Owen nodded. “Thank you, Highness.”
“Don’t thank me. Were I you, I would keep it to blow my own brains out, guaranteeing I won’t become a pasmorte.” The Prince shot his brandy, growled, and poured himself another. “Rivendell and the others now believe pasmortes exist. On the ride back they even rejoiced in the fact that the things could be shot. Exeter suggested that du Malphias used a small caliber bullet and light charges to trick us into believing his pasmortes are immortal. Not enough recoil to the shot, you see.”
Von Metternin sipped his brandy. “Did no one shoot one in the head or spine?”
“No. Du Malphias shot my servant off-center and in the abdomen.” The Prince arched an eyebrow. “Why the smile, my lord?”
“He took your pistol to forestall your turning it on him. None of the others would dare.” Count von Metternin laughed. “It was a calculated gamble on his part.”
“If only I had followed your advice.” Prince Vlad shook his head. “I could have ended all this with one shot.”
“That was clearly not meant to be, Highness.” Von Metternin shrugged. “He won this time, but that does not mean he shall win every time.”
Owen remained with the Mystrian contingent when it set off next morning for the Fortress of Death. They made very good time along du Malphias’ road. They delayed only twice. Once, for a short while, Mugwump went off the road at the birch pavilion. He rooted through the surrounding area like a pig hunting truffles, snorting disgustedly when he came up with nothing. He glanced back at the Prince and Owen would have sworn he saw regret at failure in those gold eyes.
The other pause came during the second day’s march at the Roaring River. As had been predicted, a tall, arching bridge spanned the river. Men marveled, but the sight of it made Owen’s stomach roil. Yes, it was a wonder, but a wonder created by creatures that should have long ago been in the grave. He could imagine pasmortes crawling all over the bridge, hunting troops as they had once chased him.
Mugwump went over it first, sniffing as he went. It didn’t move an inch beneath his bulk. Mystrian soldiers swarmed over it then, testing what they could, reinforcing other bits, and determining it was safe. They then deployed to forestall any attack that would disrupt the crossing.
The Mystrians had welcomed the shift from shovels and axes to muskets. Knowing the Norillian troops would be watching their every move, they did their best to comport themselves as fighting men. They moved quickly and took up good cover positions. They even supported each other as troops moved deeper along the road.
The problem was, of course, that when the Norillian troops got to crossing, the Mystrians had not arrayed themselves in proper order for Continental combat. It didn’t matter that they weren’t on the Continent, it just looked for all the world to the Norillians as if they were timid and amateur.
Owen smiled proudly as the Mystrians took up their positions. They reminded him of the Mystrian Rangers preparing to defend the Artennes Forest. Eager and fresh-faced many of them, they had no idea the sort of Hell they’d be marching into. Stories of pasmortes had filtered through the ranks, but the Mystrians dismissed them as stories intended to frighten Norillians. No Mystrian, whether or not he believed the stories, would ever show signs of fear around Rivendell’s troops.
The regular soldiers came up quickly. They came across the bridge in column, five men abreast, their footsteps sounding as thunder, cadence perfect. The infantry came in two battalions first, their red coats brilliant in the summer sun. Tall, implacable and imposing, they came in a mass that should have frightened even pasmortes. At forty yards they could volley out a wall of lead balls that would rip through the enemy, and then their steel bayonets would finish them off.
The cavalry marched in the middle of the formation. They looked a bit footsore, but no less proud. They marched with carbines slung across their backs and their sabers drawn. For men unaccustomed to marching, they came on in good order and pushed to the fore on the west side of the bridge. Drawn mostly from the ranks of lesser nobility and the second sons of greater nobility, they moved to the lead since that was their station in life.
As the column moved further west, Owen found himself constantly thirsty. He stared at his hands to see if the flutter in his stomach had translated itself into a palsy. Though the forest hid the fortress, Owen could feel it there, brooding, waiting to devour him again. He wanted nothing more to do with it but duty demanded his presence, and if Rivendell were to even guess at the fear in his heart, he’d find a way to humiliate Owen.
Owen would do anything to deny him that pleasure.
