At the Queen_s command

Chapter Fifty-Four

May 31, 1764

Government house, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

"Y ou're up very early, my lord." Prince Vlad greeted Count von Metternin happily. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Almost none." The Count bowed his head. He wore his complete uniform, including spurs and a cavalry saber. The boots had been polished until they glowed, the same with the gold buttons and the sword's silver scabbard. He wore white leather gloves, white breeches, and a waistcoat that matched the gold facings on his light blue coat. He'd even added his sash with medals. "And, yes, I know I look as ridiculous as you do."

The Prince laughed. "Well, you see, these are the clothes I wore on the jeopard expedition. A gift from Msitazi." The buckskin shirt, with fringed sleeves, had been decorated with a beadwork wurm curled over his heart. The red loincloth had a similar design woven in black, and the leather leggings repeated the design at the shin. "They were auspicious on the hunt."

"One can never have too much luck at war." Von Metternin nodded. "I am sorry to come to you so early…"

"No matter, I am awaiting Duke Deathridge."

"Very good. There is a disciplinary matter which I feel must be referred to you. An individual was caught leaving…"

"A deserter?" Vlad shook his head. "I should have thought…"

"Please, Highness." The Count walked back to the door and ushered in a slender young man in homespun with a slouch-brimmed hat. The youth looked at his feet, the brim hiding his face. The Count nodded and exited, closing the door behind himself.

Vlad approached the deserter. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The deserter shook his head. Tears dappled the floor.

The Prince sighed. "There is no shame in being afraid, you know. I will admit to being afraid myself, but we have duty to do, and we will do it."

The deserter looked up and Vlad caught the flash of familiar eyes. He reached out and tugged off the hat. "Gisella!"

She nodded, her lips pressed flat together. She'd raggedly chopped off her hair and had smudged her face with soot. Tears had worn tracks through it.

Vlad cast the hat aside and gathered her into his arms. "You weren't deserting-you were coming with us?"

She nodded, sniffing.

He stroked her hair and cupped the back of her neck. "What were you thinking?"

"I do not want to lose you."

Vlad laughed. "You have no fear of that, my darling." He kissed the crown of her head, and hugged her more tightly. "I am no military man. I have no place in battle."

"But you will bring your wurm on the expedition."

"Only because I must." His hands on her shoulders, he eased her back. "Most of our men have never been to war. Having the wurm come along will give them heart. More importantly, Mugwump is stronger than any five teams of oxen. He will be invaluable getting us there."

"You must promise me: no heroics."

He studied her face, her resolution, then slowly shook his head. "I cannot make that promise."

"You must, or with God as my witness, I shall join your army. Joachim caught me because he suspected, but he will not find me again. If I do not march today, I go tomorrow, or the next day. I will ship with your supplies to this Hattersburg. Your army will have a long tail. I will travel unseen."

There was no denying the validity of her claim. Forty Norillian women- wives of officers and enlisted men-had sailed with their husbands. Another twenty Mystrian had fallen in with them, all intent on following their men to war. Almost twice as many women, a few with children in tow, had joined the Mystrian militia units. In addition to them would come tinkers and other tradesmen, tailors, seamstresses, and laundresses to tend to the soldiers needs. Teamsters and skinners along with a ragged gaggle of other people would follow all of them.

"Princess Gisella, I cannot promise I will remain constantly out of harm's way. I do not know the enemy's mind. I do not know God's mind. I could as easily be struck by lightning as I could a ball fired from ambush. Such a fate would be a matter of chance. But I also cannot tell you that if a man is wounded, I will not run to help him. Those decisions are made not with the mind, but the heart. While I promise you I shall always think, I do not believe you wish me to close my heart."

She brushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. "No, I would not have that."

He took her hand in his and kissed her palm. "I need you to promise me that you shall remain here. I need you, though you are not yet my wife, to act bravely and give others courage. You and Mrs. Frost, Mrs. Bumble, Owen's wife: you will be the heart of Temperance. Others will look to you for hope. They will need you as much as I do."

Gisella nodded, then pulled her hands back over her head. "I shall be quite the sight with my hair so short."

"No. You will tell them you cut a lock for me. You wished it to be the most beautiful lock, and found none suitable until the last."

She glanced up at him. "You have the soul of a poet, my love."

"No." He turned from her and pulled a small pair of thread snips from his desk. He handed them to her. "Take a lock of my hair, please."

She slipped behind him and snipped one. Then she ran her arms around his middle and hugged him fiercely. "You will come back to me, Vladimir, a hero, I am certain."

He turned within her arms and kissed her. "I will count the days, the hours, the seconds. I love you, Gisella. Nothing will stop me coming back."

Vlad finished sealing the second of two letters as Chandler showed Duke Deathridge into the office. He rose and smiled. "Good to see you this morning, Duke Deathridge."

"And you, Highness. And when it is just us, please, call me Dick. So much easier, don't you think?"

"Quite." He handed the man the two letters. "One to my father and one for my aunt. The letter to my father is just our normal correspondence. The letter to my aunt is requesting immediate permission to marry Princess Gisella."

Deathridge raised an eyebrow. "She's not…?"

"No." Vlad shook his head. "Despite our affection and attraction, neither of us wished to spark an international incident by proceeding without sanction."

"Very wise, Highness." Deathridge tucked the letters inside his frock coat. "I shall see these are delivered immediately upon my landing."

The prince's eyes tightened. "You're determined to go, then?"

"I really have no choice. I would much prefer to go with you. Since Rivendell will most likely not fight your troops, you should use them to build the fort at the Tillie outflow. He can retreat to it and winter there. I will argue in Parliament that we need more troops to smash the Tharyngians. And you can gather proof of these pasmortes which even the most obstinate minister will have to recognize."

