The sound of the chapel bell ringing out five found me already wakeful, fully dressed and armed, and deep in thought in that same chapel. I had left my arquebus at the door, but my scimitar still hung by my side. I’d wielded it in service of the Heavens often enough that I felt it was justified; besides which I felt near naked if I didn’t have it within arm’s reach.

I turned my hat in my hands while I was lost in thought, fingering the ragged hole in the felt where a Torrean gunshot had plucked it from my head in a skirmish in the streets of Nachberg, what felt like a hundred years ago but was in reality only months. If I closed my eyes and thought of the keening sound of magic violating the bounds of reality, I could almost smell the demons swarming the castle gate. Taste the rain trickling down my face to run down my hands and boil off my arquebus. Feel my scimitar jarred from my hands by something unholy before the pikeman behind me pulled me back.

Shaking my head and uncertain how long I’d been lost in thought, I snapped my eyes open and fixed them forward, where the blue light of dawn creeping through the skylight illuminated the rough-hewn stone altar. The past was done; the Heavens had seen me through so far, and my comrades.

Yesterday morning the relative peace of my stay in Szekerya had been drawn to a close by the arrival of a letter sealed in Immerland blue, addressed to Prince Franz. As the war shifted, in the manner of wars, from its brutal and blood-soaked birth into the kind of attrition that wore away at the soul, Queen Theresa Anne was gathering allies from every corner. Of course, it was only natural that negotiations should be carried out between, if not equals, at least the nearest thing; and the prince was the highest peer not tied down by the fighting, never mind that he was not even fifteen years old.

Compared to breaking out of a besieged castle, breaking into and then out of another besieged city, and crossing hundreds of kilometres of uncertain territory, escorting His Highness close on anywhere except back home should be nothing, but I found myself beset with unease anyway. The dispatch was to Afamacia, the sprawling Northern Empire. I knew all but nothing about it save that it was Alemayehu’s homeland – but inscrutable as the man was, that meant precious little – and that before the Temple Accords centuries ago they had been our bitter enemy.

And so, faced with the prospect of a fresh journey of hundreds of kilometres through unfamiliar lands, in unfamiliar times, in a world that seemed vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, I found myself on the edge of a pew at the front of the chapel. My course of action was clear. Her Majesty commanded, and I obeyed; I would see His Highness delivered to the Tarimate Court or die trying. But knowing was one thing, and mustering the nerve was another.

With a sigh, I stood, setting my damaged but neatly brushed tricorn on the pew in my place. It was only a few short steps to the altar, where I knelt, carefully extracting a razor sharp pen knife from my cartridge pouch. I had stropped it for this purpose last night. I drew a final deep breath.

Pull the trigger, Schreiner, I chided myself. The Queen and the Land.

With a clear voice I spoke to the empty chapel and the Heavens: “I, Friedrich Schreiner… zu Zerheim, will guard the prince with my life, until I am released by his order and I believe him to be safe.”

Unhesitating, I brought the pen knife to my cheek and drew a line down the bone, pressing two fingers to the cut. I pressed the blood to the altar, closing my eyes and praying for the Heavens to acknowledge my vow.

When I opened them again, it was as though my knife had never left its sheath. My fingers were clean, my face unharmed. The Heavens had heard. I released the breath, feeling as though a weight had been taken from my shoulders. I had pulled the trigger and the ball was in flight. Now all there was to do was see it through. Duty still weighed on my shoulders, but when was that ever absent?

At length I stood, turning back to pick up my hat and leave, but was stalled nearly immediately by an unexpected face.

“Jäger,” I greeted Kaczmarek. “You’re an unexpected sight here at this hour.”

I half expected some insouciant quip from her, but she was uncharacteristically quiet. “Figure I’m here for the same reason as you,” she said instead. The pale light glistened off the mix of lamp black and oil darkening her soldier’s plait, picking out her features in ghostly silhouette. With a rustle, she drew a hunting knife from her tan jäger’s jacket, stepping up to the altar herself. For a moment, she rested the tip of her fingers on its surface, eyes closed.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Then she whispered something I couldn’t catch under her breath and, without ceremony, pricked the index finger of her left hand with the tip of the knife and pressed it to the altar. A moment later, she pivoted on her heel, the knife vanishing as quickly as it had come, along with her serious mood.

