Gunpowder God

by John F. Carr

  “How bare are our wagons, Demnos?” he asked.

  “We have enough feed, counting on local forage, to last us for another moon quarter, which will just about take us into Ulthor. And you know how bad things are in the Usurper’s former territories. I still think we’d be better off, since we can’t go through Glarth, to go south to Tarr-Lydra and then north through the Pirsystros Valley.”

  Lysandros shook his head. “First, we’d have to fight our way past King Chartiphon and his Rathoni troops, which might mean their entire army supported by the Hostigi, only to find out we’d have to bully the Knight Commander of Lydra into providing us with provisions he might not even have. After the Orders’ battles with the barbarians, I don’t know if they have victuals to spare. Next we’d have to enter Ktemnoi territory without permission.”

  “Do we even know who the new Great King of Hos-Ktemnos is?”

  Demnos shrugged. “Last I heard Grand Duke Lukthos was the temporary regent. He’s one of Cleitharses’ cousins and probably his closest living kin since Prince Anaxon died. When Aristocles was in his cups, he let it slip that Grand Duke Lukthos was the Inner Circle’s candidate for Great King of Hos-Ktemnos. But that was moons ago; he may already have been enthroned.”

  “I’ve never even heard of this Duke, may Ormaz and his demons curse Kalvan and his damnable Hostigi!” Lysandros spat, too weary and saddle sore to think of any proper insults. “We’ll put the oxen on half-rations first, ten teams at a time, and when they grow weak, kill them and roast them. That will help us save on provisions, as well as foodstuffs.”

  Demnos nodded. “The fresh meat will help morale, too. But even more than that, we need to end these attacks by the Rathoni.”

  Lysandros shrugged. “Send out more scouts?”

  “We can’t do it, Your Majesty. Too many of our scouts are dead or missing.”

  “Desertions?”

  Demnos shook his head. “Most of them have been picked off by the Rathoni riflemen and their Sastragathi irregulars. Besides, by Galzar, where would they desert to? Anyone who leaves the main body is in mortal danger and thousands of marches from home. Otherwise, half the army would have already departed.”

  “Are things that bad?” Lysandros asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Truly, Your Majesty. Maybe worse. These men have been fighting for most of two winters and they are worn through and through. Several of your Princes are grumbling and I suspect they too would desert if there were anywhere to go.”

  For the first time, Lysandros began to seriously entertain the thought that he might never see his wife nor Harphax City again. “How many of them can we buy off with the loot we took from Nythros?”

  Demnos paused to light his pipe. “Prince Mylestros of Balkron is greedy enough that he will follow you to the Caverns of the Dead for a share of the spoils, as will Prince Karmanes of Hyphax. Prince Thukyblos of Dazour owes his crown to Styphon’s House and will not be a problem.”

  “Good. No one is going to desert until we reach Hos-Harphax or leave the Rathoni far behind.”

  CONTENTS

  The Adventure Continues

  About the Author

  Also by John F. Carr

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Maps

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue

  Part 1: Fall

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Part 2: Winter

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Part 3: Spring

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Part 4: Summer

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  ⊕NE

  I

  Ex-Paratime Police Chief Tortha Karf entered the Chief’s office and looked around in surprise. Hadron Dalla, the new Chief, had redecorated Verkan Vall’s former office to the point where he hardly recognized the place. Gone was the Chief’s horseshoe desk—a signature piece of furniture that had survived the reign of four chiefs—along with Verkan’s curio cabinets and all his assorted weaponry and framed paintings. Dalla had replaced the old desk with some modern monstrosity that was all plastiglass and mirrors. The walls were covered with living pictures, wall screens and shimmering metallic hangings from Second Level Triplanetary while the old couch had been replaced with a divan from Imperial Macedonia, fit for an Empress.

  The biggest surprise, however, was Dalla herself; she looked harried and her usual impeccable coif was in disarray, strands of hair shooting out of her upswept hairdo. Her Paratime Police greens looked as if she’d slept in them. She was crouched around her reading-screen as if it was a precious tablet someone was about to hijack.

  “Chief Hadron, I got your message ball. What’s going on?”

  Dalla shook her head as if waking from a deep sleep. “Sorry, Tortha. I’ve been swamped for the last five ten-days. You just can’t believe…well, maybe you can.”

  Tortha laughed. “I’ve been through my share of crises.”

  “I’m sure you have,” she said with a tone of reproach. “But not like this! We’ve got riots going on in Old Town Dhergabar and two tower bombings in the last ten-day. The Dhergabar Metropolitan Police Chief wants to borrow ten thousand of our field agents to help patrol the City and find the miscreants. The Prole Liberation Movement is demanding representation on the Executive Council, or else.”

  “Back when I was Chief,” Tortha said, “we used to get the same kind of ultimatums from the Prole Protection League. The PPL was making those kinds of demands even before ex-Chief Tharg was on the job. Nothing new there.”

  “You’re wrong. Things have changed. The Prole Liberation Movement is the militant arm of the Prole Protection League. They weren’t kidnapping citizens and bombing towers when you were in office.”

