by John F. Carr
One spectacular ricochet bounced back from the wall and into a clump of sentries and guards, sending body parts flying, killing half a dozen men and wounding even more.
Kyblannos shook his head in dismay. If that continued, he’d have the Grand Host’s own sentries storming his batteries before long!
The huge granite balls smashed into the outer wall of Tarr-Hostigos and exploded into thousands of deadly fragments that didn’t appear to do much damage to the breach, but would have been devastating to any Hostigi standing nearby--had there been any quite that foolish.
Roxthar gave Kyblannos one of his ‘there’d better be a good explanation for this’ looks, which made his skin crawl. “Your Holiness, the walls of Hostigos are not only strong, but thick as well--almost the twice the height of a man at the base. Our guns are penalized by having to shoot uphill against Endrath’s grasp.”
Roxthar frowned at the mention of the god of the earth and Kyblannos wondered if it was now heresy just to speak of any god other than Styphon. How was a simple soldier supposed to do his job with priests and Arch-priests underfoot? And why did Galzar continue to let this Styphoni foolishness continue?
“See that big crack there next to the watchtower?” Kyblannos asked, using his finger to point out the fissure in the outerworks. “That’s the breach that we’re trying to open up for tomorrow’s sortie. And, over there, the facing is splintered and beginning to crumble. We are making progress, but it is slow. Magal, our biggest siege gun, can hurl a stone ball the weight of two men!”
Roxthar didn’t appear impressed. He was watching the men swabbing out the barrels of the big siege guns. “How long before you shoot again?”
A band of litter carriers and priests of Galzar pushed past them, running to where the cannonball had struck the sentries.
“Half a candle.” Sometimes it took longer, but with Investigator Roxthar watching over their shoulders the artillerymen were working like madmen.
“A half candle! No wonder there is so little progress. I command you to shoot every quarter candle.”
Kyblannos shook his head. “It can’t be done. First, we have to cool off the gun barrels, or the fireseed will explode while we load it. There are no wells nearby so the water has to be carried by cart in barrels from the Hostigos springs. Then we have to clean the fireseed fouling from the inside of the gun barrels.”
“I want to see how this is done.” Roxthar demanded.
Kyblannos paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Follow me.” He led the Investigator and his party of Temple Guardsmen to one of the big siege bombards. Roxthar waited impatiently while the barrel was swabbed, which was slow work since every time the pole-mounted swabs went into the barrel a cloud of steam erupted, forcing the swabbers to jump back from the gun or face scalding steam. At long last the barrel was cool, the touchhole plugged and the breech was opened.
“Why is that plug put into the base of the gun?” Roxthar asked.
This was safe territory and Kyblannos’ usual confidence reasserted itself. “See those braziers, we use those to light the wires that fire off the guns. If a spark should enter the touchhole before we’re ready, the fireseed would explode--killing anyone nearby.”
One of the artillerymen took a large ladle of fireseed and placed it into the breech. Once the breech was closed, a rammer placed a wooden disc into the barrel and used his ramrod to push it tightly against the fireseed inside the breech. “The fireseed explodes with more force if we use a disc.” He was careful not to mention that this was another of Kalvan’s innovations; previously they had used cloth or other wadding; the fireseed discs worked much better.
Next a lift was brought over to raise the huge stone cannonball and place it into the bombard’s barrel. The ball was nested inside a net of ropes and pulled up by winches and pulleys. A winch party of several artillerymen lifted the ball and positioned it over the barrel. At a signal from Kyblannos the granite ball was dropped from the net into the bombard where it fell with a resounding thud against the disc.
One of the rammers used his ramrod to insure the ball had positioned itself tightly against the wooden disc. Some powder was poured into the touchhole and everyone moved back except the Investigator.
“I want to set off the gun.”
Kyblannos knew he was on slippery ground, but this was his bailiwick and no one--Holy Investigator or not--was going to tell him how to do his work.
“No, Your Holiness. It is a job for well-trained artillerymen. They are trained to know how and where to move after they light the fireseed. Please step back, this is dangerous! You can watch from here.”
