At the Queen's Command (67 page)

Vlad shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Prior to this, battle has always been an intellectual exercise. I would not be soon without my reminder.”

The Count snorted. “To a Kessian, this is nothing.”

“You disguise your distrust well, gentlemen.” Du Malphias drew his hands together at the small of his back. “At the very least I can offer you an unguent made from bear tallow and the
mogiqua
to which I was introduced by Captain Strake. It will ease the discomfort.”

“Very kind.”

“And I wish it noted that I surrendered to Captain Strake and his companion, Mr. Dunsby. If you will dispatch Mr. Dunsby to my quarters in the southern fort, he can fetch my saber for a formal presentation. I would send one of my servants but…” He glanced toward a withered
pasmorte
and shrugged.

The Prince nodded to the redcoat. “Go.”

Dunsby ran off and returned with du Malphias’ sword. The Laureate smiled, then handed it to the Prince. “There. The formalities have been satisfied.”

Vlad accepted it, then extended it back. “I have your parole?”

“Of course.” Du Malphias accepted the blade and leaned on it as if it were a walking stick. “I have quite tired of war.”

Lord Rivendell finally forced his way through the circle of soldiers surrounding the Laureate. The Norillian commander had come up over the wall once the shooting had stopped, his appearance spoiled only by the bloody mud on his boots. He drew his own sword, gold tassel dancing playfully, and leveled it at du Malphias.

“In the name of her most Holy and Terrible Majesty, the exalted Queen Margaret of Norisle, I, John Lord Rivendell, demand your surrender, unconditionally, and that of your troops and possessions.” Rivendell made certain his voice carried, and filled his words with gravity to underscore the moment’s drama. “Your sword, sir.”

Vlad held up a hand. “He surrendered to me, my lord, and I returned it. I have his parole.”

Rivendell’s blade quivered. “Your sword, sir.”

“As Prince Vladimir has said, I surrendered it to him.”

“He is not a military man. He has no authority to accept your surrender!” Spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth. “For the third time, sir, and the last, your sword.”

Du Malphias, gracing Rivendell with a stare that could have etched steel, turned and presented his sword to Captain Strake. “I surrender.”

Owen accepted the blade, then gave it back.

Count von Metternin stepped forward, brushing Rivendell’s blade aside. “I suggest the men attend to their wounded and comfort the dying.”

His suggestion, delivered in a calm but firm voice, fell as a command into all ears but those of Lord Rivendell. Men peeled away, forming squads. Many Mystrians headed back up and out the way they’d come in, to get their picks and shovels for grave-digging duty. They walked as men proud, heads held high, with the cry “To the top!” going up to cheers from time to time.

Colonel Langford, ever Rivendell’s amanuensis, followed his master doggedly, recording copious notes. Von Metternin, to Rivendell’s displeasure, found a Ryngian from the Valmont region near the Kessian border who could read and write, and used him to record the Count’s recollections. The Count shadowed Rivendell, driving him to distraction.

Vlad wanted to record his thoughts as well, but because of his hands, had to employ a secretary. He chose Caleb Frost, who had come down from Fort Cuivre on the sloop. He found Caleb gifted at not only recording his thoughts faithfully, but adding quick sketches which enhanced the text.

Recollections of the battle varied highly with the author—something which came as no surprise to the Prince. In Rivendell’s account, no mention of
pasmortes
graced the page. He explained the myriad
pasmorte
bodies as simply being those of civilians who expired of fright when they looked upon a wurm for the first time. Langford did add a note that suggested the civilians were suffering from an unknown malady, which contributed to their diminished capacity.

Rivendell’s description of the surrender, of course, made no mention of anyone but Rivendell and du Malphias. It read as if Rivendell had taken the
Fortresse du Morte
all by his lonesome, and tracked du Malphias down in his hidden lair. Rivendell noted that he’d been aware of du Malphias’ duplicity the whole of the time at Anvil Lake and, therefore, had not been surprised by it.