Originally Rivendell had intended to take the small tower, but du Malphias’ dessert surprise had alerted him to the possibility of duplicity. He allowed himself to be convinced that keeping a Mystrian battalion back in the woods would threaten the tower and allow him an anchor on the Green River’s western shore. It would forestall du Malphias’ trickery and give Rivendell a way to retreat.
The Norillian formation hooked west and north through the forests and cleared area while remaining outside of the fortress’ guns’ range. Northwest of the fort itself they came to a ferry and sent the cavalry across first. They unlimbered the dozen cannon on the west bank to cover the cavalry. Mystrians then crossed and returned to their ax and shovel duties outside the range of the Tharyngian guns. They dug emplacements and trenches and chopped trees, which they transformed into redoubts and mantlets.
Owen and Count von Metternin crossed at the head of the Mystrians. The Kessian pointed toward the southwest face of the fortress, about even with the tower across the river. “If he opens those gates and deploys the Platine Regiment, he can cut us in half. A river crossing—any sort of amphibious operation—should be contested.”
“He’s not the sort to make so simple a mistake.”
“Well, he is arrogant. But then, he is Tharyngian.” Von Metternin laughed quickly. “He sees that Rivendell has been thinking. We declined to take the tower. Rivendell will see his failure to oppose the crossing as a tactical error. Rivendell will begin to believe he has won two battles already.”
Lord Rivendell came splashing through the river and reined his horse up in the middle of the cavalry salient. He raised a spyglass to his eye, then laughed. “I see you, du Malphias, and I know your game. You thought I’d take your tower, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
Von Metternin chuckled. “I don’t believe he can hear you, my lord.”
“But he can see me.” Rivendell took off his hat and waved it. “He has to know we won’t be cowed. It ain’t the thing.”
One cannon replied. Flames shot from the rampart and smoke jetted. Twelve pounds of iron sphere flew from the cannon’s mouth. Three hundred yards out it hit the ground and bounced. It bounced again and again, slowing as it came. One of the cavalrymen laughed and stood, making as if to catch the slow-moving ball.
His right hand evaporated in a red mist. He stared at the gushing stump, then began to scream.
Rivendell’s horse shied from the ball, and other men parted to let it through. Owen darted forward, yanked the cavalryman’s saber sash off. He looped it around the man’s right forearm, then stuck a stick into it and twisted until the arterial flow trickled to a slow drip. The man raised his pulverized wrist toward his face, then fainted.
“Captain Strake, get some of your Mystrians up here to dig us a trench!”
Owen shook his head. “If they come forward, my lord, your bunker won’t be ready for nightfall. Colonel Thornbury should get his men to digging their own trenches.”
The Count stepped between Owen and Rivendell’s raised crop. “I might suggest, my lord, that you draw the men back another hundred yards. The ridge there, if they get on the other side of it, will protect them.”
“Yes, of course. Colonel Thornbury, move your men back to that ridge.” Rivendell donned his hat again. “Langford, come here. Captain Strake shall be written up for insubordination!”
Owen’s shoulders and back
ached from digging holes and chopping wood. Being an officer, he could have been spared that duty, but he pitched in. Had anyone asked, he’d have said he intended to set a good example. The simple fact was, however, that he wanted to put as much wood and earth between himself and the fortress as possible.
By evening of the twenty-ninth, Rivendell had arrayed his forces in preparation for the siege. He placed his artillery in a single battery in the middle of his line. That tactical placement actually made sense. The Mystrians wove together and filled fascine, which they installed around the front of the emplacement. The guns could cover most of the field and could scatter any attack coming from the fortress, should it round the corner by the river.
The cavalry remained nearest the river, but pulled back so the fortress’ cannon could not harass them. East of them came the Fourth Regiment of Foot. They dug in and threw up ramparts, but did it casually. The infantry expected no assault, and wasn’t keen on having to cross their own trenches to get going at the enemy. They believed the siege would end quickly, and Owen did not take that as a good sign.
