At the Queen_s command

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?"

"He's undone us all, I am sure." The Prince nodded as the Kessian joined them. "Come, gentlemen. Lord Rivendell requires a visit."

Von Metternin's eyes tightened. "Rivendell has taken du Malphias' bait?"

"I believe so." Vlad had been afraid of trickery ever since the invitation had been extended. Rivendell's contempt for du Malphias would blind him to whatever the Laureate sought to hide.

The Norillian commander assumed du Malphias was every bit the gentleman he was. Since Rivendell would never stoop to trickery, he assumed that du Malphias would likewise eschew deception. Rivendell and his subordinates would accept the Laureate's word that things were as they appeared to be. They would note things of interest within the fort, and think themselves far cleverer than their host for having gotten inside to take a look.

They just would never imagine that what they saw was exactly what du Malphias wanted them to see.

As they marched, Vlad glanced toward the fortress. In no time shot and shell would shred the green, grassy expanse between camps. It would destroy the men fighting their way across it. Though Prince Vlad had never witnessed warfare on this scale before, he'd read enough and talked to enough men, that he had no trouble imagining the bleeding ruin Rivendell's foolishness would foster.

"I cannot let Rivendell's folly kill men." Vlad stared at the soldier blocking the entrance to the tent. "Stand aside, soldier."

Stone-faced and silent, the man remained rigidly in place.

Owen slipped past him and slashed through the tent's wall with his Altashee obsidian knife. "This way, Highness."

Owen stepped aside as Vlad passed through the slit. He had never seen that level of resolution on the Prince's face before. Count von Metternin followed him, then Owen squeezed through. The tent had been divided into three parts, with the largest-Rivendell's headquarters-taking up nearly two-thirds. The smaller two areas were centered one around a bunk and the other a small dining table.

Langford abandoned the map table around which Rivendell and three other colonels had gathered, moving to intercept the Prince. "You should not be here, Highness."

Vlad stopped him with a glare. "Your saying that is precisely why I must be."

Rivendell's head came up. "Leave us, Highness. You, too, von Metternin. Colonel Langford, place Captain Strake under arrest."

"What deviltry are you up to, Johnny?"

"This is a military matter, Highness. I command you to leave."

The Prince hammered a fist on the table. Colonel Thornbury jumped back, giving Owen a glance at the map. Rivendell and his colonels had altered Owen's original survey map significantly. They'd placed a small sheet of paper over the central stone roundhouse and had drawn flowers and a tree upon it. The gun emplacements remained correctly positioned, but instead of four cannon at each, they'd only placed two. Beside the barracks buildings they'd made notes indicating that only battalions of the Platine Regiment were on station. Other notes indicated that a hundred civilians functioned as laborers.

"What is this travesty?"

Rivendell's nostrils flared. "It is the proper map of La Fortresse du Morte. We were given a complete tour. It is woefully understaffed and vulnerable. We will press our attack today and destroy du Malphias."

Vlad stared, his mouth open. "What did he do to you in there?"

"He offered brilliant conversation on military strategy. He fully understood that for a defender to be successful, he must have at least a third of the attacking force's numbers under arms. He remained confident that he would be able to hold us off, but he lacked the resources necessary to do so."

The Kessian studied the map. "You show two cannon at each battery."

"That is how many there are, sir, no more."

"But you show a pair at each battery, including the lake wall. Cannot du Malphias just transfer those cannon to the north wall?"

"He does not have enough personnel to operate them. Six batteries of four, with four men each to serve them. This places one of his battalions at the guns, leaving only two more to man the walls-and he has a great deal of wall to cover."

The Kessian frowned. "He will strip men from other walls to defend."

Rivendell shook his head. "We keep Thornbury's cavalry in reserve as a threat to strike at a weak point."

The Prince leaned forward and tapped the troop estimate notes. "You did not account for the Ungarakii he has under arms."

"There are no Twilight People in there."

"Yes, there are." Vlad pointed off toward the lake. "I have had men watching the water. We counted nearly two hundred warriors coming in. I sent you reports."

"Langford, did I get any such reports?"

"Yes, sir. You deemed them unreliable and insignificant."

Rivendell smiled. "Satisfied?"

"What about the pasmortes. You know they can't be killed."

Thornbury stepped back to the table. "The civilians were women and children, with a few old men. They are non-combatants."

Owen couldn't contain himself. "Those civilians attacked your cavalry!"

"The wurm devoured the bodies, so we don't know what they were."

Vlad rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Why have you eliminated the central stronghold?"

