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.
Catherine, on the other hand, was more than content to define her status based on Owen’s position within Mystria. That became the nugget of her hatred for the new world. In Mystria he was Prince Vlad’s friend, and she was a confidant of Princess Gisella. One could rise no higher in society. But in the eyes of her friends and rivals in Norisle, this meant little. After all, a scullery maid in some Launston pub warranted higher social standing than anyone in Mystria. Their colonial cousins were to be humored and tolerated or pitied and despised. While Catherine reveled in the status she did possess in Mystria, she hated that it meant her standing had fallen below where it had in Norisle when she’d married him.
He turned to a fresh page in his journal, and began writing her a letter. He wasn’t certain that it would ever be found if the wolves got them, or that he would ever let her read it if they didn’t. Still, he had much to say to her. He would make one last attempt to let her know why he loved her and Miranda and Mystria.
He hoped she would understand.