She felt sorry for the Sacony girl. But not so much that she would prioritize Amadea’s feelings over her own survival.
Then she thought about the people of Ostfort. Dick would abandon them. She should feel outrage, but there wasn’t any in her heart. As much as she wanted to lay blame on Dietrich, he had really done a great deal for the city and its people. He had fended off killers, raised morale, even fought in battle. As royalty, his survival was more important than the common folk. She understood the brutal truth in that. She had been raised believing the same thing.
She wondered what her own father would have done if Enissia was breached. Would he give his life up for the city? Or leave, taking only her with him?
Or Theresa? Or maybe no one?
“Tell me,” she said, pushing the disturbing thoughts away. This was exciting—more so than the boredom of her prison. The situation reminded her of the time in Black Dawn when Horatia devised a ruse to send her lover’s enemies on the wrong trail so he could escape and take care of his wounds.
“We will need to flee through slop tunnels. It is the only way we can slip away undetected. We cannot use any of the gates, as the city is too heavily surrounded.”
Eva didn’t like the sound of that. “What will we do once we leave the city safely behind us?”
Crispin shrugged. She knew he had correctly interpreted her question. “I don’t know, my lady. Perhaps Prince Dietrich will take you safely somewhere near Enissia and then let you go. But I can’t say for sure.”
Eva nodded. He will find some excuse, I just know it.
At that moment, her mind decided not to ignore the sounds of war from outside. There was the distinct sound of cannonball hitting the curtain wall, eroding it ever so slightly more. She shuddered. She could not imagine herself being out there, surrounded by those animals. At the moment, Prince Dietrich looked like the most gallant and handsome of all the heroes in all the books she had ever read.
She sighed. Maybe Crispin was right. Maybe freedom wasn’t all that she thought it could be. “Please continue.”
Crispin glanced at the window, as if noticing a change in the battle, frowned, then looked at her. “All right, my lady, so this is what you need to remember…”
CHAPTER 38
A Perfect Shot
“Procrastination is the weapon of the patient, and time, their best.”
—COBUS OF FRESNALD, MAGISTER OF THE SWAMPS, 5TH CENTURY
3rd Day of the Month of the Harvest
Dick ran his finger along the eight-sided length of the barrel. It was made from a metal alloy much darker than most guns. Close to the muzzle, there was an appendage with two long rods extending below the barrel, ending in tiny spikes. Master Gunsmith Robrecht called it a bipod. It was supposed to let Dick rest the gun against the ground or a wall, relieving pressure from his shoulders and giving him a better, steadier aim. The little claws would hook in and keep the weapon from slipping when fired.
The woodwork was expensive walnut and Dick was impressed with the silver scrollwork. His name was engraved in the stock, with the royal coat of arms on the opposite side. But the one thing that fascinated Dick was the telescope.
It wasn’t a Darav device, but every glassmaker, clockmaker, and tooling artisan in Ostfort had spent the last month fashioning the new arquebus for him, perfecting the lenses and the angles. The final product was a beautiful thing of wonder and indisputable quality.
It was also extremely heavy, with a barrel three times as long as any other arquebus.
“Prince Dietrich?” the gunsmith said in his low voice, permanently damaged by breathing in lead and antimony.
Some of the officers were annoyed with the gunsmith’s lack of care for proper honorifics, but Dick didn’t care. If this new thing let him win the war, he didn’t mind if Robrecht called him “Ulaf’s Disappointment.”
Well, almost.
But he did need to win the war. The son of a thousand Gepeni whores, Fanzon Alfonso, and the useless Sacony, Taddeo, had not managed to sway the odds in his favor. The gridlock of blood, death, and constant pounding by the Voice remained.
Master Udo grunted. “Your Royal Highness, what do you think?”
Dick loved the way light reflected off the telescope cylinders. There were six of them, each a different bore. “What is it called?”
Robrecht shrugged. “It has no name, My Prince. I thought you would like to name it?”
