Gunpowder God

by John F. Carr

  “Our men are exhausted and weary from five winters of constant warfare. They need time to recover and to set down roots in our new lands. Every year the Royal and princely armies have taken horrendous casualties.” More than Kalvan liked to think about, maybe twenty-five to thirty percent casualties year after year. It was only the constant influx of mercenaries taking Hostigi colors and the desperate recruitment measures he had undertaken—right up to taking able-bodied men right out of the fields and putting them onto the battlefield—that had given the Army of Hos-Hostigos enough manpower to try to counter Styphon’s House’s advances.

  Sarrask nodded. “I see the truth in your words, Your Majesty, it’s just that I’m not used to not fighting….”

  “Of course, you’re not. But you do understand that all of us—me included—as well as our subjects, need time to rest, recoup and solidify our position here in these new lands before we undertake any major campaigns.”

  Sarrask nodded. “Rylla and I thought this might be a good time to track down that rat-bastard Theovacar and end his miserable life, once and for all, while we had him on the run.”

  Aha! I thought I saw my wife’s hand in all of this.

  “King Chartiphon shares the same problems. On top of which, he has had to lead punitive raids against Great King Lysandros as he’s retreated through Baltor and Vesthar, as well as Knight Commander Aristocles. We all need to recoup and rebuild up our supply base. Did you know that our fireseed supply is approaching critical?”

  Sarrask shook his head.

  “We don’t have enough sulfur to rebuild our stocks. Right now I have men out looking for new sulfur springs so that we can make more fireseed. True, we have wagonloads of Styphon’s fireseed that we captured, but I don’t trust their pathetic fireseed for anything but old bombards. And that’s just the beginning of the list of things on my ‘Must Have List.’ Right now, Prince Phrames is out on the Sea of Grass hunting buffalo so that we’ll have enough food to get through the coming winter. We certainly don’t have enough foodstuffs to supply a large expedition to go haring all over the Saltless Seas for King Theovacar.”

  Sarrask held his hands up in surrender. “I see, Your Majesty. But what about Warlord Sargos? Why don’t you have him bring his barbarians up into Grefftscharr?”

  “That sounds like a good idea, use one of your allies to do your dirty work. However, while Ranjar Sargos may be the warlord of the nomads, he is not their leader. They do as they wish, except when they go to war. Sargos did us a big favor last summer when he led the clans across the Great River and into the Sastragath, where they destroyed several of the Order’s tarrs. The clansmen had a great victory, but it was a costly one as well. Tens of thousands were killed attacking the Knights’ tarrs, thousands more were killed in the invasion of Hos-Ktemnos. Right now, most of the chiefs and headmen are counting their losses along with their booty.

  “It will be another spring or two before the clans are ready again to make a mass advance over the Great River and throw themselves against the Order’s fortresses. Plus, now they want more gold, guns, arquebuses and fireseed before they go against the Zarthani Knights again. They’re learning that they need better weapons to go up against the Knights, and right now we don’t have the guns or fireseed to spare.”

  Sarrask nodded. “There is much truth in your words. Still, maybe you might consider allowing me to accompany the reinforcements you intend to send to Captain-General Hestophes in Hos-Agrys.”

  Kalvan sighed, wondering if Sarrask would ever get his full measure of fighting. If Kalvan had his druthers, he would order Hestophes home and let the Argrysi League of Dralm get hoisted on its own petard. If there were any princes there who had enough manpower to actually resist Soton’s Host of Styphon’s Deliverance, he would have sent gold and weapons to buy their help. Like the British during the Napoleonic Wars, he’d much rather pay allies to fight his battles than expend his own troops. The problem was the Fireseed Wars had bled the Five Kingdoms dry of mercenaries and professional soldiers. Most of the former free companions were either dead or aligned with him or with Styphon’s House.

  “I will keep your request under consideration. However, Prince Sarrask, what I really want you to do is to finish repairing your tarr and training your new troops.”

