At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Owen sat, slumping onto elbows planted on thighs. Frustration pounded at his temples. Chandler arrived with whisky and glasses on a tray and abandoned it quickly. The Prince poured, and Owen just stared down into the glass of amber liquid. The vapors reached him and he wanted to smile, but didn’t have the strength.

  “It is nothing of which I am proud, gentlemen. When my mother married Francis Ventnor, I was very young. I did not understand that I had become a bastard. I was the ugly stepchild who would not go away. That’s it with the Ventnors. They didn’t want me, but they fiercely guarded me. I was property—an unwitting redemptioneer with no expiration on my contract.

  “Growing up, my cousins had everything. I told you, Highness, of the wurmwright who took me in. He did the family a service. They repaid him by firing him, once I had entered the army. That is the way my family is. They gave me nothing and sought to strip me of everything. They largely succeeded.”

  Owen sipped the whisky. “Then I found Catherine, who wanted me for me. And I wanted her. We wed and, during the Villerupt campaign, Catharine followed me to the war. My uncle’s wife remained in Norisle. When I had duty on the line and he had a social function to attend, he would borrow her. I thought it most kind of him. She loved parties and she would weep in fear on my shoulder when we were together. I thought gaiety would please her. I wanted her happy.”

  The Count snorted with disgust. “And stories came to you of her and your uncle?”

  Owen took a gulp of the whisky and enjoyed it burning its way down his throat. “Not of my uncle, but with everyone else. Officers who despised me took great delight in spinning tales of seeing her bedded by another. Never them, of course, just some elusive Major with another regiment, or some dashing officer from another nation.”

  The Prince raised an eyebrow. “Lies promulgated to hurt you.”

  Owen looked up. “I can see that now. One night, I drank too much and found a man who looked like a man the latest tale had been told about. I… I dishonored myself.”

  He looked at his hands, turning the right one over. White, wormlike scars striped his knuckles. Most of them had been earned fighting the Tharyngians, but Owen could see those he’d gotten beating a man senseless.

  “I was going tell Catherine what I had done, but before I could she told me of her disgust for a friend’s husband. He had fought a duel over similar gossip about his wife. She said the man dishonored his wife by believing the rumor and acting upon it. She clung to me, happy I would never believe such horrible lies about her.”

  Owen searched the men’s faces. “How could I tell her after that? I love her and know she is not a whore. So, I maintained my silence. Ultimately, I accepted this posting so I could accomplish something grand enough that the two of us could escape my family’s corrupting influences.”

  Von Metternin laughed gently. “Be proud of your restraint, Captain. You conquered your worst self and decided to reach for a lofty goal.”

  Prince Vlad swirled whisky in his glass. “You are even more admirable than I had imagined, Captain. Your wife was right, and your willingness to give Johnny a chance to escape is a mark of your character. Many other men kill because of their sense of honor—and their victims are not always the enemy. I fear our Johnny is one such man.”

  Owen tossed off the last of his whisky. “When you say that, Highness, I wonder if my having killed him would have been a virtue.”

  Vlad sighed. “I hope, Captain Strake, hindsight does not prove that judgment correct.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  May 16, 1764

  Harper’s Field, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Nathaniel laughed quietly as Makepeace Bone reloaded the rifle Prince Vlad had bought for him. The large man had no trouble working the lever and twisting the gimbal. He blew into the socket, clearing it of unburned brimstone. He refilled the socket, then stuck a bullet on top, wedging it in place with the help of the cartridge paper.

  Where the large man ran into trouble was positioning the bullet going back into the barrel. It fell out, or jammed. The frustrated giant looked ready to snap the rifle over his knee. “All well and good for you to be laughing, Nathaniel, but you’ve worked one of these for years and ain’t got big thumbs.”

  “Two things to be amembering, Makepeace. First, don’t be so all-fired hurried. With this here rifle you’ll be shooting things far off. They cain’t get you.”

  Makepeace nodded. “You’re right.”

  “And second, if your durn thumb is too big, use your pinkie.”