  Tortha drew back in concern. “I apologize, things do sound as if they’ve gone to Niflheim in a handbasket. What’s Metro doing about it?”

  “Metropolitan Police Chief Vothan Raldor believes that someone the proles call The Leader is behind all this.”

  “Are you telling me this is a religious issue?” Tortha asked. “Because if you are, we have a big problem.” The worst wars in First Level history occurred during the Mystic Rebellions. To say nothing of the Styphon’s House donnybrook on Kalvan’s Time-Line.

  “No, The Leader’s just the ‘man’ who’s supposed to lead them into citizenship and give them all longevity treatments. I haven’t heard of any religious rites connected to his demands. No one knows who he is or what he represents. He’s got the proles all lathered up and rioting in Old Town.”

  It would be hard to riot elsewhere, thought Tortha, as the rest of Dhergabar consisted of anti-gravity spires and towers stretching toward the sky. Still, the proles outnumbered citizens, many of whom were working or vacationing
outtime, several times over. If they continued to attack the towers things could get messy.

  “Have you thought of calling in the Army Strike Teams?”

  “That’s why we asked for your advice, Tortha. Things have been in a real precarious place with the Executive Council ever since Vall left office. The last Crisis of Confidence vote almost brought down Management. It wouldn’t take much for the Opposition Party to wrest control of the Council away.”

  Then calling in the Army, Tortha decided, would be a complete disaster. The Opposition Party would use it to show that Management has lost control over the capital. I know they’re somehow behind this fracas, but proving it is almost impossible. The Opposition Party included almost as many scoundrels and scallywags as that Styphon’s House racket on Aryan-Transpacific. He couldn’t remember the last time things on Home Time Line had been so out of whack. What’s going on in Dhergabar, other than politics as usual?

  It hadn’t been that long since he’d retired, only a few years, and things had been going fine when he’d resigned. Verkan hadn’t caused this mess, he hadn’t been Chief long enough. No, this was a large-scale operation put together behind the scenes over decades. Someone had to be behind it, but whom? Dralm-damned if he could come up with anyone or a group that powerful and sinister. Opposition Party contained too many hacks and has-beens; they certainly weren’t pulling the strings…dancing to them maybe, but not yanking them.

  “Chief Vothan’s a good man. Give the Metro Police whatever manpower he asks for and put some of our top Investigators to work and find out who or what’s behind all this PLM nonsense. This mess stinks all the way up to Mars.”

  “I’ll do that,” Dalla replied. “Any other ideas?”

  Tortha took a long drag on his pipe, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. Fortunately, lung cancer and emphysema had been conquered eons ago by First Level medicine, so smoking was a harmless pastime and one he could enjoy without any unproductive emotional and physical consequences.

  “I think it’s time to call an emergency meeting of the Paratime Commission. I’ll give Dalgroth Sorn a call and have him set it up. It’s time we did something about this prole problem once and for all.”

  “Thanks, Tortha. I really miss Vall; he’d know what to do.”

  Tortha shrugged. “Maybe.” He was still disappointed in Verkan Vall, even though he was the one who pushed him into becoming Paratime Police Chief. Admit it, old man, he fought you all the way. It’s time you shouldered some of the blame. The boy had talent and good instincts, but he wasn’t willing to wear the harness. Too bad. It looked like Home Time Line needed all the help it could get.

  “How’s Vall been doing since I left?” she asked.

  Tortha took out his pipe and began to recharge it. “Well enough,” he said, nodding. “Vall’s busy now doing all the usual kingly stuff, stabilizing the Greffan economy, rebuilding war-damaged buildings and businesses and forming his own army. Dalla, he was forced into the position by Kalvan, almost the same way I got Vall to take my chair. Still, regardless of whose fault it is, once word hits First Level, the newsies will say he’s gone native.”

  “I don’t care about any of that. Is Vall in any danger from King Theovacar? I know Theovacar won’t rest until he’s back in Greffa and on the Iron Throne.”

  Tortha shrugged. “Unfortunately for Kalvan and Verkan, King Theovacar was in Ragyath with the remnants of his army when Kalvan took Greffa City. It would have been a real coup to have taken Theovacar prisoner—even better if he’d been killed during the siege. One of our undercover agents says that Theovacar is inconsolable over the loss of his capital and will do whatever it takes to win it back.

  “But I wouldn’t worry overly much about Verkan. Kalvan left him with three thousand Hostigi regulars and Vall’s been busy building his own little army. Vall’s smart enough not to commit any obvious Para-time Contamination, but he’s forgotten more military strategy and tactics than all of Theovacar’s commanders combined. Plus, he’s got Kalvan to back him up. If anyone’s way in over his head, it’s King Theovacar. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  II

  In the quiet of his private audience chamber, Kalvan was hunkered down with a full pipe and a goblet of wine. It was late at night and Rylla was staying in the nursery with baby Ptosphes who had a bad cough—maybe the croup. His sister Demia had been sick with it more than a few times. The rest of the old castle was quiet as most of his subjects, like most pre-industrial peoples, were accustomed to getting up at dawn and going off to bed at nightfall. Unless he was recovering from a battle or spent the day on horseback, Kalvan liked to stay up and enjoy the late night peace and privacy—there was so damn little of it during daylight hours.

