by Galen Wolf
George searched high and low, then had a break for his tea, but finally came upon his father after dark in the pottery room wistfully handling a piece of Sixth Dynasty earthenware. Axtos looked up when he heard George enter. He was glad when he saw it was George - his only son and heir by his sixth wife. There had been other boys but Axtos had executed them in several of his crazy rages. George had been spared because he was a little ginger boy and reminded Axtos of his beloved granny the hideous red-head Queen Tot. As George strode into the Pottery Room like he owned it, Axtos was reminded of his sixth wife, George's mother - Hilda Bittern. Axtos often mourned her death and rued the day his hand had slipped and he had signed the papers for her execution. It had been an accident waiting to happen as he kept a stack of execution warrants by his bed and had been intending to do the crossword in the Pirakteshi Gazette when he signed her death warrant by mistake. Or so he said.
Often Axtos mused about executions. He felt he was helping the natural order of things. The more people he had murdered, the more room there was for babies. Axtos said he was fond of babies, especially sliced thin and flashed friend in mango chutney. He would joke of this and his courtiers would chortle, unsure whether he really ate babies.
Ah George! He remembered the lad's boyhood days - so young, so martial in his striped rompers with his shock of ginger hair. It had been one of the few things to give Axtos pleasure, along with murder, food and pottery, to see George grow to manhood. For Axtos was wise. He knew he was not immortal - not like his great grandfather Noah IV who had believed he would never die until sadly he was murdered by his son - Axtos's grandfather Shibbler (father of Shabbler). Axtos sighed. He hoped that soon George would be able to relieve him of his Imperial responsibilities so that he could get on with potting. And he hoped that George would carry out his Imperial duties with the regard for demographics that he himself had.
"Ha!" Axtos laughed to himself. "Ha!" Here he was, that George, with his face so full of gloom and despair. He'd probably broken the handle of his bedroom cupboard again while wanking. "Ha!" He was such a child at heart still, that George.
"Father," George said. "I have a matter of great import for you."
"Yes, George," said Axtos politely, all the while wanting to tickle him under his chin.
"Well, two pieces of news to be exact."
"Oh?"
"One good and one bad."
Axtos laughed good naturedly; this was a favourite trick of his son's. "I think I'll have the good news first, George, please."
"Well the good news is that Helena, ex-countess of Berok, wife of the accursed Zamborg Berok, mother of the thrice accursed Zventibold Sullius-Berok, died recently in the Nunnery of Hector. She died of a broken heart when she learned of Zventibold's death in Wamawama, eaten by blue savages and his bones picked by rabbity-blurgers. I thought this would cheer you up."
"Oh, George," chortled Axtos. "You are a won. I already knew that weeks ago. Captain Vardo told me. So that's not really news you scamp! You'd better hit me with the bad tidings, but I warn you - if they're as dated as the good, you'll be in line for a spanking."
George eyed his father's big hands warily. And then he saw his father was crying.
"What is it, father?" he said.
"Nothing," said Axtos. "Just you know."
George had heard rumours that Helena was the only thing that Axtos had loved and it was her spurning his affections way back in Junior High that had turned him bad. She had taunted him with the hated name fatty. The Wednesday afternoon that she married Zamborg Berok had been his blackest. Thinking on her death, he suddenly screamed, "Arrrrgggghhhh!" but then recovered a little. He said, "Crack on with the bad news."
George answered quickly. "The bad news is that Zventibold Sullius-Berok is not dead and at present is besieging the city with an army of hideous beastmen and many cannons. It cannot be long before he breacheth the walls."
Axtos shook. Personal fear moved him more than grief for others and his reaction to this news was momentous. He trembled with rage. He frothed in a fit. He heaved in horror and then hid behind a curtain.
To George it was obvious where his father was from the huge bulge in material. Perhaps, Berok would not be so observant, he sneered inwardly. George was disgusted by his father's behaviour and, turning in a swirl of his cloak, he announced he was going to marshal the defences of the walls. "I go posthaste to marshal the defence of the walls," he said to the curtain. And then George was gone. Mercifully, he left before the pool of wee-wee spread out around Axtos's feet, soaking up into the rich satin drape and leaving a nasty smell.