“We’re not all stick-in-the-mud dramatists like you, cap’n,” she said with her usual mocking smile. “Bit of blood is all the Heavens need, no need to carve up this beautimous visage.”

I could only shake my head, picking up my hat and making to leave. “The Heavens are truly unfathomable, jäger, if they put up with you. Tradition is what it is for a reason.”

“As you say, cap’n,” she said, saluting crisply. “I’ll speak to the priest directly, sir, and have Sasha Kaczmarek’s Prick recorded along with St. Morgan’s Cut as a traditional oath weight, sir.”

“That… never mind, Kaczmarek.” I ran a hand over my hair. “If the Heavens accept it, they accept it, and there it is. I suppose I might as well try to dam the Immer as persuade you to show a whit of that sharpness with sincerity.”

“Much obliged, Cap’n Zerheim, sir.” Another salute, as sloppy as the first was correct. “Always said promoting from the ranks was the best way, cap’n, you really understand a soldier’s heart.”

I shook my head again. “Perhaps if the Ritter zu Zerheim makes a petition, the prince can be persuaded to have a certain mouthy infantrywoman demoted to a washerwoman.” Passing over the chapel’s threshold, I plucked my flintlock up by its strap and jammed my hat on my head. “We’ll have you practice cleaning laundry, after which you might have the skills to clean up your act.”

Kaczmarek balanced her own cap on her head, slinging her arquebus across her back. The lengthy barrel juxtaposed with her small stature always cut a peculiar figure, making her look a little like a gunner from a century ago.

“My act is as clean as a whistle, Schreiner,” she complained, dropping the mock formality. “It’s just that yours is bleached, starched, and ironed, and everyone else looks terrible by comparison.”

“I’m sure you could aim a little higher, jäger,” I said, smiling slightly. “But setting that aside, you’re prepared for our departure? There’s not all that much time before muster.”

“I’ve been packed and ready to leave since the day we got here.” She shuddered. “The city stinks and the fields are too open. Ain’t natural, that.”

“I believe Afamacia is worse. The desert country, and all.”

“Nope!” She responded with fresh cheer. “Alemayehu said the mountains around Tarima are forested. Just like home, I reckon.”

“Well then, I stand corrected,” I said, although I harboured some private reservations about the idea that an Afamacian forest would be anything like the Ostwald. “And I think here is where we part ways, as His Highness insists that I not take breakfast from the kitchens, but I fear the major domo should have a conniption if you were to present yourself in the dining rooms uninvited.”

With a brief parting greeting, we split up. In truth I would much prefer not to dine formally – my new title, only minted a few months ago and not even old enough to have a patina, sat uncomfortably on my shoulders like the ornate frippery the peerage was expected to wear. I still had the soul of a dragoon, the habits of an infantryman, and, mercifully, the uniform of a guardsman. My epaulettes bore a captain’s insignia, but the solid black with grey facings of the Queen’s Guard, 2nd Company, fitted me like a well-worn pair of boots.

Nevertheless, the dual promotion was something issued to me by the Crown, and as such I had to abide by it, no matter how much it grated whenever I had to spend time on formalities that seemed it could much more profitably be spent elsewhere. At least the silver lining, and obvious intent of the position, was that I could reasonably be expected to accompany Prince Franz in a much greater variety of situations. Places from which Gefreiter Friedrich Schreiner would be barred until orders were given and arrangements made simply allowed Captain zu Zerheim past without question.

Places such as the main dining room of the Imperial Embassy in Wrislat, where a pageboy opened the door for me with a bow. I had to suppress a wince every time that happened, even now. I squared my shoulders, ordered my thoughts, and stepped into what could be a simple meal or could be an uncertain political battlefield where I barely understood the weapons and had no concept of the strategies. I was devoutly praying for the former, although at least in the case of the latter, within two hours I would be leaving the city and unlikely to be met with any kind of consequences for months at best.