through the shore ice. His tail lashed, spraying the Prince, then vanished without a trace. Nathaniel looked into the water but saw nothing until the wurm surfaced again.

  Mugwump came up fast, right beneath Makepeace’s canoe. The beast’s nose flipped the fragile craft into the air, snapping it in two. Makepeace tumbled backward. The pasmorte spun upward, lazily, struggling ineffectively against the ropes binding him.

  And Mugwump, hanging in the air for an impossibly long time, opened his jaws and devoured Etienne Ilsavont in one big gulp.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  November 23, 1763

  Prince Haven

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Vlad stared disbelieving, a hand outstretched, as Mugwump snatched the man out of the air. The wurm’s body slowly twisted, his tail all the way clear of the water. Mugwump splashed down on his back, sending spray and a wave that almost swamped the other canoe. And yet, despite the splash, there was no mistaking a second opening and closing of jaws, and a large lump moving down the wurm’s throat.