by Greg Curtis
“Cannon?”
“In the basement, behind the armoury. A full dozen and two ballista as well, if they haven't rotted completely away.”
It was entirely possible considering that the fort had been abandoned two hundred years before. Though it was well constructed and the underground stores and tunnels were dry, two hundred years was a long time. And he hadn't examined them very closely. Not since he had moved in.
“My Lord you are just full of surprises!” Kyriel said it as though she were less than pleased.
He wasn't sure why. It was almost as though she imagined he'd deliberately kept the knowledge from her. He hadn't. He'd just not thought about it at all since he hadn't planned on staying. He still didn't like the idea. But if his father had made the deal she claimed and the Mother was determined to keep the shrine open, it wasn't as if he had any say in the matter. A lot of questions but no say.
“Breakwater Holding is an old fort. When the Breakwater Patrol finally abandoned it they took the new and serviceable arms, but left most of the older stuff behind. The cannon aren't wheeled, and there were few wagons that could have carried that sort of weight. Each cannon is at least six hundred pounds even without its mounting.”
And that weight was going to be the next problem they had to face. Six hundred pounds of cast iron would need to be carried up two flights of stairs just to reach the ground, and then six more flights to reach the gun emplacements. And with only a dozen of them to lift them into place – if that. In time he could arrange a pulley system, but it was always going to be a question of how much time they had.
“Gun powder?”
Two barrels, maybe thirty pounds each. We'll need a lot more.”
“We can get it. Shot?”
What did she mean that they could get it he wondered? Surely not before the soldiers came riding up the hill. And afterwards would be too late. Edouard shook his head a little in disbelief but didn't bother questioning her.
“Plenty. They left the shot behind with the cannon. Both balls and grape shot.”
“A dozen cannon with an overlapping field of fire. A tower with several people armed with your heavy muskets and plenty of ammunition. More on the ramparts. Some reasonably solid walls and a steel gate. We can mount a respectable defence with that if we need to.”
Once again Kyriel showed her knowledge of all things military and Edouard was impressed. But he was still worried when she added the last. As if there was even a chance that Simon wouldn't instantly guess where he was and send a troop against them! Or an army. It was holding on to foolish hopes as far as he was concerned. Of course that was obviously what she was counting on. That the soldiers wouldn't come. But they would, and they'd need to mount a defence before they arrived. A damned good one.
“If? There is no 'if' in this my Lady. They'll come. They'll surely be here within a matter of hours.”
“I'm sure they will come. But whether they will reach us is another matter entirely my Lord.”
She stared straight at him, her face giving nothing away, and he suspected she wouldn't explain herself even if he asked. He suspected it had something to do with her faith. Clerics and handmaidens were often cryptic about matters relating to their faith. Something to do with secret mysteries that outsiders shouldn't know about. On the other hand all the soldiers had to do was come through the village and then up the path beyond to find them. It wasn't exactly a difficult journey, and the old fort was out in the open for all to see.
“But honoured guests Lord Edouard is right. There is little time. And while I am reasonably sure that my sisters and I can defend this fort against attack, nothing is certain. We will have to shut the gate within the hour and if you wish to leave you should be gone by then.”
She and her sisters could defend the fort? That struck Edouard as a strange thing to say. Strangely arrogant, even for one of the Tennari. She might be trained in military ways, but they needed more than just a few people who could shoot and she had to know that.
“My Lady we are tired and hungry. Most of us are weak and several still bear the injuries from the whips and beatings. We do not want to ride if we do not have to. But Lord Edouard is right. Unless you have some stratagem or weapon that we do not know of, to stay will be to die. Do you have such a thing?”
Sir Reginald asked the obvious question, and Edouard was suddenly reminded of the way he had been the first to swim through the grate. Was it bravery or cowardice that had motivated him then? Fear of being left behind to be caught, or the courage to show the others that it had been safe? He didn't know. Not then and not now. What he did know was that it was an important question.
“Yes.” Kyriel surprised him by actually answering a question directly for once and he wondered why. She never had with him.
“We will ask the Mother for a ward of misdirection to be placed upon the ground. Since we can communicate with her through the shrine we are building, it will not be difficult and she will want to protect her shrine. We have done the same elsewhere and never once has one of our shrines been destroyed by enemies.”
Was that possible, Edouard wondered? He wasn't familiar with either the magic of the mind or the magic of the handmaidens. And he didn't want to remind her that the shrine in Theria hadn't been protected from the mammoths. But it sounded like a powerful casting she was speaking of. It also sounded like something that might take time. Then again, it sounded like something to bring hope.
“Then I will stand by your side as the battle approaches.”
Sir Reginald managed a small bow and Edouard suddenly remembered that he was often called the consort of the court. Many a woman had fallen to his charms so the gossips claimed and the bards sang of his prowess in the bed chamber. Seeing him in action, even covered in dirt and wearing rags, he had to suspect that it was true. And that maybe he was set to try and charm the handmaidens as well. In which case the Seven would need to help him if he hurt one of Tyrel's handmaidens. No one else would. Still, there were things to do before worrying about such things and Edouard decided he had to take charge.
