At the Queen's Command (66 page)

Vlad couldn’t be certain at that range with all the smoke, but it appeared as if the sloop had somehow fired on Ryngian troops! Before he had a chance to double-check, Mugwump leaped from the parapet down into the fort. He landed with the élan of a cat, his right flank to the fort’s open interior doors. He flashed his fangs and hissed, defiant and angry.

Vlad brought his swivel-gun around.
Pasmortes
and Ungarakii filled the gateway. The Prince fired, and von Metternin immediately after him. Smoke thinned as it swirled out through the gate. Some
pasmortes
still came on but many had fallen, convulsing as the iron shot inhibited magick. A handful of Ungarakii lay on the ground. More slithered away trailing blood, but a knot of warriors sprinted forward.

Mugwump lashed out with his tail. An Ungarakii’s thighs snapped. The man screamed, but the wurm’s hiss overrode the sound. The other Ungarakii stopped, and when Mugwump snatched up a
pasmorte
child and swallowed it whole, they broke and ran.

The Prince reloaded as quickly as he could. Numbness had spread up to his right elbow, making the task difficult. His swollen hand throbbed. Purple seeped into his fingers and past his wrist. He loaded with his left hand, jamming the shot home.

Mugwump sidled back as the men fired again. Their shots raked the
pasmortes,
scattering them like toys in a child’s tantrum, yet others came. Had they been thinking creatures—had they but one scintilla of self-preservation yet left in them—they would have fled with the Ungarakii.

It occurred to the Prince that perhaps they wanted to die.

And then, visible through the gateway, a company of bluebacks came running up hill. “Reinforcements, my lord. Theirs, I’m afraid.”

“Then, Highness, we shall just have to shoot faster.”

Vlad leaned on the swivel-gun’s aiming lever to tip it upright. He grabbed another charge and dumped it into the barrel. He worked the ramrod as Mugwump gobbled down another
pasmorte
. Bringing the gun down, Vlad hunched forward and hooked his right elbow around the aiming lever. He pulled it tight against his ribs, and pressed his left palm to the firestone.

As a wave of blackness swept his sight from him for a moment, and his left hand tingled, Prince Vlad realized he’d made a grave error. With both hands numb, reloading would be that much more difficult. And I can’t grab the reins…

He twisted back and watched von Metternin slowly loading again, his right hand dark enough that it might have been gloved in purple leather. “I am done, my lord.”

The Kessian laughed defiantly as a Platine company filled the gateway. “It was a grand gesture, Highness! We will live forever in the annals of war.” He brought the gun down, and spelled a blast that trimmed the left edge of the Tharyngian line.

Mugwump came around to face the Tharyngians, his mouth gaping wide, hissing again. His muzzle eclipsed the Prince’s view of the soldiers. “No, Mugwump!” The wurm might shrug shot off his scales, but his mouth and tongue would get shredded.

Muskets roared.

Tharyngians fell.

The men of the Mystrian Third streamed over the wall, firing as they came. “To the Top!” they yelled as if it would protect them from shot and steel. Men captured the nearest Ryngian battery with a bayonet charge, then levered the functional cannon around to the west. A Mystrian clapped a hand over the firestone. Golden-red flame exploded from its muzzle. The load of grapeshot slashed through the next battery below on the wall. The Mystrian gunner shook his hand as if it had been hit by a hammer, but urged men to reload as quickly as they could.

Another Mystrian crew levered a cannon all the way around. They aimed at the Platines. The Tharyngian ranks fired on the Mystrian troops and then evaporated after the cannon spoke. Mystrians, dead and wounded, filled the courtyard. The survivors pressed on, taking the gate. They fired into the main compound while even more Mystrians lined the upper fort’s parapet and fired on the Platine troops defending the north wall.

Mugwump leaped forward, pouncing on a moving
pasmorte
and devouring it. He seemed almost playful. He’d dig his nose beneath a body, flip it into the air, and snatch it with his mouth. His tongue gathered in arms and legs, then he’d swallow them whole, ambulatory or not.

More Mystrians poured over the wall in a muddy river of men. They didn’t organize themselves in ranks as much as they did small teams of three or four. As one man reloaded, another would spot targets and the third would shoot. While their musket-fire was not terribly accurate, the sheer volume of it, aided by the occasional cannon blast of grape, cleared a length of parapet.

