Gunpowder God

by John F. Carr

  Their initial charge had taken them deep into the Styphoni center, but now that the guardsmen had recovered from the shock of impact and reformed, they were pressing the Hostigi center badly. The pike-men were slowly being driven back uphill by the guardsmen’s glaives, which were hard to fend off with just a pike. Syllon’s fear was that if the Red Hand killed and wounded enough of the front ranks of Hostigi pikemen, the Styphoni would run through the untested rear ranks of Agrysi pikemen like a skewer through a piglet.

  He shoved his pikehead against a guardsman’s back-and-breast, only to have it slip off and almost cause him to lose his footing. The point’s shot to Regwarn! There’s only so much punishment good steel can take.

  The Temple Guardsman used that opportunity to advance and bring his glaive blade down on the pikeman next to him, cutting through his leather gorget and almost beheading him. Syllon dropped his pike and pulled out his sword, shoving it straight into the Guardsman’s face. He was rewarded when the point slipped off the cheekbone and went straight through the eye socket, not stopping until it hit the back of his skull. Wrenching his blade back, he attacked another Guardsman who came at him with his glaive.

  Fortunately, Syllon lost his footing on some entrails and the glaive blade passed right by his head, clanging off the side of his sallet, which he’d taken off a dead nobleman at the battle of Fyk. While he was getting back on his feet, Gatnor moved forward with his pike to cover him, forcing the Temple Guardsman to move back with sharp jabs aimed at the Guardsman’s face.

  IV

  Hestophes drank deeply from his water flask, a leather flask holding a day’s ration of watered wine. He was more anxious having to watch the battle unfold than he would have been leading one of the arms. The only place they were doing well was with the right flank commanded by Duke Mnestros. He had the Union advance choked up and was slowly beating them back down the hill.

  He could see that the center was hard-pressed, despite their early success. It was too soon to use the reserve, and they might be needed in case the left flank got into any more trouble. Meanwhile, the pike-men were slowly being pushed back; if they broke, the center would be rolled up like a carpet.

  It was time for the big surprise. This was one of what Kalvan called dirty tricks; the Great King had been known to use them with some success, such as the exploding redoubt at Phyrax Field.

  Hestophes called out to the flagman, “Signal Colonel Ralthos to fire off all the red rockets!” He was hoping that they would light up the gray sky enough that the pikemen would see them. It was a big gamble; if the pikemen didn’t see rockets they could well be chewed up by their own guns.

  A few moments later, the sky was filled with red as the rockets rose into the sky and exploded into what Kalvan called a fireworks display.

  V

  Suddenly the gray sky was filled with red lights and showering sparks. “Down!” Syllon shouted as loud as he could while falling flat to the ground. The Temple Guardsman who had almost beheaded him looked at him in surprise, and then turned his head up to look into the red sky.

  A moment later all the League’s guns fired in one volley, sending a barrage of cannon balls over the heads of the prostrate pikemen and arquebusiers right into the gawking Styphoni Guardsmen. With over fifty guns firing, the carnage of dismembered limbs and torsos turned the lower half of the hillside into an abattoir.

  “Up pikes!” shouted Syllon, as soon as he could get back onto his feet.

  Men rose up from the ground by the hundreds, shaking themselves and thanking Galzar that the cannon fire had passed over their heads. Although a few who’d forgotten the drill, or were otherwise distracted by combat, didn’t get up, lying with the other battlefield casualties.

  “Let your pikes fall!” cried out the petty-captains.

  “Charge!” a captain shouted.

  Syllon didn’t have time to find his pike, instead he picked up a fallen glaive and used it to quickly dispatch a Temple Guardsman, who was suddenly staring at the fountain of blood spraying out from his amputated arm just above the elbow. He smashed through three or four reeling Guardsmen and led his men into the swirling mix of dazed and wounded that was now the Styphoni center.

  The Hostigi pikemen hit the disordered Temple Guard like a runaway wagon going through a flock of turkeys. Most of the Styphoni were still in shock, or wounded. Many of them lay where they fell.

  The mallet men, wearing leather armor or at best a corselet, were even faster, smashing heads and cutting purses, amulets, chains and ring fingers off the dead and wounded. Even a few of the pikemen were stooping over to rob the downed Temple Guardsmen, who were particularly rich battlefield casualties. Syllon used the back of his glaive to knock some sense into several of them.

  They were halfway through the Union lines when he realized that their formation was almost as disordered as the fleeing Styphoni. “Form ranks,” he shouted, gathering a company’s worth of men around the Hostigi banner.

  “We’ll watch your backs,” he told those in range of his voice. “Don’t let a single rat bastard one of them get away!” he cried. “Kill them all! These are Styphon’s spawn. Down Styphon! Down Styphon! Down Styphon!”

  Other voices picked up the chant and began screaming, “Down Styphon! Down Styphon! Down Styphon!,” as they charged after the fleeing guardsmen.

  From Syllon’s vantage point, he could see that the Agrysi infantry behind the Temple Guard had completely given up the field and were overwhelming the rearguard Red Hand. Some of these men won’t stop until they reach the Great Ocean.

