By the time they reached the far shore, the sun had set and the first few snowflakes began to drift down. They burned when they hit his flesh. He pulled his sleeves down to cover his hands. First snow of the year always made him happy. It was at first snow that he'd first kissed Rachel-albeit a bit later in that year and a long time before she ever became another man's wife.
The three men set up camp then pulled on heavy winter Altashee robes. They'd traded cloth scraps for them-as a formality since Msitazi wanted to help them succeed. Makepeace's robe and hood had been pieced together from two bearskins. Nathaniel's had only taken one, his hat a beaver, and his mittens an otter. Kamiskwa wore a robe of jeopard that his sister Ishikis made from animals he'd killed. All three of them had boots made from wolverine since the ice didn't stick to it, lined with rabbit to keep their feet warm. The winter clothes' bulk kept them warm, but could be shucked quickly enough if they had to start fighting.
Snowfall picked up and the wind howled through the night. They cut branches for snowshoes, stripped them of leaves and bent them into ovals. Using well-oiled leather thongs they wove a web in the center and created harnesses for their feet. The snowshoes would allow them to move across the snow pack.
Nathaniel tossed another log onto their fire. 'Ain't going to be easy being that close to Owen and not going in to get him.'
Kamiskwa shook his head. 'We do not even know if he is alive.'
'If he ain't, I'm going to dig him up and give him a right good talking to.'
Makepeace grunted. 'In du Malphias' hands, you ain't neither gonna need to dig him up. He'll be coming after you.'
A low growl rolled from Nathaniel's throat. 'Iffen he does, I don't know what I'll do.'
Makepeace sat up. 'You will do God's work. Ain't rightly nor natural the dead running around.'
'But maybe this du Malphias can change things. Make him, you know…'
'Dead again?' Kamiskwa stirred the fire with a stick. 'Bone is right. If he attacks, you have to kill him.'
'And what if he don't? What if he is one of them pasmortes but ain't mean? If you cain't tell he ever died, how would you know he was dead?'
Makepeace held his hands out toward the fire. 'I would reckon it's all in the bringing back. Now when the saints did it, they were godly men, so God would let them bring the original spirit back in. Man like du Malphias, that would be Satan putting a demon in.'
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. 'But Pierre came back.'
'And when he died, Satan got control of his soul, I am certain.' Makepeace rubbed his hands together. 'If the dead are walking, evil spirits is in 'em.'
' Wendigo.'
' Well now, the two of you agreeing, that's a powerful argument. And it ain't that I don't believe there's a God in His Heaven, but I ain't had much church learning. Fair recent, though, Bishop Bumble up and lectured me on what the Good Lord says we ain't to be doing. Resurrecting folks weren't among the things mentioned. If God ain't commanding agin it, his prophets, saints, and Son is doing it, could be there's more to the issue than we know to be exploring.'
Kamiskwa and Makepeace thought on that for a bit. Makepeace, his hands warmed enough, went back to making his snowshoes. 'Could be you're right, Nathaniel. Could be. So what are you going to do when Captain Strake's looking at you from the other side of death?'
Nathaniel sighed and tapped his cartridge pouch. 'Load up one of the Prince's special bullets. And if God has mercy, let Him visit it on Owen quick-before my bullet finds its mark.'
The next day they set out by mid-morning heading due west, but the unseasonable cold slowed them down. After the better part of a week they worked their way upslope toward the southern bank of Anvil Lake. They kept back on the mountainside, well away from the open water. The north wind, blowing across it, kicked up a lot more snow. They were glad for the trees' shelter.
A new storm kicked up by the time they'd gotten close to the Roaring River. Given that the storm was intensifying and threatening to dump two feet of snow by midnight, pushing further would have been foolish. By early afternoon they built a lean-to in a sheltered hollow and lit a fire. They couldn't see the fort from the nearest ridge, so they figured du Malphias couldn't see their fire.
Despite the cold and the snow making every task laborious, each man cleaned, oiled, and charged his gun anew. They didn't change their firestones, but they rotated them so clean color rested beneath their thumbs. This close to the fort there was no sense in not being prepared to fight.
They debated taking watches. For a man to have an effective post, he'd have to be up on a ridge. He'd constantly have snow in the face and get cold fast. Since they couldn't see anything in the pitch dark, they opted to remain in their camp and trusted that any Ryngian scouts this far out would be hunkered down against the storm themselves.
As a precaution, however, no one talked much. They all kept an ear out for anything aside from howls of the north wind. By mutual agreement, two tried to sleep while the other stayed awake to feed the fire, but Nathaniel reckoned there was more trying going on than actual sleeping.
A couple hours past midnight, based on the stars that came out when the north wind died and the snow stopped, Nathaniel woke Kamiskwa. 'Sleep any?'
'Very little. Did I hear thunder?'
'Might coulda been, not long ago. Wind snatched it away right quick.' Nathaniel stretched. 'I reckon I will lay me down, but I ain't 'specting sleep.'
And before he even lay a blanket down, two gunshots rang out.
Chapter Forty
October 15, 1763
Prince Haven
Temperance Bay, Mystria
S nowflakes sped on a shrieking gust of wind coming through the wurmrest's door and sizzled on the giant boiler. Vlad, down in the pit, tossed another log on the fire beneath the iron tank, then looked up toward the door. He smiled, despite being sweaty, mud-streaked, and soot-stained.
'You should not be in here, Highness.'
Gisella pulled off a thick woolen cloak and hung it over the pit's railing. She stamped her feet, freeing them of snow, then returned his smile. She wore a baggy pair of riding breeches and a homespun shirt with a knitted sweater over it.
'I thought, Highness, you might value help on this bitterly cold night.'
'Baker will be back after he gets some supper and a little sleep.' Vlad tossed another piece of wood on the fire. 'And while your help would be welcome, you know why you should not be here. We are unchaperoned.'
'Not true, my Prince.' She started down the ladder into the pit. 'We have your Mugwump.'
Vlad turned. The wurm had huddled himself into a circle with head and tail pointed away from the river. Wooden shutters had been closed over the river entrance, and a copper pipe ran from the boiler down into the pit. Steam came off of it and combined with the heat of the fire to render the wurmrest as warm as a windless August day.
'Though he seems to be tolerating the cold better than he has in the past, I am afraid, Princess, that Mugwump is not really much of a chaperone.'
'It does not matter; wurms are known in all the medieval tales to be fine chaperones. Knights of great virtue have rescued princesses by the dozen, and the presence of the wurm was enough to ensure no loss of honor.'
'Do you believe such tales are true?'
She came to his side and grabbed a piece of wood. 'It matters only what others believe. You are an honorable man, so there is no question of my virtue being in jeopardy.'
'I hope the Count agrees. I recall the joy with which he relates his dueling stories.'
'The Count is unconscious, buried beneath many blankets.' She tossed her log in.
The Prince grabbed another. 'Ouch.'