31. A Meagre Victory
On the left wing of the Berok Host, Jeremiah, charcutier and cannoneer, was instructing a fresh batch of gleeful mouth-men (when those boys smiled, they smiled big) in the noble art of loading those noble, fire spewing instruments of barbarous death.
"One puts the ball in 'ere," he said, pointing to the muzzle of the gun, "after inserting a modicum of powder thus." He measured an amount of gunpowder from the bucket with a battered tophat. "Then one lights the 'ole, and whiz…!"
There was a puff of smoke and a loud bang as the cannonball sailed lazily through the air to smack against the high walls of Piraktesh. All along the Berok lines, cannons were firing - palls of smoke showed their positions. After watching them dance for joy and high five each other, Jeremiah concluded that the mouthmen had had enough instruction and walked over to see his old chum William, who, even though he had not yet taken off his dressing gown, was even now honing Deathbringer on a whetstone.
"Ar, Willy boy, these mouthmen aren't as quick on the uptake as them thar crabmen." Jeremiah was shaking his head. "Them crustacean boys learned it up right away, even though they 'ad Hector's own job picking up the top 'at."
"The top 'at, Jez?" quizzed William.
"Ar, with which to load the cannon."
"Oh, in that case I can see 'ow they would 'ave problems, with their scaly claws and all," he said, much reassured. Although he was not aware that Jeremiah had been schooling the crab men, he knew the meat dealer was a man of rare quality and cunning. The feeling was mutual and Jeremiah regarded his friend warmly.
William himself had been placed in charge of the infantry, though he was actually a cavalry man as he had pointed out to Zventibold but to no avail. It was William's brief to lead the infantry attack on the walls, whenever and wherever they were breached. As yet, his troops were idle, standing in their serried ranks, leaning on their pikes and halberds, just waiting for the order to go.
"Ar Willy, them Pirakteshi gunners baint too 'ot. Look at that one." He pointed over to one of the Pirakteshi cannonballs sailing right over Zventibold's army to land harmlessly in the desert. It was true - the Pirakteshi gunners were very bad, due to the fact that their army rations were very meagre and often the soldiers fainted with exhaustion at their posts. To Zventibold's great delight, it had been found that his army of beastmen could sustain themselves on a diet of sand and rubble, due to some improvements made to their digestive systems by Blut.
William and Jeremiah could see Zventibold now. He sat on the roof of Jeremiah's meat wagon screaming, "Blood! Blood! Death! Maim! Kill! Kill!"
Jeremiah turned to William, shaking his head ruefully. "I can't get over the change in mas'er Zventibold, Willy. 'E baint the same feller as 'e beed when I first met you. Do you think it's all the blood 'e drinks now with young Turgid?"
William shook his head. "Tis Tyros Blut's evil influence on 'im, Jez. That 'tis. 'Is father would never 'ave approved - never."
Jeremiah agreed. "Ar, 'e beed a good old un, that 'e beed. Gave me a Jell for some slug mince one day, 'e did. It'd gone off as well, but I didn't tell 'im it was slug."
"Best not," agreed William. "What the eyes don't see, the 'eart don't grieve and all."
Jeremiah nodded. "'E 'ad a good 'eart 'ad ol' Zamborg."
As they watched, Turgid passed Zventibold another cup of hot blood.
"An' where do y
ou think they be gettin' all that blood, Willy?" queried Jeremiah.
"I don't rightly know, Jez. That I don't."
And so they passed the morning in happy conversation. As the sun climbed in the sky the guns did not cease their firing, except for when parties were sent out to retrieve cannon balls that had fallen short and now littered the scrubby desert floor. It was quite a mild day for the time of year and most of the beastmen were now sitting down at their posts, playing simple card games, or absentmindedly chomping on handfuls of pebbles.
