Woes and Hose

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “It will be done, Your Royal Highness,” the Drechknight agreed.

  “And I want General Eusebio to attack the enemy camp. Not steal their carrots.”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

  “And Baan Mirosav will gather what little army he has left and send them to Gradt. I don’t wish any ships unloading their troops on my soil until I grant them permission. Otherwise, I will consider it a declaration of war.”

  The terror of the Voice was momentarily forgotten. The soldiers were excited by Dick’s confidence and plan. In all but the title, I am their king.

  “Last thing, Reeve: I expect you to draw a plan on how we can destroy that thing.”

  The Drechknight squinted at the distant shape of the cannon. “A sabotage excursion?”

  Dick grinned. “Fireworks. Back to your duties, men.”

  Reluctantly, the soldiers dispersed, going back to gloomy thoughts of impending bloodshed and daily boredom. Dick noticed his bastard cousin lingering by, looking extremely withdrawn. Afraid. That was the right term.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Kief spoke. “If you need my sword in battle, it’s yours. I volunteer for any action against the enemy. I will be at the forefront, leading if needs be.”

  Dick patted the man’s shoulder, enjoying watching him wince. “I know you will. Worry not, coz, you will soon have an opportunity to prove yourself.” Without waiting for a response, Dick marched off, heading back to the bath chamber. There could be fighting any time soon, and he intended to fully enjoy what few perks Ostfort had to offer before then.

  CHAPTER 31

  My Shirt Will Be Ruined

  “Waiting is a soldier’s greatest enemy.”

  —VILSTROM, FAMOUS MILITARY STRATEGIST, 2ND CENTURY

  17th day of the Month of the Sickle

  “What is he doing?”

  “He is blessing the cannon, my Prince.”

  “Why?”

  “So that its aim is…more accurate.”

  Dick frowned. “I thought the Hyevans believed in the Saint.” The terrifying lessons from his childhood were finally paying off.

  “They do. The chalice is full of the Saint’s tears.”

  “And the branch?”

  Reeve Gotelieb rubbed his chin. “The Hyevans used to believe in many gods until two centuries ago. They still practice old customs. The birch represents their ancient god of the wind. Just like Gramik.”

  Dick nodded at the Drechknight, who was still observing the enemy through the Darav telescope. “You are a warrior and a historian.”

  Despite the jibe, the reeve didn’t put down the device. “He is a famous priest.”

  “The crazy man with the chalice?”

  “Yes. Papa Donpric.”

  Dick wasn’t impressed with the bloodred robes or the theatrical dancing. “What makes him famous?”

  “He always rides into battle with the troops, always at the front. He has no fear. Three years ago, High Emperor Ratibor had Papa Donpric banished from his court after he caught him cohorting with the empress. Any other man would have hanged, but even the emperor wasn’t comfortable executing someone like him.”

  If only I had him in Ostfort, all my troubles with Amadea would have long been over. But Kief will do just fine. “Maybe we should ask Elder Niklaus to bless our own guns.”

  “That will be an outrage.”

  Dick smiled and lowered his own telescope. “It will boost morale.” The old drunk would finally be seen doing something.

  The crackle of arquebuses and pistols startled Dick that he almost dropped the expensive device. He should have been used to the hourly practice by now, but the fascinating sight of the mercenary priest sprinkling water onto the Voice had made him forget the time.

  Behind him, everywhere inside Ostfort, men, women and even children were practicing shooting weapons into straw targets and bags of dirt. Ostfort didn’t have many troops, but it had guns and powder in huge excess—stockpiles from the last siege, and even with mold and wetness ruining hundreds of barrels and rusting thousands of matchlocks through the winter, there was still enough to arm everyone twice over.

  It was only a matter of time before the enemy had that huge Hyevan monstrosity belching shot at the city walls. When that happened, Dick wanted as many muzzles firing at the Barvans and Nurflanders as he could muster. He needed to defend the city until General Eusebio, the Sacony troops and the Enissians troops finally relieved him.

