Owen stepped aside as Vlad passed through the slit. He had never seen that level of resolution on the Prince’s face before. Count von Metternin followed him, then Owen squeezed through. The tent had been divided into three parts, with the largest—Rivendell’s headquarters—taking up nearly two-thirds. The smaller two areas were centered one around a bunk and the other a small dining table.
Langford abandoned the map table around which Rivendell and three other colonels had gathered, moving to intercept the Prince. “You should not be here, Highness.”
Vlad stopped him with a glare. “Your saying that is precisely why I must be.”
Rivendell’s head came up. “Leave us, Highness. You, too, von Metternin. Colonel Langford, place Captain Strake under arrest.”
“What deviltry are you up to, Johnny?”
“This is a military matter, Highness. I command you to leave.”
The Prince hammered a fist on the table. Colonel Thornbury jumped back, giving Owen a glance at the map. Rivendell and his colonels had altered Owen’s original survey map significantly. They’d placed a small sheet of paper over the central stone roundhouse and had drawn flowers and a tree upon it. The gun emplacements remained correctly positioned, but instead of four cannon at each, they’d only placed two. Beside the barracks buildings they’d made notes indicating that only battalions of the Platine Regiment were on station. Other notes indicated that a hundred civilians functioned as laborers.
“What is this travesty?”
Rivendell’s nostrils flared. “It is the proper map of La Fortresse du Morte. We were given a complete tour. It is woefully understaffed and vulnerable. We will press our attack today and destroy du Malphias.”
Vlad stared, his mouth open. “What did he do to you in there?”
“He offered brilliant conversation on military strategy. He fully understood that for a defender to be successful, he must have at least a third of the attacking force’s numbers under arms. He remained confident that he would be able to hold us off, but he lacked the resources necessary to do so.”
The Kessian studied the map. “You show two cannon at each battery.”
“That is how many there are, sir, no more.”
“But you show a pair at each battery, including the lake wall. Cannot du Malphias just transfer those cannon to the north wall?”
“He does not have enough personnel to operate them. Six batteries of four, with four men each to serve them. This places one of his battalions at the guns, leaving only two more to man the walls—and he has a great deal of wall to cover.”
The Kessian frowned. “He will strip men from other walls to defend.”
Rivendell shook his head. “We keep Thornbury’s cavalry in reserve as a threat to strike at a weak point.”
The Prince leaned forward and tapped the troop estimate notes. “You did not account for the Ungarakii he has under arms.”
“There are no Twilight People in there.”
“Yes, there are.” Vlad pointed off toward the lake. “I have had men watching the water. We counted nearly two hundred warriors coming in. I sent you reports.”
“Langford, did I get any such reports?”
“Yes, sir. You deemed them unreliable and insignificant.”
Rivendell smiled. “Satisfied?”
“What about the pasmortes. You know they can’t be killed.”
Thornbury stepped back to the table. “The civilians were women and children, with a few old men. They are non-combatants.”
Owen couldn’t contain himself. “Those civilians attacked your cavalry!”
“The wurm devoured the bodies, so we don’t know what they were.”
Vlad rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Why have you eliminated the central stronghold?”
“It has trees and flowers on it. It is nothing.”
The Prince tapped another part of the map, where the opening to the underground chambers should have been. “And this building here?”
“Storage.” Rivendell preened. “I demanded to see within. And I did find a chamber dug into the hillside. It was the Laureate’s wine cellar. From there I shall choose the vintage with which to toast our victory.”
The Prince stared at him. “And your grand plan is to walk our men up and storm the walls?”
“Precisely. We have more than three times his numbers.”
Count von Metternin rested a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “My Lord Rivendell, the three-to-one ratio is accepted minimum needed to defeating a foe, but it does not guarantee victory.”
“But, my lord Count, we are speaking of Norillian troops.”
Vlad again hammered a fist against the table. “No, you fool, you are speaking about men! Men who are going to be ripped to bits as they march forward. Grapeshot will rake any siege ladders you create, and blow apart your trench bridging.”
