At the Queen_s command cc-1

by Michael A. Stackpole

  A gunshot split the morning off to the left. Another, closer, followed. Both men snatched up their long guns and dashed toward the sound. Off to the south Kamiskwa paralleled them. Two more rifles fired in the distance, and a grunt prefaced a return shot.

  At the edge of a clearing Makepeace sat with his back to the thick bole of a tree. Blood marked his left shoulder, but he still was using that arm to ram a bullet home. He saw them, jerked his head to the west. "Squad of blues. Ilsavont with 'em."

  Owen took cover behind a tree, then ducked his head out. Ryngian regulars were moving forward. Three men advanced, three shot, three reloaded, and an officer marched behind with Etienne. The blue coats had gold facings, marking them as part of the Or Regiment.

  "Nathaniel, the officer."

  The Mystrian fired. The officer slammed off a tree and fell, a chunk of his face missing.

  The Ryngians fired back. Makepeace's tree lost bark. The giant laughed, rose, and fired in one smooth motion. He didn't even bother to use his left arm, he just thrust the musket forward in one massive hand. The shot spun one of the Ryngians to the ground, but the rest kept coming up.

  "Makepeace, Nathaniel, fall back. Kamiskwa and I will cover." Owen caught a glimpse of a Ryngian moving north to flank them. He waited for the man to poke his head out past a tree and fired. The shot gouged the tree and the man screamed.

  Owen fell back twenty yards. He pulled out a cartridge and bit the bullet out of the paper. He upended the paper cylinder, pouring the brimstone down the barrel, then stuffed the paper after it. He pressed the bullet into the barrel, drew the ramrod, and forced it down. He hit it twice to pack it tightly, then withdrew the ramrod, reversed it, and slid it home beneath the barrel.

  The Ryngians hesitated at the far end of the clearing, then darted across. Makepeace and Nathaniel both shot. Two men went down. One got back up and dove to the far side of Makepeace's tree.

  Off to the left, Kamiskwa shot and dashed back through the trees, chased by a hail of bullets. Owen aimed for the man on the other side of Makepeace's tree. The man had crouched and his white-breeched bottom stuck out, made an inviting target. Owen shot. The man yelped.

  Owen looked east and ran for a fallen log. He leaped, grabbing the top with his left hand to slow himself, and brought his legs over. He twisted in mid-air to face the enemy. His toes touched earth.

  Then a Ryngian bullet skipped off a rock and slid through a gap between the log and ground. It caught Owen in the left thigh, midway between hip and knee. It shattered his femur, cutting his leg out from under him. He smashed face-first into the log. Lights exploded. Suddenly he was on his back, blood in his mouth, his leg twisted impossibly beneath him. Pain roared through him.

  Nathaniel loomed over him. "Just a scratch."

  "What?"

  Nathaniel stood, tracked, and fired. Another man screamed. The Mystrian ducked down again. "Throw your arm over my shoulder."

  "No." Owen grit his teeth against the pain. "Go. Get the journals to the Prince."

  "You'll carry them yourself."

  "No, Nathaniel. I can't travel. I'm likely dead already. Go. That is an order!"

  "Now I ain't…"

  Owen grabbed a fistful of Nathaniel's tunic. "You promised. The journals are how you save Mystria. Get them and go. Go!"

  Nathaniel snarled, reloaded, and shot again. "You ain't seen the last of me, Owen Strake."

  "I'll save you a seat in Hell, Nathaniel Woods."

  Nathaniel ran and the other two shot to cover him. Owen tried to grab his musket, but it had fallen too far away. He did manage to catch hold of a rock and twist around so his leg straightened out a little. A wave of nausea washed over him and darkness nibbled at his eyesight, but he refused to pass out.

  Shifting his leg didn't do anything to ease the pain. He pulled himself into a sitting position, then took his belt off and wrapped it around his thigh above the wound, yanking it tight.

  Grabbing the rock again, he slid over to where a mogiqua fern grew. He stripped off leaves with a bloody hand and shoved them into his mouth. He chewed, welcoming the bitter taste, then spat the mulch out and stuffed it in the wound.

  In the name of the Almighty, please work.

