Of Limited Loyalty cc-2

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “I could never forget, beloved.” Ian sank fingers into her thick, brown hair, and drew her mouth to his. He kissed her, fully and deeply, urgently and fiercely. He wanted to remember that kiss, and wanted her to remember it. “A down payment on my return.”

  She smiled against his lips, then her body slipped to the side. Cool air suddenly chilled his loins as she slid under his right arm. She threw her right thigh across his, then traced a nail over his flesh. She curled the damp hair into nonsensical patterns. She kissed his breast, then clung to him tightly. “I know you have to go…”

  “Were there any other way, darling, I would take it.” Ian kissed the top of her head. “But the world demands we must be apart. By leaving you, I can keep you safe.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed his chest again. “With Owen, I never felt that was his reason for leaving. He left for himself, for adventure. I never thought he cared if I would be here when he came back.”

  “More the fool, then.” Ian pulled a sheet over them. He’d made that comment for her, because he knew it was what she wanted to hear. He had a perspective on Owen that she never would-that no one who had not been under fire would understand. Perhaps if Catherine had been in Mystria to care for Owen as she had for him, she might have understood. Every scar on Ian’s body she knew intimately because of their lovemaking, but also because of her caring for him. His scars united them, whereas Owen’s scars betokened a part of his life that she did not share.

  “I miss you already, Ian.” She rolled over, resting her arm on his chest, and looked into his eyes. “I know you must go and gather your troops. I should want to be there and see you off but I am afraid my sadness would betray us.”

  “I understand. It is, perhaps, for the best.” He smiled at her. “I want you to remember that I shall be thinking of you constantly. If I could send you letters, I would.”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “No, my darling. Keep a journal if you must, but I will wait for your return to hear your tales of the campaign. I would, of course, send you letters, but anything in my hand would be recognized.”

  “Of course.”

  “All I ask, my darling, is that you return to me, safe and whole.”

  “That I shall do.” Ian nodded solemnly. “With God as my witness, and the Good Lord at my side.”

  Ian, sitting astride a gray stallion, opened his hands. “And what is the hold up, Sergeant Morris?”

  The beleaguered officer straightened up from inspecting a hoof on a draft horse. “This spavined beast won’t get to the edge of town, much less to the mountains.”

  “Then find another one.”

  The man’s mouth hung open. “Sir, we have done everything but steal horses.”

  Ian spurred his mount forward. The draft horse in question was one of a pair yoked to a wagon groaning under the weight of supplies. “Sergeant, what, exactly, is all this?”

  “The General’s table, sir. Thought sure as you knew.”

  “Please, fill me in.”

  “I’m afraid, General Rathfield, this is my fault.”

  Ian looked down at Bishop Bumble. “Good morning, Bishop. How is this your doing?”

  “Well, I regret that I can’t go with you as I had hoped. I have fond memories of the Anvil Lake campaign with Lord Rivendell. With the Shipping and Commerce Act responsibilities, you see…”

  “Quite.”

  “…and the fact that you’ve taken Mr. Beecher with you to supplement your own chaplain, I felt it was incumbent upon me to show my appreciation. Really, our appreciation, the whole city’s appreciation. Lord Rivendell, when he returned to Norisle, had his baggage and appointments stored here. He promised to send for them, then sent me a letter asking me to dispose of them. I didn’t have the heart. And I think God put it upon my heart to keep his things together so I can turn it over to you. There’s his pavilion and his table, silver service for a dozen, his bed and trunks. You’ll be as comfortable in the field as you are here in Temperance.”

  Ian forced himself to smile, even though he thought he caught a hint of a threat in the very last comment. “Your Grace, your generosity is remarkable, as is the generosity of the people of Temperance. If I might, I should like to write a letter and have you read it, Sunday, from the pulpit.”

  “Gladly, sir, and any like it you wish to send.”

