Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Forest smiled. "You can take your turn next, Nathaniel."

"Iffen you think I can't climb that face…"

"If you want to be one of the picked men, you have to earn it. Kamiskwa, too, if he's going to join up."

"He's gone back to Saint Luke. Gonna see how many braves want to join us." Nathaniel surveyed the men gathered by the cliff. Most tended to be big, with Makepeace at the upper end, and his brother Tribulation being the only one taller. Weight-wise they ran about the same, with Trib being shaggy on top and clean-shaven otherwise. Others varied in height, but most carried a lot of muscle. Those tending toward leaner, like Nathaniel or Justice Bone, had a wolfish look about them.

Forest followed his gaze. "It's a good crew answered the call. Those boys over there, with the red caps, they're down from Summerland, town of Farmingtown. Were bringing in furs when they heard about the call. Those two over there, in the brown jackets, they came up with me from Fairlee. Uriah and Jubal Hill. As good shots as you are."

Nathaniel smiled. "They related to Colonel Hill?"

"Not soes I know. They muzzle-load their rifles, so they are not as fast as you, but they are as good."

"I reckon some wagering on that point might be in order."

Forest nodded. "Have the Count back you again?"

"That was his call." Nathaniel shrugged. "You serious 'bout me skinning that hill?"

"I am if you expect to be a captain of one of the companies."

Nathaniel folded his arms over his chest. "I don't think you'll be wanting me in command of no one."

"Command? Perhaps not. Leading, on the other hand, without question." Forest pointed toward where Caleb and another of the college boys were beginning their ascent. "Many of these men have fired shots in anger, but not all. Like it or not, you're a legend. They all know three things about you. First, you've been where we're going. Second, you embarrassed Lord Rivendell, which means, to most of them, you've redeemed Mystria. Third, you are Magehawk."

"You know better than most just how much that Magehawk talk is hooey."

Forest shook his head. "Better than most, I know how much isn't. You were younger than any of them here when you went off, and you're not the oldest here now. Lots of men have bragged about shooting jeopards, but you're the only one who has the Governor-General bragging for him."

"I ain't special. I just done what needed doing."

"And that's what you'll do here." Forest smiled. "Your quiet confidence, Nathaniel, will calm a lot of nerves before we go up that cliff. Any boy thinks of quitting won't for fear of disappointing you."

Nathaniel shook his head. "I ain't thinking I want that responsibility. I just want to get me a clean shot at du Malphias."

Forest stroked his chin. "Let me put this a different way, Nathaniel. Either you come as a Captain of the Northland Rangers, or you'll not be going at all."

"Now, I don't reckon…"

"No, you don't reckon at all if you interrupt me. The situation is simple. If I can't have you in a leadership position, I can't have you in the ranks. You will chafe under someone else's command. Men will follow you because you're a natural leader. That creates division. And if men refuse to follow orders-and we will have scant time to train them at anything-they will die. And while you and Kamiskwa have been to Anvil Lake, you're not the only men who know how to get there.

"If you are not under my command, you will still be a divisive force. You just want a shot at du Malphias. I understand this, but none of us can hazard you taking that shot regardless of our plans. If you're not with us, you won't be allowed on the expedition. Is this clear?"

Nathaniel's nostrils flared. "You're beginning to sound powerful close to that idiot come to lead us."

"No. He sounds the way he does because he supposes that is how he should sound. He has no real clue as to why he should insist on discipline. That others oppose him is an affront to his honor, and that is all he cares about, his honor and his glory." Forest tapped a finger against his own chest. "If I ever had such dreams, I was clutching them in the hand I left in the Artennes Forest. I'm commanding and demanding because that is what will keep men alive. You've seen the fortress. It will be a meat-grinder. As much as I admire you and want you with me, if it is not on my terms, you will do more harm than good."

"Some thinking needs doing." Nathaniel turned away and paced off, heading toward a barrel of water that had been filled from Sutler's Creek. Another man offered him a dipper, but Nathaniel waved it away, then plunged his head into the barrel. The cold water shocked him, then he came up and shook his head, spraying water all over.

Major Forest was right, of course. Nathaniel knew he didn't fit well within society's sense of order. That was why he spent so much time outside of it. Society looked askance at his carrying-on with Rachel-even though they knew that she was rightfully his. The hypocrites turned his stomach, and the less he had to do with them, the more he liked it.

Jumped-up idiots play-acting at soldiery, like Langford and Rivendell, were worse. Scolds might whisper about him, but those fools would get men killed. Nathaniel had already heard from various sources that Rivendell doubted most all of what they'd reported about du Malphias. He'd attributed their claims to "a certain Colonial propensity for hysteria when the subject of war with Tharyngia is at hand." Rivendell had cheated and stolen. Given three bullets and a choice of targets between Rivendell and du Malphias, Nathaniel would just as soon shoot Rivendell twice.

Major Forest was pretty much the only officer he'd met that he thought deserving of rank. Nathaniel checked himself. Owen Strake merited that honor, too. Both men thought a lot about how to win, not what they'd do after they won. Owen had his scars; Forest, too, obviously. If he had to guess, Nathaniel figured Rivendell's body would have fewer blemishes than a newborn baby's behind.

As much as he hated the thought of taking orders from someone else, his problem with Forest's offer went deeper. He could take orders from Forest. He had before-though he had been much younger-and respected the man enough to assume any service he asked was a service needed doing.

What he didn't want was being responsible for men, and for their feeling beholden to him. Nathaniel could take care of himself. Always had done, likely would do until the day he died. He'd already forgotten things Caleb Frost would need to learn if he was going to live. There wasn't any way, as Forest had said, that they'd be able to teach the men everything, and Nathaniel wasn't sure there was a way to even teach them enough.

He looked up as Caleb shouted for joy. He'd reached the top of the cliff. A few men below applauded; a couple threw caps in the air. Most of the hard men ignored his victory and, if he got chosen, many of them would figure it was because he was Forest's nephew.

Nathaniel knew that wasn't true. Caleb was a smart young man and a good shot. He was a leader, too. He stood up there on the cliff, urging on his college friends. The other men had come in by themselves, or in small clumps. Caleb had brought a squad and had them gamely doing things some of them likely never imagined doing.

"And like as not, they're the ones who end up dead." Nathaniel ran his hands back along his scalp, squeezing out barrel water, feeling it run down inside his leather shirt. That was the real trick of it. If men died, he'd end up carrying them with him forever. He'd do for their families what he'd done for Grannie Hale. He was sure he'd be thanked a lot, be told it wasn't his fault, but there would be those glances that told him otherwise. Cuz ain't nobody, given a chance to shift blame off the sainted dead, won't do it.