"It has trees and flowers on it. It is nothing."

The Prince tapped another part of the map, where the opening to the underground chambers should have been. "And this building here?"

"Storage." Rivendell preened. "I demanded to see within. And I did find a chamber dug into the hillside. It was the Laureate's wine cellar. From there I shall choose the vintage with which to toast our victory."

The Prince stared at him. "And your grand plan is to walk our men up and storm the walls?"

"Precisely. We have more than three times his numbers."

Count von Metternin rested a hand on the Prince's shoulder. "My Lord Rivendell, the three-to-one ratio is accepted minimum needed to defeating a foe, but it does not guarantee victory."

"But, my lord Count, we are speaking of Norillian troops."

Vlad again hammered a fist against the table. "No, you fool, you are speaking about men! Men who are going to be ripped to bits as they march forward. Grapeshot will rake any siege ladders you create, and blow apart your trench bridging."

Rivendell laughed. "This is precisely why command of this operation was given to a military man, Prince Vladimir. Anthony, tell him what you saw."

Colonel Exeter replied with a smug half-smile. "While I was examining one of the batteries, I measured both the carriage height and the height of the embrasures. I did the basic geometry. It is impossible for the guns to depress far enough to shoot anything atop the glacises."

"My God, man, do you think he doesn't know that?" Vlad thrust a finger toward the fortress. "Do you think he has no axes to cut the embrasures down?"

Exeter chuckled. "We'll hit him so fast he won't have time to chop."

The Prince sighed. "Your enemy is not a fool."

Lord Rivendell smiled proudly. "Nor am I, Highness. I am a genius. Ain't it, Langford, ain't that a fact?"

"Yes, sir."

"And a genius will win this day, Highness. We go at one."

Vlad shook his head. "I won't allow it."

"You are a civilian. I am in command of your people. Colonel Daunt, you will have your men make siege ladders and bridges. Exeter, give him some of your engineers to help."

Exeter saluted smartly. "Yes, sir."

Owen watched the Prince's face deaden. Disaster loomed; there was no getting away from that. Owen's guts twisted. He choked vomit back down. I have to do something. "Permission to be assigned to Colonel Daunt's command, my lord."

Rivendell's sneer gushed ice through Owen's bowels. "Denied. You are under arrest."

Vlad's head came up. "On what charges?"

"Insubordination. Conduct unbecoming an officer. Destroying Her Majesty's property." Rivendell produced a pocket watch, flicked the cover open and then snapped it shut again. "I should convene a court-martial, but we've not enough time. Anthony, have a squad of the Fourth take charge of Captain Strake. Clap him in irons and stick him outside my tent. Let him watch and wish he had his place in the line of glory."

The Prince snarled. "This is outrageous, sir!"

"It is necessary, sir." Rivendell slid the watch home in his waistcoat. "Perhaps, in victory, I shall be magnanimous. I think not, but that is the joy of genius-I am unpredictable. Good day, Highness."

The Prince began to say something else, but the count grabbed his arm and steered him back out through the slit. He took a last look at Owen, but Owen just shook his head. "I will be fine."

"The prisoner will remain silent!"

Owen met Rivendell's gaze openly, and the other man smiled. "You have your orders, gentlemen. We have three hours. Please be ready."

Exeter, Thornbury, and Daunt departed. Langford glanced at Lord Rivendell. "Should I stay, sir?"

"No, Colonel. The words I have for Captain Strake are for his ears alone."

Langford retreated quickly. Rivendell began to slowly circle Owen. Clearly he meant to walk with a predatory mien, trying to be intimidating. The fact that he was so thoroughly proud of himself-being unable to hide a smile-robbed the attempt of its intent. He made two circuits and spoke on the third.

"You know, Captain Strake, you could have been where I am. Well, not truly, since you don't have the blood; but you had the backing of a very powerful family. Had you proven yourself worthy, you would have succeeded in the Army. You might have risen to Major or Colonel. You could be one of the officers out there going to glory."

Owen lifted his head. "Said as if you mean to lead from the front, sir."

"Oh, lead I shall, lead I shall. I'm a Rivendell, ain't I?" The man came around and squared up in front of Owen. "People like you can't understand someone like me. You are incapable of fathoming genius. You fear what you do not understand. That fear marks you as a coward."

Rivendell walked back around his table. "After we had dinner, the Laureate and I had a private conversation. About you, in fact. He said he had forgiven you for spying and had fully intended, once you were well, to return you to Temperance. He said he was relieved to learn you had made it back safely, and said you completely misunderstood the search parties he had sent out after you. He was concerned that in a blizzard, in your weakened state, you would have perished."