Roxthar slowly moved away from the guns, with obvious displeasure; the Investigator was used to giving orders, not taking them.
There was a quarter of a candle wait while the rest of the guns were loaded and ready to fire.
“Fire in the hole!” yelled Kyblannos, who was so focused that he lost sight of the Investigator.
An artilleryman took a red-hot piece of wire off the brazier, where he’d set it moments before, and jammed it into the touchhole. There was a bright flash and then the ground shook as the fireseed inside the breech exploded, shooting out the huge stone ball. Roxthar jumped back two rods after the flash singed his robe.
The other guns began to go off--and suddenly the very earth rocked from a tremendous explosion, knocking Kyblannos right off his feet and on top of Roxthar.
Moments later a hat-sized piece of gun barrel flew right over the very place they had been standing--clearly the Investigator was under Styphon’s hand!
“What was that?” Roxthar exclaimed, pushing Kyblannos off as though he were tainted by heresy.
Kyblannos, who could just barely hear, wobbled to his feet. He pointed to one of the big siege bombards, which had up-ended; its breech split. Half a dozen broken artillerymen lay strewn over the hard ground. One rammer whose tunic had been burned off his body was wandering around with his mouth open in an O and his hands over his ears. Miraculously, there wasn’t a single cut or burn on his naked torso.
“The Daemon Kalvan’s work!” Roxthar shouted.
Or so Kyblannos thought, since everything sounded like it was at the bottom of a deep well. He made his way over to the up-ended bombard. Fortunately, the fireseed barrel was set a ways back from the gun and was still intact. If it had gone off, the damage would have been much greater. He checked the proof stamp at the bottom of the barrel--it was the keystone of Hos-Hostigos. He motioned Roxthar over, saying, “It was the Daemon’s work! Someone must have mixed this confiscated barrel of Hostigi fireseed up with Styphon’s fireseed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Hostigos fireseed has twice the blast effect of Styphon’s fireseed.”
“Are you saying it is better?”
“I’m not saying anything, just reporting what I know with these ears and eyes, Your Holiness. I know guns and fireseed like you know heretics, and Hostigi fireseed is twice as powerful as the Temple’s fireseed.”
“I had given orders that Styphon’s new fireseed was to be shipped from Balph.”
“It was, Your Holiness. However, there wasn’t enough for both the Grand Host’s firearms and the siege guns. So we were given the old fireseed. Somehow a barrel of Hostigi fireseed got mixed up with our magazine.”
“Treachery!”
“No, just carelessness.” He pointed to the unmoving artillerymen. “Someone in this gun crew didn’t check the proof mark so I lost a crew and one of my guns. They lost their lives and Tarr-Hostigos just gained more time.”
His ears were clearing enough that he could hear the grinding of Roxthar s teeth.
IV
There was the sound of the big siege guns at the Gap firing and then an explosion that shook the room, knocking plaster and cobwebs from the ceiling. The man on what had been Menandra’s best table writhed and twisted, and almost but not quite screamed. The four mercenaries holding him strained to keep him still.
&nbs
p; In the other room Menandra screamed, “Curse this Dralm-blasted war! How’s a proper house to work with all this noise! And who in Bloody Regwarn is going to fix my mucking door?”
“What happened?” Sirna asked.
A petty-captain, with a wounded arm in a cloth sling, hurried out of the room. He returned shortly to report: “A fireseed wagon exploded half a block down Tigo Street and blew the Nest’s door off its hinges. Praise Galzar, we were lucky! Another dozen rods--” He paused to rub the image of the Wargod he wore on a gold chain around his neck. “It took out five or six buildings!”
“Do you think it was meant for us?”
The petty-captain looked thoughtful. “If the Hostigi thought they could take out the Captain-General’s headquarters, they’d do it in a eye wink. So would the Red Hand! And there are more than a few Captain-Generals unhappy with his success--”
“‘Tis the Daemon’s work,” muttered the wounded soldier.