Rivendell laughed. “This is precisely why command of this operation was given to a military man, Prince Vladimir. Anthony, tell him what you saw.”
Colonel Exeter replied with a smug half-smile. “While I was examining one of the batteries, I measured both the carriage height and the height of the embrasures. I did the basic geometry. It is impossible for the guns to depress far enough to shoot anything atop the glacises.”
“My God, man, do you think he doesn’t know that?” Vlad thrust a finger toward the fortress. “Do you think he has no axes to cut the embrasures down?”
Exeter chuckled. “We’ll hit him so fast he won’t have time to chop.”
The Prince sighed. “Your enemy is not a fool.”
Lord Rivendell smiled proudly. “Nor am I, Highness. I am a genius. Ain’t it, Langford, ain’t that a fact?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a genius will win this day, Highness. We go at one.”
Vlad shook his head. “I won’t allow it.”
“You are a civilian. I am in command of your people. Colonel Daunt, you will have your men make siege ladders and bridges. Exeter, give him some of your engineers to help.”
Exeter saluted smartly. “Yes, sir.”
Owen watched the Prince’s face deaden. Disaster loomed; there was no getting away from that. Owen’s guts twisted. He choked vomit back down. I have to do something. “Permission to be assigned to Colonel Daunt’s command, my lord.”
Rivendell’s sneer gushed ice through Owen’s bowels. “Denied. You are under arrest.”
Vlad’s head came up. “On what charges?”
“Insubordination. Conduct unbecoming an officer. Destroying Her Majesty’s property.” Rivendell produced a pocket watch, flicked the cover open and then snapped it shut again. “I should convene a court-martial, but we’ve not enough time. Anthony, have a squad of the Fourth take charge of Captain Strake. Clap him in irons and stick him outside my tent. Let him watch and wish he had his place in the line of glory.”
The Prince snarled. “This is outrageous, sir!”
“It is necessary, sir.” Rivendell slid the watch home in his waistcoat. “Perhaps, in victory, I shall be magnanimous. I think not, but that is the joy of genius—I am unpredictable. Good day, Highness.”
The Prince began to say something else, but the count grabbed his arm and steered him back out through the slit. He took a last look at Owen, but Owen just shook his head. “I will be fine.”
“The prisoner will remain silent!”
Owen met Rivendell’s gaze openly, and the other man smiled. “You have your orders, gentlemen. We have three hours. Please be ready.”
Exeter, Thornbury, and Daunt departed. Langford glanced at Lord Rivendell. “Should I stay, sir?”
“No, Colonel. The words I have for Captain Strake are for his ears alone.”
Langford retreated quickly. Rivendell began to slowly circle Owen. Clearly he meant to walk with a predatory mien, trying to be intimidating. The fact that he was so thoroughly proud of himself—being unable to hide a smile—robbed the attempt of its intent. He made two circuits and spoke on the thir
d.
“You know, Captain Strake, you could have been where I am. Well, not truly, since you don’t have the blood; but you had the backing of a very powerful family. Had you proven yourself worthy, you would have succeeded in the Army. You might have risen to Major or Colonel. You could be one of the officers out there going to glory.”
Owen lifted his head. “Said as if you mean to lead from the front, sir.”
“Oh, lead I shall, lead I shall. I’m a Rivendell, ain’t I?” The man came around and squared up in front of Owen. “People like you can’t understand someone like me. You are incapable of fathoming genius. You fear what you do not understand. That fear marks you as a coward.”
Rivendell walked back around his table. “After we had dinner, the Laureate and I had a private conversation. About you, in fact. He said he had forgiven you for spying and had fully intended, once you were well, to return you to Temperance. He said he was relieved to learn you had made it back safely, and said you completely misunderstood the search parties he had sent out after you. He was concerned that in a blizzard, in your weakened state, you would have perished.”
