Flagship Victory (Galactic Liberation Book 3)

by B. V. Larson

  “I have often wondered why those with such power do not come and seize our lands.”

  Straker shrugged. “The people there have a government from above that tells them what to do. I believe your lands—all these lands, I mean, the Bortoks included, everything within the wall—are part of a protected preserve, something they call a diz.”

  “A diz?”

  “Long story.”

  Gorben frowned. “So we are creatures in a menagerie?”

  “Menagerie… now there’s a word you know that I don’t.”

  “A place where unusual animals are kept, behind bars.”

  “A zoo, we call that. Yeah, you’re kinda like creatures in a zoo. In fact, everyone on this planet is.”

  “Planet?”

  “This world. Everything, inside this wall and inside the other walls and dizzes.”

  Gorben’s eyes narrowed. “There are many dizzes?”

  “Thousands, each one different, with its own people, its own society, its own rules. Some really weird ones, too. And above it all, creatures you’d think were demons or gods, though they aren’t either. But they are powerful.”

  “This knowledge is… astounding.”

  “Yeah. Welcome to my world. I’ve had a few astounding surprises myself lately.” Straker turned back to watch the ongoing siege. “But none of that’s going to matter if these Bortoks breach your fortress and overrun us. At the very least, though, I think I can buy us some time, if we can hold out for a few more days.”

  “I believe we can hold,” Gorben said, “for a week, perhaps.”

  “Then Gorben, I need you to get me your best engineers—your siege-masters, the guys who design and build your catapults—to listen to an idea of mine.

  Hours later, Straker, Roslyn and Gorben addressed a dozen men and one woman, all who could be spared from operating the catapults. They were dressed alike, in heavy leather clothing designed to protect them from work’s rough usage.

  Nearby stood one of their onagers. Straker had caused it to be aimed safely at a hill inside the defenses, in case of a misfire.

  He’d removed the sliding bucket and fastened a sling, made of leather and rope, to the end of the onager’s arm. The hard part was figuring out how to make the sling release the stone at the correct moment. Gorben and Roslyn, once they grasped the basic concept, had helped him fashion a mechanism and adjust it. Their small test shots at least went in the correct direction.

  Gorben introduced Straker as the Azaltar, and then let him talk.

  “You’ve seen slings,” Straker said. “A man with a sling can throw a stone farther than with his arm. A sling on the end of a staff throws one farther still. True?”

  “True,” murmured the siege-masters, some skeptically, some enthusiastically.

  Straker stepped to the catapult and grasped the release lever with a mental plea to the Unknowable Creator. This had better work.

  He pulled until the catapult leaped with the unwinding of its gear-tightened rope. The arm snapped forward and drew the sling from where it rested on the ground. The leather pouch of the sling contained a stone of standard weight, about thirty kilos. It swung up, out and around in a blur.

  When the catapult’s arm slammed into its adjustable crossbar, one of the two sling-ropes slid off its polished, bent steel post. This had been the hardest part, to time the sling’s release.

  The onlookers gasped as the stone shot upward at as close to a forty-five degree angle as Straker could estimate. Basic ballistics said a forty-five degree trajectory would send any thrown object the farthest, and right now, he wanted range.

  He got it.

  The stone flew farther than any he’d yet seen launched from Calarian walls—at least half again as far, and harder as well.

  “Remarkable,” said one man, stepping forward to lay his hands on the sling mechanism. The woman wasn’t far behind, and then the rest crowded around and began asking questions all at once.

  Straker raised his voice. “I have given you a gift of knowledge, but only you can put it to use. Who is greatest among you?”

  The men pointed at the man who’d moved first, but he pointed in turn at the woman.

  The woman laughed. “My mate is wise,” she said, taking his arm.

  “Stalar and Nenja are mated, and think as one,” said Gorben. “They will supervise modification of the catapults.”

  “I suggest you do it at night,” said Straker loudly. “Don’t let them see your new advantage. You want to surprise the Bortoks and destroy as many of their catapults as you can. Those you don’t destroy, they’ll have to pull back. That will reduce their effect.”