Owen's flesh puckered. He wanted to ask if Rivendell believed du Malphias but the man's expression made the question unnecessary. Fatigue washed over Owen. He wanted to lay down and die.

No, you have to be strong, for Catherine.

"You should know, Captain, that I would have put you in the front lines and given you a chance to redeem yourself, but the Laureate himself asked that I refrain. He said he considered you a friend. He did not want to be the cause of your death. He asked me this one indulgence."

"Of course, he did."

"You have not been given leave to speak, Captain!"

"Permission to speak, sir!"

"No, Captain, you shall only impugn the honor of a man who is many times your superior."

Owen met Rivendell's stare and held it until the other man looked away.

"Please yourself, Captain."

"Du Malphias made his request to show me that he still had control over my life. If I die, it will be by his hand, not ill luck in battle. He means to shame me and, after you're defeated, he'll kill me in his own good time."

"That," said Rivendell, "is not something that should concern either of you. By this evening, the Fortresse du Morte shall be mine, and the two of you shall pass into obscurity."

Vlad, furious, yanked his arm from von Metternin's grasp. "I am not a child, my lord!"

"Then you should not act like one, Highness."

The Prince shot von Metternin a venomous glance. "Is it childish to act as if this idiot and his plans won't kill hundreds of my people? Du Malphias has filled his warrens with Ungarakii, pasmortes, and the rest of the Platine Regiment. The stronghold still exists despite having flowers and trees on it. You yourself pointed out that cannon can be redeployed. Can't you see the slaughter that is coming? Or don't you care because these are not your people?"

Count von Metternin's face froze and Vlad knew he had overstepped. "If you believe, Prince Vladimir of Norisle, that I am not as concerned for the lives of men I have spent the last month and a half sweating, toiling, living, and laughing beside, then you are a singularly poor judge of character and perhaps no smarter than the moron whose tent we have just departed."

Vlad nodded. "Forgive me, my lord. Perhaps I am acting childishly. But what am I to do?"

"There is nothing for you to do, my lord."

"How can you say that?"

Von Metternin laughed. "We have been in a trap since the moment your report went to Norisle, Highness. Parliament made decisions based on internal power struggles, not the wisdom of your report. Deathridge and his faction were willing to allow Rivendell this mission because they knew it would fail. And Rivendell, short of his dying in battle, wins. Just getting here is a victory. His failure will be blamed on the inadequacy of Mystrian troops. His career will become retrograde, but none of his backers will be demoted. He was a piece both sides welcomed as a sacrifice."

The two men trudged up the hill toward the wurmrest. "But my people, real people will die because of their game-playing."

"But you must understand that the powerful do not see things as we do. They keep score differently. If they lose a scion here, it is no matter. The death will be honorable, and they will be in mourning-as society dictates. For the common men who will die on the field, they care not. Most are from the underclasses, are thieves and drunkards with no future anyway. Many-and this would apply to your Mystrians-are not even from Norisle. Why should they care if Mystrian blood is spilled?"

"You're saying they have no stake in the game."

"It is worse, my friend." The Count stopped at the top of the hill and looked toward the Fortress of Death. "They already know the outcome. In one way, Norisle has already won because you cut the road to get here. They will use it next year, or the year after, to finally eliminate this threat. But when the battle is lost here and Mystrians die, two things take on new life. One is the myth that Mystrians cannot fight. It will take root here as well as grow even more wild in Norisle. News of Major Forest's failure to take Fort Cuivre will just exacerbate things. The second, and far more important to Deathridge, is the myth of Mystrian vulnerability. People here will feel the threat, and will believe that only Norillian troops can save them. They will welcome more troops, and the presence of these troops will enable Deathridge to crush nascent notions of independence. Publication of books like A Continent's Calling will be outlawed, and anyone who thinks of independence will be labeled as a Malphian sympathizer. It is a simple process that will destroy Mystria's future."

Vlad shook his head. "This isn't even a game. It is merely their preparation of the board for the next round."

"Elegantly put, Highness."

The Prince looked out at the battlefield. He had no difficulty seeing it reduced to maps in a book. Squares with unit designations would replace flesh and blood. Giant arrows would show lines of attack. Dotted lines would show lines of retreat. Somewhere a chart would total the casualties. He could write a report detailing why the disaster occurred, but Rivendell would commission another book. Vlad's criticism would be dismissed as an attempt to, once again, cover up for the Mystrian inability to wage war.