“Lie quiet,” Sirna muttered. “You lie quiet, or I’ll have to use a sandbag on you. I don’t want to do that. You may have already hurt your head, when the tunnel caved in.” She wasn’t really mad at the poor hurt soldier, but at her own fear. She not only had the wounded, Roxthar’s Investigators and the Red Hand to worry about, but now Hostigi saboteurs--what next?
The soldier on the table sank his teeth into his lower lip. Blood came, but he lay still as Sirna cut open the flesh of his cheek over the finger-length splinter there and drew out the bloody wood. More blood flowed freely. Sirna let it flow while she picked out the last bits of wood, then bound up the wound in a dressing of boiled rags. By the time she’d finished the bandaging, the soldier had fainted, but he came awake as his comrades lifted him off the table.
“Sorry to be so much trouble, girl,” the soldier said between clenched teeth. “But I wanted to look at something pretty.”
Sirna grinned. “With the gods’ favor and no fester devils, you’ll have two eyes to look at pretty girls. And a fine scar to attract the ones you want.”
The scar would be a lifelong disfigurement--no reconstructive surgery here-and-now. Still, if the soldier was able to contemplate life with it...
She’d thought she’d been used to what people on Fourth Level could face, after almost three years with the University Team. It was a lot different to live alone among such people, with the nearest person who would have ever heard of First Level at least a hundred miles away--farther if Sain had kept on running. Not to mention the possibility of spending the rest of her life on Aryan-Transpacific.
On top of everything else, Styphon’s soldiers! It wasn’t easy to accept that men who fought for something as silly, irrational, even barbaric, as Styphon’s House could be like other men. But they fought just as bravely; cried out just as loudly for their mothers when they hurt and made just as many bawdy jokes that could still turn her face brighter than her cropped hair.
Or rather, it hadn’t been easy to accept this at first. Now it sometimes seemed that she’d never believed anything else.
No more sick or wounded seemed to be coming, so Sirna sent one of the women with the knife and the salvaged bandages off to the kitchen to boil them clean. She also made at least her twentieth mental memo: Borrow some better instruments from a priest of Galzar, or have the Iron Band’s armorers make them.
Another woman, face streaked with makeup, wiped down the table with a bucket of boiling water. Menandra herself brought Sirna a cup of hot turkey broth. “You’d better eat something solid, you know,” the madam said. “Even if it’s only an omelet. Won’t do, having you faint on top of men too hurt to enjoy it!”
“Oh, I’ll eat something tonight.” At the moment, the mere thought of solid food made her gag.
“Tonight. . .” Menandra began, then lowered her voice to a whisper so that none of the wounded on pallets along the other side of the room could hear.
“The talk in town is that it’s tomorrow they go for the castle. So you’d better eat and sleep tonight, or by Yirtta’s dugs I’ll turn you over my knee and spank you!” She ruffled Sirna’s hair with one large greasy hand.
Sirna gulped her broth with both hands clasped tightly around the cup so Menandra wouldn’t see that they were shaking. Seventeen wounded men in one day was bad enough. If they stormed the castle, it could be more like seventy or seven hundred! Although she might have more help from the priests of Galzar if the promised reinforcements came up. Had they? She was trying to think of a tactful way to ask when the door to the street opened and a suit of armor wearing dusty leather breeches and boots strode in.
The suit of armor also had a brown beard and wide gray eyes, but it wasn’t until the high-crested helmet came off that Sirna realized there was a man inside. When she saw that the man had a high forehead and a long scar across his right cheek, she knew who’d come to visit his wounded. She’d seen his picture often enough at the Foundry, during their briefings.
Grand Captain-General Phidestros waved the men trying to rise back on to their pallets with his free hand, set his helmet on the table and took off his mud-caked gloves. Then he grinned at Sirna.
“You randy bastards! You’ve been keeping secret the best thing this wreck of a town has to offer. Where’s your loyalty to your commander, you--?” The term would have been insulting as well as obscene in any other tone. The men replied in kind, except for General Geblon, on light duty today because of an attack of dysentery.
“She is Menandra’s healer, Captain-General,” Geblon said, trying to look and sound innocent. “She has been marvelously chaste.”
