Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

May 9, 1763

Bounty, Mystria

O wen's musket flew into the tall grasses. He spun away from it, landing on his left hip. Pain jolted through it. He glanced down. The ball had caught him there, but he didn't see a hole or much blood. By rights blood should have been gushing and the pain of a shattered pelvis should have left him screaming.

Keening war cries and another gunshot eclipsed any chance to check his injuries. One of the Twilight People, this one with his face painted black save where a single white eye had been painted on his forehead, appeared at his feet. The warrior raised a warclub and shrieked.

Owen rolled to the left as the club pounded the ground, just missing him. Then in one smooth motion, as the warrior spun and raised the club again, Owen drew the pistol from the small of his back. His thumb covered the firestone. The warrior's eyes widened.

Owen invoked magick.

Had it not been for long hours of drill and hot minutes spent in battle, he never could have triggered the spell. Panic and pain he'd long since learned to shunt away. Almost without thought, he conjured the formula then pumped it out through his right thumb. The energy burned into the firestone, igniting the brimstone.

The warrior's face evaporated. The.50 caliber ball caught him right above the bridge of the nose, shattering bone. Scalp stretched, trapping the fragments, then the ball burst out the back. Blood and brains jetted in both directions. The shot lifted the man off his feet and dumped him in the long grasses.

With no time to reload, Owen snatched up the dead man's warclub and stood. His hip held, but something wasn't quite right. The stiffness didn't matter, as another warrior drove forward. The man backhanded a warclub at Owen. Owen blocked the blow, then tipped his club forward and jabbed. The blade plowed into the warrior's chest.

The Shedashee stepped back, fingers probing the wound, but Owen kept coming. Another jab smashed the hand holding the warclub. As it dropped, Owen buried the club in the man's stomach. The warrior pitched forward. Owen crashed the club into his skull. The warrior collapsed and lay still.

Owen limped ahead. Kamiskwa blocked an overhand club blow with his rifle, then whipped the butt around. His opponent's face crumbled and teeth flew. Woods, rifle in his left hand, snapped his right hand forward. A bloody tomahawk spun through the air, catching another warrior in the flank. He'd been sneaking up on Kamiskwa. The Altashee Prince spun, whipping the rifle's butt around in a blow that dropped his assailant.

Another shot rang out from the same spot as the first. Owen dove for cover. He found himself crouching near Nathaniel with a body between them. From other rustling Owen took it that Kamiskwa had also ducked out of sight.

"The shot came from the fallen tree."

"I saw. I'll get him once I reload."

"Don't, he'll see you."

The Mystrian laughed. "He would if I had to stand to load."

Nathaniel grasped a lever that had previously sat flush in a groove on the stock. He forced it down and the whole firestone assembly at the base of the barrel slid back. A gimbaled cylinder tipped up. Nathaniel stuffed a paper powder cartridge into it, then seated a bullet in the opening. He pushed the cylinder back down, and worked the lever to advance the assembly and seal the chamber.

Owen smiled. "Very quick work."

"Thanks. Kamiskwa, you reloaded yet?"

"By the time you miss I shall be, yes."

Nathaniel grinned. "Reckon I cain't afford to miss."

"I'll draw his fire." Owen heaved himself up and thrashed his way through the grasses. He cut at an angle to the tree so the shooter would have to track him. He bobbed up and down, his red coat contrasting vividly with the green grasses, waiting for the shot.

The sniper obliged him. The bullet whizzed past Owen's head, leading him by a couple of feet. Then Nathaniel shot. Even with his rifle blast still echoing in Owen's ears, there was no mistaking screams of mortal agony from the fallen tree.

Owen cut back to where he'd dropped the pistol and quickly reloaded it. He fed powder from a paper cartridge down the barrel, then rammed the paper and a ball home. He slid the ramrod back into its place beneath the barrel. "My pistol is ready."

"I'm ready. Kamiskwa?"

"I've been waiting on you."

Owen found Nathaniel again. "How do we do this?"

Nathaniel gestured to one of the bodies. "These are Ungarakii. They're part of the Seven Nations. They travel in packs of six or so. We got most all of them. The painted eyes say they were scouting. Probably for the Tharyngians."

Owen looked toward the fallen tree. "Likely a Ryngian or two down there then."

"Most like." Nathaniel pointed at him. "How's your hip?"

Owen took his first good look at it. Wooden splinters peppered his hip and thigh. He plucked one out, then tossed it aside. "Ball must have hit my stock. Long range for a musket shot, so it just broke wood and knocked me down."

"Stiffening up, is it?"

"I'll limp for a bit." Owen paused. "Don't hear anything. He's dead or getting away."

"I reckon we best do something about that."

Setting a pace that had more to do with caution than Owen's limp, they closed in on the fallen tree. Kamiskwa ranged out far on the right flank and circled around into the trees. Owen and Nathaniel, advancing and covering each other, moved in more directly. It took them the better part of an hour to reach the fallen tree.

Owen stared down at the body of the man behind the tree. "Nice shot." The bullet had drilled through dirty leathers halfway between breastbone and navel.

Nathaniel crouched, turned the man's face this way and that. The dead man hadn't shaved in a while and his ears looked odd. So did his nose.

Owen frowned. "What happened to his face?"

"Not sure. Cain't figure why he has a glove on his left hand neither." Nathaniel stood and waved Kamiskwa over. "He look familiar?"

The Altashee nodded. "Pierre Ilsavont."

Owen leaned back on the fallen log. "You know him?"

"He cheats at cards. The shot that hit you was the best shot he ever made." Woods picked up the man's musket. "Fancy gun. New. Must have stole it. Ain't no way he bought it."

"Let me have a look." Owen caught the musket and tipped it up to look at the butt plate. "Arondel et fils, Feris, 1762. Made last year. Maybe your man was lucky."

"He'd have to be really lucky."

"How so?"

"Winter of 1761 came hard in these parts." Nathaniel nodded toward the body. "That's what's wrong with his face. Frostbite. See, Pierre here got drunk. He walked out into a freezing blizzard. Got hisself dead. Spring of '62 Kamiskwa and I wandered into the churchyard in Hattersburg and peed on his grave."

"Are you sure that's him?"

Woods shrugged. "Never did see him planted. And he died with lots of debts owing. Coulda been he figured himself better off pretend-dead and just laid low."

Kamiskwa spat at the body. " Wendigo." He walked away and started to gather dead wood into a small pile.

"What did he say?"

" Wendigo. The Shedashee have this legend. Cannibal comes among them, kills and eats them. Pure evil, like a spirit, takes them over. It's supposed to do that during the winter, when food is scarce. He reckons Pierre was dead and the wendigo spirit brought him back."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "You believe this?"

"Don't know what I'm believing about Pierre here. Still and all, that same winter, Kamiskwa and me went to Trading Post Number Twenty-three up Queensland. Small place, palisade fence, main gate open, store open, snow drifted in. Five men in there, dead, froze-solid, half-eaten."

Nathaniel looked down, his brows furrowed. "Most folks think it was a bear. Trapper up that way got a bear come spring, said he found a ring in the stomach. That was good enough for most folks.