The various battle reports most closely agreed when it came to matter of casualties. The Fourth Foot suffered 54 percent killed or wounded. The Third battalion, which had closed the gap, had suffered 83 percent casualties, with over half of those dead. The cavalry’s cowardly First battalion had escaped lightly. The Second took 57 percent casualties, including Colonel Thornbury. Survivors within the First claimed that when the sloop had appeared under Ryngian colors, Thornbury had ordered them to withdraw, but no physical evidence of that order was ever found.

The Mystrians came off the best on the Norillian side of things, having only one in five men killed or wounded. Among historians, this worked against them because military experts assessed unit performance based on casualties, rather than objectives gained. Thus historians deemed the Fourth Foot’s effort as the most critical. They tied the Tharyngians up, freeing the Mystrians to do what they did. As for the sloop’s crew, their advancing under the enemy flag was seen as contemptible conduct. Norillian politicians seized upon that fact to besmirch the Mystrian effort and salve the wounded egos of those who had wished for a cleaner victory.

The Ryngians were given muskets and sufficient shot and powder to defend themselves on the long trip home. They gave their parole that they would not fight against Norillian interests in the new world and headed up the Green River. Du Malphias traveled on the sloop along with a company of the Fourth Foot, led by the newly promoted Lieutenant Unstone, to take over the garrison of Fort Cuivre. From there the Laureate would be given passage to Kebeton.

The Ungarakii melted into the wilderness and the Seven Nations announced their neutrality in all wars of the white men.

The Fourth Foot garrisoned the Fortress of Death, which they renamed Fort Hammer—the name based on the fort’s location at Anvil Lake. The Mystrians, the cavalry, and Lord Rivendell all headed back to Hattersburg, making the return trip in half the time.

They could have made better time, but despite wanting to be home again in time for harvest, the men remained reluctant to break apart their company. Vlad understood and agreed. Combat had brought together men from all over Mystria. They had faced crack troops from Tharyngia and beaten them.

The grumbling from the cavalry limping at the end of the column only made them feel better.

In their absence, Hattersburg had been transformed. They returned on August twelfth to a town largely unlike the one they’d left a month earlier. Horses filled brand new corrals. Warehouses nearly burst with supplies. Men wearing Kessian blue sashes—locals with Seth Plant at their head—stood guard. They herded the redcoat cavalry away from the horses at gunpoint, and the Prince was directed to Gates’ Tavern.

He’d barely dismounted Mugwump when the door flew open and Gisella, her golden hair flashing, threw herself into his arms. He caught her as best he could, but she still knocked him back into the wurm’s flank. His betrothed wrapped him up in a hug so tight that he gasped for breath, then she kissed him and clean took his breath away.

She pulled back quickly. “I love you, my darling. The days without you have been agony.”

Vlad laughed. “It is the same for me, but what are you doing here?”

Gisella smiled, then looked down. “I knew your timetable, yes, and I saw there were delays. When messages came from Hattersburg saying you were going on and supplies had not arrived, I had to do something. Mrs. Frost and the others, we made men work. We shamed them and set things to right. And the people here said they gave you their supplies and wanted these, but I would not let them take them until you gave me leave.”

The Prince drew her into his arms and kissed her heartily. A great cheer arose from among the Mystrians, though the few who dared shout, “To the top!” were buffeted into silence by more sensible companions. Colonel Daunt directed men to the warehouses to relieve the Hattersburgians.

Shortly after they broke that second kiss, Gisella noticed Vlad’s discolored right hand. She took hold of it and he winced.

She rolled his sleeve up. “What have you done?”

“It was nothing.”

Her head whipped around. “And where are you going, Count von Metternin?”

The Kessian smiled, his hands hidden behind his back. “I thought, Highness, I should see to a table within where the Prince and I, with your permission, could recuperate from our long and arduous journey.”

Gisella’s eyes narrowed. “Your hands.”

Von Metternin held them out.

“Remove your gloves and roll up your sleeves.”

He complied. “You will not accept we were arm wrestling and hurt ourselves?”

“I thought I told you to keep him safe.”

“Is he not safe?”

She stamped her foot. “Do not mock me, my lord.”

Vlad reached out, gently taking hold of her chin, and turned her face to him. “You will come to understand why we did what we did. It may seem reckless and foolish, but had we not acted, many women in Mystria would be widows, and children without their fathers.” He patted Mugwump with his free hand. “Mugwump kept us alive. Save your ire, and be pleased he brought us home.”

