At the Queen's Command (60 page)

Vlad contented himself with studying the landscape. Wildflowers splashed color into tiny spots where the sun managed to knife its way through the leafy green canopy. In the darker spots lichens and mosses, mushrooms and shelf-fungus took over, with wonderful golds and reds to contrast with the flowers’ blues and yellows. Just enough of a breeze came off the lake to make the flowers and leaves dance, animating a mosaic of color and light.

Blue jays chattered and a couple of squirrels scolded from on high. He saw signs of where bears had climbed trees, or moose and tanners had scraped their horns against them. Rabbits scampered through the brush almost unseen and ravens watched them pass, offering haunting commentary.

Any other time, I would have enjoyed this ride.
The source of his displeasure was his companions. He would have welcomed them looking about, too, knowing that they were searching for tactical advantages even while he was studying beauty. They were not even doing that. Taking their cue from Rivendell, they sat their horses with straight spines, eyes forward, faces tilted up, and remained that way as if posing for portraits.

Not even sight of the pavilion broke their composure. Vlad had expected a large tent erected in the middle of the road, but du Malphias had other ideas. His pavilion had been fashioned from a stand of birches. A dozen of the trees bent inward, curving softly to form a high ceiling. A wooden floor had been fitted together tightly, with the wood sanded, lacquered and polished until it glowed from the sun’s dying light. A long table had six chairs set at it, likewise shaped of native woods and left blonde in keeping with the nature of the pavilion. Cloth streamers of blue, red, and green to honor the various military units floated playfully in the breeze.

Back a bit, deeper in the woods, a large tent had been erected to serve as the cooking station.

Soldiers of the Platine Regiment took charge of their mounts and conducted them to the pavilion. The Laureate stood at the head, dressed in white and gold. He opened his arms and smiled.

“Welcome, gentlemen. Highness, I would have you here at my right hand and Lord Rivendell opposite me. Lieutenant Laforge, we will need another place setting, down there, on the other side of Colonel Langford. And you are, sir?”

Bumble tried to look imposing. He failed. He had shed thirty pounds. His clothing hung on him poorly and when he further sucked in his stomach, his breeches threatened to fall to his knees. “I am the Right Reverend Bishop Othniel Bumble of the Church of Norisle, Temperance.”

“This could be more interesting than I expected. Please, gentlemen, sit.”

The moment they had pulled their chairs up to the table, service began. While soldiers stood all around, civilians served them. A comely lass had been assigned to attend to Prince Vlad; nondescript men to deal with the middle of the table, and a beautiful young boy attended to Rivendell’s every pleasure. As the sun’s light began to die, and the soldiers lit lanterns, Vlad could not be certain, but the pallor of the girl’s skin suggested she was a
pasmorte
.
Which would make all of the servants
pasmortes
.

As hosts went, du Malphias had to be the greatest on the continent in spite of the rustic nature of his banquet hall. Each course had its own wine, and each wine had its own glass, which the servants presented and kept filled. They began the evening with fresh-caught salmon, followed by roasted duck with mushrooms and wild rice, then moose with a quince compote and fresh peas. Each course arrived on its own plate, covered with a silver turtle, which the servants removed with a flourish when the Laureate gave them the sign.

In addition to providing fine fare, du Malphias likewise encouraged discussion among his guests. He skillfully set the military men to refighting the Villerupt campaign through their anecdotes, while speaking to Vlad of a variety of experiments he’d conducted in Mystria. The man had no trouble following multiple conversations and offering cogent commentary on all.

Vlad’s chill returned.
He is a genius. The Count is right. The battle is being won even now.

When it came time for dessert and cognac poured into glasses, du Malphias stood. “Before we reveal the dessert—and I assure you it shall be a surprise—I should offer a toast to the brave men who will serve in the battle to come. Serve now and serve forever.”

The others raised their glasses and drank.

Rivendell rose, raising his glass. “And a toast to those who will lose the battle. May they never fear treatment at the hands of an honorable foe.”

The Laureate smiled and drank, but his eyes became cold.

Rivendell meant his toast one way, but du Malphias read it another. And Rivendell will rue his comments.

Du Malphias seated himself after Rivendell had returned to his chair, then nodded. The servants lifted the silver domes from the dessert plates.

Vlad stared down. A small, single-barreled pistol similar to Count von Metternin’s, sat centered on the plate and garnished with a sprig of rosemary.

Rivendell picked the pistol up. “What is the meaning of this?”

The Laureate smiled. “I mean to show you something. Please, all of you, take your pistol and shoot your servant.”

Bumble’s eyes grew wide. “Are you mad?”

“No, not at all.” Du Malphias smiled. “Highness, if I might.”

Vlad nodded.

Du Malphias appropriated the Prince’s pistol and shot the serving girl in the stomach. She flew back into one of birches, then struggled to her feet, still holding the silver plate cover. She approached the table, a black hole burned in her blouse, and smiled. “Will that be all, Highness?”

Vlad, his hands shaking, could not answer.

The three colonels picked up their pistols and shot their servants. Rivendell made a great show of aiming, then fired. The pretty boy spun away. It looked as if, unlike the others, he might stay down. Rivendell brandished the pistol triumphantly, then his expression soured as the young man regained his feet.

Bumble refused to touch the pistol. “I never learned that magick.”

“You may all keep your pistols as my gift. I have boxes for them, along with bullet molds and measuring tools. You will understand if I decline to provide brimstone, but the firestones are new and of the highest Tharyngian quality.”

He nodded toward the servants. “Captain Strake has told you of my
pasmortes
. All of them can and do use firearms. In addition to the regiment-and-a-half of regular soldiers in my command, I have hundreds of my
pasmortes
. They never tire, they do not eat, they do not sleep, they know no fear. And any of my soldiers who fall shall return as
pasmortes
. Your efforts to destroy my fortress are futile.”

He picked up his cognac glass and smiled. “To the health of your troops, gentlemen. May they remain hardy, or else they will be
mine
.”

Chapter Sixty-One

July 25, 1764

La Fortresse du Morte

On the Shores of Anvil Lake, Mystria

O
wen watched with the forward pickets for the leaders’ return.
If du Malphias had intended to unsettle Lord Rivendell with his dinner, he succeeded very well.
All of the officers appeared subdued and even a bit queasy. Rivendell didn’t even rouse himself to abuse Owen. He just looked at him with haunted eyes and rode on past.

Prince Vlad settled in near Fort Hope and invited Owen and von Metternin to join him in his tent. He poured three small tots of brandy and offered one to each man. “I should have taken your pistol, Count Joachim.”

“Indeed? Why?”

The Prince proceeded to describe the evening’s finale. He pointed to the wooden box on his camp desk. “The pistol is yours, Captain Strake. You’ll doubtlessly have better use for it than I will.”

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.”