Woes and Hose

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Castellan Enduria was already rationing food in a very strict manner, and innkeepers had been instructed not to sell more than a single mug of beer to prospectors each night. She had also forbidden any rise in prices. A sensible way to prevent poor people from becoming hungry; hungry people liked to riot.

  Ostfort would most likely stay fed until the winter, which was a good thing. But the Voice of Gramik would most likely destroy the north wall in a manner of eightdays, long before the weather could save the city. After that, it would be a brutal, all-out warfare to the last man, and the Barvans and Nurflanders had more to spare. Reinforcements were still nowhere in sight.

  Dick tapped his boot, splashing water, then turned around, disgusted, and walked back into the castle’s dark hallways. Bath maids hovered nearby, looking worried, as if the damage was somehow their fault.

  Dick wasn’t in the mood to try to sweet talk them. He followed the quiet corridors out of the damaged tower, Crispin just ahead, his hands never too far from a knife or a tucked pistol.

  “I thought about bribing that Hyevan, Afanasy. I decided against it, Crispin. He needs to perish with the rest of them.”

  “As you say, Master.”

  “Now that there isn’t anything fun to do while the enemy guns are silent, where should I go?”

  Crispin scanned the next corridor, left, right. “Lady Enduria expects you in her office.”

  I’m the prince! She should come to me. Then he thought about it more deeply. “Why does everyone always expect me to do things?”

  “Because you’re the warden, Master.”

  Dick rubbed his face. “All right. Please lead me to my tribulation.”

  Castle Ostfort was changed by the recent fighting. Not so much by the direct damage, but the corridors were more heavily patrolled, unarmed servants and staff did their best to loiter as little as possible around edgy, frustrated soldiers, and there were shovels and sacks of dirt everywhere to put out fires in case of a full onslaught.

  The inner wards and baileys were crowded with workers. Carpenters were busy fixing cracked and splintered gun carriages and mounts, as well as assembling the massive scaffolding needed for the tower repairs. Alongside them, smiths and their apprentices labored, sharpening blades, polishing spears, aligning barrels. Every usable nook of space was being utilized to the fullest, and even small children were being employed, lugging refuse and wood filings away.

  Once the wall is breached, the assault is going to be messy and bloody.

  Their spirits were rather good, he thought. People still smiled and joked. Maybe the fighting was giving them hope. After all, Ostfort still stood, and the Barvans and Nurflanders had bled more than the city folk. If the famous writer Ambrogio were here, the boring old man would probably point out that Ostfort had won the last few engagements against the tribesmen.

  Dick had invented another half a dozen little schemes to keep people busy and cheerful. Songs, contests, displays of bravado. Lady Enduria had come up with a few more ideas of her own, giving women something to do while their men patrolled the walls and shot iron at the enemy.

  The formidable castellan was busy talking to her aids when Dick stepped into her office. The memory of their last meeting made him shiver. She saw his discomfort and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Dick pretended to be interested in some musty old tapestry hanging from a wall, a rare item of luxury in the austere castle.

  Crispin turned around, about to step out of the chamber.

  Dick grabbed his collar and pulled him back in. “Stay.”

  “Yes, Master,” Crispin rasped.

  Lady Enduria arched her brow again. “Do you require your manservant, Your Royal Highness?”

  “For your safety, my lady. An assassin may try to attack me this very moment, and you might be caught in the midst of it.”

  “Your Royal Highness, I am not one to shy away from danger. I have been through hardship before, and this siege is no different than the one last year. Perhaps a little noisier.” She pointed to an empty chair at her side. “Please.”

  Dick swallowed. He thought Crispin was grinning, almost invisibly. You’ll pay for that, Crispin. Nervously, Dick sidled over, wondering if all his pistols could protect him from her.

  To his great relief, Reeve Gotelieb, Ritter Heimo and Master Udo walked into the chamber, joining the meeting. Crispin only grinned wider, then quietly went about serving refreshments. The plate was modest; hard cakes, bland lemonade, raisins, and a wedge of smelly cheese. Lady Enduria zealously believed in her rationing.