  TW⊕

  I

  Grand Master Soton sat on his warhorse watching as the Host’s artillerymen loaded their guns, readying them for another salvo against the towering walls of Agrys City. Not much had been accomplished in his absence while he was in Glarth chasing down the heir apparent, Dementros, rather than attending to business. Before he left Glarth, he’d ordered his men to sack and torch Glarth Town as an example of what the Host of Styphon’s Deliverance would do once the siege of Agrys City was over. Now, the League of Dralm knew the cost of fighting Styphon’s House. The wiser princes would come to terms. If they didn’t, the death and destruction to come would be on their heads.

  The curtain walls of Agrys City, made of black granite blocks, rose up some twenty rods and stretched out for dozens of marches on either side of the sally port where the artillery bombardment against the walls was focused. The plaster facing from this area was long gone and the wall was deeply torn and gouged with a growing pile of rubble accumulating at its base.

  Most of Agrys City was perched atop ridges so every shot had to fight its way uphill while those fired downhill had the better trajectory. It was fortunate for the Host of Styphon’s Deliverance that most of the city’s towers only had one or two guns, usually old hooped-iron bombards that were slow to load, hazardous to fire and almost impossible to aim with any accuracy.

  The head artillery officer looked over at him—Soton raised his warhammer.

  When his warhammer dropped, the linstocks went down to the touchholes and a mass volley of gunfire roared forth releasing a cloud of white and gray-ribbed fireseed smoke billowing above the guns.

  The cannon balls slammed into the stone wall with a sound like that of two battle lines of opposing lancers smashing into each other. Several large rocks fell from the wall and granite splinters showered the immediate area. The musketeers kept the Agrysi defenders from firing their muskets over the parapets at the artillerymen; they had quickly learned to keep their heads down and fire from firing slits in the walls which gave limited visibility in the smoky twilight of the battle zone.

  Soton felt the ground shudder right through his saddle and horse. His destrier, accustomed to the moons-long bombardment, didn’t even twitch.

  Just today six new eighteen-pounders had arrived by galley from Balph. The additional firepower was making a noticeable difference. Maybe this interminable siege would end soon.

  He turned to Horse Master Sarmoth asking, “How long before we have a breach?”

  “The master gunner told me a moon half with the new guns, if it be Styphon’s Will, sir. He said it would be sooner, but the Agrysi engineers are shoring the wall up with timbers and raising up another wall behind this one.”

  Soton nodded. With enough guns, the Host of Styphon’s Deliverance could have provided the Agrysi with several breaches to worry about and they would have been too busy to build a second wall. Still, the loose rocks and boulders they were emplacing behind the proper wall would be quickly dispatched by concentrated gunfire. At best, they were buying a few days.

  And for what? For the League of Dralm, which had gone down in ignominious defeat three moons ago before these very walls, to return? Or were they expecting a gods-sent miracle or the Usurper Kalvan to sail across the Sea of Aesklos, then travel over a thousand marches to come to their rescue? Ha!

  No, Soton decided, the City is doomed and I will be the first man to successfully besiege this great city since the days of Simocles the Great several hundred winters ago. Simocles had been a warlord from the marches when he had gathered a huge host of warriors and besieged Agrys City. In those times, the walls had been made of timber and he had fired them, driving his enemies from the City
. At that time, the idea of stone walls was a new one and he had built the original tarr here and most of the surrounding walls, although they had been expanded in places as Agrys City had grown.

  Once the City had fallen, the Host of Styphon’s Deliverance would give Hos-Agrys a new Prince and Prince-Regent. Archpriest Grythos would be proclaimed the new Prince of the Princedom of Agrys—taking the crown of the deceased Prince Vython. Grythos would remain Prince-Regent of the Kingdom of Hos-Agrys until Prince Dementros was old enough to become Great King of Hos-Agrys. The heir was only ten winters of age, which meant he wouldn’t reach his majority for three more years.

  Will that be enough time to bind him to Styphon’s reins? Soton wondered. The lad had spunk; Dementros had met Soton’s eyes with a direct gaze upon their first meeting a moon ago. He had even insisted upon bringing his two companions with him to the encampment. Soton had acquiesced to his demands rather than alienating the boy.

