Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies Page 13

Owen frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “Perhaps I do, Owen.” Count von Metternin ran a hand over his jaw. “Supposing Nathaniel’s observations are correct, likewise that what Kamiskwa is reporting is correct. We would have a settlement that was created through the use of magick. Imagine for a moment what it means for a people to see magick as so common and so simple to do that they use it in preference to manual labor. Imagine a people who, instead of splitting wood with an ax, just touched a tree and had it fly apart into a cord of wood.”

  “More to the point, my lord, I ain’t noticed no fireplaces or chimneys here, and we know they didn’t need no lanterns, candles, or torches for light.”

  “An even better point, Nathaniel.” The Count shook his head. “They might use magick to warm themselves instead of such large structures. Magick might cook their food for them, much as an apothecary invokes magick to create tinctures and unguents. For us, of course, doing that is very difficult, but if it is not for them…”

  Owen stood slowly. “Magick of that magnitude would make them very dangerous.”

  The Count smiled. “If we are lucky, they are long since dead. Perhaps this was an outpost of Aliantis, which slipped beneath the waves eons ago. It would explain the decorative motif they enjoy.”

  “Nice thinking, but I don’t reckon that’s it. I don’t reckon they’s dead.”

  Owen frowned. “Why not?”

  “Well, there was a bubble what was keeping this Temple safe whilst it was underwater. And them doors, ain’t no way the man what left the track we found could have pushed them open. Then there’s that empty tabernacle and this here passage below.” Nathaniel scratched at the back of his neck. “Imagine what ever it was built this place went and laid itself down for a nap after something melted the settlement. The earthquake might have waked it up. It comes up, don’t see nothing, ain’t sure if it is safe, so opens the doors, opens the Temple, and maybe even puts something in that tabernacle there that the Colonel’s giving the once over.”

  The Kessian arched an eyebrow. “Bait?”

  “Something on that order. It just waits and someone comes along and takes the bait. And our thing waits, most likely to see if whatever melted the settlement is still out there. So that bait would attract it.”

  The three of them began to look around the Temple. Hair rose at the back of Nathaniel’s neck. If something had set a trap, they were square in the middle of it.

  He put fingers to his mouth and whistled. Rathfield and Kamiskwa came at a run, shifting their course as the other three moved toward the entrance. “What is it, Woods?”

  “We’re getting on out of here. Ain’t nothing good coming from this place.”

  Irritation flashed over Rathfield’s face, but vanished in an instant. “Very well.” It seemed clear he didn’t want to spend more time in the Temple alone, but he clearly had a desire to see more. “I suggest we return to camp, then explore in the afternoon.”

  Nathaniel didn’t say anything to that until they reached camp. “I reckon Makepeace has it right. That there is an unholy place. I figure whoever left that track done come in, found something valuable, and headed out. If that track is right, he’s heading west, maybe to Postsylvania. I’m thinking we need to be finding out what it was he took.”

  Rathfield shook his head. “There are mysteries here to be solved, Woods.”

  “I don’t reckon we’ll be the ones a-solving them, unless you’ve a might more magick than you let on. I ain’t sure there’s that much magick on this side of the ocean ’cepting among the Shedashee.”

  Kamiskwa, who sat back against a rock, facing away from the settlement, nodded. “None of the Shedashee will come here. I won’t again, and I will undergo kenatomis before I return home.”

  Rathfield frowned. “What?”

  “Cleansing ritual. Bath for the soul.” Nathaniel nodded. “I’m thinking sweating out the evil of this place ain’t a bad idea, neither.”

  Owen snapped his journal shut. “Not only do I think we need to follow whoever left that track in the mud, I think we need to send word back to Prince Vlad about what we have found.”

  Rathfield shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I think it is.”

  “Think all you like, Strake, but this is my expedition. I forbid it.”

  Count von Metternin sat down on the ground rather unceremoniously. “I do fear, gentlemen, that this whole ordeal has greatly fatigued me. I do not believe my system, which I thought much stronger, can take more shocks. I feel the need to return to my home. I hate abandoning you and, with no disrespect intended, Colonel Rathfield, but your orders do not pertain to me. I would also take Mr. Dunsby with me, as I have need of his skills. There would be no objections, correct?”