  “We have seven men to hang today,” the castellan said once the men settled.

  Dick nibbled on a biscuit, unhappy with its distinct lack of sweetness. “What have they done?”

  “Smuggling potatoes and onions into the city and selling at a price higher than the one I decreed, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Are they any good?” Well, they got caught, he reasoned, trying to soften the biscuit in a cup of lemonade. “I mean, have they smuggled in large quantities of food?”

  “Twenty sacks.”

  Dick rubbed his chin. He would need Crispin to trim and oil his beard before sleep today. “Let them go. If they are capable of bringing in that much food in the middle of the siege, let them risk their lives. Just cut their profits.”

  Lady Enduria wasn’t happy, but she wrote down his order.

  “How many criminals do we have in Ostfort, in all the constabularies and cells?”

  “Roughly a hundred men, mostly drunkards.”

  Dick clapped his hands. “Well, that’s a hundred spearmen.” Someone would have to stand in the first line, waiting for the Barvans to pour in over the wall ruins. “Free them, too.”

  “Your Royal Highness,” the reeve interjected. “Perhaps we should discuss more important matters.” Lady Enduria stabbed him with a cold look. She obviously didn’t like that the Drechknight believed her duties were unimportant.

  Dick was pleased. Anything to divert her attention off him. “If Lady Enduria has no objections.”

  Gotelieb frowned. “My saboteurs have left the battlefield. They have done all they could, including burning hundreds of sacks of flour, killing five hundred draft horses, and bursting maybe three dozen guns. No, they have not been able to destroy the Voice of Gramik. It is too heavily defended. They have retreated about ten thousand steps to the east and sent a flizzard. They will rest, regroup, try to forage some supplies, and then resume their mission. But you should not expect any more results from them in the coming days, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick was just about to praise the reeve, but the man continued.

  “As you astutely noted, the Fearless Brigade has been cut off. Alas, they were not able to receive our instructions and evade the enemy. They will not be able to move north any time soon. The Nurflanders are poised for an attack, it seems. I believe they may try to storm the gate, and again, this will be a diversion to move the Hyevan artillery forward.”

  Dick was too busy praising himself in his head, so he missed the rest of the report. “Repeat that.”

  “I said, Your Royal Highness, unless we do something, it is a waiting game. And they will keep pounding our walls until they crumble.”

  “What about the damn reinforcements?”

  “If we can trust the report from Gradt, they should arrive shortly. But the rains may have delayed them.”

  “To relieve us, or to watch this city burn?”

  “You must not despair, Your Royal Highness,” Ritter Heimo said. “You must keep your hopes up. The people need it.”

  Dick was silent for a moment. He was in a predicament. This is like Enissia. It is so simple, and yet so difficult. I don’t know what to do next. But he was certain a brilliant plan would suddenly crystalize in his mind, and he would be able to save Ostfort—and himself.

  Alternatively, leave in a quiet hurry.

  To be on the safe side, Crispin kept saddlebags full of silver, salted beef and pistols in numero
us locations around the city. He had keys to old, weed-choked postern gates, and maps of the walls and the cellars.

  Father wouldn’t be able to fault him for trying to save the Monrich line.

  Most likely.

  “Also, there has been a personal missive for you. From Neuchtaffel.” The reeve handed out a sealed tube.

  Dick frowned at the ribbed leather container, trying to figure out whom the impression in the wax belonged to. He wasn’t quite sure, but it must be from a Builder.

  The message was from Mina.

  Dear Brother,

  You are probably surprised to receive a letter from me, but I want you to know, despite our differences, I am deeply worried for you. War is a terrible ordeal, and it pains me to see you embroiled in another struggle for your life. I hope you are well. Is Crispin taking good care of you? How is your charming wife? Has she mastered Richs to a satisfying level? I did try to recommend some books to her, but she found Monrich literature too somber. She said she prefers Valedian culture.

