Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"I know this is a very dangerous proposition. You are all courageous men but no amount of money could compensate you for this risk. I fully discharge you from any obligation. I'll write a note to the Prince and would ask you to bear it to him. I have no choice but to go there. I do not ask the same of you."

Nathaniel's eyes became slits. "Iffen there's not money enough to pay for anyone to go take a look-see, how come you're going?"

"I am a sworn officer in Her Majesty's Army. My orders are to survey Tharyngian positions in Mystria."

"Wouldn't no one know if you just didn't go. You'd not be the first to take a new name and adopt a new life."

"That would be true, Mr. Woods, but I would know." Owen lifted his chin. "I do not choose to live a dishonored life."

"Seems to me you think we would."

"No, not at all." Owen opened his hands. "Once we sail west of the shore, we will be in territory which, according to the 1760 Treaty of Mastrick, belongs to Tharyngia. Dressed as I am, I will be taken as a spy and shot. You will share my fate. And if a fraction of what we suspect is actually true, a fate worse than death may await us all."

Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. "This ain't you being all noble and Norillian and all?"

Owen shook his head ruefully. "You are my friends. I value your lives too much to put them in such obvious danger. I appreciate all you've done for me. I hope I've learned enough to let me complete my mission. I have no choice but to go."

Nathaniel stretched. "Well now, I is only speaking for me, but I don't reckon I have a choice neither. See, when all them Branches and Casks was a-wagering on how long you'd last out here, I done took their bets. And I doubled up on them, saying you'd be coming back alive. I reckon I have an investment to be protecting."

Kamiskwa nodded. "My sister wants you to bring her doll back. I go."

Makepeace rose, clapping the dust off his hands. "I been a-waiting for whatever that shepherd done saved me for. I'd be a durn fool iffen I thought this weren't it. Besides, last time I checked, killing Ryngians was more a virtue than a vice."

Owen nodded solemnly. "One more thing you'd best understand. We are going to be invading enemy territory. We're going to war. I understand war the way you understand the wilderness. From this point forward, I am in command. If I give an order, you obey. Is that understood?"

The other three exchanged glances, then nodded. Nathaniel tossed him a ragged salute. "Lead on, Captain Strake. Into the mouth of Hell and back out again."

Caution slowed their pace so that they reached Anvil Lake at noon a week later. It took them until mid-afternoon on the day of their arrival to locate and repair two canoes. Makepeace, using bark, some pitch and prayer managed to duplicate Kamiskwa's work. The patch held just as well, though did not blend seamlessly. When they launched Owen watched for any signs of leakage, but the canoe remained intact.

They kept to the northern shore and moved at night. They worked their away along carefully, never more than twenty yards out from shore. This afforded them some cover from the northern wind but, more importantly, made it harder for anyone in the fortress to see them.

They made good time on the water and by the third day, they stopped near the headland where the lake made a jog to the north into the anvil's beak. The northern island lay northwest of them. A sliver of moon provided them enough light to reach it undetected.

As they approached the island, Owen collected his thoughts and wrote his conclusions into his expedition journal. The trip from Pine Lake to Anvil Lake convinced him how difficult bringing an army up to assault the fortress would truly be. Transport ships could carry an army to Hattersburg, but from there they would have to go on foot. They would have to build a road through primeval forest, an undertaking that would take a month or more and that would be without bad weather or harassment by the Ryngian forces.

At Anvil Lake they'd need to create a flotilla of flat boats, since approaching by the southern shore would add fifty miles of road-building to the campaign. The forests would yield ample raw materials to build the fleet, but any hope of surprise evaporated. The fortress would have to be taken by siege, which required yet more men and supplies.

The smartest plan for the Norillians would be to build their own fortress at the outflow into the Tillie. The Ryngians would have to destroy it before moving down the river. That would buy ample time for Norisle to raise other defenses.

Owen made a solid case for that plan. Someone like Lord Rivendell would never see the wisdom in it. Owen's uncle, on the other hand, would. He would appropriate both the plan and the acclaim that came from it. Anger sparked at that idea; Owen smothered it.

Finally they reached the northern island. The rectangular plot of earth and stone rose up twenty yards, with a deep bowl in the middle. It had started life as a jumble of rocks, but over the years had grown up with trees and mosses, flowers and shrubs that completely hid the rocks beneath. They drew their canoes all the way up into the interior and made no fire. They kept watches, but aside from calling loons and a moose taking a shortcut across the island, they neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary.

In preparation for their scouting mission, each man put together a satchel with twenty-four rounds and changed their firestones for new. They assumed, quite rightly, that if they could not escape pursuit before they exhausted their ammunition, they were as good as dead or worse.

Owen left behind his journals, his pistol and pens. He included in his load two pencils and A Continent's Calling. He would jot his notes in it, then expand them into his journals. The other men likewise abandoned non-essentials. If all went well, they would make a trip to the western shore, take a look, return to retrieve their gear, then head east again.

Taking advantage of a low mist on the water, they struck out for the western shore in the early morning. They navigated up a small stream, then hid the canoes on the northern side. Kamiskwa pointed out a few other cached canoes on the way and holed one of Ungarakii manufacture. They crossed the stream and headed south. Kamiskwa found a game trail that brought them to a marsh between hills. They skirted the mire to the lake side, then headed directly up a wooded hill

Just beneath the crest Nathaniel smiled. "One more hill and we'll see what needs to be seen."

Makepeace, already at the crest, turned, his face ashen. "May God have Mercy on our souls."

Owen scrambled up the rest of the way, then flattened onto his belly.

To the south, where there should have been a wooded hill, construction had scraped a reddish scar in the earth. The hill at the lake's edge had been chopped in half, with the back hauled away, lumber, stones and all.

And beyond it, in all its dark and angular glory, stood the fortification that would soon become known as the Fortress of Death.

July 7, 1763

Anvil Lake

Lindenvale, Mystria

O wen had seen many fortresses during Continental campaigns. In medieval times stones walls had risen very high, but with the advent of cannon, such walls fell easily. As a result, engineers designed new fortifications that involved the creation of a glacis: a low slope rising ten feet or more. From the distant hilltop, the glacises gave the fortress an irregular, star-shaped footprint.

The glacises extended out from the walls for a hundred yards and came to a point. Their sides sloped gently back toward the fortress and stone faced them. Cannon-shot hitting the stone would bounce up over the fortress' wooden palisade wall. Getting cannons close enough that they could hit the walls directly, or moving mortars into range to lob shot over the walls, would be a long and laborious process. It involved digging endless trenches, working ever closer while under enemy cannon-fire from the fortress.