The obvious name would be Barvan Slayer, Dick thought. But that was too obvious. “I will call it the Defender of Ostfort.” The ripple of satisfied murmurs told him he had chosen well. In a city with dwindling supplies of flour and oil and no perceivable end to the siege apart from a great last stand, every ounce of morale helped.
“Excellent, Prince Dietrich.” Gunsmith Robrecht was happy. His red-tinted teeth were a frightening sight. “If you don’t mind, I would ask you to patron my work. Should you require further examples of this model, I have all the sketches and measurements, and I will—”
“What would you call this model, Robrecht?” Dick interrupted.
“Ah. Good question, My Prince. Honestly, I have not thought about that.”
“Then it will be known as Grand Dick.” More approval from the troops. Dick let the clamor subside. Then he stepped back. “Elder Niklaus, bless the gun, please.”
The drunk staggered forward, looking sulky and unhappy with his task. But he could not object, not after hearing about Papa Donpric. He hesitated, probably because he didn’t remember what he needed to say, but then he recovered. “Beloved Saint, pray guide the hand that holds this gun. Pray make its grip steady and its aim true. Slay the enemies of the faith and of the Monrich crown. Pray give Prince Dietrich guidance in his battles. Protect us against the heretics and protect our city.”
“Blessed be the Saint,” everyone intoned.
The elder poured water from a small chalice on Dick’s right hand. It was a fair compromise.
“Blessed be the Saint,” the soldiers repeated.
“The Saint bless Prince Dietrich,” a good handful added.
Elder Niklaus spat over the wall, toward the tribesmen, and then wobbled away, almost tumbling down the steps. But eventually the drunk made it safely to the ground, joining the rest of the eager crowd just below the gatehouse.
“Now, show us,” Master Udo hissed. Dick was surprised by the hunger in the man’s tone.
“Make room for the prince,” Reeve Gotelieb barked.
Dick didn’t really need much, but there was a circle of reverent space around him as people pushed back to give him a chance to test the new arquebus. He placed the bipod on a merlon first, but realized he couldn’t see the enemy, so he shifted it to the nearby crenel.
He squinted through the eyepiece, and the world became a circle of sharp clarity. It was as if someone had placed small people just under his nose. There was less blur and more light than through a Darav telescope. He was amazed by the craftsmanship. If Robrecht lived through the siege, Dick might actually be inclined to patron the gunsmith.
Now, he had to focus on the enemy.
Dick trained the barrel in tiny motions until he had the Zwerg hill in his sights. The Barvan Half-Tharn tribe was firmly lodged there, with a ring of stakes to keep mounted attacks off, and a couple of narrow, deep ditches, designed to break legs and slow down infantry.
The Drechknight saboteurs had failed to uproot the enemy on two separate occasions, including a daring, bloody, but ultimately pointless night raid. Even though the foe had to go a long way to supply their troops, they held the position with all the strategic obstinance it deserved.
Every day, there was fire and smoke from a different village, a different camp, another dozen carts burned, another dozen horses lamed, a few sentries killed, a food store poisoned or a cannon disabled. The Drechknight saboteurs were experts, but they could not change the tide of the battle. Nor did they have time.
The north side of the curtain wall was less than half its
original height. Soon, the Voice would score a critical blow, and the rest of the old, thick masonry would collapse.
The Salabians had not come to his aid. He should have known. It didn’t matter now. The fate of Ostfort would be decided soon, one way or another. All the different friendly armies that had come were arrayed in the fields around the city, waiting to attack the tribesmen. Waiting for the signal to form up and move.
And signal I shall.
Patiently, Dick searched the Barvan camp site until he found his target. The chieftain. A burly man with long flaxen trusses of hair, answering to the name of Alim the Wolfraper, the scouts reported. Dick had no idea how the savage had earned the title, but he was going to stop using it very soon.
The distance was quite ambitious. More than a thousand steps.
“Watch the Zwerg hill.”