  “Agreed,” said Gorben.

  “I also need one of you siege-masters to help me make a new kind of catapult. We’ll need a crew of laborers with materials.”

  The engineers put their heads together and muttered, and then they shoved the youngest of them forward. “I am Tafar. I would be honored to help the Azaltar.”

  Straker exchanged glances with Gorben. Was this kid the best choice? But Gorben nodded solemnly. “Okay, young sir. Is there a catapult workshop or lumber yard somewhere?”

  “I will take you to the sawmill.”

  “Send for a lot of paper and writing materials—do you have markers for writing and drawing? Good—and some messengers who can run and get tools and metal fittings we might need. Is there a blacksmith near the sawmill?”

  “Of course.”

  The sawmill and smithy turned out to be two kilometers back from the castle. A great water wheel on the end of an aqueduct provided power to turn circular saws. The mill and smithy were well supplied with labor—perhaps oversupplied.

  “Why aren’t these guys training for battle?” Straker asked.

  Roslyn explained, “Our people fled the lowlands. Now they seek work, until battle comes. When it does, they will take up weapons and fight, but they are no warriors.”

  Apparently Calaria didn’t care too much about training their auxiliaries. Maybe he could change that, but first things first. “We’ll give them something to do. But first, I need that paper and markers.”

  The markers turned out to be better made than Straker expected, like big pencils. He used them and the large sheets of crude paper to sketch out what he needed.

  “It’s called a trebuchet,” he said to Tafar. “I’ve seen them on history showvids—um, I mean, I’ve read about them in books—but I’ve never actually built one, so I’m trusting you to create a prototype.”

  “I’ll do my best, Azaltar.”

  Straker stopped. “Hey, Roslyn,”

  “Yes, Azaltar?”

  “Why did they give me the youngest guy. Is he the smartest?”

  “That is not the reason. Tafar, tell him.”

  Tafar bowed his head. “They said, a boy for a boy.”

  Straker snorted. “They think I’m a boy?”

  “Begging pardon, Azaltar, but you are no bigger than I, and I am but seventeen summers.”

  “Damn,” said Straker. “I forgot to show them my strength. Here…” He eyed the logs stacked nearby, and then turned to the many muscular lumberjacks curiously watching the proceedings. He raised his voice. “Who is strongest among you?”

  They turned to a huge specimen of at least two meters thirty, his muscles thick as the beams he cut and carried. That one stepped forward. “I am Karlenus. I am the strongest.”

  “Show me. Lift the largest log you can.”

  Karlenus scowled briefly, and then smiled. “You shall see.” He selected a log that must weigh at least five hundred kilos.

  Straker wondered if he’d overplayed his hand. If Karlenus could deadlift that thing…

  The man stepped to one end and grabbed it with both hands, from the bottom, squatting. He lifted that end with his legs, and then, with a great expulsion of breath, he jerked it upward, pressing it over his head so that the log now stood vertically, like a tree trunk.

  “Hell of a lift,” said Straker. “Kn
ock it over again.”

  Karlenus shoved the standing log until it fell with a heavy thump. “If you can best that, you are truly the Azaltar.” Karlenus wasn’t so dumb as he looked. He was reserving judgment. A few laughed until he glared at them.

  Straker stepped to the same end of the log, so there would be no doubt. He wished his ribs didn’t ache so much, and he wished he’d thought to put on gloves, but he was determined to give them a show even if he ruptured himself.

  He worked the fingers of his right hand under the end of the log and set his legs. Then he began exerting pressure. He’d deadlifted over two tons in the gym at standard G, so he ought to be able to…

  The end of the log came off the ground. His fingers hurt like hell from the awkward angle and his ribs screamed for relief, but slowly he straightened his legs until they locked. Then he took a deep breath and lifted.

  The log shot upward and flipped end for end, and then fell with a crash atop others. Straker worked his hand and picked out some splinters.

  Suddenly he heard a roar and found himself hoisted to the shoulders of the lumberjacks. They yelled and shouted, Karlenus chief among them. When they finally set him down, they pounded him on the back and called him Azaltar.