Owen’s flesh puckered. He wanted to ask if Rivendell believed du Malphias but the man’s expression made the question unnecessary. Fatigue washed over Owen. He wanted to lay down and die.
No, you have to be strong, for Catherine.
“You should know, Captain, that I would have put you in the front lines and given you a chance to redeem yourself, but the Laureate himself asked that I refrain. He said he considered you a friend. He did not want to be the cause of your death. He asked me this one indulgence.”
“Of course, he did.”
“You have not been given leave to speak, Captain!”
“Permission to speak, sir!”
“No, Captain, you shall only impugn the honor of a man who is many times your superior.”
Owen met Rivendell’s stare and held it until the other man looked away.
“Please yourself, Captain.”
“Du Malphias made his request to show me that he still had control over my life. If I die, it will be by his hand, not ill luck in battle. He means to shame me and, after you’re defeated, he’ll kill me in his own good time.”
“That,” said Rivendell, “is not something that should concern either of you. By this evening, the Fortresse du Morte shall be mine, and the two of you shall pass into obscurity.”
Vlad, furious, yanked his arm from von Metternin’s grasp. “I am not a child, my lord!”
“Then you should not act like one, Highness.”
The Prince shot von Metternin a venomous glance. “Is it childish to act as if this idiot and his plans won’t kill hundreds of my people? Du Malphias has filled his warrens with Ungarakii, pasmortes, and the rest of the Platine Regiment. The stronghold still exists despite having flowers and trees on it. You yourself pointed out that cannon can be redeployed. Can’t you see the slaughter that is coming? Or don’t you care because these are not your people?”
Count von Metternin’s face froze and Vlad knew he had overstepped. “If you believe, Prince Vladimir of Norisle, that I am not as concerned for the lives of men I have spent the last month and a half sweating, toiling, living, and laughing beside, then you are a singularly poor judge of character and perhaps no smarter than the moron whose tent we have just departed.”
Vlad nodded. “Forgive me, my lord. Perhaps I am acting childishly. But what am I to do?”
“There is nothing for you to do, my lord.”
“How can you say that?”
Von Metternin laughed. “We have been in a trap since the moment your report went to Norisle, Highness. Parliament made decisions based on internal power struggles, not the wisdom of your report. Deathridge and his faction were willing to allow Rivendell this mission because they knew it would fail. And Rivendell, short of his dying in battle, wins. Just getting here is a victory. His failure will be blamed on the inadequacy of Mystrian troops. His career will become retrograde, but none of his backers will be demoted. He was a piece both sides welcomed as a sacrifice.”
The two men trudged up the hill toward the wurmrest. “But my people, real people will die because of their game-playing.”
“But you must understand that the powerful do not see things as we do. They keep score differently. If they lose a scion here, it is no matter. The death will be honorable, and they will be in mourning—as society dictates. For the common men who will die on the field, they care not. Most are from the underclasses, are thieves and drunkards with no future anyway. Many—and this would apply to your Mystrians—are not even from Norisle. Why should they care if Mystrian blood is spilled?”
“You’re saying they have no stake in the game.”
“It is worse, my friend.” The Count stopped at the top of the hill and looked toward the Fortress of Death. “They already know the outcome. In one way, Norisle has already won because you cut the road to get here. They will use it next year, or the year after, to finally eliminate this threat. But when the battle is lost here and Mystrians die, two things take on new life. One is the myth that Mystrians cannot fight. It will take root here as well as grow even more wild in Norisle. News of Major Forest’s failure to take Fort Cuivre will just exacerbate things. The second, and far more important to Deathridge, is the myth of Mystrian vulnerability. People here will feel the threat, and will believe that only Norillian troops can save them. They will welcome more troops, and the presence of these troops will enable Deathridge to crush nascent notions of independence. Publication of books like A Continent’s Calling will be outlawed, and anyone who thinks of independence will be labeled as a Malphian sympathizer. It is a simple process that will destroy Mystria’s future.”