  “As I have time, sir.” Ian nodded at the wagon. “Alas, I am going to have to leave much of this behind, and for very simple reasons. You may not know, but the Fifth Northland Cavalry is unique among the Queen’s forces. We trace our origin back to the Civil War, to King Henry’s loyalists. After the Battle of Blackburn, when his army was routed, he elected to travel with the soldiers, not with his baggage train as usual. The Pretender’s troops ambushed that train, and would have slain the King. Since that time, the Fifth has always traveled as lightly as possible, with its officers sharing the same billets and conditions as our lowest recruit. So, you understand why I cannot, at this time, accept your gift, and yet I do not want to insult you with my refusal.”

  The round cleric held up his hands. “It is perfectly understandable, General. You travel in the poverty that our Good Lord knew during his time on this earth. Commendable, sir, bespeaking your virtuous nature. How sad we shall all be that you have departed.”

  “Your prayers will be appreciated, sir.” Ian gave Bumble a quick nod. “Please give my best to your wife.”

  “I shall, and my prayers shall be with you.”

  Ian waited for the man to toddle along, then turned to Sergeant Morris. “Unload Lord Rivendell’s rubbish.”

  Morris looked at the furnishings weighing down the wagons. “Begging your pardon, General, but there’s many fine things in that load.”

  “If I wanted fine things, Sergeant, I’d be sitting safely in Launston telling stories about battles I imagined I’d won-just like Lord Rivendell.” Ian shivered. Rivendell grossly overestimated his military prowess, and his going to battle with a manor house worth of furniture betrayed his lack of focus. “Replace those things with brimstone and shot. Not so much that this horse can’t pull, but enough that no man will go wanting. Be quick about it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Morris turned and pointed at soldiers. “Get a move on!”

  Ian reined his horse about and started across Government Square, where the Fifth had assembled. His Regiment consisted of five companies of ninety men each. He would have preferred to have three horses for each man, but they’d only been able to buy six hundred worth riding. It was just as well since he didn’t have the wagons for hauling fodder, and many of the trails he remembered would be difficult to ride a horse over. Even with the Prince’s foresters hacking a road through part of the wilderness, it would be slow going. This meant the mounts, for the most part, would carry gear while the men walked.

  As he surveyed his troops, he could not help but smile. Though they’d been in Mystria for only six weeks, some had formed relationships with the locals, as evidenced by tearful good-byes. He’d been terribly thankful that Catherine was not like that. It would have reminded him too much of his wife. Her tears had not been because of his departure, but because she was withholding the secret of her infidelity. She was hoping he would not return, and her tears came at the prospect that he might.

  All of his men appeared to be in good spirits, despite the fact that they would be on foot for most of their journey. He’d let them ride out of the city, to give the people lining the streets a spectacle, but once out of sight, they would act with military prudence. War was no place for show and by the time they engaged the enemy, he was certain they would be ready to put an end to the fight.

  It struck him as odd that more people had not come out to see them off. He didn’t sense any outright hostility from the citizens of Temperance, but he could not shake the feeling that they were much like his dead wife. They were less concerned at his leaving than they were about his coming back. Granted that the Shipping and Commerce Act had stirred up some ugly sent
iment among the merchant class, but Ian felt that the Act certainly wasn’t as bad as it was being made out to be. Any law might be turned harmful, but supposing this one would was really projecting trouble.

  He shook his head. Projecting trouble is what I have been doing. Prince Vlad had taken Ian into his confidence and showed him many things. The troll’s skull had been the most daunting. Ian would have decided it was a hoax of some sort save for two things-the presence of a second, larger wooly rhinoceros at Prince Haven and the fact that he couldn’t imagine why the Prince would perpetrate such a hoax. The man had nothing to gain by it and much to lose by its exposure.

  Despite being forced to conclude that the troll existed, Ian had not briefed his men on the foe they were likely to face. To a very great extent it would not matter. A well-placed musket ball would either kill the things or not. Reports of the fight in Happy Valley indicated that the demon creatures fell easily to the touch of steel, and every one of his men had a bayonet for his rifle and a saber at his hip. He’d also encouraged them to obtain tomahawks, which all had. They were as well suited as possible to face their foe.