"You'll have that proof, I guarantee it."

"Excellent." The smaller man nodded. "I will remain in Temperance to see to the shipping of supplies up to Hattersburg. I may even travel up to Margaretstown before catching a packet ship to Norisle."

"I expect us to be in Hattersburg a month from now." Vlad ran a hand over his chin. "We'll be carrying forty days of rations, so we shall need our supplies."

"More than enough time to get them there. Two weeks at most." Deathridge smiled. "Supplies in first, then the cavalry. Everyone should be there and waiting for you."

Vlad glanced at the model. "We need twice the number of regulars, and more than a company of artillery to destroy that place."

"And next year we will have it." Deathridge folded his arms over his chest. "Rivendell's retreat will destroy his coalition in Parliament. He'll be relieved. I would hope I am appointed in his place."

"What if Rivendell takes the Fortress of Death?"

"I do not believe he can. For him to succeed would require our enemy to be a fool. Guy du Malphias may be any number of things, but fool is not numbered among them. I expect Rivendell to mass troops to the north, get his cavalry destroyed and, in a sulking fit, retreat to your fortress. Have you decided on a name?"

"I was thinking 'Hope.'"

"Auspicious. Excellent choice. From Fort Hope we will sweep the Tharyngians from Mystria."

Vlad nodded. "I just wish we did not have to wait a year."

Deathridge's dark eyes narrowed. "The price of haste is blood. Quick action, when successful, crowns heroes. When unsuccessful, it creates unimaginable slaughter. For every hero, there are ten thousand victims. Never tempt those odds."

The Prince joined Count von Metternin at the head of the First Colonial Regiment. Of the five infantry battalions, three had been recruited solely from single colonies: Fairlee, Blackoak, and Temperance Bay. The other two were the Southlands Battalion and the Battalion of the North. They split all the other recruits between them. Each had its own regimental flag, and Blackoak had actually brought along a band including bagpipers, fife-players, and drummers.

An elderly tuba-player had tried to join the Temperance Bay Battalion, but he could barely walk carrying his instrument. The men voted him a corporal's commission and bought him a cap. He stood at their staging area, ready to play them off. And he was not alone in wishing the troops well.

Mounted on a grey mare, the Prince surveyed the crowd. Families had turned out, all dressed in their Sunday-best. Fathers stoically embraced their sons. Mothers and sisters wept while forcing cloth-wrapped bundles of food on the soldiers. Small children ran about, little boys snapping to attention when the soldiers were given orders. Dogs barked. The Prince even saw some Twilight People watching the assembly-Blue Hand Lanatashee if he read the markings on their clothes correctly-and wondered what they were making of it all.

A rotund man made his way through the crowd to the Prince's left foot. "Care to make a comment for Wattling's Weekly, Highness?"

"I could, Mr. Wattling, but wouldn't you be more comfortable making something up yourself?"

"Highness, I…"

The Prince smiled. "You've carried two interviews- long interviews-with Lord Rivendell. Is there anything more to be said on this matter?"

Wattling's face puckered. "Lord Rivendell says you will smash the Godless Ryngians and be back the first of August."

Count von Metternin laughed. "Rivendell is more of an optimist than he is a geographer."

Wattling scribbled.

The Prince tapped him with his foot. "Please quote me: The bravest men in Norisle and Mystria will see to the safety of all. We will miss our families and cannot wait to rejoin them."

Wattling wrote, then frowned. "Not very encouraging, Highness."

"Reality seldom is, Mr. Wattling. Good day." The Prince nudged his horse forward, making his way to the head of the column. Rivendell and his troops would leave later in the day, allowing the Mystrians to head off first and cut roads where necessary. The Norillians would pick up any stragglers and keep things organized.

Once he and the Count reached the mounted officer corps, a captain gave a signal. The Blackoak band began to play a stirring march, and the column, marching four abreast, moved out. Down the line the tuba bellowed, and a few men fired muskets into the air. Applause and shouts filled the city and the Prince's heart swelled.

The determined expressions on the Mystrians' faces made Vlad smile. "I think, von Metternin, if du Malphias had a look at these men, he might abandon his fortress right away."

The Kessian smiled. "Long marches drain the hero out of every soldier, alas. But these men, they have heart."

"And we will give them more." Vlad set spurs to his horse's flank, and von Metternin joined him. They raced ahead to the Prince's estate to prepare their surprise for the Mystrian militia.

Bright and early the next morning, Prince Vlad sat astride Mugwump on the road near his estate, waiting for the militia troops to march past. Ribbons of red and green fluttered in the breeze from the wurm's tack. The Prince rode on a saddle at the wurm's shoulders; Count von Metternin was mounted at the wurm's hips. Bulging oilskin satchels lined the beast's flanks, stretched between the saddles, each one of them decorated with more ribbons.

The soldiers, whose line of march drifted toward the other side of the road, smiled and laughed. A few shouted: "He'll be having the Ryngians running," or "He'll win us the war all by himself!" Others just nodded as if a wurm was something they saw every day-those being more of the northerners than the men from the south. The Prince figured the northerners would have also gaped, but the Blackoaks had seen Mugwump first, and no northerner was going to let a southerner believe he was surprised by anything.

The Prince could not help but smile and wave. "You still think the march will drain the hero from them?"

The Kessian laughed aloud. "Half of them do not have shoes, most of them are ragged, and clearly they have not been trained. But, that fire in their eyes. These are men, sir, with which I should be willing to assault the gates of Hell itself."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, my lord." The Prince smiled as more men passed. "Alas, I think it may."