  He turned to his left, as the ranks parted for a moment, and saw nothing but downed horses and dead and dying soldiers of both sides littering the hillside. What happened to our left flank?

  VI

  “Is the peasant lover dead, Captain Thalvar?” Prince Simias asked, his voice sounding strange even to his ears as he talked around broken teeth and swollen lips.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the Baron replied.”

  “Good. You will be well rewarded with a dukedom as promised.” He had Archpriest Roxthar’s word that after Prince Varion’s death, he’d be given Varion’s adjoining princedom to add to his own holdings. It would make him the largest landholder in Hos-Agrys and the most powerful prince in the kingdom.

  Now, he could fully concentrate his energies on destroying the enemy.

  One of his bodyguards rode up. “Sir, the League’s horse have started to recoil. Another good charge and they’re finished.”

  “Good. Thalvar, you will ride at my side.”

  From the top of the ridge, he could see that his men-at-arms were driving the League’s cavalry over the other side of the hill to their deaths. Simias quickly couched a new lance and motioned his bodyguard forward.

  He was careful to step his charger carefully through the litter of castoff weapons, armor and saddles as well as dead and dying horses and men until they were well over the ridge crest. Below a score of enemy men-at-arms were rallying and making a stand, stopping the pursuit.

  By this time he’d picked up forty to fifty men-at-arms who were gathering around his standard. He raised his lance, shouting, “Kill every last one! Spare no one!”

  He led the charge, barreling right into the clot of League cavalrymen. The shock of impact knocked almost a score of the enemy cuirassiers to the ground, some dead, others rolling on the ground to avoid their horses’ hooves. His own lance shattered when it hit a man-at-arms in the breastplate, knocking the enemy off his horse. The other men-at-arms broke, turned and started to run pell-mell downhill.

  Simias broke into a twisted smile, or as much of one as his bruised and battered lips would permit. He lifted his sword and partially decapitated a man slowly rising from the ground as he rode by. Soon they will be singing my praises in all the taverns in Hos-Agrys when word spreads about our heroic charge!

  F⊕RTY SEVEN

  I

  Just as he was congratulating himself on the success of their “dirty trick,
” as Kalvan called it, Captain-General Hestophes noticed that the cavalry on the League’s left flank were in serious jeopardy. What a cock-up!

  Hestophes wondered if it was time to send off messengers to order the reserve to advance and protect the center’s flank from the Union cavalry. The center was especially vulnerable now, since they were stretched all the way down the ridge, chasing after the fleeing guardsmen and Agrysi foot. If the Union horse wheeled and attacked, the field might be lost, despite the success of Duke Mnestros and the League’s right wing which had fought the Union cavalry to a standstill and looked poised to make a breakthrough.

  Suddenly the League’s left wing cavalry turned tail and were running back over the ridge top! Where in Styphon’s name is Prince Clytos? Somebody has to regroup, or defeat is imminent.

  Hestophes knew that a battle could be lost in the blink of an eye. All he had at hand was the Hostigi reserve against complete disaster. Then he couldn’t believe his eyes! No, it can’t be? The Styphoni are riding over the ridge after them!

  The Styphoni horse had just lost a great opportunity to roll up the League’s center; instead, they were chasing after the League of Dralm’s broken left wing like hunters after a wolf pack. Wasn’t Prince Varion in charge of the Union right wing? I saw his banners and colors. He should know better, the idiot.

  Praise Galzar! The Dralm-damn fools may have just won us the battle. They probably won’t stop until they reach the walls of Varthon Town, or their horses drop dead.

  With the Styphoni center broken and in full retreat, with their right wing chasing the League of Dralm’s left wing all the way to the Sea of Skirlos, it was time to commit the rearguard. If they moved quickly enough, they could advance, wheel and fire mass volleys into the Styphoni left wing, completely disordering the remaining Union cavalry.

  Hestophes gave orders to his messengers who quickly rode off to take them to the officers commanding the infantry reserve. He waited impatiently as time seemed to come to a halt. Finally, the rearguard began to move forward. When the arquebusiers and musketeers had moved into position, the infantry block wheeled and volleyed. The Styphoni cavalry wavered and then disintegrated where the handgunners had fired, leaving hundreds of dead and dying men and horses.

  II

  Duke Mnestros felt the total elation of victory as he led his troops right through the broken lines of the Union’s horse. He had to slow his horse to a walk, there were so many corpses and dying horses littering the field. A few Union cuirassiers and lancers held their ground, but they were quickly dispatched or ridden down. The rest were fleeing as if they had Styphon’s fireseed devils on their trail. The center was broken and in full rout, except for a band or two of Styphon’s Own Guard who were completely surrounded and appeared ready to die to the last man.

  Well, fight or surrender, they are all dead men—regardless. Too many dead Varthoni and investigated peasants to avenge.

  The mallet men were all over the field smashing heads, cutting the throats of the wounded and looting corpses.

  Mnestros oversaw the surrender of several hundred mercenaries who had hoisted their helmets on their lances or swords. Some of his troopers had to be physically restrained from killing them anyway. Almost everyone had heated blood, but killing prisoners who were surrendering was not done in his service.