  The giant laughed. “Still bigger around than your thumb.”

  “But it ain’t gonna pull the bullet out of line so easy.” Nathaniel nodded at him. “Go on, get this loaded, so the rest of them young bucks can see a real man shoot.”

  News that the famous Major Forest was coming from Fairlee with his Southern sharpshooters had inspired every man who owned a long gun in Temperance to head out to Harper’s Field. Harper had planted clover, letting it lay fallow for the year, and boys had shooed cows off it before setting up targets. Mostly they made them out of a wooden post with a crossbar, and set clamshells as targets. Chances of them hitting anything and making it explode were minor, but a great cry went up when someone did.

  Makepeace had come out to try his new rifle. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had come out to watch. By far the rifle made Makepeace one of the better shots. He consistently hit the post at eighty yards. The rest of them, using smooth-bore muskets, could get a ball out that far, but few put it on target.

  Still, the boys from town were having great fun. Caleb Frost stood in the middle of it all, happily barking orders. Nine of his college acquaintances had formed themselves up into a squad, loading in unison and firing on order. Caleb’s voice had a calming quality. His men consistently managed three shots in a minute and displayed their thumbnails to each other, laughing as the purple stain grew beneath.

  Kamiskwa came up to Nathaniel’s side. “Young men, not yet warriors.”

  “I reckon. Ain’t gonna be no sparing ’em.”

  Makepeace fired, shattering a shell at forty yards. He turned from the line and started to reload. “Ain’t gonna be but a handful of ’em go. I seen my brothers over the winter. Trib and Justice figger they’ll come with us.”

  Nathaniel nodded. As word had filtered out about the presence of the Tharyngian fortress, men began making decisions concerning it. They fell into three classes. First were the students who saw war as a place to win glory. A subset, Caleb Frost among them, saw the coming war as a chance to redeem the image of Mystrian fighters.

  A more fool notion Nathaniel could not imagine.

  After that came men like the Bone brothers who figured that having a Ryngian fort to the west meant more restrictions and danger for their livelihood. That fort would become a trade center for the Ryngians. Ryngian trappers and hunters would flood the area. Ungarakii would get bolder. They’d do more raiding against Mystrians and the ’Shee.

  The last group, which accounted for the Branches, Casks, and others down at the north end of Harper’s Field, came looking for money. They’d hire out for war. While Nathaniel wouldn’t turn down the Queen’s money, his understanding of the dangers and necessity of action meant he’d not be deserting when it rained too much or rations dwindled. Damnable thing was, Rufus Branch and his brothers would be a good addition to any local militia. They fought hard and had skills in the woods.

  “I hain’t seen your brothers in ages. Doing well?”

  “Mostly.”

  “And Feargod?”

  Makepeace frowned. “Hain’t heard nothing since he went off to sea. Ma says he ain’t dead, and I did see a tea chest hid in the barn. Onliest could have come from him.”

  Nathaniel smiled. Rumor had it that Feargod had gone pirating. He couldn’t ask, and Makepeace would never tell. All the Bone brothers looked as if the same blacksmith had hammered them into shape, so whatever Feargod was doing, he’d be making his mar
k and making it large.

  Down the line, Caleb put his men through another triple volley. The target survived without harm, but brimstone soot gave the boys a grim look. It aged them a bit, which was good, and that bitter taste would want ale for cutting it.

  As they came off the line, four horses rode into view. Nathaniel picked out Count von Metternin and the Prince easily enough. The other two had to be the Norillian noble sent to lead the war against du Malphias and Colonel Langford. Though Nathaniel hadn’t recently ventured into Temperance proper, he’d heard enough about the previous night’s doings in the town to expect Langford to be sporting a black eye from his wife, and Lord Rivendell to be nursing a fierce hangover.

  The Norillian vaulted from his saddle first, his red and gold satin clothes gleaming in the sunlight. He reached back and slid his own gun—a shortened cavalry carbine musket—and marched up to the line. He took his time, spreading his legs wider than shoulder width, pointing his body at the target, then raised his musket. He aimed down the barrel. His head came up for a moment and back down. He reset his feet, then fired.