  Owen tried not to whimper, but he couldn't keep silent. All the times he'd bit back cries when, in school, he'd been beaten all because remaining silent seemed the noble thing to do came back to him. How silly. Pain cut past nobility.

  It cut past humanity.

  A Ryngian came over the log and swung his musket around.

  Owen opened his empty hands.

  The man smiled coldly. About the point where Owen noticed the man's cheek had been opened by a splinter gouged from a tree, the solder reversed his rifle and slammed it into Owen's thigh.

  Agony exploded in Owen's brain and mercifully snuffed out consciousness. As Owen's world faded to black, the man raised the rifle again and Owen forced himself to smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  July 8, 1763

  Prince Haven

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  P rince Vlad's lungs burned. His goggles had not leaked much; the guttapercha sealed the glass well and the strip inside the leather mask molded tightly to his skin. The goggles provided amazing clarity beneath the waters of the Benjamin, though the lack of light past ten feet limited the view to the back of Mugwump's head.

  His lungs demanded air. He pulled back on the reins and the wurm struck for the surface. Vlad grabbed the saddlehorn. The whipping of Mugwump's tail sent shivers through the beast's entire body. Combined with the water pressure, it would have been enough to tear him from the saddle. They rose swiftly, then shot into the air like an arrow, only to splash down again twenty yards upriver.

  The Prince laughed in spite of himself. Back on shore his wurmwright and a servant waited, one anxiously, the other with a towel and robe. Baker, the wurmwright, had been dead set against the idea of letting the Prince swim with the wurm since that just was not done. Because wurms began their lives as large water-serpents, conventional wisdom had it that they would escape if allowed to swim freely. Vlad had watched Mugwump splash happily when the wurmrest flooded, so he took a chance.

  Though the Prince had only been swimming the wurm for three weeks, Mugwump had taken commands more readily in water than in the field, and certainly seemed to enjoy himself more. The wurm showed greater speed in the water than on land, and proved adept at harvesting schools of fish. He looked forward to their daily swims, so much so that the Prince had even taken him out on a miserable, rainy day.

  The Prince tugged on the reins, turning Mugwump toward shore. But the beast ducked his whole head beneath the water, then brought it up again. Water sheeted off the scales and down his snout. He refused to turn and instead, twitching his tail slowly but steadily, headed upriver. He tucked his legs in along his belly as he did so, moving serenely.

  Vlad lifted his goggles and shaded his eyes with a hand. There in the distance, a canoe. Mugwump heard the sound of their paddles that far away? That must be a half-mile.

  The Prince gave Mugwump a touch of his heels. Even if he'd worn spurs with foot-long spikes the beast would have felt no pain. Mugwump, however, responded, cruising up the river easily. The Prince rode tall in his saddle, aware that soaking wet he cut a ridiculous figure. Still, given the nature of his mount, he suspected his visitor would not much notice.

  Within a hundred yards he recognized the man in the back of the canoe and raised a hand in greeting. The young boy in the bow pulled his paddle from the water and appeared ready to fend Mugwump off. The Prince pulled back on the reins and Mugwump slowed so that his propulsion matched the river precisely.

  Msitazi, wearing the bright red coat of the Queen's Own Wurm Guards, brought the canoe in close. "Greetings, Great Prince Vladimir."

  "I welcome your visit, Great Chief Msitazi. I am honored."

  "I present to you my grandson, William."

  Nathaniel's eldest, I would imagine. Despit
e the gray-green hue of the boy's flesh, there was no mistaking his lean frame and strong nose. And his eyes, so wary, like his father.

  "Greetings, William."

  "Thank you, Highness."

  The Prince pointed back in the direction of his estate. "May I offer you hospitality? Unless, of course, you mean to make Temperance before nightfall."

  "We have come to see you, Great Prince." Msitazi smiled broadly. "I bring you a message from Aodaga."

  "Who?"

  "The great killer of the Ungarakii." Msitazi straightened the jacket. "Captain Owen Strake."

  Prince Vlad sped Mugwump back to the estate and let Baker return him to the wurmrest. He took the towel from the servant, then sent him off to gather food. Then he helped William drag the canoe into his back lawn. The trio of men moved up to where just two months before the Prince had entertained Kamiskwa, Nathaniel, and Owen. He waited for his guests to seat themselves, then he sat as they did, cross-legged.