  One captain spat, “They fought for that devil Styphon—let them die for him.”

  “It’s not Galzar’s Way,” he answered. “Any man jack of you who knowingly kills a man surrendering will have to answer to me!”

  “They’re under the Ban! They have no call for Galzar’s protection.”

  “DRALM DAMNIT! Maybe they didn’t get the word, maybe they did. I don’t care. As your overlord and captain, I’m ordering you to take them prisoner. Anyone who disobeys will lose his head. That’s a promise!”

  That cowed the men and several squads led the prisoners off to Varthon Town. He sent two of his trusted petty-officers along to make sure his orders weren’t disobeyed as soon as they were over the ridge.

  The Union’s army was now defeated. The last of Styphon’s Own Guard were being cut down, and the only men still standing on the hillside were with the League. About half the right wing cavalry were chasing down the fleeing Union horse. He doubted many of the Styphoni would escape, either his men would dispatch them or the long road home—with short rations and every man in the princedom’s hand turned against them—would finish them off.

  For now, Mnestros’ horse was played out and his legs shuddery weak. It was time to attend to the wounded.

  III

  Prince Simias felt his stomach drop as they approached the walls and palisades of Varthon Town. A couple of small guns popped off, but they were too small and too far away to do any damage. The town gates were open and the League’s survivors of the long chase from the battlefield were driving their half-dead mounts through the gates into the safety of the walls. He could imagine the panic behind those walls as the townspeople realized they had lost the battle and their town would be stormed next.

  I wish I could hear their lamentations as they pray to their precious Dralm.

  He ordered his men to halt. Most of their horses were blown and they were too tired to mount a siege on the town. Nor did they have the guns. We left them behind with everyone else, Simias suddenly realized.

  About a third of the fleeing enemy horse had escaped through the city gates, but the rest had lost their lives or were wounded, lying along the trail. He sent out his captains to restore order.

  What are we going to do now? By Styphon’s Beard, I’d better get back to the battlefield.

  If he’d been a praying man, he would have gotten down on his knees to ask the gods for succor. If the battle was still raging, they would be okay and his transgressions forgiven. Blood lust, that’s what I’ll blame it on. The call of victory.

  But, by gods, if the rest of the Union hadn’t shared his success…. He shuddered at the thought. And just when I was so close to fulfilling my greatest dream.

  F⊕RTY-EIGHT

  Captain Dylon, as hardened as he was to combat, was appalled by the carnage left behind after the Hostigi reserves moved forward, wheeled and fired point-blank into the Union cavalry ranks, leaving the Union’s horse disordered and in complete disarray. With Princes Varion and Simias gone from the field, haring after the retreating League’s left wing, and the center in full rout, it was clear the battle was lost. It’s time for me to save what I can and act on Captain-General Eukides’ orders.

  He signaled his company to retreat and took off to the northeast through a copse of trees. They were well ahead of the League’s pursuit, but he had a promise to fulfill first.

  They traveled about six marches before they came to the small village that Archpriest Roxthar had made the headquarters for his Investigation. There were a few lounging guardsmen and a squad of bed-sheet priests herding prisoners.

  They rode up and one of the Temple Guardsmen held up his hand. “What are you doing here, Captain?”

  “The battle’s over, Grand-Captain,” Dylon told him flatly. “The center broke and the left wing is in full retreat. We lost.”

  “But there were six Temple bands there! How could we lose?”

  “Ask Princes Simias and Varion who hared off after the League’s left wing, leaving the field of battle to the League’s forces.”

  The guardsman turned white and let forth a string of curses, then turned to his squad mates, “We’ve got to leave, now!” He pointed to a whitewashed daub-and-wattle cottage. “Load up your saddlebags and take whatever you want.”

  As the other guardsmen, turned and started running to the cottage, he turned to Dylon, “That house is where all the Investigation’s booty is stored. We’re going to fill our saddlebags before we light out. I suggest you and your company do likewise.”

  Dylon nodded. “Where’s the Investigator?”

  The guard captain pointed to the village’s biggest building, made of timb
er with white plaster siding. “The Archpriest and his ghouls use that building as their headquarters.

  “I suggest you remove your red capes and insignia, Captain. Styphon’s Own Guard is not too well loved in Varthon these days.”

  He nodded. “Wise words. Thank you, Captain. What are you going to do with them?”

  Dylon smiled. “You don’t want to know.”

  The guard captain nodded. “To Hadron with them all, the bloody butchers!” Then he sprinted to the livery.

  Dylon turned to his petty-captain. “Find the prisoners. They’re probably penned up somewhere nearby. A pasture or someplace close. Gather up all the weapons you can find and give them to the prisoners after you free them.”

  “What about the underpriests?”

  “The Investigators. Let them face their victims.” He spat onto the ground. “We owe these scum nothing.”

  Dylon got down from his horse and led him over to a water trough. He motioned for several of the troopers to join him. The rest were headed for the treasure house. He called out, “Wait a minute.”

  He grabbed the sleeve of one of the Investigators who was looking about in dismay as he realized the straits he was in. “Where’s the food stored?”

  The white robe pointed to a small building that looked like a stable. “In there,” he said. “Will you take me with you?”