"So, my only choices are to either march back down there and shoot Rivendell dead, or remain here and use my skills at observation to create a complete and accurate chronicle of what happens?"

"I am as frustrated as you are, Highness, perhaps more." Von Metternin's eyes narrowed. "What Rivendell will create is a disaster, but there might be a way to avert it. We've known it all along."

"Yes?"

The Kessian pointed toward the highest part of the fortress. "The cliff fort. If we were to concentrate forces there in a direct assault, du Malphias could not bring all of his cannon to bear on our flank. You force one section of his wall, get into that fort, and then use that position to attack down into the Fortress of Death."

"Back to the original plan, but without our climbers." Vlad sighed. "Deathridge saw to that."

"So, Highness, back to your choices. Shall I drag a table and chairs out here so we may make notes as we observe, or do I charge a pistol and fashion an alibi?"

Owen gave Sergeant Unstone a withering glance. "And I have given you my word, as an officer and a gentleman, that I will not run off."

The non-commissioned officer held the shackles out. "Please, sir, I don't mean you no disrespect."

"Have you forgotten the other evening, Sergeant? Who was it told you how to kill the Ryngians? Who stood there side by side with you?"

"You, sir."

"Exactly." Owen exposed a wrist. "See these scars, Unstone? When I was in that very fortress, the Ryngians put me in shackles. They did that to humiliate me. That's what Rivendell wants you to do to me now."

"Sir, I have my orders."

"You won't be charged with insubordination, Sergeant. I will be charged with escape. I'll make that clear to his lordship. You'll testify to that fact and all will be well."

The Sergeant, whose face bore more than one battle scar, looked at his squad and then dropped the shackles. "I ain't going to lie, sir."

"You're a good man, Sergeant."

Owen drew his hands to the small of his back and watched the troops assembling. He couldn't help but shiver as disaster loomed. The Fourth formed up by battalion, with four on the line and one held in reserve. The cavalry held the right flank, anchored against the river but, dismounted, only mustered two battalions of foot. Armed with carbines, their effective kill range was only thirty yards, which made them especially weak. Since they were not drilled in infantry tactics, they were even less useful. An intelligent commander would have pulled one of their battalions back into reserve and used the Fifth infantry battalion to fill out the line.

The Mystrians likewise had four battalions on the front and one held in reserve. Owen shook his head. The Mystrians had no real uniforms to speak of. They looked more a rabble than a military force. Their ranks remained ragged, though they did cover four hundred yards of front, same as the Fourth Foot.

Sixteen hundred souls marching into Hell. Two squads in every battalion carried siege ladders and bridging material. Those men would have to reach the wall first. Even if Rivendell's fantasy about the cannon being unable to depress far enough were true, many men would die in the approach.

Off to the left, Rivendell emerged from his tent, wearing his red satin uniform. Bishop Bumble flanked him. Exeter and Thornbury greeted him, saluted, and reported to their commands. Rivendell advanced to where a bugler stood and gave the man an order.

He started playing an alert, which buglers for the line units matched. Drummers-young boys mostly-started beating a steady, measured cadence. Norillians unfurled unit colors and voices rose to cry "Hurrah!" The Mystrians, lacking regimental colors, just cheered and waved their hats. The Blackoak Pipers began a squealing tune and all the Mystrians held their heads a little higher.

The bugler's call changed. Advance. The strident notes echoed from the Fortress of Death. On that signal, the battalions marched forward. The Norillian artillery fired a volley. Iron balls flew, but hit the glacises and bounced high, passing over the walls. Owen could but hope that some would come down within the fortress environs and smash through waiting troops.

The Tharyngian response scythed through the Norillian lines at the point where the Fourth Foot and the cavalry met. Iron balls smashed through the ranks. A dozen men went down. The lucky ones died instantly, their heads splashed over their comrades, or torn in twain. The wounded clawed at the ground futilely trying to crawl to where their severed legs lay, or sat there unable to understand why a sleeve ended wetly at the elbow.

Even at that distance, the screams echoed sharply through Owen's skull.

All six Ryngian batteries concentrated on the Norillians. Du Malphias had reinforced each with two extra cannon, and did not seem at a loss for crews. Owen would have taken their choice of target as a sign of contempt for the Mystrians, but the Fourth Foot were the most formidable force on the field. If du Malphias concentrated on them, he could blast the Mystrians close up with grape shot. Chances were they would break before they reached the wall.

