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  Shadow Raiders

  ( The Dragon brigade - 1 )

  Margaret Weis

  Robert Krammes

  Shadow Raiders

  Margaret Weis

  Robert Krammes

  Prologue

  Sir Henry Wallace sat at his ease in his favorite chair-carved wood with a straight, rigid back and a worn rose-colored cushioned seat-in front of the fireplace in his bedroom. The servants had closed the heavy curtains that covered the mullioned windows and snuffed the candles and then quietly withdrawn, dismissed for the night. The fire provided the room’s only light. The flames glowed warmly on the burled walnut of the headboard of the bed in which his young wife lay sleeping. She was seven months pregnant with their first child.

  His gaze lingered on her fondly. She lay on her side, her hand resting on her swollen belly. Her brown hair strayed out from the lace nightcap. She was small, and was almost lost in the bed with its huge, ornately carved headboard and heavy, fringed tapestry curtains. She was faintly smiling; her dreams were pleasant. Lady Anne was no great beauty. With her brown hair and large brown eyes, small form, shy demeanor, and thin, winsome face, she was considered dull and mousy. And, indeed, “Mouse,” was Henry’s pet name for her.

  Sir Henry had never planned to fall in love with his wife. He had married her because she was the queen’s niece. The marriage had brought him prestige and this fine manor house on an estate located in the countryside outside Haever, the capital city of Freya. The marriage was ostensibly a reward for years of service to Crown and country. In truth, the estate, the wife, and now the child made Henry the Earl of Staffordshire and solidified his ties to the Crown. Queen Mary Chessington wanted to ensure that her Master of Secrets (Sir Henry’s unofficial and not particularly complimentary title) never let those secrets pass his lips.

  Henry was grateful to Her Majesty, but he required none of these royal favors. Henry Wallace was a patriot to the core of his being. He was loyal to his queen. He considered her a strong and intelligent ruler (unlike her counterpart, that arbitrary egoist King Alaric of Rosia). Henry had been pleased and even moved to think that Her Majesty thought well enough of him to give him her niece’s hand in marriage.

  Lady Anne was seventeen. Henry was forty-two. Lady Anne was retiring and not particularly intelligent, but she was sweet-tempered. He was brusque, acerbic, and the smartest man in the kingdom. Some in court termed him cold-blooded and calculating, particularly when it came to Freyan politics. No one had been more surprised than Sir Henry Wallace to discover he loved his Lady Anne, his Mouse. Given his tall, athletic frame, thin face, hooded eyes, and long, crooked nose, he had been surprised to discover that she adored him.

  Unfortunately, his love for his wife and his unborn child made him vulnerable, could make him weak.

  Sir Henry sighed and frowned slightly at himself for having strayed into sentimentality and turned back to business. In one hand, he held a cut-crystal goblet in which a swallow of rare, fine brandy still remained. In the other hand, he held a plain metal tankard, such as one might find in any number of city taverns. As the Earl of Staffordshire, Sir Henry was accustomed to the finest things money and station could provide. Yet it was this ordinary tankard that kept him up past midnight, hoping for a better future for his child and, God willing, the other children to come.

  The steadily burning fire wavered with a change in the movement of the air in the room. Sir Henry turned to see the arrival of his adjutant and trusted secretary, Mr. Sloan. Sloan entered the room quietly, without knocking, shielding the light of his candle with his hand so as not to disturb Lady Anne. Closing the door behind him, he walked across the thick carpet without making a sound. His given name was Franklin, but few knew that. He was known to everyone from Her Majesty on down as Mr. Sloan.

  “All is in readiness, my lord.”

  Sir Henry did not turn around. He seemed fixated on the tankard in his hand.

  “It doesn’t look like much, does it, Mr. Sloan?”

  “No, my lord,” Sloan said softly.

  Sloan was a large man, over six feet tall, with a developing paunch. He was bald, with a neatly trimmed goatee. Years of service in the Freyan army were still visible in his stance and bearing. He had been a sergeant in the Royal Marines prior to taking service with Sir Henry.