  He was writing down the events of the last few months in his private journal, trying to make sense of all the disasters that had befallen him and his subjects since the Grand Host had invaded Hos-Hostigos and run them out of Hostigos Town. Rylla had finally gotten over blaming him for the death of her father and the loss of her home and far too many of their subjects. Still, Kalvan knew there must have been something he could have done that would have turned the tide.

  There was a hesitant knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” he snapped. Kalvan cherished his alone time and didn’t like it when it was interrupted by more business.

  “Me, sire,” Cleon said.

  “What now…?”

  “It’s Prince Sarrask, Your Majesty. He just arrived from Ragyath Town and begs your indulgence.”

  What does Sarrask want? he asked himself. Sarrask was overbearing and hard to take at the best of times. He should know better than to disturb me at night. It Dralm-damned better be an emergency, like a Grefftscharri fleet coming into Thagnor Harbor or King Theovacar’s army knocking on my doorstep!

  “Tell him to come in,” he ordered.

  Prince Sarrask slipped into the chamber like a naughty schoolboy, which was saying something since he weighed well over two-hundred pounds, or seventy ingots using here-and-now measurements. He was also carrying a small cask of Ermut’s Best, the local brandy.

  It was hard for Kalvan to stay mad at Sarrask when he acted contrite since it was so out of character.

  “My deepest apologies for disturbing you, sire, but I wanted to speak to you in private without all the popinjays present. But first, would you like some of Ermut’s Best?”

  Kalvan shook his head, pointing to his goblet. “Thanks, but this wine will do just fine.” At Rylla’s urging, he’d sworn off the hard stuff—at least until the Fireseed Wars were over—which he knew might not be for a very long time.

  Sarrask pulled a silver goblet out of his belt pouch and, after he unstoppered the brandy cask, filled his vessel. He took a deep drink, sighed, then said, “Your Majesty, you understand I would not dare to question your strategy, but I do have a few questions.”

  Yes, everyone’s got just a few questions. “Go ahead.”

  Sarrask fluffed up the sides of his beard anxiously. “Sire, stab me, but I just don’t understand why we don’t just chase King Theovacar down to whatever hidey-hole he’s hidden himself in and finish him off? We stomped his fleet and now he’s running back home like a whipped cur. Why aren’t we chasing him down and finishing him off?”

  “Now, as I understand it, you just recently freed your new Princedom of the last of Theovacar’s troops.”

  “Well, they were hidden pretty well, but we got the last of them, I think.”

  “Exactly. We won’t know for sure until you leave and we see what comes out from beneath the rocks. And just how loyal are your Ragyathi subjects?”

  Sarrask shrugged, wiggling his hand back and forth. “Some of them welcomed us, but a lot of them aren’t too happy with all the subjects I brought with me.”

  I bet, thought Kalvan. At least a hundred thousand Saski from Hos-Hostigos had joined in what had to be the greatest migration in the Five Kingdoms’ history. Knowing Sarrask, he would bet dollars to donuts tha
t the Prince pushed a lot of the Ragyathi nobility out of their ancestral homes to make way for his favorites. The Saski artisans and guild members were almost certainly displacing large numbers of Ragyathi guildsmen and creating a lot of resentment.

  “Exactly,” Kalvan noted. “And how many armed men would you have to leave in Ragyath—if you left to fight for maybe two or three seasons—to ensure the peace?”

  Sarrask’s forehead furrowed in concentration. “Stab me, if I know. Maybe half…. My army’s taken a lot of casualties over the past four winters.”

  “How many men could you field tomorrow, if you called them up?” Kalvan asked.

  “Phew! My muster rolls show about five thousand men in the Sask Army, but at least a thousand of those are missing or still recovering from wounds. I could probably raise four thousand men, twenty-five hundred cavalry and fifteen hundred foot.”

  “So, if you left half of them to hold your princedom while you were gone, that means you’d only have two thousand for, say an expedition to hunt down King Theovacar?”

  “Correct.”

  Kalvan nodded. “How about your princely levy?”

  “I couldn’t call up much of a levy since my former Saski nobles are still setting up their demesnes and don’t have many men to spare. I doubt I’d get much help from my Ragyathi nobles, since they lost a lot of men when King Theovacar moved his army there after he got his arse whipped outside Thagnor City. Theovacar conscripted thousands of young Ragyathi men and took others as slaves…women and children, too. The black-hearted bastard!”

  “Now,” Kalvan continued, “what’s happened to you on a small scale, Sarrask, has happened here in Thagnor and everywhere else in Nos-Hostigos. Remember just last summer, after we lost the battle of Ardros Field, we had to abandon our homes and move the entire Army and many of our subjects from Hos-Hostigos to Thagnor City—all this with the Grand Host of Styphon on our tail. Once we arrived in Thagnor, we had to lay siege to Thagnor City, and forcibly take it from Prince Varrack and his Grefftscharri allies. Then, before the dust of that action had settled, we had the Grand Host of Styphon before our new walls laying siege to us, again.