  Where was that bloody Fearless Brigade anyway?

  A Drechknight flizzard handler stepped onto the cannon platform above the north gate. A small coal-black reptile clung to his forearm. “From General Eusebio, sir.”

  Reeve Gotelieb reached for the message strapped to the flizzard’s back.

  Dick rushed forward. “I will have that!”

  The flizzard startled and promptly shat on Dick’s wrist.

  “Crispin!”

  The manservant trotted over, fluid, silent, efficient. “Don’t worry, Master. I’m here.” He started dabbing the green-white droppings away.

  Dick ignored the sniggers from the Drechknights. He let Crispin wipe him clean. “That will stink.”

  “I shall get some lemongrass perfume, Master.”

  The sniggers intensified. Dick straightened. “No need. I shall bear it.”

  The reeve was holding a small leather pouch in his gloved hand. “The message, Your Royal Highness?”

  Dick snatched the purse, quickly opened it, removed the paper from inside and unfolded it, then began reading. The script clearly belonged to someone badly educated, and there was a tinge of Valedian in the wording, but the letter was clear. And promising.

  General Eusebio had thirteen thousand fighters a day to the west, trying to avoid Barvan scouts, waiting for orders.

  That was very good news—only the brigade was vastly outnumbered by the savages. The notion of having General Eusebio relieve the city seemed somewhat tenuous, Dick had to admit. The Brigade could harass the foe or delay their attack, but they probably couldn’t defeat them.

  “Remind me, Reeve, where is the Sacony detachment?”

  “An eightday away, Your Royal Highness.”

  “And the other army?

  “Two or three days behind.”

  Dick rolled his eyes. His allies were most likely lying, trying to boost his morale and hope. Ostfort would have to survive for at least an eightday or two before significant reinforcement arrived.

  It all depended how powerful the Voice of Gramik really was.

  “Have you drawn a plan on how to destroy that gun, Reeve?”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness. It is a risky endeavor and it will require a diversion. I have a plan, but it still requires some adjustments.”

  Dick turned away from the enemy camp. He suddenly didn’t feel like looking at a force vastly superior to his, even with the mercenaries included. Anger and resentment toward Father bubbled up. Why would Old Fart not send his best corps to Ostland?

  Maybe he thinks I am capable of defending myself, he thought proudly.

  Or maybe he wants me to fail, so he can send me away. His thoughts soured.

  He has his reasons. He will use the situation to make Monrich stronger, bigger, a strange corner of his mind added.

  You are the Warden of the East. Warden it up, a different corner stepped in.

  “Whatever it takes,” Dick said at last.

  “With your permission, Your Royal Highness.” The reeve went to talk to his subordinates. A new messenger had joined the group, and was reporting in the terse, efficient manner of Drechknights.

  “Crispin,” Dick whispered.

  “Master?” The manservant was standing just half a step away, invisible when he needed to be.

  “How’s Eva?” Dick had not had any chance to see her in the last few days. He was pestered by war duties, and it irked him immensely. But the notion of being slaughtered like a pig by a grinning Barvan raider irked him even more.

  “She is
upset. And bored. Otherwise, she is fine, Master.”

  “Does she…harbor any ill will toward me?”

  “No, Master. She is surprisingly pleased with your conduct. She understands.”

  Dick put his hand on the wind-etched length of a culverin. “Good.”

  “She did request more books, Master, but I couldn’t find any in the library—”

  “I’m sure you did your best, Crispin.”

  The reeve returned. “I have some additional reports, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick sniffed. “And when did you intend to share those, Reeve?”

  The Drechknight looked taken aback by the sudden outburst. “I’ve just confirmed the information with my men. We have received new reports from Gradt. More troops have landed in the city harbor. A contingent of Nibusi swordsmen. They are unhappy that all the whores had left with the Sacony army north and have torched all the dockside brothels. But they also await your permission to progress inland.”

  “Baan Mirosav has already moved his troops in?”

  “No, Your Royal Highness. The Montfalke artillery are blocking the pass above the city. They are awaiting orders.”