  “Your instructions were fairly vague, my lord, but I believe I have fulfilled all your requirements,” said Mr. Sloan, adding, hinting, “If I knew what you intended…”

  “Assuming this tankard is all it claims to be, we are looking at the future, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry. He finished off the brandy, set down the crystal goblet, and rose to his feet. “We need to test these claims.”

  “We are going to test the future, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked with a faint smile.

  “No, Mr. Sloan, we are going to blow it up,” said Sir Henry.

  He lit his own candle to find the way through the dark house, left the bedroom silently and, with one final fond glance at his wife, gently and softly shut the door. The two men traversed the sitting room, walked past the many other bedrooms, drawing rooms, dressing rooms and the nursery, all of which were located on the third floor of the manor house. A grand staircase of red-and-black marble and oak led from the third floor to the second where there was a dining room, a ballroom, a long gallery, the enormous library, and Sir Henry’s study.

  A smaller, more cramped back staircase took them from the second floor to the ground floor. The two men walked down a stone corridor and came to the kitchen. Mr. Sloan opened the door and stood back for Sir Henry to enter.

  Henry gazed about with interest. He had never been in the kitchen, which was the province of Cook and her servants, and he was surprised by the remarkable view that could be seen from out the tall, narrow windows. Haever, Freya’s capital, lay in the distance-a sea of glittering lights on a black backdrop.

  When originally built, the kitchen had been separate from the main building. Kitchen fires were commonplace-given the fact that fires were burning daily in the two large fireplaces. With the two buildings kept apart, a fire in the kitchen would not spread to the main house. The kitchen walls and floor were made of stone to prevent sparks from setting them aflame.

  Unfortunately, this meant that the servants had been forced to carry the food to the house through all sorts of inclement weather. So, fifty years ago, for the sake of convenience, the kitchen and manor house had been connected by a stone-walled corridor. The kitchen consisted of one large room used for general cooking and several smaller rooms designed for more specific purposes: the cold storage room, the pantry, the wine cellar, and so forth.

  A fire in one of the fireplaces, usually allowed to die down during the night, had been built up by Mr. Sloan and filled the room with light. Sir Henry gazed around curiously. Tables, cabinets, and washstands occupied the central room. Large pots hung on hooks set in the timber beams that ran overhead. Other utensils stood in rows on the inner wall. Everything was neat, clean, and well organized, reminding Sir Henry of a military camp.

  “My lord, I have everything arranged over here,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Allow me a moment, please, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry. “I have never been in this kitchen or even gave it much thought.” He walked over to study with interest a copper-bottomed kettle. “Copper, you see, to better disseminate the heat.”

  Henry regarded the kitchen with approval. “Simple order, Mr. Sloan, designed to prepare for the coming chaos. You look amused, Mr. Sloan.”

  “I was merely wondering what your enemies would say if they could see you now, my lord.”

  Henry gave a dry chuckle. “Henry Wallace, the most dangerous man in Freya, master spy, deceiver,
liar, thief, and assassin with his nose in a stewpot. Was that what you were thinking, Mr. Sloan?”

  “Something like that, my lord. Although I confess to being lost at your reference to chaos.”

  “Breakfast,” said Henry. “Picture what will happen early this morning before the sun rises, with Cook and her army rushing furiously about: baking, frying, hauling water, washing, scrubbing, kneading, mixing, pouring. From chaos comes breakfast.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan politely.

  “When what you really mean is, ‘Let’s get on with this, my lord.’ And so we shall, Mr. Sloan.”

  Henry turned to look at the table where all of the items he had requested were arranged: a horn of gunpowder; three pistols and a large caliber musket, each with several rounds of lead shot; ten feet of fuse; a stoppered glass vial filled with a dark liquid, and pieces of paper impregnated with wax.

  “The servants?” Sir Henry asked.

