At the Queen's Command (62 page)

Shots echoed from the sloop. A ball ricocheted off the gatepost near Nathaniel’s head as he crouched to reload. The Ryngians returned scattered fire from the fort’s far end, where they’d been waiting the dawn firing.

Which was what we was waiting for, too. So much for the Major’s diversion!
Nathaniel levered the rifle’s breach closed.
I reckon we’re the diversion now!

A door opened on the compound’s central building. A man silhouetted himself against a lantern. Nathaniel moved right, lifted his own rifle and shot. Smoke blinded him and by the time tears had washed his eyes clear again, all he could see was light pouring through a hole in the door.

Nathaniel reloaded again, then tapped one of the Bookworms on the shoulder. “Be pleased iffen you’d tell them Summerland boys we’d enjoy them cannons helping out with the barracks and all.”

The man nodded. “Which one?”

“Either, for a start. Go!”

The Ryngians had built the barracks against the north and south walls respectively. The central building cut the compound in half. Nathaniel reckoned the Prince could explain the math they used for designing the layout, but no matter the numbers; it made things awkward for the Rangers. Already Ryngians had knocked loopholes in the barracks walls and were shooting back. Nathaniel also figured they’d be forming up on the other side of the headquarters for a charge that would sweep the Rangers right out into the lake.

Nathaniel’s heart pounded. The Ryngians would come running around that building, bayonets gleaming. They’d fire maybe one volley. Maybe they’d not even bother. Twenty-five yards and they’d be on the Mystrians like cats on mice.

What am I going to do?
If the Rangers stayed, the Ryngians would slaughter them. If they ran, they’d die. He glanced at Caleb, not seeing the soldier the man had become, but the boy he’d been.
Damned foolish thing, war.

Nathaniel drew his tomahawk and laid it on the ground by his knee. “Fix bayonets, boys. Give ’em one volley on my order. Shoot low.”

Muskets clanked with the haunting sound of bayonets being slid over the barrel and locked down. From the compound’s far side, a whistle shrilled. A Ryngian voice shouted orders. Booted feet stamped in unison, the crisp sound smothering the occasional crack of a musket. The whistle blasted again.

From twenty-five yards away, the Second Company of the Silicium Regiment streamed around their headquarters, sharp steel forward, shrieking with outrage and fury.

Nathaniel stood. “Hold it, boys. Hold it! Fire!”

The Rangers fired, but thirty muskets against sixty men didn’t matter much. Here and there a Ryngian went down, but their fellows just galloped over them. A couple Rangers stared, frozen. A couple more ran. Others looked around, defiance melting into fear as uniformed soldiers drove at them.

Nathaniel fired quickly, smashing the whistle and the face of the man blowing it. He stood there, loading as quickly as he could, but he knew there wasn’t time. The rolling thunder of the Ryngians’ pounding feet confirmed it. He fumbled with his bullet, but caught it before it hit the ground. He drove it home and levered the breech shut.

Too late!

The Ryngians had closed to where he could see their wide eyes and glinting bayonets.

Then hands yanked him backward as Makepeace Bone yelled, “Get down!”

Makepeace swung one of the swivel-guns around and slapped his palm over the egg-sized firestone. White teeth showed in a smoke-stained grimace. A heartbeat later, the small cannon erupted.

Compared to the sloop’s cannon, swivel-guns hardly presented a threat. They could fire a small, two-pound cannonball, which would have bounced off the sloop’s hull. But men do not have oaken flesh, and these swivel-guns had been loaded with grape shot: twelve balls to the pound, two pounds to the load.

The Ryngians had crossed all but the last ten yards to the dock when Makepeace fired.

Hot metal balls blasted out in a volcano of brimstone. They shredded the front rank. Flying metal instantly transformed running soldiers into screaming piles of bleeding meat, broken bone, and smoldering uniforms. Men flew backward, impaling themselves on Ryngian bayonets. The balls blew through the leading soldiers and hit others, taking legs off at the knee and perforating bowels. High shots blasted skulls into shrapnel, piercing men with bits of their comrades.

And still Ryngians came on. Some slipped in blood. Others tripped over screaming compatriots. Their comrades dripped from their uniforms, but they closed with the Rangers, thrusting bayonets, howling at the top of their lungs.