  Ritter Heimo did have some competent troops in his regiments after all, it seemed. “And the Koravs?”

  The reeve tried to keep hope off his battleworn face. “The baan has mustered close to three thousand riders, and he is accompanied by a detachment of Hogorian light cavalry and some Dekan hirelings.”

  Dick rubbed his temples. “Has anyone decided not to join this war?”

  “It is only the Month of the Sickle, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick stepped back. “Reeve Gotelieb, I apologize.”

  “Your Royal Highness?”

  “I mistook your words for humor. I just realized my error.”

  The reeve breathed in deeply. “We just might be in luck. There’s a chance we could have three or four armies come to our aid and completely encircle the enemy. As long as the Voice does not fire—”

  There was a sudden boom coming from the north. An unmistakable growl of a large cannon.

  Both Dick and the reeve raised their telescopes in unison.

  The freshly blessed cannon was smoking.

  A whistle, and something ominous and too fast to see shot above their heads.

  “Saint save us!”

  “Shit.”

  “Damn savages.”

  “Hyevan sons of whores.”

  “The waiting is over,” Dick said amidst a flurry of soldierly chatter. The savages had attacked. He would need to survive for an eightday or two now.

  There was a loud boom from somewhere at the far side of the city. Even from a distance, the force of the shot impact sounded massive. The damage must be extensive. A ripple of prayers washed over the troops. People were clamoring, panicking, swearing.

  In the fields, the tribes were stirring. It didn’t look like a coordinated attack. More of a celebration. The Barvans and the Nurflanders were standing, cheering, singing, cursing, waving, shaking their swords and axes. Drums and pipes and horns started screeching into the windy afternoon. And then a squall started, splashing Dick’s face with fat, warm drops.

  “My shirt will be ruined,” he lamented.

  “We must get you to safety, Your Royal Highness. It is dangerous here.”

  Dick didn’t want to show his fear. “They missed the walls.”

  “It will take them a little while, but they will improve their aim, Your Royal Highness. Please.” An insistent hand was pushing his shoulder. Crispin was pulling on his sleeve.

  “I am not going,” Dick protested. Under the soft patina of terror, there was a thick layer of fascination, and he wanted to see how accurate and fast the Voice of Gramik really was. He needed to know what the enemy could do.

  The rain intensified.

  The city soldiers were busy covering their cannon with oily hides to keep them from rusting.

  Dick waited, watching the festivity of noise in the siege camp. He could see the artillery crew hard at work, loading powder into the huge, dark muzzle of the Voice. They had a special rope and pulley contraption to hoist giant cannonballs into the gun. The Darav telescope made it feel like they were laboring right under his nose, and his fingers twitched. He wanted to shoot at them, watch them scurry and roll and take cover, watch blood explode from their heads.

  But the foe was too far away for any gun.

  I must see Master Udo.

  It was almost an hour before the Voice screamed again. By then, Dick was drenched and cold, but he bore it like the rest of them.

  The second ball slammed into the ground a hundred steps in front of the castle walls, digging deep, spraying great chunks of earth and dirt in a wide arc. The Barvans cheered. The Monrich folks cursed. One or two guns fired in impotent defiance.

  “Your Highness,” the reeve urged again.

  “Once an hour. That’s the best they can do.”

  “They will improve,” the reeve said.

  “Master,” Crispin pleaded.

  Dick decided his show of bravado was complete. “Reeve, send a flizzard to General Eusebio. I want him to begin his attack right away. Whatever it takes.”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

  “And ready your knights for the attack.”

  Gotelieb obviously wasn’t pleased. His mission wasn’t quite ready. “It will be done.” Another arquebus cracked. Orders whipped along the wall stations, calling the men to stay their fire.

  Basking in stares of admiration from the common sentries to some of the Drechknights, Dick left the gatehouse, Crispin following closely by. The city was buzzing with worry. He could hear collective sigh of the thousands of mouths begging for the Saint’s protection.