  Rathfield blinked, his jaw opening and closing several times in rapid succession. “I really cannot… I…”

  Owen cut him off. “I’ll have a message or three for you to carry back to my wife, if you would be so kind, my lord.”

  “My pleasure, Captain Strake. If any of you would entrust me with your messages, I would consider it a sacred duty to carry them for you. We shall fetch some of the ivory and samples for the Prince on our way.”

  Rathfield’s mouth closed for a moment. “I will remind the rest of you that I am in charge here. I will permit Dunsby to go, only as a courtesy to you, my lord. But from this point forward, I expect my orders to be carried out without question, and immediately.”

  I already know one secret you got. ’Pears there might be another one. Nathaniel smiled. He wasn’t much of a one for following orders, but he did enjoy a good hunt. And before we’re done, I’ll have your secrets, Colonel. Every last one of them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  1 May 1767

  Antediluvian Ruins

  Westridge Mountains, Mystria

  Owen wrote as quickly as he could to create messages for Prince Vlad—though he placed them in a folded sheet of paper which he sealed and addressed to his wife. Rathfield didn’t like it, and clearly knew the information would be going to the Prince, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Count von Metternin and Hodge Dunsby packed their things up and headed out by mid-afternoon. While Owen had hoped they’d stay and leave the next morning, he couldn’t blame them for wanting to get away from the ruins as swiftly as possible.

  Owen had noted the change in Rathfield after Nathaniel had suggested the ruins were of a settlement created by a people powerful in magick. Whereas before Rathfield had just not listened to anyone else or reacted to them—save for the occasional sneer—now he worked hard at not seeming to listen. Owen was fairly certain, based on the man’s reaction, that he had not expected what they found, but that he’d been prepared to find something in the west that was more than a settlement wishing to break away from Norillian rule.

  As night came on, Owen began to wonder about Rathfield. Nathaniel had noted that Rathfield’s recollection of the battle at Rondeville had gotten the phase of the moon wrong. What if Colonel Rathfield was not actually Colonel Rathfield? What if he was another man traveling under that name. Owen had never met the man in the service and since his uncle had selected him for the mission to Mystria, any trickery would be possible. Who might the man be?

  He smiled to himself. In reality, no substitution was really necessary. Rathfield easily could have been given a secret set of orders. He probably did have some political orders to be followed, and it almost made sense that Deathridge would brief him on magick, since Deathridge had also wanted Owen to give him the secrets of what du Malphias had been doing.

  The idea, however, that Rathfield might know more about magick and was hiding that fact did not make it easy for Owen to fall asleep. As the outpost showed, magick could be incredibly powerful. Du Malphias had used it to animate an army of the undead. If Rathfield not only knew more about it, but could control more of it than anyone else, he posed a danger that Owen wasn’t sure any of them could handle. That thought kept sleep at
bay, then proved an ally to nightmares.

  Dawn did not come early enough for any of them. They packed up quickly and circled around the settlement. At the far side, they picked up a trail roughly six days old. Nathaniel studied it closely, then nodded. “Two men, one big, one more Hodge’s size. Something familiar about the big man’s track, though he don’t leave much. The other man don’t know the woods so good. He’s slowing them down. They was both up in the area when the earthquake hit. Maybe we’ll find traplines to explain why. Didn’t spend more than a night here, though, and weren’t in too much of a hurry to cover their tracks when they left.”

  The expedition followed, but took its time. No one wanted to say anything, but the ruins had left them unsettled enough that they watched for booby-traps along the line of march, and for anything deciding to trail them. Makepeace and Owen shared the rearguard duty, while Nathaniel and Kamiskwa took point. Rathfield didn’t like having to remain in the middle, but he accepted that role without any obvious complaint.

