At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “You’ll have that proof, I guarantee it.”

  “Excellent.” The smaller man nodded. “I will remain in Temperance to see to the shipping of supplies up to Hattersburg. I may even travel up to Margaretstown before catching a packet ship to Norisle.”

  “I expect us to be in Hattersburg a month from now.” Vlad ran a hand over his chin. “We’ll be carrying forty days of rations, so we shall need our supplies.”

  “More than enough time to get them there. Two weeks at most.” Deathridge smiled. “Supplies in first, then the cavalry. Everyone should be there and waiting for you.”

  Vlad glanced at the model. “We need twice the number of regulars, and more than a company of artillery to destroy that place.”

  “And next year we will have it.” Deathridge folded his arms over his chest. “Rivendell’s retreat will destroy his coalition in Parliament. He’ll be relieved. I would hope I am appointed in his place.”

  “What if Rivendell takes the Fortress of Death?”

  “I do not believe he can. For him to succeed would require our enemy to be a fool. Guy du Malphias may be any number of things, but fool is not numbered among them. I expect Rivendell to mass troops to the north, get his cavalry destroyed and, in a sulking fit, retreat to your fortress. Have you decided on a name?”

  “I was thinking ‘Hope.’”

  “Auspicious. Excellent choice. From Fort Hope we will sweep the Tharyngians from Mystria.”

  Vlad nodded. “I just wish we did not have to wait a year.”

  Deathridge’s dark eyes narrowed. “The price of haste is blood. Quick action, when successful, crowns heroes. When unsuccessful, it creates unimaginable slaughter. For every hero, there are ten thousand victims. Never tempt those odds.”

  The Prince joined Count von Metternin at the head of the First Colonial Regiment. Of the five infantry battalions, three had been recruited solely from single colonies: Fairlee, Blackoak, and Temperance Bay. The other two were the Southlands Battalion and the Battalion of the North. They split all the other recruits between them. Each had its own regimental flag, and Blackoak had actually brought along a band including bagpipers, fife-players, and drummers.

  An elderly tuba-player had tried to join the Temperance Bay Battalion, but he could barely walk carrying his instrument. The men voted him a corporal’s commission and bought him a cap. He stood at their staging area, ready to play them off. And he was not alone in wishing the troops well.

  Mounted on a grey mare, the Prince surveyed the crowd. Families had turned out, all dressed in their Sunday-best. Fathers stoically embraced their sons. Mothers and sisters wept while forcing cloth-wrapped bundles of food on the soldiers. Small children ran about, little boys snapping to attention when the soldiers were given orders. Dogs barked. The Prince even saw some Twilight People watching the assembly—Blue Hand Lanatashee if he read the markings on their clothes correctly—and wondered what they were making of it all.

  A rotund man made his way through the crowd to the Prince’s left foot. “Care to make a comment for Wattling’s Weekly, Highness?”

  “I could, Mr. Wattling, but wouldn’t you be more comfortable making something up yourself?”

  “Highness, I…”

  The Prince smiled. “You’ve carried two interviews—long interviews—with Lord Rivendell. Is there anything more to be said on this matter?”

  Wattling’s face puckered. “Lord Rivendell says you will smash the Godless Ryngians and be back the first of August.”

  Count von Metternin laughed. “Rivendell is more of an optimist than he is a geographer.”

  Wattling scribbled.

  The Prince tapped him with his foot. “Please quote me: The bravest men in Norisle and Mystria will see to the safety of all. We will miss our families and cannot wait to rejoin them.”

  Wattling wrote, then frowned. “Not very encouraging, Highness.”

  “Reality seldom is, Mr. Wattling. Good day.” The Prince nudged his horse forward, making his way to the head of the column. Rivendell and his troops would leave later in the day, allowing the Mystrians to head off first and cut roads where necessary. The Norillians would pick up any stragglers and keep things organized.

