Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Even under the best of circumstances, the work would have been grueling. Spade-and-pick crews would carve their way into the sides of hills to widen paths to the required eight feet. Woodsmen would chop down the nearest trees and hack them into eight-foot lengths. These would get laid down on the bare earth, and dirt would be shoveled over them to smooth things out. The resulting "corduroy roads" lived up to their bumpy reputations.

Rains, which had plagued them since the start, simply made things worse. What had been a perfectly good stretch of road suddenly became a sodden mess. Earth eroded, logs slipped, and crews that should have been cutting the path further ahead had to go back and do repair work, all the while being derided by redcoats.

The friction between forces led the Colonials to work at a more leisurely pace, especially when it meant the Norillians camped on the edge of ponds from which great black fly populations rose. Despite being warned against it, troops drank from brackish pools, resulting in chronic cases of the trots. While Kamiskwa and the Altashee had pointed out useful plants for combating such things, the Norillians didn't trust them, and the Mystrians, who were busy brewing up mogiqua syrup by the gallon, kept suggesting the Twilight People cures were witchcraft.

Mugwump had proved invaluable to the effort at road construction. Whereas everyone else seemed worn down by the work, he thrived and grew stronger. He seemed to take it as a personal affront that the earth defied his master's wishes. He also grew in size, bulking up muscles, but also getting bigger. Vlad had to mount via an elbow before he could reach the saddle, and did his best to record measurements when he had time.

Mugwump faced every challenge without reluctance. He dragged logs toward the road and then, chained to a massive log, would smooth the bed before other trees got laid down. At one stream he spat large stones further down stream. Later, at a marsh, they used that strategy to dam the marsh's outflow. They raised the water level and set up a ferry to carry wagons while the soldiers marched around. The Mystrians named it Mugwump Pond and cheered as the wurm swam across, dragging the first ferry rope.

The few ravines that needed bridging resulted in the hardest work, but there Count von Metternin displayed his worth. He culled the smartest of the Mystrians from the work crews and had them range ahead to locate problem areas. They quickly designed bridges, blazed the trees with specific cuts to show where they would fit in the plan, and left one man behind to oversee construction. Work crews would come up, cut wood as needed, and build the bridges even before the road had reached them.

The crews averaged just over four miles a day, and at the start had hit eight. The early success caused all of the disappointment later. Granted that circumstances had turned against them, and the work was grinding them down, but everyone thought they should be doing more. They pushed themselves, but Norillian derision sapped their strength. Most grumbled that the redcoats should hold their tongues and hold some spades. A few suggested they'd be happy digging graves for the soldiers.

"You sent for me, Highness?"

Vlad tipped his hat back and smiled. "I did. I have onerous duty for you."

Owen waded into the stream in his Altashee leathers, knelt and dunked his head. The water washed away mud. His head came up, his hair dripping as he cleared it from his face. "The Bishop told me. I am to take him back, not just a message."

"Can you possibly convince him to go off on the winding path?"

"I have a feeling the spirits wouldn't want him." Owen got up on his feet again. "Long walk will do him good."

"Give him one of our draft horses. I'll need it returned immediately. Give you an excuse to come back."

Owen nodded. "If we leave now, I should get him there in time for Lord Rivendell's Sunday supper with his officers. Couple of his men are old poachers. They got pheasant and deer. He will eat well, off hanware plates with a silver service."

"Can you suggest to him that he ask Rivendell to let him deliver his sermon to the troops?"

"I'll do my best, sir." Owen sighed. "And since Rivendell will ask…"

Vlad shrugged. "We have another week to Hattersburg, weather permitting. Two bridges, one ferry, twenty-nine miles uphill, three down. I hope we have a week's rest before we push on."

Owen sloshed forward and patted Mugwump on the flank. "Lord Rivendell believes we have surprise on our side."

"Rivendell is an ass." Vlad shook his head. "I'm sure someone has let du Malphias know about the brimstone, shot, and other supplies piling up in Hattersburg. Depending on how his forces are arrayed, he could just raid the town and burn everything."

"Or cart it back to his fortress." Owen nodded. "I'd do it. He won't. He wants us to come to his fortress and be destroyed."

"A great victory here would win him much support among the other Laureates." Vlad folded his arms over his chest. "Raiding Hattersburg is not his only option."

"Agreed. I fear he might build his own Fort Hope. He would block our access to Anvil Lake."

"Another wise strategy, and a contingency for which we should be prepared. I will have von Metternin scout ahead when we are in Hattersburg. You will go with him." The Prince pulled of his hat, soaked it in water, then put it back on. "Have you shared your thoughts with Lord Rivendell?"

Owen opened his arms. "I would have to be invited into his counsels to have a chance to offer an idea."

"He doesn't realize that you actually have experience out here?"

"He does, but he is invested in proving me wrong. Colonel Langford, for obvious reasons, as well." Owen unslung a canteen, unstoppered it, and sank it, bubbling, into the stream. "A couple of sergeants have spoken with me. The soldiers will fight and fight hard, but they have a flock of featherbrains to lead them."

"That is a lament often heard among soldiers."

Owen shot him a sidelong glance. "Did my uncle give you a packet of sealed orders to be opened in the event Lord Rivendell loses his mind?"

Vlad shook his head. "Why do you ask?"

"He told me he did. He asked if you were sane and ambitious. And he asked if you would be able to take over the expedition and lead it militarily if Rivendell's sanity were in question."

Vlad's eyes narrowed. "He said nothing of this to me. He encouraged me to use our men to build Fort Hope, since Rivendell will not use us in the battle. Your uncle never suggested a combat command, and, quite frankly, I am not suited to it."

"He said you could use the Count as an advisor."

"And I'm sure he would be most able. What are you thinking, Owen? There's a look in your eye."

The soldier blinked. "I'm thinking that I've not been thinking. My uncle only ever does things for his own benefit. So his speaking to me as he did was for his benefit. He said nice things and apologized to me. I thought it was sincere, but how would I know? He's never been sincere before."

Vlad nodded. "He told me that Rivendell would fail, and that next year he would be back with enough troops and artillery to destroy du Malphias. Fort Hope would be a stepping-off place. He would lead them, reap the glory."

"That's part of it." Owen frowned. "But it makes me wonder, given what he told you and me, what has he told Rivendell?"

"That's a very good question." Vlad glanced down, shielding his eyes with a hand from the sun's shifting reflection in the water. "Your uncle succeeds if Rivendell fails. This explains the paltry number of troops in Rivendell's command. A victorious du Malphias is a threat, so Norisle must increase the troops and resources sent next year."

Owen's jaw dropped open. "Which would give my uncle the largest and most formidable force in Mystria. He could do what du Malphias' has threatened: make his own nation."