  He seriously considered sharing with his men the Prince’s thoughts about the Norghaest, but not while in town. He didn’t fear desertion, though he would lose some men that way. It was that Prince Vlad’s speculation really meant nothing to soldiers. Either the Fifth would win, or they’d be slaughtered. Knowing why they were fighting, and what they were fighting for, provided no strategic, operational, or tactical advantage. In fact, it could distract men from the only reason they fought.

  While the story he’d told Bumble about the Fifth’s history had been true, he was certain that Bumble had missed its vital import. Soldiers do not fight for Crown or country, cross or banner. They fight for each other, for their friends. No one can ask a man to die for an abstraction, and that had nothing to do with war. War was all about offering men a chance to save their friends by killing the enemy. Glory and honor, rank, medals, and rewards were all afterthoughts. They gilded the real prize: survival. There was never a medal that could grow back a leg or replace an arm. No blind man regained his sight after being made a peer. Yet knowing he’d saved a friend could put a smile on the face of a man whose lower half lay twenty feet away, and could grant him peace as he died.

  Ian rode tall in the saddle. “Show some alacrity, men. There’s an enemy in the west that needs killing. The job’s yours. The sooner we do it, the better it will be done.”

  Bishop Bumble smiled as widely as he could. “Mrs. Strake, so lovely to see you in town. And you, Miranda, and Miss Becca. I doubt there is as handsome a trio of women in the city as could be found right here before me.”

  Catherine bowed her head, but eyed him coolly. Her daughter hid behind her skirts and the Green girl sidled halfway there herself. “Bishop Bumble, you are very kind. Out to see the troops off?”

  “Of course, as you must be.”

  Catherine shook her head. “Oh, no, we’ve just come to town to buy some cloth. Both my girls are growing so quickly. We shall make Becca a new dress and give Miranda an apron to match. They will look ever so cute.”

  “Indeed, and happy to see their father return.” Bumble’s smile shrank slightly. “I’ve not seen him in six weeks. Is he well?”

  “Quite, I gather. Prince Vlad had a note from him two weeks back and is very pleased with the progress he’s making.” Catherine reached down and cupped the back of Miranda’s head. “She misses her father, but he sent his love. She wants to learn her letters so she can send him a note.”

  “Splendid.” The man nodded. “General Rathfield looks quite content.”

  She arched an eyebrow quickly enough to almost account for a moment’s hesitation. “Does he? I only ever see him at service these days.”

  “Well, you’ve seen quite enough of him. I mean, hosting him and then caring for him when he was injured. You must have quite the healing touch.”

  “You give me too much credit, sir.” Her dark eyes tightened. “Is there a duty you require of me, your Grace? I should hate to be keeping you from something important.”

  “Me, oh, no, just out to see the troops off, as you said.” He cocked his head. “I do trust, even with your husband gone, you will still come to services. I know that your presence will be reassuring to those who have loved ones in the field. You could travel into town with the Princess, I am certain.”

  “I shall take that up with her, Bishop. Thank you for suggesting it.” She bowed. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

  “Of course, my dear.” He smiled and waved to Miranda. “Good-bye.”

  Catherine turned and did not look back, but Miranda did with widened eyes. She appeared frightened, and this pleased Bishop Bumble.

  He watched Catherine Strake walk away. Go, my dear, go. I already know one of your secrets, and soon I shall know them all. And then, you shall be my creature and do my bidding. And with that thought in his mind, he allowed his smile to grow wide again, and pleasure burned in his heart.

  Chapter Fifty

  20 May 1768 Fort Plentiful, Plentiful Richlan, Mystria

  Owen crouched on the crest of a hill directly west of Plentiful. The palisaded fort dominated the Snake River valley. A deep, semicircular trench had been dug around the fort, facing west. The residual earth had been piled high and grassed over to form an oblong berm. More work had been done to dig the pit out toward the west, so the previous depth added height to the berm-to make it more difficult for the trolls to crawl their way up.

  He plucked a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth. “Not a sight I’d want to greet.”