  Once he and the Count reached the mounted officer corps, a captain gave a signal. The Blackoak band began to play a stirring march, and the column, marching four abreast, moved out. Down the line the tuba bellowed, and a few men fired muskets into the air. Applause and shouts filled the city and the Prince’s heart swelled.

  The determined expressions on the Mystrians’ faces made Vlad smile. “I think, von Metternin, if du Malphias had a look at these men, he might abandon his fortress right away.”

  The Kessian smiled. “Long marches drain the hero out of every soldier, alas. But these men, they have heart.”

  “And we will give them more.” Vlad set spurs to his horse’s flank, and von Metternin joined him. They raced ahead to the Prince’s estate to prepare their surprise for the Mystrian militia.

  Bright and early the next morning, Prince Vlad sat astride Mugwump on the road near his estate, waiting for the militia troops to march past. Ribbons of red and green fluttered in the breeze from the wurm’s tack. The Prince rode on a saddle at the wurm’s shoulders; Count von Metternin was mounted at the wurm’s hips. Bulging oilskin satchels lined the beast’s flanks, stretched between the saddles, each one of them decorated with more ribbons.

  The soldiers, whose line of march drifted toward the other side of the road, smiled and laughed. A few shouted: “He’ll be having the Ryngians running,” or “He’ll win us the war all by himself!” Others just nodded as if a wurm was something they saw every day—those being more of the northerners than the men from the south. The Prince figured the northerners would have also gaped, but the Blackoaks had seen Mugwump first, and no northerner was going to let a southerner believe he was surprised by anything.

  The Prince could not help but smile and wave. “You still think the march will drain the hero from them?”

  The Kessian laughed aloud. “Half of them do not have shoes, most of them are ragged, and clearly they have not been trained. But, that fire in their eyes. These are men, sir, with which I should be willing to assault the gates of Hell itself.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, my lord.” The Prince smiled as more men passed. “Alas, I think it may.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  May 31, 1764

  Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  "Who is she, Owen?”

  Catherine’s question took Owen completely by surprise.

  He’d been laying on his left side and his wife had snuggled in behind him, her naked body molding itself to his. She’d kissed his shoulder and the back of his neck, then licked at his earlobe.

  And then the question.

  “Who is whom?”

  She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him onto his back, then threw her right leg over his hip. She loomed over him, her face warded by shadows as the first tendrils of dawn lightened the white curtains. “You know who.”

  Owen frowned. “I really don’t.” He raised his head to kiss her, but she pulled back. This is serious.

  “You do, Owen. The woman who wrote those letters for you.”

  “Bethany Frost?”

  “Yes.”

  Owen pulled himself up against the headboard. “I was billeted at her family’s home. She wrote you at my request, when I could not write. You know that.”

  “Yes, but who is she?” Catherine’s voice rose and her eyes sharpened. “Who is she, Owen?”

  “I don’t understand the question, Catherine.”

  She whirled away from him, dragging the sheet after her. She wrapped herself in it, then sat in a chair, hunched, weeping. “You’ve stopped loving me, haven’t you?”

  Owen stared after her, completely puzzled. The past week had been nothing short of fantastic. They had enjoyed Temperance and the surrounding area. She had taken imm
ediate charge of his life. Their first stop had been to a tailor who fashioned for him a brand new uniform of the Queen’s Own Wurm Guards, including two sets of breeches, three shirts, two waistcoats, and a heavy oilskin coat to cover the uniform jacket.

  After that they had spent their time exploring both the city and each other intimately. She had always been curious, inventive, hungry, and insatiable. She wanted him fiercely—even when they’d ridden into the countryside for a picnic, she had wanted him. Right there, under the sun, in the open, wanton and brazen, she had reminded him that he was her husband.

  Her ardor erased memories of their separation. She laughed heartily and lustily, reminding him of the girl he’d fallen in love with. She was full of plans—things they could do with his estate in Mystria, things they could do upon his return to Norisle. She knew of dozens of societies that wished him to speak to them, and dozens of others that wanted to give him honors. Her face glowed as she spoke, and the way she clung to his arm and smiled proudly as they walked through Temperance had stoked the fire in his heart.