Nathaniel fired, dropping one man, then parried a thrust with his rifle. The Ryngian, insensate with fury, still rushed forward. He caught Nathaniel with a shoulder and knocked him back.

The Mystrian smashed his head against the stone rampart. Stars exploded before his eyes. His rifle bounced away as he hit the ground. The Ryngian, straddling him, raised his rifle for a killing thrust.

Kamiskwa’s warclub whistled. Bones cracked. Teeth scattered. The Ryngian whirled away, flopping into a loose pile of flesh. Kamiskwa dodged a second soldier’s thrust, then crushed his shoulder with another blow. The Altashee shoved him back into a third man, then dropped him with a swing that spun him full around.

Nathaniel grabbed a musket and shoved the foot-and-a-half of spade-shaped steel through a man’s chest. The soldier, who had already knocked Caleb down and stabbed him through the thigh, opened his mouth to say something, but blood replaced words.

The man slid off the bayonet with a shove.

Nathaniel dropped to a knee beside Caleb. He pulled a sash off the dead Ryngian. “Wrap it tight, Lieutenant Frost. I ain’t losing you.”

Nathaniel never head Caleb’s reply.

The sloop’s cannon thundered. Heavy iron balls ripped through the headquarters roof, shattering the main beam. The roof collapsed, but the balls carried on into the fort’s eastern half. Hardly spent by blasting through shingles, they caromed through the courtyard. Men screamed and a half-dozen fell when a ball undercut a rampart support.

A volley of musketry echoed from the east. More Ryngians dropped, falling inside the compound. Recovering his rifle, Nathaniel ran forward. The Bone brothers advanced their squads along the ramparts. Kamiskwa darted ahead, warclub at the ready.

By the time they reached the headquarters building, the first of the Southern Rangers had gained the wall. Using scaling ladders they’d hacked out of logs, they came through the embrasures. The Ryngians, trapped between two forces, quickly laid down their arms and threw open the gates for Major Forest.

The Tharyngian commander, Colonel Pierre Boucher, surrendered his sword to Major Forest. Forest, in keeping with Continental etiquette, returned the sword in exchange for a promise of parole and good conduct. The Colonel agreed and at Colonel Boucher’s orders, with Major Forest’s agreement, the Ryngians formed up details to collect their wounded and then bury their dead.

Nathaniel slid the deerskin sheath over his rifle. “I reckon, Major, we done surprised you a mite.”

“I have learned not to be surprised by war, Captain Woods. Things never go as one plans and, alas, there is always a butcher’s bill to be paid.” The older man looked around, his eyes hardening. “Caleb?”

“Has himself a scar to go with any story he wants to tell.” Nathaniel nodded. “Commanded his boys fine.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“And you, sir, for coming to the rescue.” Nathaniel sighed, the back of his head aching. “I reckon it’s time to figure that bill. Begging your leave, Major, I’ll get at it.”

The Summerland boys had two men killed and two seriously wounded in taking the sloop. One of the dead was a Lanatashee. The Northern Rangers lost a total of fifteen men; five more were wounded. A third of the dead had been Bookworms. There would have been a sixth, but a copy of
A Continent’s Calling
stopped a ball at page two-fifty. The Southern Rangers had no one killed. Their only injury came from a man breaking his leg when he fell off a siege ladder.

Major Forest reunited the Ryngians with the captives, then had each man sign a parole document stating that he would not fight against Mystrians again. The Rangers helped them build rafts and canoes, then sent the survivors down the river to Kebeton.

Makepeace should have been counted among the injured, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d never used a cannon before and assumed it was just like a big musket. He invoked the magick and the larger firestone pulled more out of him than he expected. He turned black and blue up to the elbow. He told everyone he was just fine, but he got more quiet than usual, and took to reading Bible verses to Ryngians his shot had wounded.

Nathaniel reported to Major Forest, meeting him on the wall over the east gate. “Caleb will be good. Packed the wound with
mogiqua
, bound it up tight. Blade got meat, not anything vital.”

Forest nodded. “I will write letters to the families of the fallen.”

Nathaniel frowned. “Reckon I might have to learn some letters to do that myself.”

“It’s not something you will enjoy.”

“Don’t expect it is. Needs doing.” Nathaniel sighed. “Part of my responsibility to my men.”