  Soton’s plan was to use honey to win the boy over, but if that didn’t work—then an iron fist. Dementros’ companions would make good hostages, if it became necessary to force the boy’s acquiescence, should he ever begin to present his own ideas about ruling Hos-Agrys. The boy was to be Styphon’s figurehead, nothing more. His maidservant and her daughter would also make good bargaining tokens, as the boy doted on the girl.

  Archpriest Cimon had taken a personal interest in the boy’s welfare which was good, as it kept him out of Roxthar’s way. The so-called “Peasant Priest” was also useful in dealing with the wounded and dying. He spent almost as much time around the healers as he did young Prince Dementros.

  The maidservant herself stuck like a bone in Soton’s craw. She was assertive and overly-protective of all the children. She would be sent back to the village of Salis as soon as Dementros reached his age of majority.

  Also, he would have to caution Archpriest Grythos to show more patience, as the Archpriest was already at his wit’s end with the lad. If Grythos had his way, he’d whip the boy as if he were some lackey. Prince Dementros was to be the new Great King and any corporal punishment the boy might receive now might come back to haunt Styphon’s House later on. Nor would the lad’s subjects tolerate such handling; no need to foment rebellion when a honey pot would do just as well.

  Soton heard the sound of voices raised in anger behind him and turned in his saddle. Heading his way were Archpriest Roxthar, the Holy Investigator, and a flock of his white-robed Investigators. Several of his Knights were blocking their path and the spectral Archpriest was in full rant. He had been avoiding the Investigator ever since his return from Glarth Town with the young heir.

  He lifted his arm and signaled to the Commander in charge to allow the party to move forward. Roxthar, his white robe flapping in the wind, raced over to his side. “How much longer do we have to wait before these walls come down?”

  “Half a moon quarter, maybe longer.”

  The Investigator raised his arms as though he were beseeching Styphon himself. “If only I could call down the True God’s wrath upon this City. Let them wait, they will learn of his displeasure when we put them all to the Investigation!”

  “You will do no such thing,” Soton proclaimed.

  “What do you mean?” Roxthar cried, his eyes flashing. Several of his supporters were adding to the growing discord, beseeching Styphon and waving their arms. One of the Investigators, a tall man with a shaved head and no beard, began to shake his fist at Soton.

  These fools believe they are immortal, Soton thought. Are they so addled that they actually believe that Styphon will come down from his Sky-Palace and come to their aid? Or do they believe Roxthar is above reproach?

  “What I mean, Archpriest, is that there will be no Investigation inside the walls of Agrys City.”

  “The City is ripe with heresy and full of Dralm worshippers!” Roxthar shouted. “It is Styphon’s Will that the entire City be cleansed of infidels.”

  Soton pointed his warhammer straight at Roxthar and, in a deliberate tone of voice, said, “Priest, it is I who give the orders here, not you. If you have any complaints, take them up with Styphon’s Own Voice.”

  Roxthar shook his head.

  The bald Investigator made Hadron’s sign, of two horns, and shouted, “Heresy! You are aiding the Dralmites!”

  He saw Sarmoth’s right hand drop to his sword hilt.

  “I mean what I say, Roxthar. If any of your Investigators, including yourself, enter the City, my men have orders to kill them where they stand.”

  “Blasphemy! I must have the freedom to do my Investigation. The City must be cleansed of the False God Dralm and his idolaters. It is Styphon’s Will!”

  Soton shook his head. “It is your will, Investigator. You have no authority here. I was given the order by Styphon’s Own Voice himself not to allow you or your men to Investigate the citizens of Agrys City. If necessary, my Knights will contain your zeal.”

  The Investigator’s eyes burned like hot coals. “This City is a living blight in the eyes of the True God. It must be purified!”

  Soton looked Roxthar right in the eyes. “When the City has been taken, I will bring you those priests and worshippers of Dralm who will not renounce their false god. Otherwise, the City will not be molested by your Investigation.”