  As they were closing in on mid-afternoon, the trail led to a rock chimney descending into a canyon similar to the one where they’d located the pygmy mastodons. It presented no problem for them, but the high walls meant dusk had settled in the canyon by the time they reached the bottom. A trickle of water in the north wall fed a decent-sized pool, so they decided to camp there.

  Owen shucked his gear and headed out to gather wood for a fire. Low bushes formed a webwork of isolated patches of grass and the occasional copse, but well-worn game trails provided easy access to them. Before they climbed down, they’d seen plenty of birds active in the area, so they weren’t afraid of the dark wind getting them. Still, it didn’t surprise Owen to find a small mastodon dead at the edge of a meadow and a half-dozen crows perched on it, feeding gluttonously. He gave it a wide berth, remaining upwind, and began gathering fallen tree branches.

  With an explosion of outraged cawing, the crows shot from the carcass to the tree above. Owen spun, dropping the armful of wood, immediately reaching for the rifle slung across his back. He crouched as he shucked the covering, hoping somehow he could remain unnoticed. The clatter of falling wood made that impossible, which he recognized immediately.

  Two dire wolves had trotted into the clearing. Five feet long, almost four high at the shoulder, they had broad chests and short, thick legs. Owen brought his rifle up and covered the firestone at the base of the barrel with his right thumb. Had the wolves remained intent on the carcass, they would have been beyond his gun’s lethal range. He’d have retreated and left them in peace. Unfortunately, the sound of branches hitting the ground had pricked up their ears, and they made straight for him.

  Owen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The wolves trotted toward him, now eighty yards away. Had he a smoothbore musket, they would have been at the edge of its range, and the ball wouldn’t have gotten through their thick grey fur. If he was lucky, he could shoot one at fifty yards, kill it, and frighten the other one off. Then he’d have a chance to reload or just run.

  But they don’t frighten, and if I run, they’ll just chase me. He swallowed hard. And they come in packs.

  Sixty yards, fifty. He let the lead wolf come closer. He wanted it dead. It would be one less for the others to kill. Forty yards.

  Now.

  Owen invoked magick. The spell flew from his thumb and into the firestone, through it, and into the brimstone charge at the base of the rifle’s barrel. The powder ignited, thrusting an ovoid bullet into the barrel. The lans and grooves sheered off a thin layer of lead as the bullet accelerated through the metal cylinder. It emerged, born of thunder, chased by fire, spinning much as an arrow might, but so much faster.

  The bullet slammed into the dire wolf’s breastbone, shattering bone and cartilage. Bone splinters sprayed through the creature’s body cavity, severing an artery. The beast would bleed out from that wound alone. The bullet, however, continued on, bursting out through the wolf’s spine. The shot’s force lifted the creature and twisted it around. It yelped, more surprised than hurt or angry, then flopped onto its side and spasmodically clawed the ground with its forepaws.

  The second wolf never paused, but broke into a sprint. Owen rose, brought his tomahawk to hand and hurled it. He had no hope that it would hit the beast, much less kill it. It did, however, make the wolf swerve. That gave Owen time enough to club his rifle and swing as the dire wolf leaped.

  His swing connected, catching the beast hard in the neck. The wolf slew around in the air, slamming its ribs into Owen’s chest. Owen flew from his feet and hit hard, with the dire wolf on top of him. He shoved it away to the left, then rolled to his right. He slid a knife from his belt, then pounced on the stunned animal, stabbing it again and again in the chest. Blood gushed, painting his face red as the beast struggled from beneath him. It snapped at him once, weakly, then crumpled, leaving him drenched in its blood.

  Owen grabbed for his rifle and began to reload. He worked a lever to the right, which slid the breech assembly back. The brimstone cup rotated up. He pulled a paper-wrapped cartridge from a belt pouch, pinched the bullet off the one end, then poured the brimstone into the cup. He used the paper for wadding and tamped it down with the bullet. He put the bullet in the top of the cup, which tipped it back over again, and worked the lever back to slide bullet into the chamber and seal the breech.

  Even though that operation had only taken ten seconds, it was enough time for three more dire wolves to enter the clearing. Noses to the wind, they caught the scent of fresh blood immediately. They looked at him, lips peeling back from very sharp and long teeth. They started toward him, then hesitated.