  The servants’ quarters were located nearby on the ground floor of the main house. He had told Sloan he did not want the servants to be alarmed or to start talking about any strange noises they might hear in the night.

  “I gave Cook a message to let her know you were going to be engaged in a scientific experiment tonight, my lord. She informed the staff and then expressed her hope that the experiment did not cause the milk to sour as happened last time, in the kitchen of the city house.”

  “Well, then, let’s get started.”

  “What exactly would you like me to do, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked.

  “You will observe.”

  Sir Henry walked over to the second of the two fireplaces, which was cold. The hearth had been swept and wood stacked preparatory for lighting in the morning.

  “I have carried this tankard everywhere with me since its arrival yesterday. I slept last night with my hand upon it, to the bemusement of my lady wife.”

  Sir Henry stood the tankard in the middle of the fireplace. He then returned to the table, picked up one of the pistols and, sighting down the gun’s barrel, fired a shot at the tankard. The force of the shot sent the tankard bouncing around the stone interior of the fireplace with a most ungodly clanging. Henry picked up the other pistol and shot the tankard again, with the same result. He fired a third time with the musket, almost sending the tankard up the chimney.

  “Very well, Mr. Sloan, let us see what damage the tankard has sustained.”

  Sloan picked it up and stared at it.

  “Good God, my lord!” said Mr. Sloan, shocked into blasphemy. He looked in amazement at Sir Henry. “There’s not a scratch on it!”

  He brought the tankard to Sir Henry for inspection. The metal sides were smooth and unblemished, not a dent, not a mark. Yet both men had seen the bullets strike it, seen it ricocheting about the walls of the fireplace, not once, but three times.

  “Now for the ultimate test.”

  Sir Henry picked up the powder horn and poured gunpowder into the tankard, filling it about halfway. He carried it to the fireplace and set it, once more, in the center. He thrust six feet of fuse into the powder in the tankard and used a piece of waxed paper to pack the powder tight. He finished by placing a log on top.

  “I do love science,” said Sir Henry.

  Mr. Sloan appeared dubious. “Before we bring the ceiling down on us, perhaps you could explain what you are trying to do, my lord.”

  Sir Henry did not immediately answer. He walked over to one of the windows to gaze out at the lights of Haever. Lights of the country he loved.

  “We know Rosia has been raiding the treasury to build up its navy, Mr. Sloan. Our Rosian enemies will attack us some time in the not-so-distant future and when they do, we will lose.”

  Mr. Sloan ventured to protest. Sir Henry shook his head.

  “I know our capabilities and those of our enemy. Barring a miracle, their superior ships and the vast number of troops they can hurl at us are greatly against us. Force of will and courage can stand only so long against round shot and musket fire. In the end, Freya will lose.

  “Some in the government would have us sue for peace, a treaty between our two nations.” Sir Henry glanced back toward the fireplace, the tankard. “You and I are realists, Mr. Sloan. We both know that as long as Rosia exists, Freya will always be in danger. No piece of paper can overcome centuries of hatred. No, Mr. Sloan, there can be no peace.”

  Sir Henry walked to the other fireplace where the fire was starting to die down. He took a punk from the mantel and lit it, then walked back to his makeshift bomb.

  “I said, ‘barring a miracle.’ You are a religious man, I believe, Mr. Sloan. You may be looking at our miracle.”

  Sir Henry lit the fuse and then stepped quickly back.

  “Might I suggest we should retreat behind that large cupboard, my lord?” Mr. Sloan said, and he had presence of mind enough to take the horn of powder with him as he accompanied his master.

  Concealed behind their shield, they watched the sparks progress as the fuse burned. There was a bright light and then the explosion.

  The blast echoed off the walls, shaking loose a century of dust, and sent pots and pans crashing to the floor. The two men waited a moment for the dust to dissipate, then-ears ringing-they ventured out from behind the cabinet to inspect the damage.