But it wasn't the Mystrians whose courage flagged first. Owen pointed toward the cavalry. A gap had opened between them and the infantry. "Thornbury isn't driving his men forward."

Sergeant Unstone stepped up beside Owen. "Gap only hurts if the Tharyngians have troops to push into it. Colonel says…"

"The Colonel doesn't believe du Malphias has spare troops. If he's right, filling that gap now won't hurt. If he's wrong, the battle's lost."

Suddenly gunfire echoed from the woods west of the river, where a battalion of Mystrians had been left to hold the flank. Owen stood on tiptoes to see what was going on, but only saw smoke rising from the woods. You were even craftier than we imagined.

Owen turned to one of the privates. "Take this message to Rivendell. There is firing on the right. The Mystrians are fighting in the woods. Du Malphias has a force he'll cross at the ferry to flank the cavalry."

The man looked at the Sergeant. Unstone sent him off with a curt nod.

Responding to the fighting across the river, the cavalry shifted its facing. Thornbury ordered his reserve unit to the river's edge. The line unit reshuffled and withdrew to become a reserve for the river defenders. Their maneuver, executed poorly and in complete confusion, completely opened the Fourth's flank.

The Private reached Rivendell's station, but Langford never let him get to the man. The Colonel dismissed the soldier and then turned to Rivendell. They shared a laugh, then went back to watching the Tharyngian cannon ravage the men under their command.

The Mystrians had bravely moved up the slope toward the high fort, the Blackoak Pipers driving them forward. Then the high fort's battery opened up. Grapeshot killed men several ranks deep in the Third battalion, but the survivors kept moving forward. A man on the formation's edge kept shouting, and the men of the Third surged ahead.

The other battalions faltered and began to pull back. The cannon spoke again, nibbling at the Second battalion. A dozen of their men went down. Their rear ranks began to turn and run. The First and the Fourth slowed, then stopped.

Count von Metternin shook his head. "You cannot blame them."

"I know." Vlad snapped a pencil in half. "But I have to stop them."

The Kessian looked at him. "What can you do? If you go down there, you'll die."

"But I have to do something. Look." Vlad stood and pointed toward the Third. "The hill, the glacises, the guns in front can't get them. But others will sweep them once they've destroyed the Norillians. The Third is trapped, and I can't leave them there."

The Count reached across the table and grabbed Vlad's arm. "You are going to do something stupid and get yourself killed. And I shall have to inform Princess Gisella."

"Come with me." Vlad gave the man a confident smile. "If you agree to go, it can't be stupid."

The Count came out of the chair. The two of them ran to the wurmrest and the Count gasped. "This is insane, completely insane. No one has…"

In accord with the experimentation the Prince had been conducting through the spring, a second assembly had been fitted snuggly to the saddles, forward of them. It consisted of a steel post a foot and a half high, with a semicircular bar fixed to it by four spokes. The semicircle and spokes lay parallel to the ground. A six inch spike rose in the center of the arc.

A one-pound swivel-gun had been mounted on the post, secured with a water-tight leather sheath and cork plug. The ramrod had been fitted with a gimbaled guide, so it couldn't go missing in the heat of the battle. The center spike prevented the cannon being fired straight forward-hence the rear gunner could not shoot the rider, and the rider could not shoot Mugwump. Oilskin saddle-bags before and behind the rider's legs contained premeasured charges and rounds for the guns.

The Prince hauled himself into the saddle. "Baker, find Colonel Daunt. Tell him to charge the high fort on my signal."

The wurmwright gaped up at him. "Signal, Highness?"

"He'll know it. Go."

Vlad turned in the saddle and smiled at von Metternin. "Use the spike to gash the charges when you reload. It's all grape, and designed to kill pasmortes."

Von Metternin laughed. "This is not stupid, Highness, it is spectacularly stupid."

"Only if we die, my lord." Vlad smiled and touched Mugwump's flank with his heel. "We're off to save Mystrians. The devil can take all else!"

By the time the Private returned, the battle had deteriorated. The Mystrians had stalled on the left flank. One battalion had been trapped near the hill's summit. Whenever a squad tried to advance, cannon blew them to pieces. The survivors hunkered down, unaware that once the Tharyngian cannon had finished with the Fourth Foot and smoke had thinned enough for gunners to aim, it would rake their flank and clear them off the hillside.

More firing came from the right, sporadic but steady. Owen couldn't make any sense of the noise. The smoke drifting up from the battlefield made seeing anything difficult.