  Barely a step into the clearing, Nathaniel Woods brought rifle to shoulder and cracked off a shot. At twice the distance Owen had taken his shot, Nathaniel’s bullet struck a wolf in its skull, blowing an ear off. The beast staggered drunkenly, then collapsed and thrashed. The other two sniffed the air and slunk back through the brush.

  Nathaniel ran over to Owen, with Kamiskwa trailing in his wake. “You got two, good.”

  “That was a hell of a shot.”

  The Mystrian reloaded. “The white of his teeth just made an arrow pointing at his head. Weren’t nothing.”

  Kamiskwa returned the tomahawk to Owen. “You’re unhurt.”

  Owen shifted his shoulders. “Two hundred fifty pounds of wolf land on you, you get some aches. I’ll be fine.”

  Nathaniel levered his rifle’s breech closed again. “Better get moving. I’m going to guess the pack of these things ain’t going to take nicely to our camping in their larder. It’s going to be a long night.”

  The trio retreated to the pool. They told the others what had happened. Rathfield didn’t believe but Makepeace just started shifting rocks around to build a small wall. The rest helped, raising it to a height of three feet. It wouldn’t stop the dire wolves, but with their short legs and heavy builds, they’d think twice before trying to take it at a leap.

  As darkness fell, Rathfield fitted a bayonet onto his musket, adding eighteen inches of steel to it. “I shall take the first watch.”

  “Not alone you ain’t.” Makepeace hunkered down behind the wall. “Being as how you’re disbelieving these wolves even exist, having you keep an eye out for ’em is just asking for trouble.”

  Owen pulled back, settling down beside the small fire. He pulled out a journal and chronicled his encounter with the dire wolves. He kept the description fairly spare, but filled it with the sort of information Prince Vlad would love. Try as he might to focus, however, he couldn’t help but remember killing the dire wolves at Prince Haven, on the night when Miranda was born.

  Just as with this battle, he didn’t have time to be scared. That came later—and could be seen in the tremors running through the words on his journal pages. That night the wolves had been bold. They probably caught scent of Miranda’s birth. He’d gotten three, the Prince and servants one apiece, which was enough to drive the pack away. It was only later they
learned that the wolves had moved upriver, gotten into a barn, and killed two cows and a milkmaid.

  Owen didn’t remember the details of the fight, and knew he’d soon forget these. What he did remember, however, was being covered in wolf’s blood when Princess Gisella handed him his daughter for the first time. How tiny she had been, bare wisps of black hair on her head, her face flushed. He’d been fighting for her even without having seen her, and he smiled.

  Then he saw Catherine looking at him, pure loathing in her eyes. He’d known she did not want to be in Mystria. She’d not spared him the sharp side of her tongue when discussing their new home. It always seemed it was the land she hated, not him. But that night, as she glowered at him, he knew he’d never see love in her eyes again.

  That should have saddened him, but it didn’t. There he’d stood, covered in blood, his heart pounding from the fight and from the excitement of seeing his child. He was proud of himself and Mystria, of the people he’d come to love and the opportunity the land provided. His daughter—and in that moment he’d stopped thinking of Miranda as their daughter—would grow up in a place where the measure of her worth would not come from her bloodlines but from what she could do. And while Mystrian society still did view a woman as an extension of her husband—often as property of her husband—no one made the mistake of believing that was all a woman could be.

  Bethany Frost, for example, served as an editor for the Frost Weekly Gazette. While there were those who would grumble about how that wasn’t a job for a woman, they were just as likely to argue that she did a damned fine job of editing when outsiders would comment to the contrary. That she edited his book, and Samuel Haste’s most recent—at each author’s personal request, it was known—furthered the esteem in which she was held. Some people did think it a pity that she’d not found herself a husband and hadn’t produced a brood of children—at twenty-five she should have had at least a half-dozen—very few voiced that opinion aloud, and fewer tried to find her a husband. The few suitors who came to pay her court found her to be headstrong and too quick for them.