Vlad shook his head. “This isn’t even a game. It is merely their preparation of the board for the next round.”
“Elegantly put, Highness.”
The Prince looked out at the battlefield. He had no difficulty seeing it reduced to maps in a book. Squares with unit designations would replace flesh and blood. Giant arrows would show lines of attack. Dotted lines would show lines of retreat. Somewhere a chart would total the casualties. He could write a report detailing why the disaster occurred, but Rivendell would commission another book. Vlad’s criticism would be dismissed as an attempt to, once again, cover up for the Mystrian inability to wage war.
“So, my only choices are to either march back down there and shoot Rivendell dead, or remain here and use my skills at observation to create a complete and accurate chronicle of what happens?”
“I am as frustrated as you are, Highness, perhaps more.” Von Metternin’s eyes narrowed. “What Rivendell will create is a disaster, but there might be a way to avert it. We’ve known it all along.”
“Yes?”
The Kessian pointed toward the highest part of the fortress. “The cliff fort. If we were to concentrate forces there in a direct assault, du Malphias could not bring all of his cannon to bear on our flank. You force one section of his wall, get into that fort, and then use that position to attack down into the Fortress of Death.”
“Back to the original plan, but without our climbers.” Vlad sighed. “Deathridge saw to that.”
“So, Highness, back to your choices. Shall I drag a table and chairs out here so we may make notes as we observe, or do I charge a pistol and fashion an alibi?”
Owen gave Sergeant Unstone a withering glance. “And I have given you my word, as an officer and a gentleman, that I will not run off.”
The non-commissioned officer held the shackles out. “Please, sir, I don’t mean you no disrespect.”
“Have you forgotten the other evening, Sergeant? Who was it told you how to kill the Ryngians? Who stood there side by side with you?”
“You, sir.”
“Exactly.” Owen exposed a wrist. “See these scars, Unstone? When I was in that very fortress, the Ryngians put me in shackles. They did that to humiliate me. That’s what Rivendell wants you
to do to me now.”
“Sir, I have my orders.”
“You won’t be charged with insubordination, Sergeant. I will be charged with escape. I’ll make that clear to his lordship. You’ll testify to that fact and all will be well.”
The Sergeant, whose face bore more than one battle scar, looked at his squad and then dropped the shackles. “I ain’t going to lie, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Sergeant.”
Owen drew his hands to the small of his back and watched the troops assembling. He couldn’t help but shiver as disaster loomed. The Fourth formed up by battalion, with four on the line and one held in reserve. The cavalry held the right flank, anchored against the river but, dismounted, only mustered two battalions of foot. Armed with carbines, their effective kill range was only thirty yards, which made them especially weak. Since they were not drilled in infantry tactics, they were even less useful. An intelligent commander would have pulled one of their battalions back into reserve and used the Fifth infantry battalion to fill out the line.
The Mystrians likewise had four battalions on the front and one held in reserve. Owen shook his head. The Mystrians had no real uniforms to speak of. They looked more a rabble than a military force. Their ranks remained ragged, though they did cover four hundred yards of front, same as the Fourth Foot.
Sixteen hundred souls marching into Hell. Two squads in every battalion carried siege ladders and bridging material. Those men would have to reach the wall first. Even if Rivendell’s fantasy about the cannon being unable to depress far enough were true, many men would die in the approach.
Off to the left, Rivendell emerged from his tent, wearing his red satin uniform. Bishop Bumble flanked him. Exeter and Thornbury greeted him, saluted, and reported to their commands. Rivendell advanced to where a bugler stood and gave the man an order.
He started playing an alert, which buglers for the line units matched. Drummers—young boys mostly—started beating a steady, measured cadence. Norillians unfurled unit colors and voices rose to cry “Hurrah!” The Mystrians, lacking regimental colors, just cheered and waved their hats. The Blackoak Pipers began a squealing tune and all the Mystrians held their heads a little higher.
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