“Your men?” Forest smiled. “Strike me, but I never thought I’d hear you utter those words.”

“Ain’t saying they come easy, but I reckon you know that. And you knowed this was a-coming when you made me an officer.”

“I might have at that.” The Major rested his living hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “I knew you would make a good officer.”

“Not sure your trust is entirely placed right.” Nathaniel glanced back toward the wharf. “Truth be told, when they was charging, fear took a mighty hold of me. I could have run.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know why you didn’t?”

“Got it narrowed down to being too ornery or just a damned fool.”

Forest laughed, an incongruous sound in the fort, but no less a welcome one. “You didn’t run because, if you did, your men would have run and died. Their only chance was to stand and fight. And they would do that for you, because of their trust in you. You didn’t betray that trust. As an officer, you can never do that. Your men will die and, even if you survive, you’ll be dead inside.”

Nathaniel glanced down. “I reckon I need to do some more thinking on that, but thank you, sir.”

“You’re more than welcome, Captain.” Forest nodded solemnly. “And you might as well rejoice. The Mystrian Rangers have defeated a larger Ryngian force and put a lie to the story of Villerupt.”

“I reckon that’s true.” Nathaniel smiled for a moment, then his brows arrowed together. “Occurs to me now that didn’t nobody tell us what we was supposed to do once we took this place.”

“That’s because we weren’t supposed to take it.” Forest’s eyes narrowed. “Colonel Boucher told me that he’d had word from Kebeton that a hundred fifty men were on their way to capture his fort. He refused to believe because the very idea was outrageous. I think he’s still waiting for the rest of our force to come out of the woods.”

“I reckon his being warned means Deathridge wanted us dead.”

“Or Rivendell, or their enemies.” Forest shook his head. “Perhaps they didn’t want us dead, just out of the way.”

“And being here accomplishes that, don’t it?”

“It does.” The Major stared out to the east. “If we cut back the woods and use the lumber to give this place a back wall, we could hang on to it for a good long time. And absent other orders, that’s as good a plan as any.”

Chapter Sixty-Three

August 1, 1764

La Fortresse du Morte

Anvil Lake, Mystria

P
rince Vlad read Rivendell’s brief note again, then looked at the Lieutenant who had delivered it. “Lord Rivendell is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed? And yet he has summoned my Colonel Daunt to his meeting?”

The Lieutenant, a slender young man who had developed none of an adult’s angles to his body or face, shook his head. “I do not know what the message said, Highness. I was told to give it to you and report back to Lord Rivendell immediately.”

“You’ll wait here.” Vlad stalked from his tent. “Count von Metternin Captain Strake! To me immediately!”

The Prince ground his teeth. Rivendell had consistently played the fool, but his conduct in the last forty-eight hours had gone beyond the pale. On July thirtieth Rivendell had sent the Laureate an invitation to dine in his headquarters in honor of Tharyngia’s Liberation Day. Rivendell had even ordered Blackoak’s band to practice the Ryngian anthem.

Du Malphias declined regretfully, citing a need to celebrate with his men, but extended an invitation for the officers from the other evening’s festivities to join him in his fort. Rivendell and his command staff accepted. Bumble did not. Prince Vlad offered Count von Metternin in his place, but du Malphias’ envoy had politely declined.

I knew nothing good would come of that dinner. He half-hoped du Malphias would poison the Norillians. Prince Vlad would then take command, retire and build Fort Hope solidly. He’d add a smaller fort atop the hills on either side, thereby guaranteeing control of the high ground.

The Tharyngians had celebrated enthusiastically, firing off cannons. Chemicals added to the brimstone produced bright red and green flames. Ryngian mortars launched fused charges that exploded in the air, providing dazzling displays of light. Ever courteous, the Ryngians aimed the mortars over the lake, so no errant charge could explode among the besieging army.

The Mystrians had worked day and night digging trenches and moving their cannon forward. They’d gotten to within eight hundred yards of the fort. They controlled the battlefield, but the glacises prevented them from hitting the walls. That would require them to be two hundred yards closer. Vlad imagined that du Malphias would use his cannon to discourage those efforts.

Owen found the Prince first. “Yes, Highness?”

“What do you know of Rivendell’s doings?”

The younger man shook his head. “Not much. The diners started working yesterday after their hangovers eased. Everyone else was kept away. What has he done?”