  Crispin overtook him. “Admirable, Master. Risky but courageous. You were just like King Ulaf.”

  “Was I? Menacing and commanding?”

  Crispin stopped, cleared his throat. “Obstinate yet inspiring.”

  Dick glanced sideways at his servant. “I will let it slide this one time, Crispin.”

  “Apologies, Master.”

  Dick realized the day had turned gloomy with the rain, and he did not feel like going back inside the morose castle. But he couldn’t see Eva either, and there was only so much bathing one could do before their skin wrinkled permanently. Volkard claimed too much heat wasn’t good for the gonads.

  Despite the war, despite all the worries pressing on his head, he felt blissfully calm. There was nothing he could do at the moment. No matter how busy he appeared, he couldn’t stop the cannonball, and the city was as ready as it ever would be. The sooner some people died the more food stock would be left for the survivors.

  He was free—and he didn’t know what to do.

  He didn’t like the notion of seeing Lady Enduria—the excitement of the impeding bloodshed might give her some funny ideas. He didn’t want to seek his wife either, even for the pretense the people needed. Let Amadea and Kief do their business, it spared him the need to participate in the horrid duty. Everyone else had their worries and tasks, and his princely wisdom was not needed at the moment.

  So, what then?

  “Crispin, I find myself with idle hands.”

  “Waiting is a soldier’s greatest enemy.”

  Dick stopped walking. “What?”

  “Vilstrom, Master. That was one of his sayings.”

  “Crispin, you know, you sometimes surprise me.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  Dick remembered there was something he wanted to do, after all. “Let’s see Master Udo.”

  “Do you wish to take up sword practice again, Master?”

  “Don’t be daft.” Dick’s fingers still itched, and he wanted to ask if the city gunsmiths had finished forging that arquebus Master Udo had promised him. He was tempted to walk faster, but then he remembered a different popular saying.

  Death awaited everyone. Rushing to its embrace only made you winded when you arrived.


  CHAPTER 32

  The Charge of the Fearless Brigade

  “One should not be scared of death or dying. One should be scared of living a life without hope.”

  —EUSTACHE FOULQUE TANCREDE, KING OF FARANCS, AT HIS CROWNING CEREMONY, YEAR 597

  18th day of the Month of the Sickle

  Daylight raids were risky. But they were also necessary when one planned sending friendly troops into the enemy’s midst covered by heavy artillery. Otherwise, the wrong units might get hit.

  Still, Dick couldn’t shake the sensation of unease.

  Not for the rubble piling up under the north wall, compliments of Gramik, not for the fact General Eusebio was starting his attack against an army five times his size.

  He wondered what kind of promises—or threats—Old Fart had given the badly spoken mercenary general to convince him to undertake this mission. Maybe it was the simple matter of chance. Getting killed by the Barvans was a very real but unconfirmed possibility; getting killed by a displeased King Ulaf was a dead certainty.

  At least the weather was fair. Sunny, dry, not too hot, although it was too early to tell. But it promised to be a nice day for bloodshed.

  Luckily, the Voice was a slow, ponderous tool, and it had fired about a dozen shots before going silent for the night. The attack resumed at dawn. Most of the cannonballs hit the wall side, and the entire city shook from the impact. But Ostfort had a thick skin and wasn’t going to crumble easily.

  Still, the heap of stone near the northeast-facing turret was growing by the hour, and soon nimble soldiers might be able to climb all the way to the top of the parapet without using ropes or ladders. Yet, despite their advantage in numbers and cannon range, the savages were biding their time. They must have felt quite confident they would enter the city before the winter snows.

  At first, the Hyevans had trained the Voice toward the gate, but they quickly gave up on that idea, as it was the most heavily fortified part of the siege wall. They had then directed fire at the corner tower and kept on bombarding it ever since. Even to someone like himself, only mildly interested in what cannon did—although they were, in essence, overlarge pistols, so there was some grace in how they worked after all—the change made sense. Defense artillery had the thinnest coverage there. The enemy would have an elegant dash across the fields and into the fort.