At the Queen's Command (70 page)

A lump rose in Owen’s throat. He clasped the man by both shoulders and swallowed past it. “I don’t know, Highness. I’ve never seen colored silk. I’ve never seen shed scales nor a chewed-off tail. I’ve never heard of a wurm having a fever. Fact is, he’s breathing. If we interfere…”

Vlad glanced down at the wurm, then nodded. “Right, right, of course. Fever means metabolism. Same with breathing. Part of a natural process. It must be something natural. I need to make some notes.”

“Good idea.” Owen pointed to the tail. “I’ll see if we can drag it out.”

“Rope and tackle might help.”

“I think I can find it, Highness.”

Vlad gave him a wan smile. “I am sorry for intruding on your reunion with your wife, Captain. I’m very glad you’re here.”

“As am I.”

“And congratulations on your child.”

Owen beamed. “Thank you. Of recent times I’ve seen a lot of death. Having life brought into the world will be good. And since I want my child to be able to swim with a wurm, we’ll make sure Mugwump lives, too.”

The Prince’s smile broadened. “Your children shall ride, Captain. This I promise you.”

Between the three of them, Owen, Nathaniel, and Baker were able to get some rope around the severed tail and drag it out of the wurmrest. Owen’s guess that it was the source of the stink had been right. Nathaniel wanted to burn it. Baker suggested burying it. The Prince insisted on dissecting it, which he did using the aforementioned pruning hook and a highway-man’s mask heavily laden with oil of eucalyptus.

Though the dissection did not thrill Owen, it kept Vlad busy. He would cut open a portion of the tail, make sketches of what he saw, then weigh flesh and bone before separating them. He noted that fish did not take the wurmflesh for bait and that birds seem reluctant to pick at it. Based on tracks they found the next morning, neither wolverine nor bear had difficulty eating the meat, and by the second day a family of raccoons waited in the woods for that day’s dissection to end.

Vlad did make some interesting discoveries. In one of the tail bones he found an old arrowhead entirely encrusted with bone. “I checked Mugwump’s history and in 1162, at the battle of Verindan, an arrow penetrated his tail. They could not dig it out, so they snapped it off.”

Nathaniel and Baker took the wurmskin and set about cleaning and tanning it. The fact that Vlad was able to discover a variety of new things appeared to keep his anxiety at bay, and this made the waiting more endurable.

Princess Gisella did her best to make everyone feel at ease, especially Catherine. Owen’s wife had taken to bed for two days after the rough coach ride from Temperance. Gisella waited upon her as if a servant. Owen apologized profusely to her Highness, but Gisella simply smiled and promised to care for her as Owen was caring for Mugwump.

On the third day, the Prince came to relieve Owen. “I believe, Captain, I know why this molt is different from others.”

“Yes, Highness?”

“Mugwump made the cocoon very quickly—in less than five hours. That requires a great deal of energy. Mugwump does many things differently from wurms on Norisle or the Continent. He consumes a variety of flora and fauna that are unknown on the other side of the ocean. I am certain that has contributed to his health and his colors being so bright. But he’s been doing that for fifty years, without this sort of molt. So I looked for something else, some way he might have gotten access to energy.”

The Prince’s expression tightened. “I think it comes down to his eating
pasmortes
.”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting he consumed the magickal energy in them?”

“It’s just a theory and yet, when du Malphias destroyed the magick, Mugwump vomited back corpses and showed no more interest in anything that had been
pasmorte
. He stored that energy up and then when back here, in his lair, feeling safe, he entered a molt.”

For the next week and a half things settled into a routine. Owen, the Prince, and Baker divided the day into three watches. One of them was with Mugwump at all times, with Dunsby and Count von Metternin helping out as needed. Nathaniel hunted and fished, as well as continued to process the wurmleather and bones, happy with the distance between himself and the cocoon.

On the twenty-fifth of September, surprise visitors arrived on the river. Msitazi, still wearing Owen’s jacket, accompanied by Kamiskwa and William, beached the canoe. After greetings and introductions—Msitazi doing Owen the great honor of offering to buy Catherine, that being an honor his wife neither understood or liked—William fetched a package from the canoe. Unwrapping it, he proudly bore one of the wurmscales filled with a small fortune of salt mixed with bear grease into a thick paste.

The Prince accepted the gift. “What is this?”

Msitazi chuckled. “It is for Mugwump. It is to celebrate his birth.”

“I fear I don’t understand, Chief Msitazi.”

The older man dispatched William to fetch one of the scales from the wurm’s tail. The chief squatted and planted the scale on the ground upside down. The inside shined with a wavy mineral rainbow akin to mother of pearl. The Altashee oriented the attachment point toward the north.

Msitazi pointed to a dark dot near the southern edge of the scale. “This marks his birth.” His finger traveled over to the western side of the scale and tapped a small, thorn-like projection. “This is his nativity bump. When the sun sets, and its shadow touches the dot, it is his day of birth.”

“I find your idea intriguing, sir, but the date of Mugwump’s hatching was in April, many centuries ago.”

The Altashee chuckled. “You are born once of your mother, and again born a man. If a man is lucky, he is again born into wisdom. If this is true of men, why is it not true of Mugwump?”

Vlad ran a hand over his jaw. “When?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

“Then we shall have to be ready.” Vlad looked over at Owen. “Though how we prepare for the birthing of a wurm, I have no idea.”