Further east, between the Norillians and the lake, the Mystrians set up. Prince Vlad headquartered on the heights nearest the lake, with his men dug in all along that front. Despite being exhausted from the preparation of Rivendell’s headquarters, they dug a good trench line, letting it slither across the landscape in keeping with the natural formations. Their camp was built to last through the winter.
The greatest bit of construction came at the Prince’s headquarters. The men felled a number of trees and bound them crosswise, then linked them to several central beams. They sank them into the earth, creating an A-frame wurmrest to which Mugwump took easily. The building dwarfed Lord Rivendell’s tent complex, and the Mystrians took to joking about that fact.
Owen sat in the shadows outside the Prince’s tent. He caught sight of Rivendell and Langford marching toward him, with an honor guard of six men. He considered standing, but saw little sense in it. If it is another court-martial, an additional charge of conduct unbecoming an officer can’t hurt.
To his surprise they marched past him and into the Prince’s tent. Greetings between the officers, the Prince, and Count von Metternin passed tersely.
Rivendell cleared his throat. “Langford, just hold down that edge of the map. As you can see, Highness, we have our plan. Your men will begin to dig trenches here and here, so we can move the guns forward and begin our assault.”
Silence reigned for a moment, then the Prince spoke. “Forgive me if I read this map incorrectly, but with the cavalry pulled back here, you’ve only got cannon to discourage raiders. My men will be vulnerable to both cannon and direct assault. Am I misreading things, Count von Metternin?”
Before the Kessian could offer an opinion, Rivendell huffed. “Need I remind you, I am in command of this expedition. Your concern for your men is commendable, but I shall not be asking them to fight, just do work for which they are suited.”
Mugwump’s roar, full of fury and urgency, killed the conversation. The sound thrummed through Owen’s chest, causing him to spring to his feet. To the west, by the river, muskets fired. Owen snatched his up and started in that direction. Prince Vlad raced from the tent and past him toward the wurmrest. Owen trailed him, intent on seeing to the Prince’s safety. Mugwump thrust his muzzle from the building, roaring again. The Prince leaped for the wurm and caught part of the baggage harness. He got one foot into a stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle as the wurm darted forward.
Owen jumped and hooked a hand into the harness and clung there. Mugwump hurtled down the hill. He raced through the middle of the Fourth’s tents, his tail flicking a number into the air like sails shredded in storms. His repeated roar scattered men, then he was past the Fourth’s lead elements.
He burst into the cavalry camp. They didn’t need to see him to scatter. They were already in full retreat, screaming, throwing their carbines down. Men fled, eyes wide, throats already raw from screams of terror.
Owen stared into the night and knew why they ran.
As they reached the edge of the camp, Owen leaped free of the wurm and rolled to his left. Mugwump’s tail whistled above his head. Owen came up on one knee, shouldered his musket and fired.
The ball hit a soaking wet pasmorte in the throat, blowing its head off. Owen tossed his gun aside and picked up a carbine. He tracked again, then shot, knocking a young boy down. He tossed that gun aside and groped for another. Instead of a gun, he found the hilt of a fine steel cavalry saber and shucked it from its scabbard.
No one would ever describe the heavy blade as elegant. It had been designed for butchery, with a solid blade and full brass hilt. Owen slashed, opening a pasmorte from shoulder to hip. Not only did the saber cut well, but the steel blade disrupted magick. Any serious slash was enough to palsy the pasmorte into a twitching mass on the ground.
He ran forward, trying to get to where Prince Vlad and Mugwump fought. The Prince had ridden into battle unarmed, putting himself at great risk. Owen slashed the head from one pasmorte, then opened another across the belly. “Hold on, Highness!”
Owen might as well have saved his breath. Mugwump’s tail swatted pasmortes into piles of broken bone and rent skin. He reached out with one clawed hand, pulling a pasmorte to him, then biting it in half. Two more struggled beneath his other foreclaw. He reared up and swatted as a bear might have done, scattering a trio into throbbing gobbets.
A squad from the Fourth came running up. Owen turned. “Fix bayonets. Use your steel!”
The troopers did as commanded and drove into the last of the pasmortes. They hacked and stabbed, clubbed them, and shattered skulls. A couple men hesitated when faced with children, but their Sergeant picked up another discarded saber and put them to rest.
