At the Queen_s command cc-1

by Michael A. Stackpole

  "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.

  The bugler's call changed. Advance. The strident notes echoed from the Fortress of Death. On that signal, the battalions marched forward. The Norillian artillery fired a volley. Iron balls flew, but hit the glacises and bounced high, passing over the walls. Owen could but hope that some would come down within the fortress environs and smash through waiting troops.

  The Tharyngian response scythed through the Norillian lines at the point where the Fourth Foot and the cavalry met. Iron balls smashed through the ranks. A dozen men went down. The lucky ones died instantly, their heads splashed over their comrades, or torn in twain. The wounded clawed at the ground futilely trying to crawl to where their severed legs lay, or sat there unable to understand why a sleeve ended wetly at the elbow.

  Even at that distance, the screams echoed sharply through Owen's skull.

  All six Ryngian batteries concentrated on the Norillians. Du Malphias had reinforced each with two extra cannon, and did not seem at a loss for crews. Owen would have taken their choice of target as a sign of contempt for the Mystrians, but the Fourth Foot were the most formidable force on the field. If du Malphias concentrated on them, he could blast the Mystrians close up with grape shot. Chances were they would break before they reached the wall.

  But it wasn't the Mystrians whose courage flagged first. Owen pointed toward the cavalry. A gap had opened between them and the infantry. "Thornbury isn't driving his men forward."

  Sergeant Unstone stepped up beside Owen. "Gap only hurts if the Tharyngians have troops to push into it. Colonel says…"

  "The Colonel doesn't believe du Malphias has spare troops. If he's right, filling that gap now won't hurt. If he's wrong, the battle's lost."

  Suddenly gunfire echoed from the woods west of the river, where a battalion of Mystrians had been left to hold the flank. Owen stood on tiptoes to see what was going on, but only saw smoke rising from the woods. You were even craftier than we imagined.

  Owen turned to one of the privates. "Take this message to Rivendell. There is firing on the right. The Mystrians are fighting in the woods. Du Malphias has a force he'll cross at the ferry to flank the cavalry."

  The man looked at the Sergeant. Unstone sent him off with a curt nod.

  Responding to the fighting across the river, the cavalry shifted its facing. Thornbury ordered his reserve unit to the river's edge. The line unit reshuffled and withdrew to become a reserve for the river defenders. Their maneuver, executed poorly and in complete confusion, completely opened the Fourth's flank.

  The Private reached Rivendell's station, but Langford never let him get to the man. The Colonel dismissed the soldier and then turned to Rivendell. They shared a laugh, then went back to watching the Tharyngian cannon ravage the men under their command.

  The Mystrians had bravely moved up the slope toward the high fort, the Blackoak Pipers driving them forward. Then the high fort's battery opened up. Grapeshot killed men several ranks deep in the Third battalion, but the survivors kept moving forward. A man on the formation's edge kept shouting, and the men of the Third surged ahead.

  The other battalions faltered and began to pull back. The cannon spoke again, nibbling at the Second battalion. A dozen of their men went down. Their rear ranks began to turn and run. The First and the Fourth slowed, then stopped.

  Count von Metternin shook his head. "You cannot blame them."

  "I know." Vlad snapped a pencil in half. "But I have to stop them."

  The Kessian looked at him. "What can you do? If you go down there, you'll die."

  "But I have to do something. Look." Vlad stood and pointed toward the Third. "The hill, the glacises, the guns in front can't get them. But others will sweep them once they've destroyed the Norillians. The Third is trapped, and I can't leave them there."

  The Count reached across the table and grabbed Vlad's arm. "You are going to do something stupid and get yourself killed. And I shall have to inform Princess Gisella."

  "Come with me." Vlad gave the man a confident smile. "If you agree to go, it can't be stupid."

  The Count came out of the chair. The two of them ran to the wurmrest and the Count gasped. "This is insane, completely insane. No one has…"

  In accord with the experimentation the Prince had been conducting through the spring, a second assembly had been fitted snuggly to the saddles, forward of them. It consisted of a steel post a foot and a half high, with a semicircular bar fixed to it by four spokes. The semicircle and spokes lay parallel to the ground. A six inch spike rose in the center of the arc.

  A one-pound swivel-gun had been mounted on the post, secured with a water-tight leather sheath and cork plug. The ramrod had been fitted with a gimbaled guide, so it couldn't go missing in the heat of the battle. The center spike prevented the cannon being fired straight forward-hence the rear gunner could not shoot the rider, and the rider could not shoot Mugwump. Oilskin saddle-bags before and behind the rider's legs contained premeasured charges and rounds for the guns.

  The Prince hauled himself into the saddle. "Baker, find Colonel Daunt. Tell him to charge the high fort on my signal."

  The wurmwright gaped up at him. "Signal, Highness?"

  "He'll know it. Go."

  Vlad turned in the saddle and smiled at von Metternin. "Use the spike to gash the charges when you reload. It's all grape, and designed to kill pasmortes."

  Von Metternin laughed. "This is not stupid, Highness, it is spectacularly stupid."

  "Only if we die, my lord." Vlad smiled and touched Mugwump's flank with his heel. "We're off to save Mystrians. The devil can take all else!"

  By the time the Private returned, the battle had deteriorated. The Mystrians had stalled on the left flank. One battalion had been trapped near the hill's summit. Whenever a squad tried to advance, cannon blew them to pieces. The survivors hunkered down, unaware that once the Tharyngian cannon had finished with the Fourth Foot and smoke had thinned enough for gunners to aim, it would rake their flank and clear them off the hillside.

  More firing came from the right, sp
oradic but steady. Owen couldn't make any sense of the noise. The smoke drifting up from the battlefield made seeing anything difficult.

  In the Norillian center, the Second company had pushed forward and had actually reached the walls. The Third slid right, breaking contact with the Mystrians, to follow the Second through the forest of spikes. Bridging went over the trenches. Siege ladders leaned against walls. Soldiers started to climb, and then the Platine Regiment mounted the battlements. With deadly precision they opened fire. Musket balls blasted men from the ladders. Bayonets stabbed down. Norillian gunfire slew Ryngians-several bodies hung lifeless from the top of the palisade wall, but far more Redcoats fell.

  Then Owen saw it, on the right. "There, Tharyngian troops mustering at the corner."

  Unstone looked toward Rivendell. "His lordship is gone, sir."

  "What?" Owen turned just in time to see Langford disappearing into Rivendell's tent. "Sergeant, send a man back down there."

  "Won't do no good, sir. Smoke. He can't see a thing."

  Owen grabbed Unstone's lapels. "Then we have to do it, Sergeant. We have to get the reserve battalion over there."

  "Sir, I can't give those orders." The Sergeant shook his head adamantly. "It's not my place. I will be court-martialed and shot."

  "Listen to me. All of you." Owen looked at the entire squad. "It's your friends who are going to die, and you know damned well that Rivendell couldn't care less. Do you think they will survive if we don't act?"

  Unstone glanced at his feet. "We won't survive if we do."

  "I'd rather die saving friends than live watching them die." Owen shoved the man away and started off down the hill. "Shoot me for escaping, or come with me and be a hero. Your choice. Me, I'm going to kill some Ryngians."

  Mugwump charged from the wurmrest, then paused on the crest of the hill. His head came up and nostril slits flared. He turned, looking back at the Prince. Vlad could have sworn great intelligence burned in that golden eye.

  The Prince nodded. "Yes, it's into that Hell we're going. Plenty of pasmortes. All you care to eat."