  Though he desperately wished to see Captain Strake's message, he prepared himself to observe Shedashee convention and allow the chief to get to the message in his own time. Though frustrating, the Prince had come to realize that the native Mystrians did not view time as Norillians did. For them time was measured as sufficient or not. While the need for urgency did not go unrecognized, haste was considered closer to a sin than a mere vice and often the height of foolishness. To suggest otherwise was to forfeit Shedashee respect, and this was a thing not easily regained.

  Msitazi handed the Prince a gorgeously beaded belt four inches wide and a yard and a half long. "This my daughter Ishikis has made for you, Great Prince. I should consider it a great honor if you would take her for your wife."

  Vlad accepted it. The shell and turquoise, coral, onyx, and malachite had all been worked into a beautiful mosaic that featured bears at either end and a creature much like Mugwump through the rest of the design. The colorful stones had come from afar and were of incalculable value to the Altashee. The gift was as much an honor as the offer of his daughter.

  "I regret that I must refuse your daughter's hand, Great Msitazi. I sent notice of your previous offer to my aunt. She has not yet given me leave to marry. I shall write her again."

  The elder Altashee smiled. "You men of Norisle, you mistake the true treasures of this land."

  "I know you speak the truth." Vlad stroked the belt with a hand. "Captain Strake also refused a similar offer?"

  "You shall write your aunt and ask her to send brave officers who do not have wives, please."

  "I shall, indeed, do that. How is it that you wear Captain Strake's coat?"

  "He gave it to me, and I gave him robes of great medicine. He has gone off on the great mission you have given him. He will need such medicine."

  Msitazi opened a pouch and produced a sealed note. "Aodaga sent this for you. We brought it as directly as we could. We had a little adventure on the way."

  Vlad accepted the note and broke the seal. He glanced at the date on the top of the first sheet. He traced a finger along through the numbers and did some figuring. His having committed A Continent's Calling to memory made swift translation possible. Strake modestly described their trip so far and informed the Prince of details about a man who might no longer be dead.

  He read it over twice, just to make sure he was translating correctly, then looked up. "What did they say of this man who may have returned from the grave?"

  Msitazi's face darkened. "Pierre Ilsavont. Magehawk did not like him. Shot him. They burned his head. He was supposed to have died during the bad winter. He was wendigo."

  "Did they say anything of a man named Guy du Malphias?"

  "No. The wendigo kept company with Ungarakii. My son said they were off to hunt great prey. They were bound for Hattersburg."

  Vlad nodded slowly. "The note mentions a journal and a ring."

  William glanced at his grandfather, then opened his pouch and produced both of them. "I would not have let anyone have them, Highness."

  "They were entrusted to you wisely, William. Your duty has been nobly and well accomplished." The ring was, as noted in the message, unremarkable other than being of Tharyngian manufacture and very far from home. While it might excite some interest in Launston, likely it would be dismissed as indicating little or nothing.

  The journal, on the other hand, greatly excited the Prince. He began leafing through and found the missive addressed to Bethany Frost. He set it aside and continued to study the writing. What he noticed first, aside from the dreadful spelling and questionable grammar, was that the entries deteriorated over time. Sentences became shorter. Punctuation disappeared. The hand itself became larger and sloppier, with lines sloping across pages. The phases of the moon remained obvious, but the orb's shape suffered mightily.

  Vlad looked up. "I beg your pardon. I am being rude."

  Msitazi held a hand up. "Your face is mine when I study a track. Watch him, William, for he is wise and can concentrate. A warrior who strikes fast is valued, but one who is wise enough to know where to strike, he will be the victor."

  The Prince smiled. "And, William, you are fortunate enough to have a man who is both fast and wise in your grandfather. Study him."

  The boy beamed.

  The Prince stood and waved to his wurmwright. "Baker, come here."

  The hefty man ran over, clearly afraid that the Shedashee might be somehow threatening the Prince. "Yes, Highness."