Owen ran to the Prince, slowing as Mugwump eyed him. The wurm drew pasmortes to him, whole and in pieces, and devoured them. Prince Vlad sat astride him, tugging on the reins, to no avail.
“Highness, are you unhurt?”
“Yes, quite.” He dug a heel in against Mugwump’s flank.
The beast burped, then shoved more of the undead into his maw and swallowed. Mugwump’s thick tongue pulled an arm from between his teeth.
Owen turned back to the infantry. “Cut off their heads, then drag them into a pile.”
A trooper looked at him. “We going to burn them?”
Owen glanced at the wurm. “I think Mugwump has other ideas.” He sighed and looked toward the fortress. And I’m certain the Laureate does as well.
Chapter Sixty-Two
July 31, 1764
Fort Cuivre
Lac Verleau, New Tharyngia
Nathaniel dipped his paddle quietly into the lake’s still water, and slowly drew the canoe forward. The war canoe, one of four they’d launched pre-dawn, drifted through the morning mist toward Fort Cuivre. Kamiskwa, bow in hand, arrow nocked, knelt behind him.
The Mystrian held his breath. The sun had begun to lighten the sky off to the east, but the forest yet cast shadows over their route. They kept close to the shore, hoping the sound of trout rising to snap up flies might disguise their approach. If the Ryngians guessed they were coming, the sloop’s cannon and the fort’s swivel-guns would sink the flotilla before they could ever fire a shot.
Major Forest had identified the docks as the fortress’ weakest point. The low stone wall with loopholes made for a great defense against Shedashee raiders. The Ryngian commander kept six soldiers on duty at the wharves, and had six men crewing each corvette, which was all he could spare given the other to Fort Cuivre.
Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the mist. The current was enough to draw them toward the river; all he had to do was steer. The fort’s angular outline loomed in the darkness, silhouetted against a starry sky. The sliver moon cast wan light that shimmered in a long stripe further into the lake.
He turned to Kamiskwa. “Short walk now.”
The Altashee nodded, and cu
pped a hand over his mouth. He gave a soft loon-call. Something splashed behind them—the Summerland canoe heading off for the sloop. The other three headed for the wharves to deliver the Northern Rangers.
Major Forest had put together a pretty little campaign, all leading up to this point. They captured the tower’s garrison, then picked off every hunting, wood-gathering, and search party the Ryngians had sent out. Then sniping began at dawn and sunset, so regular the Ryngians could safely duck away. The sniping toll had been fearful that first day, but the Mystrians only harvested the foolishly brave and the stupid thereafter.
Nathaniel had done his fair share of shooting. He figured he had killed one and wounded two. He’d not have killed any, but the one man fell from the wall and broke his neck. Nathaniel wasn’t sure how he felt about the killing. He’d not lost any sleep over it yet, but wasn’t certain that would be a constant state of affairs.
The sloop loomed out of mist and the Summerland canoe slipped past. They headed for the ship’s aft, intent on going around and boarding on the starboard side. Nathaniel nodded, watching, his ears straining for any sound that might alert the enemy.
From behind came the groan of an arrow being drawn.
There, on the sloop, a sentry had paused amidships. The shifting mist half-hid his silhouette. Nathaniel couldn’t tell how far he was from the port gunwale, but that ceased to matter. The man unlimbered the musket he’d worn over his shoulder.
Kamiskwa’s bow thrummed. The arrow arced through the air. The Ryngian’s hands came up to his throat. He tried to stem the spurting blood. The arrow had passed clean through his neck, so he was already dead, but instead of dropping, he staggered forward and collapsed, smashing into the ship’s bell as he went down.
A single clean peal shattered the morning quiet.
Nathaniel dug hard at the water. The canoe, with men paddling furiously with gun butts and paddles, surged toward the wharf. Nathaniel vaulted from the boat as it hit the dock. He whipped the paddle around, catching a running Ryngian across the face. That man went down screaming before Nathaniel kicked him into the water.
At the Queen's Command Page 48