  Makepeace, standing tall behind him, pointed with his rifle. “Ain’t so big a place that an army cain’t surround it; and we don’t really got no idea what the enemy will bring.”

  “That’s true.” That had been the primary difficulty in trying to prepare for the Norghaest. In the visions they’d not seen any cannon, so they’d not added any glacises to deflect cannon balls. Since they didn’t know what the Norghaest would use to fight them, planning against them was at best a guess. Fort Plentiful might hold off the trolls, but that would really depend on how many the Norghaest brought.

  The winged demons presented other problems, but Prince Vlad had thought of things to deal with them. All around the berm, long masts had been erected. Cables ran from them to the fort itself, anchored to the walls. The Mystrian forces would be bringing with them fishing nets, which they’d string between masts and fort, hampering the demons.

  And the weight of their bodies could drag it all down.

  Hodge and three of the Rangers who’d come with the Count joined them on the hill. The party, which had been out doing more surveying work, had managed to shoot two deer. Hodge looked at the fort and frowned. “Now that’s queer.”

  Owen took another look. A flagpole had been placed at the heart of the fort at the Count’s insistence-as far as the Kessian was concerned it was little more than a trading post without one. Someone had produced an old Norillian flag with three crowned golden lions on a red field. As they watched, that flag descended and in its place rose a green flag with a black circle at its center. A red wurm-claw had been worked into the circle, with the talons pointing earthward and shaped to form the letter M.

  The Rangers let out a holler at the sight, and Owen found himself smiling. The Mystrians who had marched off to Anvil Lake had done so under the Norillian banner, but by the time they’d returned victorious, it was under the Mystrian flag. Prince Vlad had let it be known that the flag was really the banner of the Mystrian Militia, lest people in Launston become alarmed. Even now, at celebrations and when the Colonial assembly was in session, that flag flew proudly.

  “Looks like someone got here. I hope it’s the Prince.” Owen stood and started down the hill.

  Their advance did not go unnoticed. Northern Rangers came out to greet their comrades, leaving Owen, Hodge, and Makepeace to finish the journey by themselves. Owen felt tired and wa
nted some sleep, but the information he’d gathered through the surveys was something the Prince needed to hear about immediately. Reaching the fort, he asked after Prince Vlad. He was told that the Prince was still a day back, but that he’d sent his staff ahead. Lieutenant Frost was already setting up the Prince’s office in what had served as the thaumagraph office.

  Owen rapped on the door, then opened it. “Caleb, I’ve got lots of…”

  The room’s sole occupant, Bethany Frost, looked up from the table by the thaumagraph. “Oh, Owen, I mean, Captain Strake.”

  “What are you doing here?” Owen fought surprise. Bethany was the last person he expected to see in Plentiful. “Where’s Caleb?”

  She stood, smoothing out her dress. “My brother is with the Prince. They should be here this evening. I pushed forward with the Rangers to set up his headquarters.” She extended a hand toward him. “What is it you have?”

  Owen shook his head. “I was told Lieutenant Frost was here.”

  “Yes, Captain Strake, that would be me.” She smiled modestly. “My brother is now a captain, overseeing the First Mystrian Volunteers Battalion.”

  “What? Who?” Owen pulled of his cap and scratched his head. “Have I been gone that long?”

  Bethany pointed him to a chair. “Please, sir, sit. Corporal Brown!”

  The cabin door opened and a slender, flame-haired woman dressed in buckskins wearing a floppy-brimmed hat just like Owen’s entered. “Yes, sir?”

  “See if you can find Captain Strake something to drink and eat. And get him a decent billet.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young woman saluted smartly, a grin splitting her face ear to ear, then went off to follow orders.

  Owen’s mouth gaped. “Did you, did she… ”

  Bethany laughed. “The Prince assigned her to me after Nathaniel suggested it. Clara is a crack shot and smart, too. She’s learning to read so she can work a thaumagraph.”

  Owen leaned his rifle against the wall and shucked his pack. He laid a satchel on the chair she’d designated for him. “You shouldn’t be here, Bethany. It’s too dangerous.”