Michael Stackpole: At the Queen_s command

"Misaawa?"

"In the native tongue-or one of them anyway-it means 'life.'" His finger traced a line of mountains to the east of the river, almost halfway to the coast. "Our Colonial charters grant us rights to the land between the ocean and these mountains. A century and a half ago the mountains were deemed impassible, and no one imagined we would expand so quickly. The redemptioneers, it turns out, were more fecund and industrious than thought possible. But then, when you have to work to live, and more hands make working easier, you create an interesting cycle of life.

"The Tharyngians have not been so fortunate. The north has a much shorter growing season. They regularly import food from Tharyngia. But because they work more closely with the Twilight People than we do, they're sending a great deal of money back to the Continent. Fur sales finance their war effort. Timber and potash production and even limited amounts of gold contribute as well. To protect themselves, they've begun to establish a series of forts at critical river junctions and on the myriad small lakes in the west. They've chased off our trappers and settlers."

The Prince tapped the Misaawa River with a finger. "I believe the Misaawa River Valley to be every bit as fertile as the best of our lands. If the Tharyngians establish settlements there, like the one they have at the base of the river, it won't be long before their population will meet or exceed ours. Once that happens, we will be trapped. We will face open warfare here, just like on the Continent."

Owen studied the map. The mountains had been sketched in with black ink, and rivers traced in blue-save for the Misaawa. That river had become a long, thick sepia line, looking like dried blood. That same hue had been used to create several other features, mostly in the south and west.

Owen frowned. "Have you just not put roads on the map?"

"Wouldn't waste the ink." The Prince shrugged. "Would you call the track you rode out on here a proper road?"

"No, Highness."

"You're not alone. Colonel Langford cannot imagine how troops could march into battle lacking good roads. And our tiny patches of cleared land are nothing he recognizes as proper battlefields."

Owen smiled. "I remember the Mystrian Rangers fighting throughout the Artennes Forest against the Platine Regiment. The lack of a cleared field didn't seem to bother either unit."

"Good, very good. If you understand that much, then perhaps you are the man for this job." The Prince stroked a hand across his chin. "I'm going to make certain you see what needs to be seen. Langford will assign you a couple of his scouts-competent men, but lazy, I'm afraid. It won't do."

"No, Highness."

"I will write him a note telling him that I'm sending my man with you. Langford will protest, but I have dealt with that before."

Owen nodded. "Your man is good, Highness?"

Vlad smiled broadly. "The best. He's the one who killed that jeopard."

Before Owen could ask, the prince led him back to the large cat. He spread the fur on the creature's throat revealing a small hole. The Prince then rubbed a hand over the jeopard's spine. "Went in at the throat, came out there. A hundred yards. One shot."

Owen gasped. "Highness…"

The Prince raised a hand. "First, Captain Strake, I paced the distance myself. And while you're about to tell me that a musket cannot hit a target with a killing shot at that range, a rifle can, and this is what Nathaniel used. Fourteen-weight of lead, flying true."

Owen measured the angle between the entry and exit wounds. The thing was charging at the time, much as it is now. "That was quite a shot, Highness."

"Two winters ago, very harsh. It got a taste for men, came down hunting. We stalked it." The Prince blushed. "I missed, despite using a fine rifle given to my father by a Seljuk Calife. Nathaniel dropped it and had his rifle reloaded before it had finished thrashing."

"I shall be pleased to meet such a remarkable marksman, Highness."

Prince Vlad looked Owen up and down again. "And I shall be interested in seeing what he makes of you, Captain Strake. In fact, I wish I could join you on your expedition."

"It would be an honor, Highness."

"You're kind, but I would just slow you down." The Prince's face brightened. "But, speaking of honors, I have a favor to ask of you, if I might."

"Anything you desire, Highness."

"Well then, come with me." The Prince headed toward the yard. "I'd like to know what you think of my dragon."

April 27, 1763

Prince Haven

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O wen followed the Prince outside and down over a vast expanse of lawn gently sloping toward the river. There, just past the dock, half-hidden by a small stand of trees, lay a broad, squat structure. Rough-hewn timber framed it, and uneven boards sided it. Despite being painted red and having the requisite slate roof, it did not much resemble similarly purposed buildings back in Norisle.

Traditionally wurmrests were built of stone-though it occurred to Owen this might've been because most wurmrests were centuries old. Enormously strong and often clumsier than anyone would wish, wurms smashed through anything less sturdy than stone walls. Bearing this in mind, Owen looked for any signs that the careless lash of a tail had knocked boards loose, but to no avail.

As with all the wurmrests he'd seen, this one was situated close to the river. Come spring floods, water channeling through the wurmrest would thoroughly clean it out. An added benefit to such a location was that the sound of running water and cool breezes coming off the river calmed wurms during uncomfortable summer months.

Something's missing. Owen couldn't identify what was wrong until he reached the building's shadow. It doesn't stink!

Wurmrests usually had a rather distinctive odor about them, one that no one described as pleasant. The kindest description had likened the stench to the lingering stink of a battlefield after three days under a hot sun. Wurmwrights developed a strong stomach very quickly, or found another line of work.

"Highness, you do understand I am not a wurmwright. If there's something wrong with it…"

The Prince nodded. "You mean the lack of stench? Mugwump has taken to eating some local berries. He still feeds mostly on fish and beef, but follows his meals with the berries. They make him decidedly less fragrant."

"Mugwump? I thought your wurm's name was Gorfinbard."

"It was. Still is in all the official registries." The Prince slipped the bar from one of the two broad barn doors. "Once, the chief of the Altashee-one of the Twilight Peoples-visited. I showed him my wurm. He called him Mugwump, or something very close in their tongue. Mugwump actually responded and seems pleased with that name. I have no idea what it means and I'm not anxious to find out, but if it pleases the beast, I will use it."

Owen grabbed the other door and pulled, then followed the Prince into the dark interior. They moved along a raised wooden walkway spattered with dry mud. A waist-high railing on the river side made it difficult for someone to accidentally fall into the wurmpit. The Prince leaned against the rail and nodded. "And there he is: Mugwump."

Owen stared down, admiring. Though the Prince had referred to the creature as a dragon, it was technically a wurm since it lacked wings and could not fly. "He is magnificent."

Being a member of the Ventnor family and then the Queen's Own Wurm Regiment had afforded Owen ample opportunity to study wurms up close. He often spent time on his grandfather's estates caring for his uncles' wurms, though he'd never been given the chance to ride one all by himself. Not being of noble blood nor possessed of great wealth, he could not afford to buy a commission in the actual wurm companies. That not withstanding, he was more comfortable around the great beasts than some of their riders.