Gisella looked hard into his eyes for a handful of heartbeats, then turned and walked to the wurm’s muzzle. She kissed him beneath an eye and stroked his skin. “Thank you.”

The wurm raised his head, his lower jaw dropping open ever so slightly, as if smiling.

She came around again. “As for the two of you, there is a place in the tavern by the fire. We have even taught them to brew a good beer.”

Gisella took his left hand and led him inside. The Count, Owen Strake, and others joined them. The Prince ordered the distribution of food to the people of Hattersburg. The entire town erupted into a spontaneous celebration, lessened not at all by Rivendell and his cavalry claiming their horses and setting off on the ride back to Temperance.

Gisella had not been wrong. Gates’ beer had lost the sour edge. The tavern-keeper roasted two steers, slicing off thick slabs of meat which the men devoured happily—all the while jesting about how they missed road rations. Stories began to be told about what had happened at Fort Hammer, and many a mug was raised in the Prince’s honor.

Through it all, Gisella held his hand, and when men cheered for him, she squeezed. She listened intently as the recollections flowed. “And then alls I knew,” claimed one man, “the guns had stopped and Mugwump done smashed the wall. To the top it was!”

Vlad had looked at her. “They exaggerate.”

“Not enough by half.” She took his hand in both of hers and raised it to her mouth for a kiss. “But I understand. What you did was for them, not for yourself. That is the man I love.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

August 12, 1764

Hattersburg, Lindenvale, Mystria

"A
in’t you gonna come celebrate?” Nathaniel, standing in front of Gates’ Tavern as dusk crept over the town, gave Kamiskwa a puzzled look. “Ain’t no reason you shouldn’t.”

“Prince Vladimir has already made his thanks to the Shedashee known.” Kamiskwa smiled. “Each warrior has two horses, even those who fell, and all the grain those horses can carry. It is not far from here to Saint Luke and the Lanatashee villages. Our people will be very grateful. He also allowed us each two jackets from the fallen Ryngians, and shot and brimstone to replace what we used.”

Nathaniel frowned. “That ain’t telling me why you won’t be celebrating. I know you gots something on your mind.”

“My brother is very perceptive.” Kamiskwa glanced down. “You know our ways. We celebrate great victories. We mourn our losses. We recount great courage in songs and stories.”

“As do we.”

“And for you, this is a great victory.” The Altashee smiled. “And I shall sing of Prince Vlad’s courage, and Mugwump’s effort. There shall be much joy at hearing these things. My father will again ask the Prince to take my sister Ishikis as his wife.”

“I reckon Princess Gisella ain’t going to be having none of that.”

“No. My brother, I honor the effort of this army, and yet I fear it.” Kamiskwa pointed toward men wandering through the town, musket in one hand, bottle in the other. “You have taught farmers and shopkeepers that they can travel into the wilderness and kill other men. They will come to see the Shedashee as enemies, for we deny them land as the Tharyngians did. Old alliances will be forgotten, old prejudices will rise, and more blood will flow.”

Nathaniel frowned. “I reckon you’re more right than I care to admit.” It wasn’t so much what Nathaniel had heard in stories about the battle, but how the stories got told. Among the men there wasn’t room for great amounts of exaggeration. That would come later, the further distant they were from the fight and others who could keep them honest. Three thousand men had taken part on the Mystrian side of the battle, but there’d be three or four times that many claiming to have been there in a year or two.

He caught himself. It hadn’t been the Mystrian side of the battle; it had been the Norillian side, but men were already casting it as a Mystrian victory. And that wasn’t that far from the truth, given that Mystrians had taken Fort Cuivre, had sailed the sloop down the river, and had taken the upper fort. Men were beginning to see themselves as Mystrians, not Norillians, and they weren’t ever going to see the Shedashee as Mystrians.

He scratched at the back of his neck. “I reckon I’m going to need to do some thinking on this. I can tell you, I ain’t gonna let it happen.”

Kamiskwa braced him on both shoulders. “I know you could do this, my brother, but how much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice?”

“That don’t really matter, do it?” Nathaniel shrugged. “Iffen I don’t do something, people I love will suffer.”