  The log which Sir Henry had placed on the tankard was blown to splinters, some of which were now stuck in the timber beams above their heads. Utensils littered the room, along with chunks of the stone fireplace. The kitchen was in shambles.

  “Cook will not be happy with me, I fear,” observed Sir Henry.

  The two men waded through the debris, searching for the tankard. At last, Mr. Sloan pulled it from the wreckage.

  “My lord,” he said, awed.

  Sir Henry examined the tankard. The two men stared at each other.

  The sides were slightly dented, and the bottom of the handle had come off, but the tankard itself was still intact.

  “Play devil’s advocate, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry.

  “This is simple magic, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Some crafter has strengthened this tankard with magical constructs.”

  “Do you see any constructs on the vessel, Mr. Sloan? As I recall, you have some talent for magic.”

  “I am not a crafter, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “I lack the power to create magical constructs. I do, however, have some small abilities as a channeler, which means I can use existing constructs to cause the desired magical effect.”

  Sir Henry smiled. “You are a humble man, Mr. Sloan.”

  “As God requires us all to be, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan gravely.

  “Which is your humble way of saying that if there were any magical constructs hidden on this tankard, you would see them.”

  “The sigils that cause the magic would be visible to me, yes, my lord.” Mr. Sloan studied the tankard with narrowed eyes. He peered inside it and turned it upside down.

  “No sigils, my lord.” He looked at Sir Henry with astonishment. “And yet, this must be magic, my lord.”

  “Either magic or a miracle sent to us by Our Heavenly Father, Mr. Sloan. And I doubt if Our Heavenly Father is taking an unusual interest in tankards these days,” said Sir Henry dryly.

  He was trying to appear calm, but he heard the slight tremor of excitement in his voice and he knew Sloan could hear it, too, by his next question.

  “My lord,” said Mr. Sloan, after a moment’s hesitation, “if this is magic and yet we see no magic what are we looking at?”

  “The future of warfare, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry. “We have tested it and found it worthy. This simple tankard does not hold ale. It holds victory.”

  Mr. Sloan did not understand, but he was not there to understand. He was there to follow orders, and Sir Henry was now proceeding to issue them.

  “We have much to do and very little time to do it. I am going to set in motion Operation ‘Braffa,’ as we discussed. A trifle earlier than I had intended to move,
but I need the eyes of Rosia to be looking in a different direction, and destabilizing the government of one of her allies should do that nicely. Meanwhile I need you to ride with all speed to my good friend, Admiral Baker. He will be in bed, but you will wake him and give him a note.”

  Mr. Sloan was supplied, as always, with a writing kit, consisting of a pen, a small bottle of ink, sealing wax, and several blank sheets of note paper, all of which he carried in a compact wooden box tucked into the pocket of his long, black coat. He produced these and handed them to Sir Henry, who wrote swiftly, with large, bold strokes.

  I require immediately a fast ship with an experienced crew and a captain who knows how to keep his mouth shut.

  “Give this into the admiral’s hands.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  Sir Henry gazed long at the tankard, then he frowned at the letter. Taking up the pen, he crossed out the words: a captain who knows how to keep his mouth shut and scribbled something else. Sir Henry folded the letter. Mr. Sloan dripped the sealing wax on the fold. Sir Henry pressed a signet ring he wore in the wax. He did not sign the letter.

  “The admiral will know my seal,” said Sir Henry.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “When he has read the letter, you will take the usual precautions.”

  “Of course, my lord. The letter will be magically burned to ashes, the ashes stirred, and then mixed with wine and tossed into the slop jar.”

  Henry nodded and the two men parted.

  As Mr. Sloan left upon his errand, he reflected that he had seen much in his thirty-five years, twenty-two of which had been spent in the service of his country. He was noted for his extraordinary calm. He was never rattled, rarely impressed. Yet now, as he hurried to the stables, he noted that his hand, which was holding the letter, was shaking with excitement.

  Sir Henry had written, beneath the slashed-out words, this sentence: I need a captain and crew who are expendable.