Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

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.

August 1, 1764

La Fortresse du Morte

Anvil Lake, Mystria

T he ship's cannon-sixteen pounders every one-erupted with fire and iron. They'd been loaded with grapeshot and lit off inside thirty yards of their target. All four spoke in unison. A hail of hot metal jetted from the billowing smoke clouds. Men vanished in a bloody mist. Balls sailed through them, their speed unabated, tearing legs off or blowing open chests, revealing hearts as red birds fluttering furiously in shattered ivory cages.

Nathaniel Woods and a company of Mystrian Ranger sharpshooters crouched at the gunwales. "Officers first! Officers first!" He turned to the Summerland boys. "Run those guns out again, boys. Give them another taste of Hell!"

The sharpshooters poured more fire into the Platine battalion's flank. Scattered return shots splintered oak planking. Thomas Hill brought the bow swivel-gun around and pounded the battalion's back ranks. Nathaniel twisted, tracking a man with a saber and braid. He caressed the firestone.

Gunnery crews hauled on ropes and ran the reloaded cannon out again. The sloop rolled as they fired. Where there had been ranks of blue-backed soldiers now existed a red swamp dotted with bone and dying things writhing in the mire.

One of the fortress' batteries fired at the sloop. Grapeshot mostly rattled off the hull, though a few balls careened over the deck. Several men went down-two clearly dead and one with a long splinter through his leg.

Nathaniel ran to the bow, reloading as he went. He cranked the lever forward, sealing the bullet into the barrel, then steadied the rifle on the gunwale. If it's a duel you want…

The smoke cleared, revealing a gunner standing on his cannon's carriage, hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Nathaniel dropped the sights on him, then invoked magick. The rifle boomed and bucked. The gunner staggered back, holding his stomach, before pitching down into the fort.

Without thinking, Nathaniel cranked the lever to the side, flipped the gimbaled chamber up, dropped another round into it, and worked the lever to send the bullet home. By the time he aimed again, a loader was just shoving the ramrod into the gun. Another man held a small cylinder full of grape. Nathaniel hit the firestone again.

The loader, his ramrod still stuck in the cannon's throat, hung draped over the gun. The sloop's swivel-gun roared and grapeshot scattered another cannon's crew. The remaining two cannon fired back, killing three more on deck, while the sloop's guns tore deeper into the Tharyngian formation.

Nathaniel shrieked delightedly. "More boys, faster! Until they's bled out or running." Smiling, he worked the lever and began his search for more prey.

Vlad couldn't be certain at that range with all the smoke, but it appeared as if the sloop had somehow fired on Ryngian troops! Before he had a chance to double-check, Mugwump leaped from the parapet down into the fort. He landed with the elan of a cat, his right flank to the fort's open interior doors. He flashed his fangs and hissed, defiant and angry.

Vlad brought his swivel-gun around. Pasmortes and Ungarakii filled the gateway. The Prince fired, and von Metternin immediately after him. Smoke thinned as it swirled out through the gate. Some pasmortes still came on but many had fallen, convulsing as the iron shot inhibited magick. A handful of Ungarakii lay on the ground. More slithered away trailing blood, but a knot of warriors sprinted forward.

Mugwump lashed out with his tail. An Ungarakii's thighs snapped. The man screamed, but the wurm's hiss overrode the sound. The other Ungarakii stopped, and when Mugwump snatched up a pasmorte child and swallowed it whole, they broke and ran.

The Prince reloaded as quickly as he could. Numbness had spread up to his right elbow, making the task difficult. His swollen hand throbbed. Purple seeped into his fingers and past his wrist. He loaded with his left hand, jamming the shot home.

Mugwump sidled back as the men fired again. Their shots raked the pasmortes, scattering them like toys in a child's tantrum, yet others came. Had they been thinking creatures-had they but one scintilla of self-preservation yet left in them-they would have fled with the Ungarakii.

It occurred to the Prince that perhaps they wanted to die.

And then, visible through the gateway, a company of bluebacks came running up hill. "Reinforcements, my lord. Theirs, I'm afraid."

"Then, Highness, we shall just have to shoot faster."

Vlad leaned on the swivel-gun's aiming lever to tip it upright. He grabbed another charge and dumped it into the barrel. He worked the ramrod as Mugwump gobbled down another pasmorte. Bringing the gun down, Vlad hunched forward and hooked his right elbow around the aiming lever. He pulled it tight against his ribs, and pressed his left palm to the firestone.

As a wave of blackness swept his sight from him for a moment, and his left hand tingled, Prince Vlad realized he'd made a grave error. With both hands numb, reloading would be that much more difficult. And I can't grab the reins…

He twisted back and watched von Metternin slowly loading again, his right hand dark enough that it might have been gloved in purple leather. "I am done, my lord."

The Kessian laughed defiantly as a Platine company filled the gateway. "It was a grand gesture, Highness! We will live forever in the annals of war." He brought the gun down, and spelled a blast that trimmed the left edge of the Tharyngian line.

Mugwump came around to face the Tharyngians, his mouth gaping wide, hissing again. His muzzle eclipsed the Prince's view of the soldiers. "No, Mugwump!" The wurm might shrug shot off his scales, but his mouth and tongue would get shredded.

Muskets roared.

Tharyngians fell.

The men of the Mystrian Third streamed over the wall, firing as they came. "To the Top!" they yelled as if it would protect them from shot and steel. Men captured the nearest Ryngian battery with a bayonet charge, then levered the functional cannon around to the west. A Mystrian clapped a hand over the firestone. Golden-red flame exploded from its muzzle. The load of grapeshot slashed through the next battery below on the wall. The Mystrian gunner shook his hand as if it had been hit by a hammer, but urged men to reload as quickly as they could.

Another Mystrian crew levered a cannon all the way around. They aimed at the Platines. The Tharyngian ranks fired on the Mystrian troops and then evaporated after the cannon spoke. Mystrians, dead and wounded, filled the courtyard. The survivors pressed on, taking the gate. They fired into the main compound while even more Mystrians lined the upper fort's parapet and fired on the Platine troops defending the north wall.

Mugwump leaped forward, pouncing on a moving pasmorte and devouring it. He seemed almost playful. He'd dig his nose beneath a body, flip it into the air, and snatch it with his mouth. His tongue gathered in arms and legs, then he'd swallow them whole, ambulatory or not.