Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

As hosts went, du Malphias had to be the greatest on the continent in spite of the rustic nature of his banquet hall. Each course had its own wine, and each wine had its own glass, which the servants presented and kept filled. They began the evening with fresh-caught salmon, followed by roasted duck with mushrooms and wild rice, then moose with a quince compote and fresh peas. Each course arrived on its own plate, covered with a silver turtle, which the servants removed with a flourish when the Laureate gave them the sign.

In addition to providing fine fare, du Malphias likewise encouraged discussion among his guests. He skillfully set the military men to refighting the Villerupt campaign through their anecdotes, while speaking to Vlad of a variety of experiments he'd conducted in Mystria. The man had no trouble following multiple conversations and offering cogent commentary on all.

Vlad's chill returned. He is a genius. The Count is right. The battle is being won even now.

When it came time for dessert and cognac poured into glasses, du Malphias stood. "Before we reveal the dessert-and I assure you it shall be a surprise-I should offer a toast to the brave men who will serve in the battle to come. Serve now and serve forever."

The others raised their glasses and drank.

Rivendell rose, raising his glass. "And a toast to those who will lose the battle. May they never fear treatment at the hands of an honorable foe."

The Laureate smiled and drank, but his eyes became cold.

Rivendell meant his toast one way, but du Malphias read it another. And Rivendell will rue his comments.

Du Malphias seated himself after Rivendell had returned to his chair, then nodded. The servants lifted the silver domes from the dessert plates.

Vlad stared down. A small, single-barreled pistol similar to Count von Metternin's, sat centered on the plate and garnished with a sprig of rosemary.

Rivendell picked the pistol up. "What is the meaning of this?"

The Laureate smiled. "I mean to show you something. Please, all of you, take your pistol and shoot your servant."

Bumble's eyes grew wide. "Are you mad?"

"No, not at all." Du Malphias smiled. "Highness, if I might."

Vlad nodded.

Du Malphias appropriated the Prince's pistol and shot the serving girl in the stomach. She flew back into one of birches, then struggled to her feet, still holding the silver plate cover. She approached the table, a black hole burned in her blouse, and smiled. "Will that be all, Highness?"

Vlad, his hands shaking, could not answer.

The three colonels picked up their pistols and shot their servants. Rivendell made a great show of aiming, then fired. The pretty boy spun away. It looked as if, unlike the others, he might stay down. Rivendell brandished the pistol triumphantly, then his expression soured as the young man regained his feet.

Bumble refused to touch the pistol. "I never learned that magick."

"You may all keep your pistols as my gift. I have boxes for them, along with bullet molds and measuring tools. You will understand if I decline to provide brimstone, but the firestones are new and of the highest Tharyngian quality."

He nodded toward the servants. "Captain Strake has told you of my pasmortes. All of them can and do use firearms. In addition to the regiment-and-a-half of regular soldiers in my command, I have hundreds of my pasmortes. They never tire, they do not eat, they do not sleep, they know no fear. And any of my soldiers who fall shall return as pasmortes. Your efforts to destroy my fortress are futile."

He picked up his cognac glass and smiled. "To the health of your troops, gentlemen. May they remain hardy, or else they will be mine."

July 25, 1764

La Fortresse du Morte

On the Shores of Anvil Lake, Mystria

O wen watched with the forward pickets for the leaders' return. If du Malphias had intended to unsettle Lord Rivendell with his dinner, he succeeded very well. All of the officers appeared subdued and even a bit queasy. Rivendell didn't even rouse himself to abuse Owen. He just looked at him with haunted eyes and rode on past.

Prince Vlad settled in near Fort Hope and invited Owen and von Metternin to join him in his tent. He poured three small tots of brandy and offered one to each man. "I should have taken your pistol, Count Joachim."

"Indeed? Why?"

The Prince proceeded to describe the evening's finale. He pointed to the wooden box on his camp desk. "The pistol is yours, Captain Strake. You'll doubtlessly have better use for it than I will."

Owen nodded. "Thank you, Highness."

"Don't thank me. Were I you, I would keep it to blow my own brains out, guaranteeing I won't become a pasmorte." The Prince shot his brandy, growled, and poured himself another. "Rivendell and the others now believe pasmortes exist. On the ride back they even rejoiced in the fact that the things could be shot. Exeter suggested that du Malphias used a small caliber bullet and light charges to trick us into believing his pasmortes are immortal. Not enough recoil to the shot, you see."

Von Metternin sipped his brandy. "Did no one shoot one in the head or spine?"

"No. Du Malphias shot my servant off-center and in the abdomen." The Prince arched an eyebrow. "Why the smile, my lord?"

"He took your pistol to forestall your turning it on him. None of the others would dare." Count von Metternin laughed. "It was a calculated gamble on his part."

"If only I had followed your advice." Prince Vlad shook his head. "I could have ended all this with one shot."

"That was clearly not meant to be, Highness." Von Metternin shrugged. "He won this time, but that does not mean he shall win every time."

Owen remained with the Mystrian contingent when it set off next morning for the Fortress of Death. They made very good time along du Malphias' road. They delayed only twice. Once, for a short while, Mugwump went off the road at the birch pavilion. He rooted through the surrounding area like a pig hunting truffles, snorting disgustedly when he came up with nothing. He glanced back at the Prince and Owen would have sworn he saw regret at failure in those gold eyes.

The other pause came during the second day's march at the Roaring River. As had been predicted, a tall, arching bridge spanned the river. Men marveled, but the sight of it made Owen's stomach roil. Yes, it was a wonder, but a wonder created by creatures that should have long ago been in the grave. He could imagine pasmortes crawling all over the bridge, hunting troops as they had once chased him.

Mugwump went over it first, sniffing as he went. It didn't move an inch beneath his bulk. Mystrian soldiers swarmed over it then, testing what they could, reinforcing other bits, and determining it was safe. They then deployed to forestall any attack that would disrupt the crossing.

The Mystrians had welcomed the shift from shovels and axes to muskets. Knowing the Norillian troops would be watching their every move, they did their best to comport themselves as fighting men. They moved quickly and took up good cover positions. They even supported each other as troops moved deeper along the road.

The problem was, of course, that when the Norillian troops got to crossing, the Mystrians had not arrayed themselves in proper order for Continental combat. It didn't matter that they weren't on the Continent, it just looked for all the world to the Norillians as if they were timid and amateur.

Owen smiled proudly as the Mystrians took up their positions. They reminded him of the Mystrian Rangers preparing to defend the Artennes Forest. Eager and fresh-faced many of them, they had no idea the sort of Hell they'd be marching into. Stories of pasmortes had filtered through the ranks, but the Mystrians dismissed them as stories intended to frighten Norillians. No Mystrian, whether or not he believed the stories, would ever show signs of fear around Rivendell's troops.