Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

The Count rose from his chair and leaned heavily on a cane. “We will go slowly, Highness. A mile or two a day, no more. At that rate, it will be mid-June by the time we would arrive.”

Vlad massaged his temples. “If he strikes at you quickly…”

“There is no preventing our deaths, save by the success of your attack.” Von Metternin glanced west. “It is you I pity. You must all have cold camps so that smoke cannot be spotted. You have to move slowly, always alert. You need to prepare the battlefield and haul things with you. You’ve done much to prepare, but what comes will be the worst.”

The Prince exhaled mightily, his breath steaming. “So many elements for which I cannot account. The Shedashee and Msitazi being sent to their death, Ezekiel Fire along with them. Owen, Ian, and the Fifth likewise doomed.”

“If you do not succeed, Highness, we all die.”

“And even if I do succeed, many of us will die.” He looked from the Count to Mugwump and back. “Is this why my father never wished to wear the crown? Having to make plans, knowing men will die, there is a weight to it, you know. A crushing weight. Knowing I might not see my wife, my children, my coming child. I wonder if the pain of Hell is just eternity spent with the gravity of your regrets plaguing you.”

“Not quite hellfire, but quite devilish enough.”

Vlad nodded. “Joachim, I have a small casket in my tent. In it are papers. There is letter for my wife. There is a packet of papers I wish to go to Laureate du Malphias.”

“Indeed.”

“What I have learned about magick and the Church cannot be allowed to vanish. I know giving it to du Malphias is a terrible thing, a treasonous thing, but I am reminded that he destroyed his own pasmortes. It may be that he did not want us to learn from them. He told Owen he was bored with them. I fear that my aunt and Duke Deathridge would find them endlessly fascinating and of a utilitarian nature.”

“I shall, should it come to that, be certain it is delivered.” Von Metternin smiled. “I was thinking of sending Mr. Dunsby back with similar packets. He intends to marry soon, and I would not have him die here.”

“He’s a good man. Wise choice. Tell him it is my bidding.” Vlad again stroked Mugwump’s muzzle. “Also in that casket you will find a duplicate set of the du Malphias papers. They are for you to do with as you see fit. And there is one more thing.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“There is a writ of manumission for Mugwump.”

Count von Metternin sat down again. “You meant to set him free? I don’t…”

“I cannot explain it, Joachim, but I know he is not a beast.” Vlad smiled as he looked up into a big golden eye. “What he did as a wurm at Anvil Lake, that is what we might have trained a horse or a hound to do. It took a basic level of intelligence, but since then he has changed. He uses magick, and if that is not the hallmark of being a human, it certainly must be taken as a sign he is of equal intelligence to one.”

“It does not take a genius to wield magick, Highness.”

“No, it doesn’t, but we still consider a person who can to be capable of reasoning, if not sapience and sagacity, don’t we?” He shook his head. “So many times, Mugwump, I have wished to know what you were thinking-but I have never questioned that you were thinking.”

Mugwump’s head came up, his jaw opening in a wry grin.

Vlad patted the dragon’s cheek. “So, Joachim, if I die, I wish for you to care for Mugwump until he is healed, then to let him go his own way. I feel as if when he has called out, he was looking for the dragons that destroyed the Norghaest in the past. If he is the last of them, then you must find a way to bring more wurms here from Auropa.”

“I suspect, my friend, that would be considered a greater act of treason than learning the new magick.”

“And yet, if dragons are the only thing which the Norghaest fear, to fail would be treason against humanity.”

“Wisely said, Highness.” Von Metternin leaned back in his chair. “But fear not. After what we will do here, the Norghaest will learn that dragons are not the only thing they should fear.”

Ian Rathfield looked up as Benjamin Beecher entered his tent. The man brushed snow from his shoulders and hat. “Please, General, forgive me, but I wanted to speak with you on the eve of departure.”

“Yes, Reverend?” Ian made no indication that the man should sit, but he did so anyway, drawing a camp chair closer to the small stove heating Ian’s tent.

Beecher let concern draw his brows together. “General, I wish, this one last time, to prevail upon you to prevail upon the Prince to let me travel with the Fifth. I was the chaplain to the Rangers who attacked Fort Cuivre. I am no stranger to the hardship of campaign, sir. I truly do believe that the men would find solace in my presence.”

Ian smiled carefully. “I have spoken to the Prince on your behalf. This is why he delayed our departure until tomorrow evening, so you can hold a proper Sunday service before we leave. However, given the nature of what we are to do, and the presence of the sick and wounded here at Fort Plentiful, I must agree with the Prince that you should remain behind and provide spiritual comfort to those who are so physically tortured.”

Beecher appeared to accept that, but Ian expected the man to make one last run at going with them before the Fifth actually departed. Ian knew at least part of the reason the Prince did not want Beecher going along: some of the things he would see on the Fifth’s mission would appear to him to be a heretical use of magick. While his reporting it later would cause all sorts of trouble, the possibility that he would try to interfere with the campaign and doom the mission could not be allowed. Were the man to try to stop them, Ian would kill him and think little of it.

“I sense, General, that you might also need some spiritual comfort. If you wish, I will gladly hear your confession and grant you absolution.”

Ian set onto his camp desk the slender volume he’d been studying. “Please, Reverend Beecher, do not take this as any sign of disrespect, but I have confessed all of my sins to Bishop Bumble-those I shared with you long ago, and yet others. If it is God’s will that I meet my Maker out there, I am confident He will welcome me to His bosom.”

Beecher opened his hands and bowed his head. “I understand that, General, but there are times when the devil enters into us not through our actions, but our mere thoughts. It is not that you have, say, lusted after someone, but even that you might have thought of one after whom you have lusted in the past. That would be enough for him. If you bare your soul, if you look deep into your own heart, and you confess your weaknesses before God, He will save you.”

Ian lowered his voice and let a razored edge enter it. “I say with great assurance, Reverend Beecher, that I have looked into my heart. It is a far darker place than into which you or any man wishes to venture. That I am content with my standing before God is enough for me.”

Beecher lifted his chin. “General, from what I know of your past…”

In a heartbeat Ian was out of his chair and had Beecher’s throat in his right hand. “From what you have just said, Reverend Beecher, and from what you have told Bishop Bumble, I have a measure of your heart. As black as mine might be, yours is yet darker. What God forgives, you do not forget.”

Beecher clung to his wrist, his voice squeaking. “General, you have it wrong…”

“No, Mr. Beecher, I do not.” Ian relaxed his grip, then pushed the man backward, tipping the chair over. “Understand this: I know what you know of me. I have left letters with friends that they are to open in the event of my death or incapacity. Those letters outline the kinds of lies you will tell about me. I have instructed those friends that if they ever hear such rumors-and they would-that they are to seek you out, overtly or covertly. They are to challenge you to a duel, or to have you murdered.”