In the Norillian center, the Second company had pushed forward and had actually reached the walls. The Third slid right, breaking contact with the Mystrians, to follow the Second through the forest of spikes. Bridging went over the trenches. Siege ladders leaned against walls. Soldiers started to climb, and then the Platine Regiment mounted the battlements. With deadly precision they opened fire. Musket balls blasted men from the ladders. Bayonets stabbed down. Norillian gunfire slew Ryngians-several bodies hung lifeless from the top of the palisade wall, but far more Redcoats fell.

Then Owen saw it, on the right. "There, Tharyngian troops mustering at the corner."

Unstone looked toward Rivendell. "His lordship is gone, sir."

"What?" Owen turned just in time to see Langford disappearing into Rivendell's tent. "Sergeant, send a man back down there."

"Won't do no good, sir. Smoke. He can't see a thing."

Owen grabbed Unstone's lapels. "Then we have to do it, Sergeant. We have to get the reserve battalion over there."

"Sir, I can't give those orders." The Sergeant shook his head adamantly. "It's not my place. I will be court-martialed and shot."

"Listen to me. All of you." Owen looked at the entire squad. "It's your friends who are going to die, and you know damned well that Rivendell couldn't care less. Do you think they will survive if we don't act?"

Unstone glanced at his feet. "We won't survive if we do."

"I'd rather die saving friends than live watching them die." Owen shoved the man away and started off down the hill. "Shoot me for escaping, or come with me and be a hero. Your choice. Me, I'm going to kill some Ryngians."

Mugwump charged from the wurmrest, then paused on the crest of the hill. His head came up and nostril slits flared. He turned, looking back at the Prince. Vlad could have sworn great intelligence burned in that golden eye.

The Prince nodded. "Yes, it's into that Hell we're going. Plenty of pasmortes. All you care to eat."

The wurm blinked slowly, then loped down the hill as cannons boomed. They rode down into a cloud of gunsmoke, then appeared in the valley as if conjured. Soldiers who had been pulling back stopped. Mugwump curled his tail around to corral a few more.

The Prince looked down at astonished faces. "Done already? By God, I've just gotten to the fight."

Mystrians stood there, dumbfounded, not even bothering to duck when another cannon roared. One man pointed back up the hill. "Highness, you can't go up there. You'll be killed!"

"I'm not abandoning the Third!" Vlad pointed at the fortress. "I'll meet you at the top!"

The man who'd spoken stared at him as if he was mad, but another man raised his musket and shouted. "To the top! To the top." Mugwump roared and more men took up the cry. "To the top! To the top!"

Vlad pumped a fist into the air. "To the top!"

The men turned, heading back toward the battle. Vlad tugged on the left rein. Mugwump looked back as if to ask, "Are you serious?"

"We're meeting them at the top."

The wurm growled, then set off to the east, running parallel to the line of battle. He began to gallop, exhibiting more fluidity and speed than Vlad had ever imagined he could. The Prince shouted to von Metternin. "By God, he knows he's going to war!"

"He was trained to it." The Kessian laughed as his hat blew off.

Vlad had a heartbeat to consider pulling back on the reins when Mugwump reached the lakeshore. The wurm didn't bother to slide down the embankment, he just leaped. His legs, fore and back, came in. The Prince drew in a deep breath and ducked down, holding tight to the swivel-gun. The wurm's dive carried them deep. A wall of water hit Vlad hard, almost tearing him from the saddle. Water rushed in, booming against his body.

Mugwump took them deeper. The water went from warm to cold, then the wurm's nose came up. His tail twitched once, sending a powerful shudder through his body. They exploded from the depths. Water sheeted off as they flew upward, then stopped hard.

Mugwump's claws sank into the cliff face. Stones cracked and fell away but the wurm's grip remained strong. Effortlessly Mugwump climbed up the rock face, and swiftly enough that Vlad almost didn't have enough time to pull the plug from his swivel-gun's muzzle. Mugwump came up over the cliff edge with enough velocity that he grabbed the top of the palisade wall and hung there. He surveyed the interior as if he were a dog peering over a picket fence.

Vlad stripped off the leather sheath, swung his swivel-gun around to the right, and angled it up at the cannon batteries blasting away at the Mystrians. He clapped his right hand over the firestone, feeling cool smoothness beneath it. His hand tingled as he triggered the spell firing the small cannon.