Although the watchers on the walls of the city noted that there was much unmartial activity taking place in the ranks of the Berok Host, they were unaware of the mighty labours of the molemen beneath the desert floor. All the morning they had been digging a tunnel towards the walls. Their mission was to undermine the gatehouse tower and thus cause it to collapse, breaching the walls. In theory it was all so simple but in practice it would have been impossible without the aid of the hamstermen who carried out the loose earth in the pouches of their cheeks. In this way, more than any, the doom of mighty Piraktesh, crawled even closer.
32. Melissa's Question
That night, Melissa sat up in the highest room of her tall ivory tower and she could not concentrate on her knitting. The scarves lay unfinished around her feet. As the night fell, the cannons had gone quiet and all now was silence except for the light wind slightly jostling the catch of her single window. She rose from her spinning wheel and went over to this window. The sky was cloudless and there were millions of stars strung like the disjointed silver webs of glittering spiders. Out there too, on the plain before the city walls and extending in a broad curve, on one side to the banks of the Szerkia, and on the other to the Great Gate of the city, was Zventibold's Army. There amongst all the campfires she saw the great, golden coach and she thought to herself that she could see Zventibold standing and looking up toward her tower. She thought she saw the figure wave, so she waved back.
"Oh, how eager I am to see him again!" she exclaimed to herself in that tall ivory tower under the myriads of stars. "I wonder whether he's changed?"
33. The Breach
The dawn came slowly and it revealed palls of fog on the Szerkia. This was good for Zventibold as it concealed his troops, while the troops on the high battlements of Piraktesh were very visible to his gunners and the kangaroo-men archers. But still they held their fire, chattering in excited groups about boxing while waiting for the order from their commander Zventibold.
Jeremiah had been up before dawn and was waiting for the light to become good enough to fire with any chance of accuracy. He too waited for word from Zventibold, but Zventibold was distant from him; he listened only to the counsels of the evil Turgid. Over a cup of blood in Jeremiah's erstwhile meat wagon, they discussed strategy. Jeremiah stood by watching them through the window, regarding Turgid with obvious disgust. The molemen had been working in shifts all night - though the darkness of the night meant nothing to them of course; theirs was a universe of dimness and fruity smells. But they were tired. And the hamstermen were complaining of aching jaws. Their leader came to Zventibold to report that the gatehouse was ready to fall at any time - supported only with wooden props that they had hammered in place before their moleman buddies had removed the last of the earth below it. At a given signal, they would set light to the props, already soaked in oil, and thus breach the wall. It was noted that Turgid, not Zventibold, gave the order to wait until it was light enough to launch a co-ordinated infantry attack.
And then it was. The wooden props deep underground took around ten minutes to burn through and then the Great Gate collapsed into the hole, tearing down a good section of the curtain wall as it fell. It tumbled in a cloud of masonry, dust and screaming soldiers. Before the attack Jeremiah had trained the cannons on the sections of wall that still now stood; unsteady and vulnerable as they were. As the gatehouse fell, the gibbering mouthmen adjusted their guns, shrieking wildly with excitement. Soon, they knew, they would be able to eat people rather than rubble and sand, which though they could get by on it, they disliked as it stuck in their teeth and they had many cavities.
All Berok's batteries were concentrated on one spot, and soon that wall surrendered to their onslaught of iron. Huge falling blocks crushed hapless soldiers and William shed a tear for his vanquished enemies - they were only ordinary lads too. Then all there was where the city walls had once stood was a huge pile of debris. They could now see the filthy hovels of the poor, and beyond them the mediocre mansions of the middle classes, and further still, the palatial piles of the wealthy. And there, sticking up like a slender needle, highest of them all, was the ivory tower of the Imperial Palace, from where, unbeknownst to Zventibold, his darling Melissa had waved to him the night before.