  Straker hoped the story would get around and he wouldn’t have to keep demonstrating his strength. Right now, everything hurt, though he refused to show it.

  When they settled down, he ordered the men back to work while he returned to his paper and markers. “Still think I’m a boy?” he asked Tafar.

  “I never did. You have the air of a great man about you, Azaltar.”

  “He is a great man,” Roslyn said.

  “He is the Azaltar,” Gorben echoed.

  Straker blew out his breath. “All right, all right. Now help me design this

  trebuchet.”

  Just then, for a moment, Straker felt as if he were being watched. His head swiveled, but he saw no one. His anger rose again. He channeled it into work.

  Chapter 17

  Straker in Calaria

  Straker and his crew of carpenters worked well past nightfall, until it became clear they needed food and rest. After eating, Gorben disappeared somewhere, but Roslyn led Straker to a room within the sawmill and made a bed for them on rough woolen blankets.

  He stripped off his chainmail and threw himself down, exhausted. Roslyn lay next to him and wrapped herself around him. He didn’t protest.

  If Carla could see him now, he’d be in the doghouse for weeks. Or maybe she’d understand…

  Then sleep took him.

  When dawn broke, he rose and began the work again. By afternoon, Gorben returned, and Straker and Tafar had something to demonstrate.

  The prototype trebuchet was about the size of the standard onager catapults. In fact, it used the same ready-cut beams in its frame. Only the arm was longer.

  Instead of the arm fitting into a coil of stretched rope, it was balanced above the ground, on a fulcrum within the frame, like a seesaw. On the short end of the arm was a hinged stack of iron weights. Lifting it with winches would allow the long end of the arm, and its sling, to lower to the ground for loading. The weight would be propped with a single beam and the winches detached.

  Firing was a simple matter of jerking the beam out from under with a levered rope. The weights dropped and the long end, with its sling, would whip a stone a tremendous distance—in theory.

  “Let’s try this,” said Straker. The trebuchet had been built aiming up the nearest hillside.

  The first rock flew almost straight up, causing everyone to scatter in alarm. The next, after adjustment, crashed into the ground immediately in front of the trebuchet.

  “Okay, now adjust the sling release to halfway between,” said Straker.

  The next rock shot at a fair angle and smashed into the tree-covered slope above.

  “It is difficult to know, Azaltar, but I believe this engine will throw rocks even farther than the catapults with the new slings,” said Tafar.

  “It should,” Straker said. “The weights can be stacked as heavy as you want, limited only by the strength of the beams and the size of the engine. It’s far easier to scale up a trebuchet than an onager. I read about them built to five times this size, but… I think something only twice as large in all three dimensions should rule the battlefield.”

  “The most difficult part is to find an arm that will take the force.”

  Straker rubbed his jaw. “Do you have sailing ships here?”

  “No. We are a mountain people.”

  “The big masts of sailing ships are often made from more than one tree trunk, fitted together, glued and wrapped tight with wet rope. When the rope dries, it shrinks, binding them together.”

  Tafar thought. “That sounds something like the process for making a crossbow stave. Strips of wood wrapped and glued with sinew, heated, cured, and cooled.”

  “Yes!” Straker clapped his hands. “If you can’t find a mast-maker, find a bowyer.”

  Gorben stood from where he watched and turned to a messenger. “Find and summon Wellyd in my name.” The man ran off. “Wellyd is the king’s master bowyer.”

  Straker rubbed his hands in satisfaction as he paced. “Until then, get the sawmill and the smithy making the parts we designed.”

  “Yes, Azaltar,” said Tafar, and began distributing plans to each craftsman.

  Suddenly, Gorben turned toward the castle and pointed. “There is a disturbance in our forces.”

  Straker saw this was true. Men ran to and fro on the battlements, and signal flags ran up the towers. “What do the flags say?”

  “The Bortok are preparing a full assault. I must go. Don your armor and follow.” Gorben strode in the direction of the castle.