  Please write back and tell me all about your deeds. I heard you have accomplished quite a few feats in the field of battle, and that you are a hero of Ostfort. I am glad that you have found the warrior in you. My last request from you is: do not dwell on all the bad things that may have come between us. In moments of dire necessity, families have to come together. If you feel you need to unburden your chest of things that you may have done and perhaps regret, I promise you, Saint be my witness, that I will keep them secret. Should disaster, Saint forbid, strike you, I would hope your soul is clean of any guilt or trouble that may weigh on your shoulders these days.

  Stay well. Your loving sister,

  Mina.

  Dick put the letter away as if he had been singed.

  Sweet Saint, what was that? The last thing he had expected was a soppy letter from Mina. What did she want? What had she done? What did she know? He was suddenly suspicious of the people in the room. Were they reporting on him to his sister? Were they sending secret reports back home? They must be. He had to assume that. It was the only way he could make sure he never blundered in front of them.

  “Bad news, Your Royal Highness?” the reeve probed.

  Dick forced a smile onto his lips. “Family affairs.” He carefully burned the message over a candle. He could see the greedy look of curiosity on everyone’s face.

  “We should plan another attack,” Master Udo said, shattering the pregnant silence.

  Dick agreed. “Yes, we should.” What did Mina know? Was she trying to blackmail him? “I do not want to play the waiting game.” If patience is a virtue, I’m Volkard’s dirtiest whore.

  What did Mina know?

  There was a thunderous boom from outside. Clockwork precise, the Voice slammed another ball into the weakened north wall section.

  What did Mina know?

  Between thinking about his sister’s intrigues and fighting the sheep-loving tribesmen, the choice was easy.

  “No more waiting!” Dick exclaimed, startling the others. “Master Udo, where’s my special arquebus?”

  The ugly man just shrugged. “Being made.”

  “What is your plan, Your Royal Highness?” Reeve Gotelieb asked.

  “We have not finished discussing the castle and the city provisions,” Lady Enduria protested.

  His mind wouldn’t rest. What did Mina know? Sweet brain, give me something! “Those Nurflanders will attack soon, you say. Well, let’s spoil their plan. Ritter Heimo, I want you to muster another regiment. This time, though, I want them to target the Hyevan field artillery. I don’t want our gunners to be confused where they should aim their shots. They must attack the tide of Nurflanders assailing our gates. And I want the carpenters to fashion new cradles for the guns, so they can be depressed at a lower angle and cover the close range, too.”

  Poised over a map, he ignored Lady Enduria’s bosomful breathing close at his side and focused on the charcoal lines drawn on the battlefield. He lay down his plan, and when they failed to follow the finer details of his idea, he dipped a finger in the lemonade and circled a smudge in the siege lines.

  Dick felt like chance was toying with him. He had all these friendly armies converging on Ostfort, but they were just outside his reach, just a few days late, enough to turn a perfectly safe and fairly tolerable siege into a bloodbath. A safe excuse to escape fighting and still satisfy King Ulaf’s honor. Dick wished things could be easier, but the life of a prince was never easy. He worried that no matter what he did Old Fart would not be happy.

  And now, Saint’s gonads, he had his sister dipping her fingers in his affairs.

  If he were not mildly terrified by the castellan, annoyed by the bad food, exhausted by these war plans and his inability to turn the tide of fighting, and ever so minutely worried that he would have to flee the city in the middle of the night, with just Crispin, Eva, and a thousand excuses as his companions, Dick would probably have invested all his intellect in fretting around Mina’s intentions. But the diversion was a blessing, and for another few hours, he could pretend like she hadn’t sent that vile, troubling message.

  Survive first, worry later.

  Who said that? he wondered. A book I may have read?

  Then he realized. No, I did.

  CHAPTER 35

  Reinforcements Have Arrived

  “We don pride to hide our weaknesses.”

  —LAZAR THE CONFESSOR, DEATHRUNG CYCLES, MONRICH FOLKLORE, TIME UNKNOWN

  26th Day of the Month of the Sickle

  Dick was grinning.

  “We are saved!” a young, red-faced gunner exclaimed.