The swivel-gun's load was the Prince's own creation. It consisted of pea-sized bits of lead and iron, meant in equal parts for the living and the dead. The shot expanded in a cloud, raking the crews. Pieces pinged off cannons. Perfect uniform coats tattered. Hats flew. Men spun and a loader pitched back over the wall, taking his waxed-paper cylinder of grapeshot with him.

Mugwump's weight snapped lumber. He clawed away more of it and a portion of the palisade wall collapsed. Supports for two small gunnery platforms snapped, spilling cannons and crews into the main compound. The wurm landed atop the debris and scrambled forward, his claws shredding a trooper.

Vlad yanked open a saddle bag and pulled out a cloth cylinder knotted at both ends. A musket ball glanced off Mugwump's scaled head, hissing past the Prince. Vlad tipped the gun up, gashed the lower half of the cylinder on a spike at the cannon's muzzle, and let a little brimstone pour into the barrel before he jammed the entire bag into the weapon. The ramrod came around and down, slamming things home. He retracted it, then swung the gun around, aiming toward that battery again.

His next shot went low, cutting men's legs from beneath them. It blasted one gunnery carriage wheel to bits. That cannon sagged. Carriage locks ripped free of shattered wood. The heavy bronze gun rolled, crushing the gunner and snapping another man's leg.

The Prince's hand stung as if attacked by a dozen wasps. Numbness nibbled at his fingers, and color bled into his skin. I bleed, they bleed. Two shots had sent nearly a dozen men to Perdition. Is this all it takes to kill?

Count von Metternin fired to the left, sweeping a Platine squad from the fort's inner wall. Half of one man went back over the wall while his legs fell inside. Others just sagged, suddenly boneless and leaking. A few desperately clung to the wall as if remaining upright would hold death at bay.

The Prince loaded and fired mechanically, scattering soldiers, but giving no thought to directing Mugwump. The wurm darted toward the north and up onto the top of the stone wall. He raised his muzzle and repeated the roar he'd offered in response to the cry of "To the top!" Then his tail whipped around, sheering off the top of the palisade wall.

"To the top!" men screamed from below. Had Prince Vlad not been so busy reloading, he would have thrust a fist in the air. He rammed the powder and shot home, then looked west, seeking a target.

And he saw one, a grand one, but one too far away to target. There, by the river, two battalions of the Platine Regiment had crashed into the Norillian line. And to make things worse, a sloop under a Ryngian flag sailed down the Green River and had run its guns out to fire.

Every instinct urged Owen to sprint away from the battle. Straight ahead, through curtains of gunsmoke, two Platine battalions formed up. The cavalry had pulled back and faced the river, exposing its flank to the Ryngians. Their maneuver gave the Ryngians a boulevard into the heart of the Norillian formation wider than the road du Malphias had cut through the woods. On the left, the Fourth Foot had no idea of the danger. If the Ryngians split their forces, they could likely roll up both sides. And if they concentrate them…

Owen marched straight to the Captain commanding the artillery. "Compliments of Lord Rivendell. He wonders if it would trouble you too much to shift your guns forty-five degrees to the west. We have some Tharyngians forming up there."

The artillery commander raised his telescope and dropped his jaw. "By God, that gap!"

"Fill it with fire, Captain, fill it with fire." Owen turned and stalked toward the gap.

"Where the devil are you going?"

Owen turned, throwing his arms wide and laughed. "You fill it with fire, I'll fill it with me. Shoot high, man, so I can watch you knock them down."

The artilleryman shouted at his crews. Owen spun again, then dropped to a knee and pulled a musket and ammunition pouch from a dead body. A bit further along he recovered another musket and a bayonet, which he slung over his shoulder. He went to pull the cartridge case from another corpse, but the fallen man clung to it.

Owen looked at the soldier. Not a drop of blood. "On your feet soldier!"

The man-really just a boy-opened his eyes wide. "I don't want to die."

"Not like any of us have a choice, son. What's your name?"

"Private Hodge Dunsby, sir."

Owen tugged him to a sitting position. "You can sit here and weep, or laugh at Death and feed him Ryngians. It's better to laugh. Move it."

The young man stared up at him. "But, sir."

"Son, if you don't move, your friends will die. Come with me, and we might save a few."

Hodge's eyes focused distantly for a moment, then he wiped away tears and stood, bringing his musket to hand. "As you say, laughing's better. Lead on, sir."

Owen felt ridiculous. Dressed in his Altashee leathers, one musket over his shoulder, another in his right hand. He thumbed the firestone, rotating it. He felt it grind. The musket had been loaded and never fired. With Hodge at his back, Owen marched into the gap as Ryngian drummers started in.

