by John F. Carr
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Ruffulo felt he was floating as he left the audience chamber. King Verkan had given him a signal honor; there hadn’t been a formal Deputy of the Assembly of Lords since the time of Theovacar’s great-grandfather. The other lords would be pleased at the honor the Assembly had received from the King. Of course, they would question his own appointment, but in the end they would accept it along with the King’s proclamations. He would see to it.
Moments after Deputy Ruffulo closed the chamber door, Kostran Galth came in saying, “Boy, Chief, you had him eating out of the palm of your hand.”
Verkan nodded. “I wish you’d stop calling me Chief. I’m King Verkan now. Ruffulo’s a good man; his credentials are impeccable. He’s smart, he’s cautious, he’s loyal, maybe too loyal; he should have given Theovacar a steel sandwich a long time ago. He can even trace his family back almost a thousand years, which gives him a lot of cachet in Greffan society.”
Kostran laughed, “Yeah, since yours only goes back a few years.”
“Exactly. I’m an upstart, but fortunately, I’m an unknown upstart without too many enemies. Although, after my first few proclamations they’ll quickly pile up.”
Kostran nodded. “Oh yeah, wait until they find out you’re going to outlaw slavery and free the slaves. That’ll put the pot on boil!”
Verkan sighed. “I’m not going to do it all at once, Kostran. I’m going to start with freeing all the slaves that helped with the war effort and move on from there. Duke Ruffulo has long been part of the antislavery gang and I’ll let him be the spokesman.”
“That should work. I know your pay raises lifted the army’s morale to a new high.”
“As cheap as Theovacar was, I’m surprised he never had a barracks revolt,” Verkan said.
“True, except there was no opposition. Theovacar crushed any and all opponents before they had time to organize against him. It’s too bad the fall of Greffa was so late in the campaign season. Otherwise, Kalvan could have rolled up the rest of Grefftscharr and made himself Great King of the Upper Kingdoms.”
“I don’t think it would have been that easy. Theovacar still had half his fleet and Kalvan’s soldiers were worn to the nub from traveling from Hostigos to Thagnor and then fighting several pitched battles. Remember your Fourth Level history and how Napoleon got over his head when he charged into Russia instead of consolidating his power?”
Kostran nodded. “Look, Chief, I’m enjoying all the fun and games on Kalvan’s Time-Line, but enough is enough. There’s big trouble brewing back on Home Time Line and they need you back there, not playing King-of-the-Day in Greffa.”
Verkan shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“You know Dalla; she’s as stubborn as you are. She won’t ask for help until there’s blood on the streets.”
“Sorry, Kostran. It’s not my problem any more. I’ve had it dealing with the newsies and Opposition. Let Dalla deal with it until she cries for help, then I’ll give her a hand.”
“Sure, boss, sure.” Kostran said, shaking his head.
F⊕URTEEN
I
Darnos braced himself against the temporary barrack’s wooden wall as another barrage of Styphoni artillery fire struck the wall. His hands were shaking so much it took him a long time to fill his powder horn with fireseed. He wasn’t sure if the trembling was from the constant hunger, the lack of sleep or the incessant noise. The short rations he got as a militiaman were all that stood between his family and starvation. The only thing Darnos knew for certain was that there was no escape from the wolves inside the walls unless you wore a uniform.
Thieves, cutpurses, robbers and murderers owned those streets where the City Militia was not out in force. It was as if the demons of Regwarn had been given permission by Hadron, Lord of the Legions of the Dead, to emerge from their caverns and invest Agrys City. Maybe it was the certainty of imminent death or Investigation that brought out the worst in the local criminals, but it was turning the city inside out, as if it were eating its own entrails.
Already his youngest daughter, Sirys, had died, whether from the ague that was running through the city or starvation: he didn’t know. He suspected a bit of both. He couldn’t afford a healer even if one could be found. His wife was down to nothing but skin and bones; she was hardly eating at all, saving the scraps of food he brought home for the children. He kept telling her that starving herself was not helping them.