  From the villages beyond the sawmill, Straker could see soldiers streaming. They must be the militia citizenry. Around him, the workers were retrieving shields, donning helmets, and seizing axes.

  “Wait! Wait! It’s more important that you make these new weapons of war!” Straker called loudly. “I know you want to fight, but you must work.”

  Karlenus stepped forward, a great splitting-axe in his hands. “The Bortoks come. They need everyone on the walls.”

  “And I need everyone here.”

  “You would have us hew wood instead of flesh?” Others gathered around Karlenus, echoing his words. “I will not!”

  Damn. They all wanted to fight, and Straker couldn’t blame them. After all, he—the Azaltar, their champion—was going to do exactly that.

  That was it! A champion.

  Straker raised his voice and tried to speak in the stilted, formal way these people did. “Men of Calaria! I, the Azaltar, will gather to myself a circle of champions! Princessa Roslyn is my first, and I declare Karlenus, of the wood-splitters, to be my newest champion. He will represent you on the battlements, but the rest of you must work on these machines of victory, knowing we fight in your names. Will you do this?”

  The workers gave a cheer, and Karlenus grinned a toothy grin. His quills stood high as he leaned down to speak in Straker’s ear. “Cleverly done, Azaltar. Now let us kill Bortoks.”

  Straker turned to Tafar. “Keep them working. I’ll be back within hours… or dead. But even if I am, now you know how to make the engines.” He ran to the sawmill where his mail still rested. “Come on, Roslyn, help me on with my armor. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

  The three heroes almost caught up with Gorben by the time they reached High Tollen. Straker ignored the advisor and let Roslyn lead them by the shortest way to the parapets. When they reached the top of the wall overlooking the Bortoks, the sound of battle smote him like a fist to the gut.

  Tens of thousands of Bortok warriors crowded below, assailing the hill leading to the castle. Beyond them Straker could see broken catapults. The new onagers had done their work—and apparently they’d pissed off the enemy.

  A hundred meters to his left, a gap loomed in a section of the curtain
wall between two towers. The enemy catapults must have smashed there before they’d been silenced, the first major breach.

  Now, the Bortoks were determined to break through.

  Ballistas fired with deep twangs like the giant crossbows they were. Javelin-sized darts skittered along the ground, slashing through the rear ranks of the battalions pressing forward. Closer to the wall, arrows from archers rained down upon the upraised shields of the enemy. Below the battlements themselves, the Calarian warriors upended caldrons of boiling oil or red-hot sand onto their hated foes.

  The Bortoks had no siege towers, but they had battering rams with which they tried to hammer and pry out the foundation stones of the castle nearest the breach. They also had dozens—no, hundreds—of scaling ladders, which went up faster than the Calaria could knock them down.

  At the breach itself, a flood of enemy flowed through the gap. Straker had seen a second wall behind the first, so all was far from lost—but if the Bortoks took the first wall, they could bring forward their full strength with impunity. Their ten-to-one advantage in numbers would overwhelm the Calaria.

  “Have you some wisdom?” asked Roslyn after Straker had surveyed the battle. “What does the Azaltar counsel?”

  “No, no clever ideas.” Straker drew his sword and strapped on a shield he found nearby, left by one of the casualties. “The Azaltar counsels kicking ass.”

  Roslyn thumped her own mail shirt and drew her slim, razor-sharp blade. “I have not the weight to stand against a Bortok, but I will guard your back.”

  “And I your side,” said Karlenus.

  “Happy to have you both. Just keep me from getting shanked.”

  “Your words are strange, but I take your meaning,” said Karlenus.

  Straker strode toward the fight.

  He passed archers firing downward as fast as they could until he came to the first scaling ladder. Its top extended ten feet above the battlements, and two soldiers were struggling to push it sideways with hooks obviously designed for that purpose. Straker sheathed his sword, grabbed the butt of the hook’s pole, growled and set himself to shove hard.

  The ladder tipped rapidly to the side and the Bortoks on it crashed onto their fellows twenty meters below. Straker’s chest bounced against the wall as he followed the pole, gripping its end tight so it didn’t fall, and then drew it back.