  The ball sailed past the forty-yard post harmlessly.

  Rivendell, a smile on his thin face, set his musket butt on the ground and started to reload. “A fine first shot, Colonel Langford. Note that.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Nathaniel, his rifle resting easily across his right forearm, butt up in his armpit, nodded toward the target. “Which was you aiming for, my lord?”

  Rivendell looked up, surprised at having been addressed, then nodded. “The shell at the head. Always want to hit them in the head, you know.”

  In one smooth motion, Nathaniel’s rifle came up, he sighted, and fired. With the brimstone smoke he couldn’t see if he’d hit, but Caleb’s boys cheering set his mind at ease. He lowered his rifle and reloaded.

  Rivendell looked from Nathaniel to the target and back. Nathaniel had hit at fifty yards. The Norillian smiled. “Was that luck, or are you a sporting man?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “Weren’t luck.”

  Rivendell’s smile grew. “A wager, then. A pound per shell shattered in a minute. You versus me. Langford, bring your timepiece.”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “I ain’t got that kind of scratch.”

  Count von Metternin stepped forward. “I would be pleased to back you, Mr. Woods.”

  Rivendell’s eyebrow went up. “So this is the man saw ghosts in the wood, is it? If you’re backing him, von Metternin, two pounds per, then, shall it be? I will shoot first.”

  Nathaniel nodded, then turned away. He looked at Makepeace and Kamiskwa, keeping his voice low. “Seen ghosts, did we?”

  Rivendell shouted from behind him. “Mark time now, Langford!”

  Nathaniel watched Rivendell after the first shot, which had missed. The man loaded quickly enough. He bit the bullet from the paper cartridge, emptied the powder, and then spat the bullet into the barrel. Lots of men did that, thinking it was the fastest way to work, but spit was enough to cake brimstone on a ball or stop it burning clean.

  Rivendell reloaded three times and got off four shots, though the fourth came right after Langford had yelled, “Time.” The last two shots hit shell, so Rivendell turned to the Count and held out his hand. “Four pounds, sir.”

  “Shall we settle after Mr. Woods shoots?”

  Caleb ran down and replaced the shells. Nathaniel levered his rifle closed. “Call it, Langford.”

  The Norillian Colonel glared at him. “Now!”

  Nathaniel fired his first shot easily hitting the shell in the head position. He reloaded without any haste, brought the rifle up again and hit the shell at the right shoulder. Again and again he fired, missing once and hitting a third. Then his last shot came a heartbeat before Langford called, “Time.”

  Count von Metternin nodded in Nathaniel’s direction, then extended his hand to Rivendell. “I believe that will be four pounds you owe me, my lord.”

  “Can’t trust you Kessians at all, can I? Only two.”

  “But he hit four.”

  “Last one was after time was called. That’s it, ain’t it, Langford, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Makepeace started forward. “Now just see here…”

  Nathaniel stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Don’t make no nevermind, Makepeace. Never did reckon Langford knew what time it was.”

  The Mystrians, who had crowded in closer, all laughed. Langford’s face flushed hotly. Rivendell looked around, then shook his head ruefully. “This is our fault, Prince Vladimir. We give them everything, but did not give them the proper respect for authority. You men really do not understand the way of the world. Colonel Langford, decorated veteran of many wars, is your superior and deserving of respect. He is a gentleman. He is an officer. He would never lie, cheat, or steal. If he says the last shot happened after time was called, that is that, and no man amongst you can question him.”

  Nathaniel frowned. “But he weren’t the one what said it.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “What I am saying, your lordship, is that you said I shot after time had been called. Langford didn’t say no such thing. He just barked yes when his master done give him the command to do so.”

  “Woods, isn’t it, yes?” Rivendell handed his musket to Langford. “I can see by your attire you’re a man who prides himself on his independence. You shoot well, I grant you, but this is a game. Have you ever gone to war, sir?”