If I’m going to enter the annals of history, I might as well do it with flair and style, Dick thought. He wished he was dressed for the occasion, but his simple uniform gave the troops another boost of confidence.
Alim was posing below the tribe’s banner, talking to his warriors. Dick aimed at the man’s head, then raised the crosshairs by three head heights. A common mistake among novice shooters was to fire where you wanted to hit. That worked at close range. But not when you needed to sling a bullet at a large distance.
“Robrecht, remind me?” Dick remembered, but he wanted everyone to hear again.
“An elbow drop every thousand steps, my prince.”
He fired.
Two heartbeats later, Alim collapsed, his beautiful hair marred in red.
It was a perfect shot.
Reeve Gotelieb and half a dozen kompturs had been watching the hilltop. They erupted in wild, childish cheers. Everyone else followed suit. Men howled until their throats were dry.
The world, a quiet place that day till then, exploded into chaos.
Armies on both sides stirred to life.
Horns sounded. Friendly horns.
The Enissian contingent joined forces with the Gepeni, keeping rank. No ill discipline this time. To the west, the Barvans were moving again, almost half their strength but still a formidable mass of men, going for General Eusebio’s contingent. With maneuvers to the north keeping the enemy occupied, the Drechknights charged out through the south gate, rushing toward the Zwerg hill, five hundred men on foot, armed with guns—three to a man.
In unison, the Fearless battery and the cannon on the city walls facing west spouted fire, forcing the Barvans to take a wider, longer route. General Eusebio was already shifting position. The Brigade was nimble, deadly, and the enemy would probably not be able to reach them before nightfall. This would allow the mercenaries to flank the enemy, in preparation for the next morning’s assault.
The sky was thick with flying reptiles, flapping from one camp to another, from one coop to another, even inside Ostfort. Men were running mad dashes through the narrow, packed streets, and there were boys perched on rooftops with little colored flags to relay fast, simple orders. There was desperation inside the city, but also precision and efficacy. Dick was proud that he’d managed to keep the citizens largely peaceful and hopeful. It was a testament of his wardenship.
Father, be proud.
“Bad news, Your Royal Highness, the Nibusi are burning our villages,” a messenger reported.
The words jarred him, and he lost sight of the Zwerg hill; the confused tribesmen were still trying to understand what had happened. Dick had been waiting for another Barvan warrior to show initiative and leadership, so he could strike him down.
“What?”
“The Nibusi party in the Enissian army have set fire to at least five villages south of the river, Your Royal Highness.”
What is this nonsense? Bloody mercenaries! “Why?”
“Captain Taddeo believes they may be lost and have wrongly believed the enemy too far to the south. He also says he has dispatched one of his subordinates to liaise with the other army, because he does not know who leads the Enissians contingent.”
Dick bristled. “Do we have anything from the Enissians?”
“The Valtese are working with both the Sacony and the Brigade. They are deploying in the center as a rearguard force. And…,” the messenger paused as he read the message, “…the Belgorians may have defected, or they are demanding higher pay. Unsure, Your Royal Highness.”
Dick was tempted to ask General Eusebio to annihilate all these amateurs. “The Gepeni?”
“Fanzon Anfonso has taken Shaldest, with moderate casualties. He will hold until relieved by Captain Taddeo.”
“Thank you,” Dick mumbled. The constant cannonade was annoying. He needed silence to aim well. Even the tremor from the guns made his aim jitter.
Dick exhaled, steadied the weapon and fired again.
The second Half-Tharn fell to the ground with a hole in his groin. Not the best shot, Dick thought, but it was a very clever one. The Barvans seemed to be panicking now, which was just what he needed. The Drechknights were approaching the hill.
Such a mighty weapon, Dick thought, watching the battle unfold through the telescope. Without a leader, the Barvans quickly succumbed to the Monrich knights. It was a majestic display of prowess and skill. The soldiers of the Crown walked slowly in a staggered formation so every man had two brothers watching his side. The pace allowed them to aim their arquebuses and fire without stopping, sling the spent one across a shoulder, unhook a fresh one, fire again, and then use the third piece, a long-barrel pistol, normally a riding weapon, but still quite effective otherwise. Once their weapons were spent, they drew their named swords and charged like a torrent of black death.