  He climbed from bed and went to her, standing over her, his hands on her shoulders. “Catherine, I love you completely. You’re my whole world.”

  “I am such a fool. Oh, Owen, I forced you into her arms. I should have been brave enough to come with you. And then, when I got word that you were hurt, I wanted to come. I begged your uncle to arrange my passage. I wanted to be here, to nurse you back to health, but then your letter arrived, the one telling me not to come. Telling me you would send for me when the time was right. And I waited.”

  Owen frowned. “What letter? I never said that.”

  “Yes, Owen, you did.” Her hands came away from her face and she looked up. “In that first letter, in her hand, you told me not to come.”

  He shook his head. “I never said that.”

  “It was there, Owen.” Her tears began anew. “I would show you the letter, but, oh, I am such a silly girl. I carried it with me and was reading it on the ship. The wind tore it from my grasp. I thought God was giving me a sign that you had been torn from me. I was inconsolable. I did not leave my cabin for days.”

  Owen went to his knees and took her in his arms. “Hush, Catherine. You have not lost me. I am yours, and yours alone.” He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek. Bethany wouldn’t have added that, would she?

  “Oh, Owen.” She pressed her forehead to his. “When you did not mention her to me, or introduce me to her, when she was not present when her parents had us to dinner, what was I to think? Have I been silly, Owen? Please tell me I have been silly.”

  He took her face in both hands and kissed her. “You have been silly, Catherine, but that is no vice.”

  She sniffed. “Then the reason you want me to remain in Temperance is not because she is going off on campaign?”

  “What? No.” Owen shook his head. “If she is going—and I do not believe she is at all—I know nothing of it and want nothing to do with her.”

  “Then why don’t you want me to go with you? You let me come to war on the Continent.”

  Owen rose and scooped her in his arms, then deposited her on the bed. “On the Continent, my lovely wife, there were comforts like this bed; and other women to organize balls and social events. On this campaign all those things shall be here, in Temperance.”

  “What about this Hattersburg?”

  He snorted. “You would hate it. Social life is a tavern and if you can find a bed, you’re sleeping three or four to it.”

  She rested a hand on his hip. “I would endure it gladly, Owen, to be close to you.”

  “And I would not put you through that.”

  She sat up, the sheet falling away, and licked his stomach. “Come, Owen, be my husband one more time. One more time before you are away. Show me how much you love me, and give me reason to believe you will return.”

  Owen took leave of Catherine privately, in their rooms. She had insisted on dressing him while remaining naked. She said it was a duty she owed him as his wife. Then she kissed him and clung to him, finally letting him go, her hand in his until he descended the stairs.

  He made his way to the green before Government House, where the Fourth Foot was assembling. Because he was not a member of the Regiment, he found himself in a curious position. His rank entitled him to command a battalion, but the Regiment had no need for him. Ostensibly he was attached to the unit’s command company as a liaison with the Colonial forces, but he and Rivendell wanted little to do with each other. Rivendell had made this apparent by denying him a horse. Rivendell likewise showed his disdain for the Colonials by refusing to allow Owen to march with them.

  He found Lieutenant Palmerston and picked up his pack and musket. The Lieutenant gave him a wink, and Owen smiled. Despite having had a new uniform created for him, Owen had arranged that his Altashee kit would be packed for his use in the field.

  “Gone native, have you, Nephew?”

  Owen turned. “What, sir?”

  Deathridge pointed to the tomahawk hanging from his pack. “Not standard issue.”

  “No, sir, but useful.” Owen smiled. “There are a lot of things that we consider standard that won’t be here.”

  Deathridge nodded solemnly. “I am aware of that, and aware that Rivendell will studiously avoid anything that requires thought. He really has no idea what he will find out there.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Owen, I need to ask a favor.”

  He’d never heard that tone in his uncle’s voice before. “Yes, sir.”

  “I need you to refrain from doing more than requested.”