  Dick patted him on the shoulder and joined Reeve Gotelieb at the top of the Tooth, the stocky tower just to the left of the south gate.

  In the distance, he could see the banners of Sacony and Gepenia ripple in the wind.

  The promised help had finally arrived, thousands of fresh troops that would relieve his city. By nightfall, he hoped to ride to Challe and finally enjoy the wonders of the little village, Saint willing, if it still stood. In the morning, after he was thoroughly rested and spent, soul and loin, he would compose a fine letter to Old Fart, boasting of his successes.

  But first, he intended to watch the Sacony and their mercenaries engage the tribesmen.

  The Drechknight wasn’t grinning. He was grimly surveying the battle lines, trying to understand how the fighting would unfold today.

  “A happy occasion, is it not?” Dick commented.

  The knight glanced sideways and frowned. “You are wearing a uniform, Your Royal Highness?”

  “My wardrobe is ruined. What do you think of the disposition of the Gepeni contingent?”

  “They are an unruly lot, like any hirelings. They can fight, but they are not to be trusted. They must not enter Ostfort, under any circumstances.”

  “We shall serve ale and smoked ham in the burned fields, then. And if the food gets cold, they can always warm it over an odd fire or two.” Dick waved grandly.

  “The Gepeni have crude, aggressive tactics. Using crossbows, they like to get close and thick. Their methods always call for baiting the enemy, huddling down and then firing at less than a hundred paces distance. The Barvans will probably lose patience and engage them head on, especially if they had never fought them before.”

  The enemy camp had been astir for the last two hours, ever since the van of the army to the south had been sighted. Having moved their troops close to the north wall to be ready for the last pounce now worked against the tribesmen, as they were busy pulling back and rushing units south, to engage the new army. Dick had watched them fret and fuss with delight, and then slowly walked the length of the siege wall to the south gate. A beautiful sun beat from above.

  The auxiliaries and spearmen were in place, ready to move out. The Gepeni would serve as an excellent diversion. Dick hoped the troops would be able to cripple half the enemy cannon before the enemy managed to regroup and strike back. The soldiers would then run back to
the castle, with Drechknights and culverins covering their retreat.

  This siege isn’t so bad after all, he thought.

  He was hungry, he realized. “Crispin.”

  “Master?”

  “I want those apricots now.”

  Dick tried to ignore the looks from the soldiers as he gobbled the fruit, the last serving from the pantry that the cook would admit having. Their eyes watched him—men who had been forced to count the spoonfuls of their suet and broth every morning.

  Dick put a sugared fruit back in the bowl; one hand on a pistol, one on a dish, Crispin had carried the breakfast sweet course all the way.

  “Here.” He handed the bowl to a small, slim watchman. “Share them with your friends. Give the bowl back to Crispin.”

  “Your Royal Highness,” the reeve said wearily.

  “The Gepeni, yes. Do we know who leads the Sacony?”

  “Not yet. We had a few runners dash out, taking flizzards to our allies, so they can communicate with us.”

  “And…?”

  “They have safely avoided detection. The Sacony should send a reptile soon.”

  Dick watched the tribesmen scurry, trying to form up. He would have liked the Gepeni to attack them now, but he expected his allies needed just as much time to prepare for the battle as the enemy. They had been busy marching north hard, and they were probably exhausted.

  Plenty of whores in Challe to soothe their bones.

  Dick saw a speck in the sky, and a flizzard honed in on its manky keeper, who was standing by a small cart of cages, just below the Tooth.

  “I want to read that!” Dick bustled.

  Ignoring him, a Drechknight handed the note to the reeve. Smirking, Gotelieb handed the message to Dick.

  Miffed, Dick cracked the seal and looked at the page, then handed it back. “It’s in Valedian.”

  “Captain Taddeo sends his regards,” a clerk read. “He is pleased that Ostfort still stands fast, and that he can be here today, to defend the strong bonds of marriage and respect that Monrich and Sacony share. He also wishes to know if Princess Amadea is well.”