At the fall of the wall William had begun to marshal his troops. Their line moved forward, stretching across the plain; pikemen and halberdiers to the fore, their weapons levelled. The desert echoed to the rhythmic thudding of their heavy boots, clouds of dust rose behind them as they marched on. The drums of the rock man band, urged them to their victory. A ragged line of hamster skirmishers broke forward to clear away any Pirakteshi light infantry that might be between them and the walls. And then, the noise of a thousand bowstrings as the kangaroo archers released their shafts which flew, like a cloud of stinging hornets towards the defenders on the walls.
Already the Pirakteshi defenders lined the huge breach. However, their line was thin and their faces were white with horror as they beheld the advancing beastmen who had taken to calling out obscene battle cries. William felt for his enemies but he was proud at the discipline of his beastmen. William was a canny soldier and he knew the mettle of his opponents; they were city militia and after the first few minutes of combat they would break and run. Once past this line and into the breach, he could not see that there would be much resistance at all until they reached the Palace walls where Axtos would place his best soldiers. The common people would not fight for the hated Autocrat and the middle classes were all poofs.
As the Berok line advanced, they were met by patchy volleys of arrows but William's men were in the main heavily armoured and the light shafts just bounced off. The Pirakteshi spearmen had made a line in the rubble but they were sent reeling by a line of lampreymen with their hideous teeth. Zventibold was at their head, swinging a double-headed axe he had got from somewhere, wildly beheading enemies with every stroke. He was frothing at the mouth, "Arrrgggghhhh!" he shouted. "That's for mother! And that's for Turvius! That's for Mavis! And that's for Daddy!" Then he re-thought: "Ah, no - I killed him! Har har har har har har!" he screamed.
Turgid, alias Tyros Blut, was smiling broadly and dodging arrows. He ran behind Zventibold giving killing blows to the wounded soldiery on the floor with his ornate butter knife.
Soon the force of Zventibold's creatures had pushed the enemy back into the city and through the squalid hovels they fought until, suddenly, the Pirakteshi soldiers turned and ran. The beastmen took their chance to have a short break and gobble the spilled entrails of the vanquished. Zventibold howled at their tardiness and, with the power of the Crystal of Radiance, urged them ever forward.
Jeremiah and William each led parties to the other gates that had been severely weakened because men had been dragged from them to man the breach. They gates fell easily, and were smashed open by roaring beastmen. And there they creatures roamed, plundering and killing. Through the cobbled streets, crabmen lugged the heavy cannon: this was blitzkrieg. They dragged the cannon, clattering and sparking, up Hagg Hill, through Charnel Street and finally they were set up on the flagged forecourt in front of the Palace.
When Jeremiah arrived he barked out orders to train the cannon on the high Palace walls. Zventibold was going berserk and dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He ordered parties of fishmen into the Szerkia to attack from the riverward side. The cannons were soon blowing holes from the ornate stone walls. It could not be long before the walls gave wa
y; this was a palace built for luxury, not defence. But the soldiers on the walls here wore the red cloaks of the Imperial Guard. They were crack troops and would not break as easily as the raw militia in the streets below.
Below Jeremiah and Zventibold's position, beastmen were streaming up the hill, their arms full of plunders: chocolates and sweeties - incredible luxuries to them after their sparse diet. The once proud city of Piraktesh burned all around them. There was smoke everywhere and everywhere people ran in fear from their flaming homes. In the many twisting streets there were still knots of resistance but they would not last long before the clicking claws of the crabmen and the punching of the kangaroos, who had put down their bows and tied on their boxing gloves.
William and Jeremiah ate a hurried lunch by the first battery. They had bread and cheese and pickle, but the bread was rather stale. They chatted about the day's happenings. They had doubts about the morality of what they were doing. But they left it at that: they were not philosophers, they were soldiers.
All day the cannonballs thudded into the Palace walls and slowly it crumbled: all the fine gargoyles and handsome decorations were broken and the shining gilded domes were cracked and smashed. When the night came, the cannons ceased their firing. But the night was not dark - it was lit by the many fires from houses and mansions and unknowable sounds echoed through the rubble strewn streets. In the flickering torches of the main camp, mouthmen danced their meat dance: a dance of thanks to their dark gods, performed when they had got enough to eat.