Who would take care of them if she got sick? Her mother had died at the beginning of the siege and her sister had disappeared.
The outer great wall had already been breached and the word racing through the streets was that the Styphoni would be marching into the city today. He had already made sure all the images of Allfather Dralm, Yirtta Allmother and the other gods in their quarters had been destroyed. All the sculptors and casters in the city had been busy for the past moon making images of Styphon, for those with a few coins, to place in prominent positions in their houses. He had spent the last of his phenigs on them. Will they be enough to appease the Investigators?
Somehow he doubted it. What if they ask me about Styphon’s Revelations? I know nothing about the False God!
“Form up, you worthless sucklings at Yirtta’s dugs!” the Captain cried. “Soon we will have Styphoni to kill.”
The trenches at the breach were almost done, from there they would fire at the enemy as they passed through the gap. In front of their assigned position, hidden in the rubble, were concealed bombards loaded with case shot and petards among them which would slow down the Styphoni advance. Pitfalls, iron spikes and wire trip lines would stop cavalry as well as grapeshot. On the rooftops waited hidden arquebusiers, calivermen, slingers and men with pots of boiling hot oil.
His friend Lathos whispered, “With the gods’ help, maybe we can hold them.”
Darnos nodded, although inside he doubted the gods cared one way or the other about the war, not even the Wargod. The Highpriests of Galzar had put the Styphoni under the Ban of Galzar, but it hadn’t stopped them. So far it appeared that the gods were on the side of the Styphoni or the siege would have been over moons ago. All he knew for certain was that he’d rather take a bullet head-on than in the back—or worst of all, be captured and tortured by the White Sheets of Styphon’s House’s Investigation.
Darnos picked up his arquebus and fell in with the rest of his company as they made their way down the street toward their trench. His company, the Coopers Street Arquebusiers, had a muster list of less than sixty men; the other half were ill, dead or in hiding. There were some pats on the shoulder, a few curses of “Down Styphon!” and a petty-captain handed him a flask of warm wine heavily diluted with water. He took a deep drink and passed it on to the man behind him.
The clouds parted and the wind kicked up, showing a red and swollen sun. The stench of brimstone filled the air. He felt a cough building deep in his lungs and pushed it down. The last time he’d started coughing it had taken an eighth of a candle to catch his breath again. The Captain used the side of his sword if he thought anyone was malingering and he had a very loose interpretation of what that meant.
Darnos’ cotton gambeson was so large he was floating in it; he remembered a time when it fit tightly. At least he had a rope to hold up his breeches. A few of the men weren’t so lucky and had to use one hand to hold them up. He wondered, how will they fight when the Styphoni attack with their breeches around their ankles? He was sure their petty-captain believed it would keep them from turning and running, although he doubted there were many who would turn tail.
The cowards had left already, not that there was any place left to go. There wasn’t. Deserters who were caught had been hung in the public square until there had been so many corpses that it turned the square into a charnel house. Now deserters’ throats were cut and they were dumped unceremoniously over the city walls at night for the Styphoni to smell.
The Coopers Street Militia would fight until the Styphoni were defea
ted, or until they died. No militiaman was anxious to surrender to the Styphoni since it meant certain slavery, but only if they survived the Investigation. The thought of the Unholy Butcher Roxthar and his knives almost turned his bowels to water. It still might have, had there been anything inside them. He hadn’t eaten anything but scraps for the past moon quarter.
The Captain had promised something to eat when they reached the trenches. My last meal? he wondered.
The Royal soldiers were right behind them with muskets and what little heavy ordnance remained. Most of the guns had been in battlement towers, but a few of the smaller guns, four- and six-pounders, were behind them. There was no place to go; to go forward was to die, to retreat was to die. He suspected most of the City Militia would die on this Ormaz-spawned day.
Darnos prayed that the Allfather might spare his family. He asked nothing for himself except a quick death.