  Vlad handed him the note to Bethany Frost. "Take my fastest horse and deliver this to the Frosts. Ask Doctor Frost, his wife, his daughter, and his son, Caleb, to be my guests this evening for dinner. They will return home in the morning. You will have Colonel Langford prepare a coach for them and an honor guard of his cavalry company. He'll tell you that you are an idiot. You will tell him I said he was not to lead the cavalry, which is how he will know the order comes from me. The cavalry carry something of value back tomorrow. Their escort duty shall be a ruse should the enemy be watching. Have the guards bring a small strong box with them, including all keys for it."

  "Yes, Highness. Should I be going now, Highness, or in a bit since your wurm needs feeding."

  "Go now. I think Great Chief Msitazi and his grandson would help me feed the wurm. And on your way, tell the kitchen we shall have seven for dinner. It should be memorable."

  "Highness, it's a bit late in the day…"

  "Tell them that if I have to cook, they will have to feed the wurm."

  "I think they will understand, Highness."

  Throughout the discussion Msitazi's face remained an emotionless onyx mask, but as Baker ran off, he smiled. "It is not power that enables one to rule, but the wisdom to know how much to employ and when."

  "One always hopes for circumstances that allow for the deliberation that makes both power and wisdom possible." The Prince waved his guests toward the wurmrest. "You will, of course, dine with me this evening as my guests. But first, shall we see to Mugwump's comfort?"

  The boy clearly enjoyed feeding the wurm at least after he got past his initial fear. Mugwump appeared to enjoy his presence even more, gently nudging him and bringing his tail around to corral him. The boy shrieked delightedly and jabbered away at his grandfather. Prince Vlad was certain some great tales were going to be heard in Saint Luke upon their return.

  The Prince left the two of them to their own devices and retired to his laboratory to study the journal and ring. On closer examination, the only odd details he noted about the ring were some engraving and that a small sliver of brass had been carved from the band. It was possible the latter had happened by accident, but unlikely. The engraving inside the band was comprised, in part, of several symbols of arcane import. Compared with the crest on the outer face, these letters, like the sliver cut from the band, had been made very recently. The Prince accepted that both had been done deliberately and, therefore, had significance.

  The journal itself presented the Prince with clues both tantalizing and frustrating. Inside the
back cover he found the symbols from the ring repeated. That confirmed their use as some sort of indexing scheme. Still, simple numbers would have sufficed to please an accountant or quartermaster. The symbols themselves had their roots in magick, and Owen's suggestion in the letter that there was a magickal link to the ring suggested something rather sinister.

  The journal entries began almost normally, and would have appeared to be nothing more than a travelogue, save that the author gave no sense of his impressions or feelings. He described hills and valleys in the sort of language a civilian might think would please a surveyor. He did make an attempt, at first, to write down the paces it took to cross a stream, but precise measurements soon vanished. In fact, save for the lunar observations that prefaced every entry, any semblance of order or science evaporated halfway through.

  Toward the end, then, things became utter gibberish, the handwriting indecipherable. In two places the pencil's point had snapped off, but whole lines had been written before the author found a new pencil and continued on.

  All in all, the journal entries were useless. They conveyed neither direction nor elevation. Vlad supposed that if one were familiar with the area being traveled, one might be able to correlate location to description. But if one were that familiar with the area, he'd not need the journal's information.

  That fact, coupled with the idea that the ring could be tracked, started the Prince thinking. If one could track the ring and know where the person wearing it was at any given moment, then the person's travel would become a survey in and of itself. Moreover, if the ring could communicate more than just location, but conditions, even in the most rudimentary sense, then the journal would be used to confirm the observations made through the link.

  The whole thing had the stink of Ryngian Thaumaturgy about it. Norillian magick built on long tradition, and Norillian mages were among some of the best in the world. Norillian magick was what made the Queen's armies so effective-her line troops were second to none in combat.

  In the aftermath of the Tharyngian revolution, which elevated Science to the highest place in the Universe, magick had become yet one more area of study. While they had started with the same traditions as Norisle, the Ryngians had performed a systematic survey of magick to establish its underlying principles. This seemed a waste of time to many Norillians, and the newly published Tharyngian principles drew ridicule since it was well known that they just couldn't be true.