In moments, they had retaken the Zwerg hill.
A second tribe was moving against the Drechknights. Dick only knew their flamboyant banner: bones and furs and feathers. Shooting a moving target was tricky, and he missed the first time, but then the standard bearer died. The chieftain was next. Two other warriors after that, large men with bright red shields who invited death from a distance. Confusion, fear, and the enemy lost stride. The Drechknights never slowed down their killing spree.
News came and went, and Dick’s emotions soared, then dipped, elation, hope, and impatience wrestling. He wanted to hear that the siege line had been breached, but that wasn’t happening yet. The enemy had been entrenched for too long, and they would need to be removed from every last perch of land, every house with blood and fire.
Whatever he thought of other mercenary units, Dick only had praise for General Eusebio. He would get so many titles and so much silver, he would shit solid rods, Dick swore. Loyalty from a mercenary was a strange, rare thing. Old Fart would naturally assume it was all his doing and forget that Dick had urged him to employ the Brigade in the first place.
I shall be ignored by my loveless sire, as always, he thought, his mood souring. No! He had to stay determined. He had to focus on mowing down Barvans.
The Valtese were fighting alongside the Gepeni now, moving forward against the Nurflanders. The Nibusi had been torching more villages, but it seemed they had finally realized their mistake and were now advancing north at double pace. The Belgorians were counting Hyevan coin on the east side of the Flohfluss, laughing.
Their time shall come. Dick realized he had just scored his tenth kill for the day. This was easy. This was fun.
The sky to the west started to redden. The scattered clouds looked ridiculously painted, fluffy pink things. Dick began to tire, and he missed one out of every three shots. But the Zwerg hill unit was undefeated, and it would spend the night behind those stakes and ditches, with easy access to food.
Tomorrow, Dick intended to send more troops to their aid, and focus as much fighting as possible into the fields, away from the walls. The Hyevan artillery still aimed south, but if Monrich soldiers managed to sneak behind them, the enemy would be forced to divert their cannon fire away from the city or face easy destruction.
The plan was to have the mercen
aries all charge at dawn, pressing the Nurflanders toward the walls. Dick would crush them in a vise, crossbows to the south, wall cannon to the north. He’d destroy them utterly, and victory would be his. Once the enemy was defeated on the south side of the city, the Hyevans would have no incentive to continue their bombardment. The siege would be undone.
Dick fired another shot. He missed. Damn.
“Let the barrel cool, my prince!” the gunsmith shouted.
“…will need to coordinate their movement,” Reeve Gotelieb was ranting. He sounded displeased.
“Master, do you need to rest? Shall I bring you sweets and drinks?”
“No, Crispin, my head must be clear.” Dick straightened. His ribs hurt from leaning over the stock for so long. He had lost himself in the killing action. It was—
The Voice of Gramik hit the wall again.
For the last time, Dick realized with dread. He stopped shooting and looked over to the other side of the city. He couldn’t see everything, but he could hear it.
The damage sustained over the many days was too much to keep the masonry in place. In slow motion, the stone and mortar began toppling in big, heavy chunks. A few unlucky guards and carpenters working on the scaffolding, trying to strengthen the foundations, perished in the avalanche. A thick cloud of dust rose as an entire section of the wall slid to the ground, becoming what must be an easy ramp for scaling an attack into Ostfort. The dust and the noise cleared, leaving behind a gaping hole in the city’s defenses. Dick could see the fields north of Ostfort, teeming with enemy troops.
Everyone went quiet. Everyone knew what it meant.
The walls had been breached.
CHAPTER 39
A Great Prince
“I am not a coward!”
—PRINCE DIETRICH II
3rd Day of the Month of the Harvest
Woes and Hose Page 28