“Get a move on, you motherless sons!” their Captain shouted. “We’ve got two marches to walk before we hit the trenches. Down Styphon!”
The men followed his words up with a ragged cheer and a chorus of “Down Styphon!”
II
Knight Commander Sarmoth sat impatiently on Steel Hooves, patting him on the left shoulder in an attempt to keep his charger calm in the midst of the growing pandemonium. In the other hand he grasped one of his horse pistols. From up close, the great walls of Agrys City stretched out on either side of the breach like towering cliffs. Between the broken bulwark was a spew of rubble and dead bodies. The prisoners were clearing the gap even faster than Soton had predicted. The fear of return fire spurred them on even better than the overseers’ whips.
The sound of massed gunfire came from beyond the breach where the Agrysi were holding the boulevard. It appeared they had more mettle than the Grand Master had predicted. He saw one Agrysi trooper, with the red and white plumes of the Royal Army jutting from his helmet, riding through the gap, jumping piles of rubble, as though he were leading a troop of cavalry.
Sarmoth aimed his flintlock pistol and fired. The bullet hit the horse in the chest and it stumbled, throwing the rider headfirst into the broken stones. The man cried out and bounced once before slumping over the broken rocks, his helmet gone and head cocked at an unnatural angle.
The cries of the wounded horse split the air. He pulled out another pistol and shot the animal in the head.
The Host’s guns were already moving up to the breach. He watched as the wheel of one ox cart, carrying a big bombard, hit a big rock and tilted dangerously. The drivers jumped from their seats and tried to correct the cart with their staffs, but the huge gun slowly tipped over, snapping ropes and taking the cart sideways, hitting the ground with a resounding crash. One of the men was pinned under the broken cart and Sarmoth could hear his high-pitched screams through the battle racket until one of his fellow draymen pulled out a hideaway pistol and gave him a mercy shot behind the ear.
The artillery captain in charge broke off from his battery and rode his horse over to Sarmoth’s mount. He cupped his hands to better amplify his voice through the popping of gunfire and screams of the wounded. “We should have the gap cleared soon, Horse Master. Two or three volleys of grapeshot and there won’t be enough Agrysi soldiers left to make up a company!”
Sarmoth cupped his hand around his ear and indicated that the captain was to come closer. His voice was hoarse from moons of shouting over continual artillery fire and his voice cracked as he spoke. “The grapeshot will only kill those stupid enough to stand up. Who knows how many are hiding behind barricades, walls and on roofs? Be careful and keep your mucking powder dry!”
The captain nodded in return and rode up to join his battery. It wasn’t long before he disappeared through the wide gap in the walls.
III
As Darnos made his way carefully through the rubble-strewn streets, he got his first look at the breach. It was as if one of the gods had reached down from his Sky-Palace and ripped out a big chunk of the City Wall! Most the buildings near the gap had collapsed and were in ruins. Dead bodies were scattered about and not all of them were soldiers; he saw women and children, too.
The man ahead of him bent over to pick up a lopsided cannonball the size of his fist. “Look at this!”
Darnos looked it over: It was dented and pushed out of shape. This little thing did all that damage? he wondered. Then he saw a big one, about ten times the size of the little one. It was a perfect sphere, almost as if it had been laid down gently in the rubble by the giant hand of one of the gods.
“Keep moving!” cried one of the petty-captains. “The Styphoni will be moving into the breach soon. It’s up to us to stop the spawn of Styphon before they bring in their Investigators.”
They all knew what that meant and stepped up their pace. He used the butt of his arquebus to steady himself where the road was covered with broken stones and bricks. He had to be careful in his sandals as it would be easy to break a toe on one of the rocks, or trip and fall. Only the cavalry were supplied with boots and he’d heard that some of them had traded them for gold crowns in the marketplace. People were hungry enough to eat almost anything, even rich people. He doubted there was a leather belt left in the City.