After the evening’s dinner, Owen found Catherine standing on the balcony overlooking the lawn. Below, the Altashee had constructed a domed hut and sat around a small campfire in front of it. Nathaniel sat with his son and the four of them all laughed.

He slipped his arms around her and kissed her neck. “You should come down, Catherine. They tell very good stories.”

“No. You can go.”

“Not without you.”

“I know you want to go, Owen. I know you’d rather be with them.”

He straightened up and turned her around. Tear-tracks glistened in moonlight. “I want to be in your company, Catherine. I like these men. They saved my life.”

“They abandoned you to du Malphias.”

“They did what I ordered them to do, and they returned for me. Had they not been there, I never should have escaped.” He tipped her face up. “What is it?”

“You’ve changed, Owen. Sometimes I wonder if I know you anymore. I wonder if you still love me and want to return to our home with me.”

He kissed her forehead. “I love you, and wherever we are together is our home, be it in Norisle, or here.”

“Here?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

Before she could answer, a rumbling screech burst from the wurmrest. Baker bolted through the door. “It’s happening. Come quick!”

Without a second thought, Owen vaulted the railing and sprinted to the wurmrest. The others came as well—including Nathaniel. Msitazi marched proudly into the dark confines, bearing his gift.

The wurmrest’s temperature had dropped sharply. This would have worried Owen, save that movement from within the cocoon had increased. Though the silk still shrouded Mugwump, there was no mistaking him for dead.

Another shriek ripped through the night, with enough hints of Mugwump’s battle-cry that none who had heard it before could help but smile.

Owen grabbed a pruning hook from the rack on the wall. “Shall I cut him out?”

The Prince considered for a moment, then glanced at Msitazi. “No. If Mugwump is emerging into wisdom, he’ll get himself out.”

Msitazi moved off to the side on the catwalk and sat down with his offering in his lap. He began to rock back and forth, singing in a low voice, a huge smile on his face. He clearly had no concerns for the wurm’s health, and that calmed everyone save for Baker, who decided to keep an eye on both the wurm and the Altashee.

Nathaniel nodded. “I think I’d be liking to know how Msitazi knows what he knows about these wurms.”

Kamiskwa tapped his own left eye. “I accept that he knows.”

The grumblings from the cocoon became more consistent and louder. Activity within the cocoon became more deliberate. Before Mugwump could have been an infant moving within a dream, but now the motions had direction and purpose, not the fluid aimlessness of slumber.

And then, just as Princess Gisella entered the wurmrest, it happened.

Mugwump’s tail slashed through the silk. It emerged slender and sinewy, but strong, with an arrowhead point at the tip. It uncoiled and waved about, like a snake preparing to strike. It chopped down toward the wurm’s hip, opening another great rent.

Mugwump’s head reared up through that hole on a long, slender neck. Though still wedge-shaped, his head was smaller than before. Small horns started at the tip of the nose and worked themselves up between the eyes, then split into two trios that angled back along the skull. His great golden eyes had shifted forward, peering out over the muzzle. It made him appear more equine, though the scales and horns had never been seen on a horse. Two pointed ears with tiny golden tufts topping each, flicked forward and back.

Talons clawed through the cocoon front and back, tugging on the silk and enlarging holes. They exposed him fully, his flesh gleaming, muscles visible, but with a new serpentine leanness to his shape.

“‘Pears you’ll be needing some new tack, Highness.” Nathaniel scratched at the back of his head. “He done shrank a mite.”

“That, or let him grow into the old, Mr. Woods.”

The wurm bit at portions of the cocoon, pulling it away, but before he had fully freed himself from the black and red blanket, his nostrils flared. He extended his head toward Msitazi. The Altashee raised the scale. A forked tongue flicked out, snatching it from between his hands, and sucked it back into the wurm’s mouth. Mugwump raised his head toward the roof and the offering slid down his throat.

The Prince smiled. “Magnificent.”

Mugwump turned and stared at them, then stood. The last of the cocoon fell away.

“Oh my.” The Prince pointed. “He has wings.”

Owen nodded, smiling. “You, Highness, are in possession of a dragon.”

“It would appear, Captain Strake, you are correct.” Vlad smiled, then Gisella wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss.

Owen looked over, seeking Catherine’s reaction to Mugwump’s rebirth, but she’d not joined them. He started to the wurmrest’s door, but hesitated. He wanted to look out, but there was no need. The winding path had showed him her expression, her hatred, as she stood out there on the lawn, alone, glaring at the wurmrest.

He looked back at Mugwump and just for a heartbeat, their gazes met. Owen understood.

He, like the dragon, truly was home again.

About the Author

Michael A. Stackpole is an award-winning novelist, graphic novelist, podcaster, screenwriter, game designer, computer game designer, and editor who is best known for his
New York Times
bestselling novels,
Rogue Squadron
and
I, Jedi
. Since 1988, he’s published more than forty novels and was the first author to have work available in Apple’s Appstore. He’s the driving force behind the Chain Story Project (chainstory.stormwolf.com). He lives in Arizona, and enjoys indoor soccer and swing dancing during his spare time.

To learn more about Mike and to find other stories about the characters of the Crown Colonies, please visit his website at
www.stormwolf.com
. You can also find him in Second Life, where he holds weekly chats about writing and publishing issues (and where an earlier version of this novel was read aloud to raise money for the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life).