  “I’ve shot more than one man dead. That would be in the last year. You, sir?”

  Langford stepped between them. “You mind your tongue, Woods.”

  “That will be enough, Colonel.” Rivendell pulled Langford aside. “I ask, Mr. Woods, because you and your friends clearly do not understand the nature of war or what my troops will be facing out there. To be a true warrior, you must advance in the face of fire, closing with the enemy, to use your bayonet to gut a man. Have you any idea what that’s like?”

  “I don’t reckon, your lordship, I ever been so foolish as to march on up to a man a-shooting at me.” Nathaniel grinned. “I just as soon drop him as far away as possible.”

  Rivendell wheeled, pointing directly at Prince Vlad. “It is as I told you yesterday. I cannot fight these men. They are a rabble. They have no training and no discipline. They will shoot at range and run. They won’t hold a line. We saw that at Artennes Forest.”

  The Prince raised his hands to quiet grumbling in the crowd. “My Lord Rivendell—Johnny—insulting these men will not help.”

  “Insulting them? I am paying them high praise by even speaking with them. That they dare to come out here and play at soldiering is a grand gesture. I welcome it. It reminds me why I and my men are here. So feeble a muster could never hope to defeat the Tharyngians. It is our charge, our sacred duty, to protect you all, and I mean to do that.”

  Makepeace muttered into his beard. “Is he crazy or drunk?”

  Nathaniel glanced back. “I hope drunk. He might make sense sober.”

  Rivendell took his musket back from Langford and returned to his horse. Mounting it and sliding the musket home, he took up the reins and looked down at the Mystrians. “Fear not. The Queen has not forgotten you, nor abandoned you. She will save you. For this she has sent me. In the coming weeks, you will see how real troops act and fight. You will be amazed and you will be thankful. It will be a lesson for you to remember for as long as you live. Come along, Langford.”

  Langford mounted up and the two of them cantered back to town.

  Prince Vlad looked around. “I hope, gentlemen, you understand that Lord Rivendell, first, is not the author of the history which vilifies us. That was his father.”

  “Apple din’t fall far from the tree,” someone quipped.

  The Prince somehow kept himself from laughing aloud. “That not withstanding, he is here to deal with the Tharyngian threat. He’s brought Norillian troops—veteran troops. It would please me, and ease thing
s, if you would treat them with the utmost courtesy.”

  Rufus Branch spat. “I reckon they’ll get what they give is all.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “I reckon that ain’t very neighborly. They coming from so far away. Bound to feel odd here. Kind of like Captain Strake. He took some getting used to our ways, but look what he gone and done for us. I’m thinking we can be a mite more tolerant than otherwise.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Woods.” The Prince nodded. “And, please, no matter what Lord Rivendell says, no matter any comments by his troops, I pray you continue your practice here. Four shots in a minute if you can, and see how long until you tire. We will need to know.”

  The Prince stared after Rivendell’s retreating figure. “He says he won’t fight you. Circumstances will say differently. I want you ready for that day. Hell will be to pay, and I rather it be accounted in shot and brimstone than our blood.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  May 19, 1764

  Government House, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Prince Vlad smiled cordially as Princess Gisella’s servants brought sherry for the men at the table. The meal had been wonderful—pheasant, new potatoes, peas, and cornbread. It had begun with sliced tomatoes, which was a daring choice, since most Continentals took it as true that tomatoes were bright red as a warning against poison. The meal concluded with a wonderful pudding laced with sugar and brandy. Vlad had asked for a second helping, and was pleased when Major Forest joined him.

  The Prince stood, lifting his glass to the Princess. “To you, my dear, a wonderful hostess. You, from so far away, make one feel welcome in Mystria.”

  The men lifted their glasses and sipped.

  Gisella bowed her head. “I only reflect the hospitality my friends have showed me since coming to these shores.”

  The Prince smiled. “We shall abandon you ladies, if that is acceptable. I know Major Forest is fatigued, but I wish to give him a look at du Malphias’ fortress.”