  The bald-headed Investigator ran forward with his hands raised as if to pull Soton from his saddle. Soton nodded and Sarmoth pulled his sword from its sheath, put two hands on the hilt and swung it so hard it beheaded the man before anyone could protest. A fountain gushed forth from his neck, spraying Roxthar and his supporters’ white robes with bright red arterial blood. The other Investigators gasped and fell back, but Roxthar held his place.

  “You, who call yourself the Grand Master of Styphon’s Knights, will pay for this desecration, Archpriest or no!” Roxthar cried, spraying spittle as he screeched. He raised his hands to invoke his master. “I curse you and your henchman in the name of the One True God Styphon. You both will die hideous deaths and spend the rest of eternity in the lowest pit in the Caverns of the Dead. You baseless churls who have stooped so low as to take this righteous man’s life.”

  Soton raised his warhammer and said, “It’s unfortunate that it was not you who rushed to my side, Roxthar.” He began to wonder if this wasn’t the perfect time to take the Investigator’s life. He had more than enough of his Knights to do the job quickly. He might never again find Archpriest Roxthar so far from his protectors, Styphon’s Own Guard.

  But Roxthar spun around and left—and the moment was lost.

  II

  Prince Phidestros puffed away on his pipe as he tried to ignore the piles of requisitions, letters, pleas and dispatches that covered his desk. What he really needed was a good head quartermaster; General Kyblannos had been helping out, but he was more interested in developing new guns than sorting scrolls and shuffling parchments. Baron Ranthos, who was due back from Hos-Agrys, might make an ideal quartermaster; he knew how to read, was good at ciphering and maybe too smart for his own good. It might be a good idea to keep him under my wing where I can keep an eye on him and make sure he isn’t overly ambitious.

  Soon he would be done with his wintering of the Harphaxi Army and he could return to home and hearth in Besh Town.

  There was a sharp knock and the door opened to reveal Baron Kyblannos, one of his top commanding officers and old comrade. Kyblannos was wearing the old Iron Band colors of black and green which were now the livery colors of Greater Beshta. The Beshtan’s colors were still black and pale yellow, just as the Princedom of Sask colors were still red and yellow.

  “What is it, Kyblannos? Not more work, I hope.”

  “No, Cap’n, this is a different kind of trouble. You have a visitor, but one I’m not sure you want to see. A Duke Sestembar from Zygros City.”

  “Ahh. My father’s lap dog. I wonder what he wants now?” Phidestros asked. His mother, Kythra, had been one of Grand Duke Eudocles’ mistresses until she’d started showing
. Then Eudocles had dropped her like a hot branding iron, despite his false promises to take care of her and the child to be. Her family had disowned her even before the pregnancy, and his mother was forced to run a boarding house and take in laundry to make ends meet. Kythra, weakened by hard work, had died of the flux while he was apprenticed to a small carpentry shop building cabinets. His mother had deserved a far better life, which as her son he had hoped to provide for her. Her death had brought his youth to an end; Phidestros still blamed his father for all of his mother’s ills and early demise.

  He had not even known that the blood of Great Kings ran through his veins until after his mother had died. His father, nor his absence, was never mentioned by his mother. As a fatherless boy, he’d taken more than his share of taunts and beatings from other children. It wasn’t until his fourteenth winter that he learned that his father was a man of wealth and social prominence who was unable to acknowledge his bastard son, but did want to see that said son was provided for.

  Phidestros had asked the go-between many questions, but they’d been met with silence and a purse of gold—even at fourteen winters he’d known better than to spit into the face of Lystris. It wasn’t until he’d had some success on the battlefield that the go-between, Count Sestembar, had finally arranged a meeting with his father. Phidestros had disliked him at first sight, and nothing he’d heard or learned about Eudocles had changed his mind.

  “I can send him on his way, Cap’n, if you want.”

  “No, it’s best I see him. I’m curious as to what Prince Eudocles is up to.”

  As he sauntered into the War Room, the Duke exuded a smarmy confidence that made Phidestros’ blood run cold. Sestembar wore a mink robe with a tall fur hat and was smoking a scrimshaw pipe carved in Phidestros’ father’s likeness.

  “Congratulations, Your Highness, on all your military success since we last met,” Sestembar said.