"Hodge, grab two more muskets." Owen bent to get himself a third. "Sixty, forty, and twenty, then it's steel on steel."

"Yes, sir."

Just looking at the Ryngians gave Owen gooseflesh. The enemy formed a solid wall of blue coats with white facings, silver-white buttons, and tall bearskin hats with silver crests. When he'd faced them in Artennes Forest he'd joked that one should aim for that badge. No need to aim now. At that range he couldn't miss, but even killing two with every shot wouldn't slow them.

The drums began a steady beat. Cannons roared from behind him. Balls slammed into the formation, plowing red furrows through it. The Platine just closed ranks, drawing closer, ever closer, step by step, their iron will and discipline revealing why they were the masters of the battlefield. An officer shouted an order and the front rank lowered muskets to the hip, then thrust them forward. Bayonets at the ready, they came on, with the second rank's bayonets gleaming at shoulder height.

"You still with me, Hodge?"

"Got a couple more, sir."

Owen looked to his side. Two other men, one bleeding from the shoulder and the other wounded in the thigh, raised their muskets. "If you can find an officer, drop him."

More cannonballs hammered the Tharyngian forces, but the Norillian cannon were slow to reload. They might get one more volley in before the Ryngians overran Owen's position. More Ryngians filled the gaps, leaving the line seamless. A hundred yards. Eighty. Owen raised his musket. Seventy. Sixty.

His thumb brushed the firestone. The musket spat fire. A second later the other three soldiers shot. Three Ryngians went down, their bodies instantly hidden behind the advancing line.

Then the drumbeats sped up, hammered more quickly.

The Ryngians charged.

Owen brought a second musket to his shoulder. Seeing a man with a sword shouting orders, he shifted right and tracked. He aimed for the badge, then invoked a spell. Gunsmoke hid the line, but it blew away quickly and the officer had vanished.

The solid wall of blue raced on and Owen braced himself to receive the charge.

Then a volley roared from behind him and the Ryngians staggered. Unstone and the Third had come to plug the gap. The first two Ryngian ranks went down, but rest of the Platine came on hard. Owen screamed defiantly and met their charge. He parried the first thrust, then drove his own bayonet home, plunging it deep into a man's belly. The soldier vomited blood and sagged. Owen ripped the bayonet free and swung the butt up, catching another soldier in the face, shattering bone and scattering teeth.

The first wave passed by him, intent on the Third. The Ryngians flowed into the gap beyond Owen, leaving him free in the rearward ranks. Soldiers there weren't yet prepared to meet the enemy in the sea of blue coats before them. Owen's lack of a bright red uniform bought him a heartbeat before they realized he was the enemy.

One man lunged. Owen parried the bayonet wide. He brought his musket butt up with a stroke that should have snapped the man's head back. Unfortunately his target stumbled, ducking beneath the attack. As Owen's blow slipped past the man's shoulder, the Ryngian whipped his musket's butt around and caught Owen square in the stomach. Owen, his gun lost, sprawled on the ground.

The Tharyngian rose up on one knee, raising his musket high for a killing thrust.

Then another bayonet stabbed forward, catching the Ryngian high in the chest. Hodge! The bantam Private yelled as he thrust, driving the other man back. He yanked his bayonet free and a single geyser of blood shot into the air.

Owen rolled to his feet and grabbed the dying Ryngian's musket. He spun it around, leveling it at another Tharyngian soldier. He thumbed the firestone. The musket roared. The soldier fell, his waistcoat growing dark. Another butt-stroke, another lunge and, with Hodge beside him, Owen broke through to the back of the Ryngian formation.

For a heartbeat he felt relief, then he glanced toward the river and felt as if he'd again been struck in the stomach.

The First Cavalry battalion had collapsed. Its colors fell as bluecoats swarmed. The best Tharyngian troops in the world had taken the Norillians in the flank. The scions of Norillian nobility loved playing at parade or riding down fleeing infantry. War had been more a sport for them than a serious pursuit, but the Ryngians had brought them blood and fire. Such intensity had never been inflicted on them before. Not for the first time did it occur to Owen that horsemen on foot had surrendered the smarter part of their partnership. Fleeing soldiers, their panic infective, ran headlong into their Second battalion, destroying any hope of defending against the pursuing Platine battalion.

And to make matters worse, a Ryngian sloop had appeared on the river drawing parallel to the cavalry position. It had run its cannons out. Nothing could save the Norillian right, and once those men had been scoured from the field, nothing could stop du Malphias from winning the day.