Vlad slipped from the saddle and, hugging his arms to his chest, staggered up to the captured battery. “You see that small hill there, in the middle of the fort?”

The Mystrian crew stared at him for a moment, then followed his line of sight. “Yes, Highness.”

“Put some solid balls on it, as many as you can.” Vlad smiled. “It’s a hornets’ nest and I want it smashed.”

Only with the second broadside could Owen confirm what he’d thought had happened. The Ryngian sloop had somehow fired into its own formation. When sharpshooters started sniping, the fort fired on the sloop, and a familiar figure ran toward the bow, the truth became apparent.

“By God, Hodge, the ship is ours!”

Hodge, his face streaked with powder, spat a ball into his musket’s muzzle. “Not so loud, sir, because they ain’t ours.”

The Platine Guards rear ranks pulled back from the sloop’s assault. Men ran for the fort. Owen picked up a Ryngian musket, then grabbed Hodge by the shoulder. “Come on!”

They ran with the retreating Ryngians, hidden plainly in the midst of unreasoning men with fear-filled eyes. A Ryngian pulled ahead of Hodge, casting his musket away, and held his hands out as if asking to be bound. Hodge shouldered him out of the way. The man tumbled to the ground and other men stampeded over him.

“Are you sure this is wise, sir?”

“Stay with me, Hodge.”

Owen rounded the corner through the gate. Ungarakii were in full retreat from the upper fort. On the left, cannon-fire swept the ramparts. Another cannon launched a ball from the high fort. It overshot the hill and bounced through the troops packed in the gate. Men screamed.

Through the chaos Owen ran, and Hodge came hot on his heels. Another cannonball sailed over their heads and hit the grassy stronghold. A couple of soldiers moved to stop them, but Owen shot one and Hodge charged with his bayonet. The remaining Ryngian soldier read the determination on his face and fled screaming.

Owen ran past the flagpole and straight to the small shack Rivendell had drawn on his map. He kicked the door in. The room beyond it did indeed appear to house a wine cellar, but the back panel had slid open, revealing the passage Owen had limped through almost a year before.

“Follow me and shut this panel. No one gets out.”

“Yes, sir.” Hodge shouldered the panel closed and panicked screams dulled, but not so the full-throated cannon roars.

Owen entered the passage, sparing a glance at his old prison. Blankets, neatly folded, showed where troopers had waited while Rivendell and the others feasted. Owen moved past, going deeper, passing the dark doorway where he’d once believed Makepeace had been imprisoned. He didn’t know who du Malphias had tortured in there to break him down, and could only hope it had been someone like Etienne Ilsavont.

He turned left at the end of the corridor, down another, toward a doorway to a larger room from which came a shifting orange glow. He advanced slowly, his bayonet at the ready. He hesitated at the opening, confused by what he saw.

The room had been dug out and down, with steps at the doorway. A large table dominated the room. Maps, many of them, created an overlapping mosaic. Small bronze disks with what looked like firestones set in them all gathered at one spot and jockeyed for position. Some, toward the east, had stopped moving.

A huge orange glass sphere hung in a bronze helix lattice above the table. It looked akin to a firestone, but was clearly hollow. It rotated as a light burned inside. Though it gave off light, it put out no heat and, instead, seemed to be sucking warmth from the room.

And at the edge of the orange glow stood du Malphias. He’d raised his right hand toward the sphere, not even close to touching it. Still, the fire quickened in response to his gesture.

The Laureate smiled at Owen. “Captain Strake, you look well.”

“I am very well.”

The Laureate shook his head. “This pleases me. You know, Rivendell never would have found his way here without you. I am glad you didn’t let his capricious whim keep you from this meeting.”

Owen, with the bayonet held firmly in both hands, descended the stairs. “Thanks to you, he put me under arrest. He will court-martial me.”

Du Malphias laughed. “How little you truly understand of the world. He will do nothing of the sort. You have captured me. You will be inviolate. He will, if he survives, write scurrilous things about you. Few will believe him.”

Owen came around the table. “But what if I don’t intend to capture you?”

Du Malphias raised an eyebrow. “Kill me? You won’t.” He reached for one of the brass disks at the table’s edge and slid it across to Owen. “Quarante-neuf.”

“What?”