Using the ruins for cover, he watched as one of the captain-generals lined the Agrysi regulars in rows with the arquebusiers and musketeers in the front lines, halberdiers at the sleeves and pikemen to the rear. There were banners from over fifty companies, but most of them were about half strength. The early sorties against the Host had been costly. Darnos estimated their number at between two and three thousand men. There were another two thousand regulars behind the City Militia either guarding their backs or making sure they didn’t run off.
The militiamen formed up and started going down into the second section of trenches; the first section was where the regulars would retire after their first few volleys. Darnos was relieved that he wasn’t a regular; it was much safer in the trenches, especially if the Styphoni moved guns through the breach.
When the first of the prisoners came into the gap, a few of the musketeers fired their weapons, causing an expletive-laced outburst from their petty-captains. Several of the rag-clad prisoners were hit, falling to the ground, but the rest kept working. Darnos suspected there were hand gunners, with orders to shoot, out of sight behind the breach.
One of the captains cried out, “Hold your fire! These are your neighbors, not Styphoni.”
All fire ceased while several captains and the three captain-generals argued among themselves. Meanwhile the prisoners tossed rocks and debris into ox- and horse-drawn carts.
One of the mounted officers rode through the breach, after having an animated discussion with some scouts, who were a motley collection of buckskin-clad hunters and outlying ranchers. Darnos suspected that the scouts refused to ride beyond the gap. They heard shots and screams. The officer didn’t return. The scouts laughed uproariously.
Damn fool! Darnos thought to himself. Did he think a one-man charge was going to panic the Styphoni or was he bent on suicide? Or did he just panic? He’d seen stranger sights in the past few moons, like the merchant who climbed up to the top of the wall in broad daylight screaming his allegiance to Styphon only to get gut-shot by the Styphoni.
After several candles of watching as the prisoners cleared rocks, they were finally brought some tough jerky to chew on while they waited for the Styphoni to move forward. Darnos’ teeth were so loose he could barely chew and it took a long time to moisten the jerky in his mouth so that it was soft enough that he could gnaw on it. Water was brought by donkeys with casks tied to either side. He used the communal cup and filled it twice before being jostled away.
Darnos knew things were going from bad to terrible when the prisoners ran away and there was a short period of silence. His heart began to thump like a drum.
Most of the nearby towers were in ruins, but there were still men on the parapets watching the Styphoni from above. He heard several of them
shouting. He couldn’t make out what they were yelling, but he noticed that several of the couriers below them were leaving their posts and running toward the officers.
He took his time to set the butt of his arquebus on the ground, then grip it by the barrel and pour a measured amount of fireseed into it from his spring-loaded powder horn. Next he took a bullet from his pouch and used the ramrod to push it home with a small piece of tattered cloth he used as wadding. When the gun was loaded, he cocked the hammer and then loaded fireseed in the flash pan, making sure to secure the striker.
“First ranks prepare to fire!” one of the captain-generals in front of their ditches cried out. Almost a thousand smoothbores dropped into firing stance.
The first notice they had that the Styphoni were coming was the bellow from the Zarthani Knights’ battle horns. Some of the militia began to stomp their feet in agitation. A few attempted to claw their way out of the trenches, but were clubbed back with gun butts by the petty-captains.
“When those Dralm-damned bastards get here, don’t give up a pace,” the Captain ordered. “The Investigators will follow behind their ranks as sure as nightfall. They will torture and kill any man jack of you who’s stupid enough to fall into their hands! Better to die like a man than be tortured by Styphon’s minions in human form!”
Darnos nodded with the rest. If even half the tales that had come out of Hostigos were true, anything was preferable to letting those white-robed demons take you into custody.
The bellowing of the horns grew closer and suddenly the first ranks of the black-clad Zarthani Knights came marching through the breach, which was about fifty men wide. It was a terrible sight; they had Styphon’s Own Device on the breasts of their black tunics in white. The Captain-General kept his sword raised until ten lines of the Styphoni were through the gap, then he dropped it. “FIRE!”