“I’m sure she has,” Phidestros replied. “But has she been caught? If she hasn’t, you aren’t the men I thought you were!”
Sirna stopped blushing and started giggling. Phidestros bent down and gripped her by one arm, pulling her to her feet as easily as if she’d been a child. Seen close up, his long face showed deep lines, apparently gouged with a blunt chisel, then filled with dust. Upon closer view, he was much younger, late-twenties or early thirties, than he appeared from a distance. He’s probably quite handsome when rested and bathed, popped into her head. Then she put her hand over her mouth before realizing the words were unspoken.
By the time he’d led her into the hall where no one could see her, she was trying to stop giggling. Somehow she wanted to impress him favorably, and not only because he had the power of life and death over her.
“To speak plainly--what is your name, by the way?”
“Sirna.”
“Speaking plainly, Sirna, I owe you for a good thirty of my men helped, and at least two saved outright. Where did you learn to treat burns like Aygoll’s?”
“My father had some skill in healing; and was always quick to learn anything someone else would teach. One year we lived not far from a smithy. They knew how to heal burns from molten metal.”
“Curious. What you did for Aygoll is very much like what Kalvan is said to have taught, about driving out the fester-devils.”
“Is it not possible that the gods can send wisdom to both good and evil men, and leave it to them how it shall be used?” She looked up to meet his eyes as she spoke, and she thought she kept her voice steady.
“It’s not only possible, it happens all the time,” Phidestros said. “Only don’t try arguing the point with Holy Investigator Roxthar. He’s threatening to purge the hosts of Styphon once he’s finished with Hostigos.”
“Aren’t you speaking a little freely, if he’s that suspicious?” she asked. Like most of the surviving population of Hostigos Town, Sirna had stayed indoors. Those whom urgent business or the search for food drove outside too often found themselves confronted by white-robed Investigators or squads of Styphon’s Red Hand. Few of those returned. Now only soldiers, rats and fools strayed outside; rumor had it that the Investigators were making house-to-house searches in east Hostigos Town.
“Afraid you won’t be paid, Sirna?”
“That’s not it at all! I just--I’m not like Menandra, you know.
I’d feel sorry for a thrice-convicted rapist facing the Investigation.”
“So would I, believe me.” He grinned, displaying a mouthful of almost intact white teeth, which meant not only good health but good luck in battle.
“Menandra is no worse than the gods made her, but they were drunk that day and perhaps a little careless. No, Sirna. I’m in no danger. Not unless the Archpriests decide they don’t need good soldiers anymore. That won’t be until Kalvan’s dead, and somehow I think that man is going to take a lot of killing.”
Sirna would have kissed Phidestros if she hadn’t known he would misinterpret the gesture. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he did,” she said.
“I agree. Which means that Roxthar is going to be dealing lightly with soldiers for a while. Healers who may be tainted with heresy aren’t quite as indispensable. Remember that, and you may live to be paid for your work with the Iron Band. Fifty silver rakmars, is that enough?”
Fifty ounces of silver! she thought, that would be enough to set her up in a small business as a seamstress, or pattern maker--there’d be a lot of those jobs until the war was over. “Yes, and thank you, Captain-General!”
“Call me Phidestros,” he said with a wink. “It’s fair pay for good work. Oh, and I’ll pay it right into your hands. And two gold pieces, if the Styphoni pay their victory bonus! If Menandra asks for a single brass piece, tell me. We’ll roast our victory ox over her furniture.”
The way Phidestros’ voice and face changed in those last words made Sirna want to flinch away from his touch. She forced herself to stand still as he put a hand behind her back and urged her back toward the main room.
“Let’s join the men, before they gamble away all their money wagering which one of us was on top!”
THIRTY-SIX
The moonlit clearing was empty of everything but spring flowers and two frisky rabbits. Tortha Karf brushed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned back on the trunk of a sycamore that was as wide as he was tall. He’d been awakened from a sound sleep by the vibration in his dagger. After putting the handle next to his ear, he was given a set of coded instructions to leave the bivouac and walk a half-mile to the northeast where he would meet a vehicle.