Owen might as well have saved his breath. Mugwump's tail swatted pasmortes into piles of broken bone and rent skin. He reached out with one clawed hand, pulling a pasmorte to him, then biting it in half. Two more struggled beneath his other foreclaw. He reared up and swatted as a bear might have done, scattering a trio into throbbing gobbets.
A squad from the Fourth came running up. Owen turned. "Fix bayonets. Use your steel!"
The troopers did as commanded and drove into the last of the pasmortes. They hacked and stabbed, clubbed them, and shattered skulls. A couple men hesitated when faced with children, but their Sergeant picked up another discarded saber and put them to rest.
Owen ran to the Prince, slowing as Mugwump eyed him. The wurm drew pasmortes to him, whole and in pieces, and devoured them. Prince Vlad sat astride him, tugging on the reins, to no avail.
"Highness, are you unhurt?"
"Yes, quite." He dug a heel in against Mugwump's flank.
The beast burped, then shoved more of the undead into his maw and swallowed. Mugwump's thick tongue pulled an arm from between his teeth.
Owen turned back to the infantry. "Cut off their heads, then drag them into a pile."
A trooper looked at him. "We going to burn them?"
Owen glanced at the wurm. "I think Mugwump has other ideas." He sighed and looked toward the fortress. And I'm certain the Laureate does as well.
Chapter Sixty-Two
July 31, 1764
Fort Cuivre
Lac Verleau, New Tharyngia
N athaniel dipped his paddle quietly into the lake's still water, and slowly drew the canoe forward. The war canoe, one of four they'd launched pre-dawn, drifted through the morning mist toward Fort Cuivre. Kamiskwa, bow in hand, arrow nocked, knelt behind him.
The Mystrian held his breath. The sun had begun to lighten the sky off to the east, but the forest yet cast shadows over their route. They kept close to the shore, hoping the sound of trout rising to snap up flies might disguise their approach. If the Ryngians guessed they were coming, the sloop's cannon and the fort's swivel-guns would sink the flotilla before they could ever fire a shot.
Major Forest had identified the docks as the fortress' weakest point. The low stone wall with loopholes made for a great defense against Shedashee raiders. The Ryngian commander kept six soldiers on duty at the wharves, and had six men crewing each corvette, which was all he could spare given the other to Fort Cuivre.
Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the mist. The current was enough to draw them toward the river; all he had to do was steer. The fort's angular outline loomed in the darkness, silhouetted against a starry sky. The sliver moon cast wan light that shimmered in a long stripe further into the lake.
He turned to Kamiskwa. "Short walk now."
The Altashee nodded, and cupped a hand over his mouth. He gave a soft loon-call. Something splashed behind them-the Summerland canoe heading off for the sloop. The other three headed for the wharves to deliver the Northern Rangers.
Major Forest had put together a pretty little campaign, all leading up to this point. They captured the tower's garrison, then picked off every hunting, wood-gathering, and search party the Ryngians had sent out. Then sniping began at dawn and sunset, so regular the Ryngians could safely duck away. The sniping toll had been fearful that first day, but the Mystrians only harvested the foolishly brave and the stupid thereafter.
Nathaniel had done his fair share of shooting. He figured he had killed one and wounded two. He'd not have killed any, but the one man fell from the wall and broke his neck. Nathaniel wasn't sure how he felt about the killing. He'd not lost any sleep over it yet, but wasn't certain that would be a constant state of affairs.
The sloop loomed out of mist and the Summerland canoe slipped past. They headed for the ship's aft, intent on going around and boarding on the starboard side. Nathaniel nodded, watching, his ears straining for any sound that might alert the enemy.
From behind came the groan of an arrow being drawn.
There, on the sloop, a sentry had paused amidships. The shifting mist half-hid his silhouette. Nathaniel couldn't tell how far he was from the port gunwale, but that ceased to matter. The man unlimbered the musket he'd worn over his shoulder.
Kamiskwa's bow thrummed. The arrow arced through the air. The Ryngian's hands came up to his throat. He tried to stem the spurting blood. The arrow had passed clean through his neck, so he was already dead, but instead of dropping, he staggered forward and collapsed, smashing into the ship's bell as he went down.
A single clean peal shattered the morning quiet.
Nathaniel dug hard at the water. The canoe, with men paddling furiously with gun butts and paddles, surged toward the wharf. Nathaniel vaulted from the boat as it hit the dock. He whipped the paddle around, catching a running Ryngian across the face. That man went down screaming before Nathaniel kicked him into the water.
Rangers poured onto the dock, sprinting toward the fort. They came on grim and silent, knowing they'd lost the advantage of surprise. When they'd volunteered, they each acknowledged that without surprise, theirs was a forlorn hope. Their only chance of survival lay in wresting a fort from a garrison that outnumbered them four to one.
Kamiskwa handed Nathaniel his rifle. "Good hunting, Magehawk."
Ryngian voices called out to them. They started fearful, became angry, then rose to panic when no one replied. A Ryngian sentry fired blindly toward the sloop. His muzzle-flash revealed the raiders' presence. A second sentry shot and one of the Rangers went down, curled in around his belly.
Nathaniel knelt beside him, then raised the rifle. He caught a flash of movement through a loophole and dropped his thumb onto the firestone. The rifle roared, vomiting fire and lead. Hot smoke and little particles of burning brimstone blew back into his face, stinging his eyes. The rotten scent of brimstone filled his nose and caked his throat.
Makepeace Bone hefted two muskets, one in each hand. In his titanic hands they might as well have been long pistols. He fired both toward the loopholes, never slowing down. Men screamed, others shot, and Makepeace charged straight ahead.
He hit the wooden gate with a shoulder, roaring as he went. The gate exploded off its leather hinges. Makepeace rolled into the darkness beyond it. Rangers followed. More muskets lit the dawn with fire.
Nathaniel came through the door two steps behind Kamiskwa. He pointed toward the fort's ramparts. "Justice, get your boys up there. Trib, the other side. Caleb, your boys sweep the courtyard! Move it!"
Muzzle flashes came like lightning, freezing combatants for one quick second. Under Caleb's command, the first squad crouched and shot at anything moving in the compound. The second and third squads cut right and left respectively, heading up to the ramparts with the Bone brothers. The fourth and fifth squads inched forward, taking cover behind storage sheds and a longboat undergoing repairs.
Shots echoed from the sloop. A ball ricocheted off the gatepost near Nathaniel's head as he crouched to reload. The Ryngians returned scattered fire from the fort's far end, where they'd been waiting the dawn firing.
Which was what we was waiting for, too. So much for the Major's diversion! Nathaniel levered the rifle's breach closed. I reckon we're the diversion now!
A door opened on the compound's central building. A man silhouetted himself against a lantern. Nathaniel moved right, lifted his own rifle and shot. Smoke blinded him and by the time tears had washed his eyes clear again, all he could see was light pouring through a hole in the door.
Nathaniel reloaded again, then tapped one of the Bookworms on the shoulder. "Be pleased iffen you'd tell them Summerland boys we'd enjoy them cannons helping out with the barracks and all."
The man nodded. "Which one?"
"Either, for a start. Go!"