“The disks represent
pasmortes.
That disk is Quarante-neuf.”

Quarante-neuf’s firestone had a glimmer of light. Others, those that did not move, had blackened, like spent firestones.

“Is he alive or dead?”

“He’s quite dead, Captain.” Du Malphias’ smile grew. “You should ask if he is strong or weak.”

“Well?”

“Strong, for now.”

The Laureate traced a fiery sigil in the air. The sphere’s light flared, then the glass blackened and sagged inward. Like candle wax, it flowed onto the maps, which began to smolder. And the disk firestones melted along with it.

Except for Quarante-neuf’s.

Owen looked up. “His firestone glows. What does it mean?”

“I wish I knew.” Du Malphias’ eyes tightened. “I fear I shall not have time to study the matter, for now I am your prisoner. Will you treat me as I treated you?”

Owen shook his head. “Not that you deserve better.”

“Not that you could inflict worse.” The Tharyngian gently waved his left hand as if dismissing a rebuke. Owen’s musket moved to the right, trailing steam, offline of the man’s slender chest. “I promise I shall go as any man would go, with you, to surrender my forces and my fortress. The
pasmortes
cannot be raised again.”

“You could raise more.”

“I shall not.” He smiled easily. “That line of research bores me. There are other things I wish to investigate.”

Owen looked around the room. “Notes on your experiments? Journals? Books?”

He laughed. “Concerning the
pasmortes?
All gone. As for those on the healing concoctions, they are in my private quarters. But do not be in haste to get them. A copy of my research has already been sent to Feris to be published in the Tharyngian Science Journal. You are mentioned as Patient Ten. I shall have a copy sent to you.”

“You’re so kind.”

“You know that is manifestly untrue.” Du Malphias raised his hands above his head. “Now, shall we go stop this battle? I have no more use for corpses and I imagine there are a few men you should like to see yet alive.”

Chapter Sixty-Five

August 1, 1764

La Fortresse du Morte

Anvil Lake, Mystria

W
hat in Heaven’s name? Prince Vlad stared, disbelieving. As if they were all puppets controlled by the same strings, the
pasmortes
jerked suddenly in unison. Their backs bowed as if their shoulders were being drawn to the earth. Their mouths gaped open. Those that had eyes stared at the sky. Some even seemed surprised. And then, all at once, they snapped upright for a heartbeat before collapsing in a tangle of limp limbs.

The Prince shook his head, not certain if in his fatigue he had slipped into some malaise where he was dreaming. He could not believe his eyes. Then Mugwump shuddered beneath him, and vomited forth a black puddle of quickly dissolving bones. The wurm shied from the steaming mire and scraped dirt over it with his tail.

The Mystrians, finding themselves with no
pasmortes
to fight, flew to the battlements and angled fire into the fort’s heart. The Fourth Foot finally came over the north wall’s top, toward the middle. They quickly formed up by squads, five men crouching in front, five standing, and hammered the Ryngians with deadly volleys.

Mystrian cannon-fire smashed the central stronghold. As men would discover as they dug through it for survivors, cleverly hidden tunnels fed into it. What Owen had once seen as shooting ports had been shuttered with planking and planted over. Inside had been three swivel-guns and enough room for two squads to take turns firing. Taking the stronghold by storm would have been a bloody affair.

The battling raged for another five minutes, then du Malphias emerged from his wine cellar. He ordered his men to lay down their arms and had the colors struck from the flagpole. Aside from a few shots on the battlefield, and a few more across the river, all hostilities ceased by mid-afternoon.

Prince Vlad rode Mugwump down and then slid out of the saddle. He nodded toward Owen and the stocky little redcoat holding a gun on du Malphias. “Well done, Captain Strake.”

“Thank you, Highness. May I present Guy du Malphias, Laureate of Tharyngia.”

The tall Ryngian bowed crisply. “It is an honor, Prince Vladimir. I much enjoyed your paper on the relation between ursine hibernation cycles and formations of geese flying south at winter. With your permission, I should undertake a proper translation.”

Vlad’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll forgive me, sir, but that’s hardly what I expected from you.” The Prince turned and beckoned Count von Metternin forward with a purple hand. “You know Count von Metternin.”

“Too well.” The Laureate’s head came up with the barest trace of a smile. “If you wish, I could heal your hands.”