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  “It’s really rather simple. I’ve told Prince Vladimir the same thing. Our best outcome here is for Rivendell to realize conquering the Fortress of Death just is not possible. I would prefer he build Fort Hope and go no further. I hope just getting to Anvil Lake will take the fire out of his belly. If this happens, please, let it be so.”

  Owen nodded. This was one of his uncle’s political games. Owen loathed that sort of thing, but agreed with the goal. “Yes, Uncle, I understand.”

  “Good.” Deathridge embraced Owen. “Go with God. Fight with honor and return home safely.”

  Owen, quite thrown off guard, retreated from the embrace, then tossed his uncle a crisp salute. The older man returned it, added a quick nod, and made his way off toward where Rivendell was speaking with his officers.

  Owen shook his head. Before seeing his uncle, he had been feeling isolated. He did not fit in with the Regiment. Wearing a Norillian uniform, he no longer felt as if he fit with Mystria. People did not look at his face, just his coat, and based their reaction to him on it alone.

  And now he asks me to work against the wishes of the Crown.

  “Captain Strake.”

  Owen turned and smiled. “Doctor Frost, good to see you, sir.”

  “And you, looking very fierce in your uniform.”

  “Thank you.” Owen looked past him for any sign of his wife or daughter. “And thank you for seeing me off.”

  “Had to. My wife wished to be here, but seeing Caleb off yesterday…”

  “I understand, sir.”

  The older man smiled. “And Bethany, I think she would have been here, but she is a very stubborn girl. She’s made her mind up about you and is unbending.”

  “Please remember me to her.”

  “I shall. Were she here, she would wish you Godspeed and safety, as do I.” The man dug into his pocket and produced a small book. “It is a journal. I hope you will keep it as you did the others. I should be happy to read of your expedition.”

  “Very thoughtful, sir.”

  Frost laughed. “Not me, sir. I had thought to give you another copy of Haste’s A Continent’s Calling. My daughter took my coat for a brushing, and I found this in my pocket instead. I suspect I shall not be alone in reading about your adventures.”

  “I shall be happy to share them.” Owen tucked the b
ook in his coat pocket. “If I might impose on you, sir. My wife, she will be remaining here in Temperance. She knows no one save…”

  “Say no more, my boy. I will arrange introductions.” Doctor Frost offered his hand. “Godspeed, sir, there and back again.”

  “Good health to you and yours, sir.”

  Up and down the line, whistles blew. Owen shook Dr. Frost’s hand, then found his position in the rear of the formation. A drummer set a pace, and the Fourth Regiment of Foot set out for the Fortress of Death.

  Deathridge found Rivendell in a gaggle of officers and caught his eye. The mission’s commander excused himself and drew back into an alley. The man made an elaborate charade of being cautious which guaranteed that he, being clad in red satin, would draw attention.

  Idiot. Deathridge followed and hissed at him. “My lord! Discretion, if you please.”

  “Of course, Dick, of course. Are things set?”

  “Completely. I’ve issued the necessary orders.” Deathridge smiled. “Provided these Colonials can do anything at all correctly, you will have what you need to complete your mission.”

  “Oh, I shall, and return showered in glory.” Rivendell raised his face to the sky, stretching his throat, and Deathridge imagined the satisfaction of drawing a razor across it. “New Tharyngia shall be a thing of the past.”

  “Very good. I have instructed my nephew to do nothing helpful on this expedition. I expect you will give him the most onerous duty, find fault with him whenever possible, and produce scurrilous reports about him.”

  Rivendell clapped his hands. “He’ll be digging every slit trench between here and La Fortresse du Morte.”

  “No, you fool, you can’t do that. He is an officer. He is a skirmisher. Use him as a messenger to the Colonials. Have him scouting ahead. Use him as he is meant to be used. Give him the impossible to accomplish and he will fail.”

  “Of course, Dick, absolutely.” Rivendell’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll work him to death, then get him killed, as you desire.”

  “Make sure he dies bravely. We don’t want his wife disgraced.”