Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Prince Vlad swirled whisky in his glass. "You are even more admirable than I had imagined, Captain. Your wife was right, and your willingness to give Johnny a chance to escape is a mark of your character. Many other men kill because of their sense of honor-and their victims are not always the enemy. I fear our Johnny is one such man."

Owen tossed off the last of his whisky. "When you say that, Highness, I wonder if my having killed him would have been a virtue."

Vlad sighed. "I hope, Captain Strake, hindsight does not prove that judgment correct."

May 16, 1764

Harper's Field, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

N athaniel laughed quietly as Makepeace Bone reloaded the rifle Prince Vlad had bought for him. The large man had no trouble working the lever and twisting the gimbal. He blew into the socket, clearing it of unburned brimstone. He refilled the socket, then stuck a bullet on top, wedging it in place with the help of the cartridge paper.

Where the large man ran into trouble was positioning the bullet going back into the barrel. It fell out, or jammed. The frustrated giant looked ready to snap the rifle over his knee. "All well and good for you to be laughing, Nathaniel, but you've worked one of these for years and ain't got big thumbs."

"Two things to be amembering, Makepeace. First, don't be so all-fired hurried. With this here rifle you'll be shooting things far off. They cain't get you."

Makepeace nodded. "You're right."

"And second, if your durn thumb is too big, use your pinkie."

The giant laughed. "Still bigger around than your thumb."

"But it ain't gonna pull the bullet out of line so easy." Nathaniel nodded at him. "Go on, get this loaded, so the rest of them young bucks can see a real man shoot."

News that the famous Major Forest was coming from Fairlee with his Southern sharpshooters had inspired every man who owned a long gun in Temperance to head out to Harper's Field. Harper had planted clover, letting it lay fallow for the year, and boys had shooed cows off it before setting up targets. Mostly they made them out of a wooden post with a crossbar, and set clamshells as targets. Chances of them hitting anything and making it explode were minor, but a great cry went up when someone did.

Makepeace had come out to try his new rifle. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had come out to watch. By far the rifle made Makepeace one of the better shots. He consistently hit the post at eighty yards. The rest of them, using smooth-bore muskets, could get a ball out that far, but few put it on target.

Still, the boys from town were having great fun. Caleb Frost stood in the middle of it all, happily barking orders. Nine of his college acquaintances had formed themselves up into a squad, loading in unison and firing on order. Caleb's voice had a calming quality. His men consistently managed three shots in a minute and displayed their thumbnails to each other, laughing as the purple stain grew beneath.

Kamiskwa came up to Nathaniel's side. "Young men, not yet warriors."

"I reckon. Ain't gonna be no sparing 'em."

Makepeace fired, shattering a shell at forty yards. He turned from the line and started to reload. "Ain't gonna be but a handful of 'em go. I seen my brothers over the winter. Trib and Justice figger they'll come with us."

Nathaniel nodded. As word had filtered out about the presence of the Tharyngian fortress, men began making decisions concerning it. They fell into three classes. First were the students who saw war as a place to win glory. A subset, Caleb Frost among them, saw the coming war as a chance to redeem the image of Mystrian fighters.

A more fool notion Nathaniel could not imagine.

After that came men like the Bone brothers who figured that having a Ryngian fort to the west meant more restrictions and danger for their livelihood. That fort would become a trade center for the Ryngians. Ryngian trappers and hunters would flood the area. Ungarakii would get bolder. They'd do more raiding against Mystrians and the 'Shee.

The last group, which accounted for the Branches, Casks, and others down at the north end of Harper's Field, came looking for money. They'd hire out for war. While Nathaniel wouldn't turn down the Queen's money, his understanding of the dangers and necessity of action meant he'd not be deserting when it rained too much or rations dwindled. Damnable thing was, Rufus Branch and his brothers would be a good addition to any local militia. They fought hard and had skills in the woods.

"I hain't seen your brothers in ages. Doing well?"

"Mostly."

"And Feargod?"

Makepeace frowned. "Hain't heard nothing since he went off to sea. Ma says he ain't dead, and I did see a tea chest hid in the barn. Onliest could have come from him."

Nathaniel smiled. Rumor had it that Feargod had gone pirating. He couldn't ask, and Makepeace would never tell. All the Bone brothers looked as if the same blacksmith had hammered them into shape, so whatever Feargod was doing, he'd be making his mark and making it large.

Down the line, Caleb put his men through another triple volley. The target survived without harm, but brimstone soot gave the boys a grim look. It aged them a bit, which was good, and that bitter taste would want ale for cutting it.

As they came off the line, four horses rode into view. Nathaniel picked out Count von Metternin and the Prince easily enough. The other two had to be the Norillian noble sent to lead the war against du Malphias and Colonel Langford. Though Nathaniel hadn't recently ventured into Temperance proper, he'd heard enough about the previous night's doings in the town to expect Langford to be sporting a black eye from his wife, and Lord Rivendell to be nursing a fierce hangover.

The Norillian vaulted from his saddle first, his red and gold satin clothes gleaming in the sunlight. He reached back and slid his own gun-a shortened cavalry carbine musket-and marched up to the line. He took his time, spreading his legs wider than shoulder width, pointing his body at the target, then raised his musket. He aimed down the barrel. His head came up for a moment and back down. He reset his feet, then fired.

The ball sailed past the forty-yard post harmlessly.

Rivendell, a smile on his thin face, set his musket butt on the ground and started to reload. "A fine first shot, Colonel Langford. Note that."

"Yes, my lord."

Nathaniel, his rifle resting easily across his right forearm, butt up in his armpit, nodded toward the target. "Which was you aiming for, my lord?"

Rivendell looked up, surprised at having been addressed, then nodded. "The shell at the head. Always want to hit them in the head, you know."

In one smooth motion, Nathaniel's rifle came up, he sighted, and fired. With the brimstone smoke he couldn't see if he'd hit, but Caleb's boys cheering set his mind at ease. He lowered his rifle and reloaded.

Rivendell looked from Nathaniel to the target and back. Nathaniel had hit at fifty yards. The Norillian smiled. "Was that luck, or are you a sporting man?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "Weren't luck."

Rivendell's smile grew. "A wager, then. A pound per shell shattered in a minute. You versus me. Langford, bring your timepiece."

Nathaniel shook his head. "I ain't got that kind of scratch."

Count von Metternin stepped forward. "I would be pleased to back you, Mr. Woods."

Rivendell's eyebrow went up. "So this is the man saw ghosts in the wood, is it? If you're backing him, von Metternin, two pounds per, then, shall it be? I will shoot first."

Nathaniel nodded, then turned away. He looked at Makepeace and Kamiskwa, keeping his voice low. "Seen ghosts, did we?"

Rivendell shouted from behind him. "Mark time now, Langford!"

Nathaniel watched Rivendell after the first shot, which had missed. The man loaded quickly enough. He bit the bullet from the paper cartridge, emptied the powder, and then spat the bullet into the barrel. Lots of men did that, thinking it was the fastest way to work, but spit was enough to cake brimstone on a ball or stop it burning clean.