“Right then good people. Those who stay will have to start with me on the cannon. We have no time to waste. If we can get two standing in the corner emplacements of the front wall before lunch that will be an invaluable start. Honoured handmaidens if you could devote your attention to the ward it would be best. And Gwen if you and the other women could turn your attention to maintaining a watch from the tower and laying out the guns as we need them. We will also need hot food if we can get some.”
It was probably rude speaking to the others like that and giving them orders. They were his guests after all, but Edouard knew it had to be done. If they were to survive then they would have to be ready.
And as he stood to head for the basement and the cannon he noticed that quite a few of the men made to join him. That, more than anything else, pleased him. A man did not want to face an enemy alone. Especially not when it might well be his death.
But he also didn't want them to die either and despite his words he didn't have a lot of faith in the handmaiden's ward.
Chapter Twenty Six
Thrones were uncomfortable. That was the one thing that Simon had discovered from sitting on one. But while the throne itself was hard and the cushions just wouldn't seem to adjust to the shape of his body, it was the news he kept receiving that was truly ruining his time on the throne. It was all bad.
First his father had arrived in Bitter Crest, despite the messages he'd sent to him in the guise of the former king demanding that he return as quickly as he could to Theria. Obviously his father had received word from Marcus and realised that he was being deceived.
After that he had been publicly disowned by his father which was an embarrassment and it meant that his faint hope of becoming the future Count Severin had ended. But it wasn't unexpected unfortunately. What had followed however was. The House of Barris had allied itself with the Temple of Tyrel.
That had shocked him. It h
ad devastated Vesar who had spent days walking around in shock and trying to cover it up with his usual oily words. He hadn't wanted to be in direct opposition to a temple already.
And now he had learnt that his brother had escaped during the night. But worse than that, three more sparks had escaped with him. Simon had been counting on them. They were locked away, safe and secure. And if and when Vesar had turned on him he had hoped they would become his weapon against the black priest. No more.
“He escaped!” Simon was furious at being given the news by the sergeant. More than furious. And the sergeant was sweating profusely as he told him the sorry details. He surely knew what the likely punishment would be. What he didn't know was that it wasn't just likely: It was certain. The only matter yet to be decided was how painful his death would be.
As the sergeant gave him his report outlining just how his brother and all the other prisoners including three more sparks had escaped, Simon decided it had to be very painful indeed. The failure was breathtaking in its scope. Edouard had surely been tunnelling for days if not weeks and no one had guessed! Guards had been allowed to regularly drink to the point where they were falling down. The drugs to calm their magic hadn't been given. And worst of all the entire city would soon know of the escape. Of his own brother thwarting him. Things simply couldn't get any worse.
It was with that in mind that he ordered that the sergeant, all those who had been drunk on duty and every second man in his troop be hung, drawn and quartered. It wasn't the worst punishment he could think of. But as the sergeant was being dragged away screaming in terror and begging for his life, Simon actually considered he had got off quite lightly. Too lightly. If it wasn't for the fact that he had to capture his brother and the other sparks quickly, he might have spent some time thinking of a more terrible way to execute them.
Simon dutifully ignored the sergeant's fading screams as he turned to Vesar.
“Edouard needs to be caught fast. And made an example of.” And this time he would kill him. He didn't care that it was useful to have a spark around just in case he had to control Vesar. Edouard had humiliated him – twice.
“Of course Your Majesty.” Vesar nodded, agreeing with him completely. But that came as no surprise. The priest was as much opposed to the presence of those with magic or faith as Simon was. Though he suspected it was for different reasons. For Simon they represented a challenge to his rule. His little brother especially. For Vesar he suspected the challenge they posed was a little more personal. Maybe even a threat to his existence.
“Edouard will probably go to his home first. He has all his devices there. His strength. And then he will surely head for Bitter Crest where our informants tell us the rest of his family are staying.”
“Of course he'll go there!” Simon snapped at his advisor. Vesar had only told him what he had already worked out for himself. He seemed to like doing that. Simon wasn't so enamoured of his habit though and ordered him to send the soldiers without delay or expect to have his own neck placed in the block. Naturally Vesar acquiesced immediately – he liked his neck as it was – and so he bowed and hurried out to do as instructed, leaving Simon alone with his thoughts in the remains of the throne room. Finally.
He didn't like his advisor. The man was annoying and coldly logical, and he absolutely hated the way he could seem so polite and yet at the same time say things that suggested Simon was completely stupid. It was the sign of a true diplomat he guessed. When you could insult someone in such a way that everyone other than the victim might consider the words an insult but the recipient thought it a compliment – that spoke of a truly oily tongue. And none was more oily than Vesar's. Simon hated the priest's tongue. And he would have it ripped out one day. He was still fuming about Vesar’s little betrayal of some weeks before.
Then there was his insistence on the price for his services. The construction of the new temple. Simon had agreed easily enough at the start, thinking that another temple in the city wasn't such a huge thing to ask for. But that was before he'd seen the plans. Vesar's temple was huge, at least as large as a castle, and the priest was insisting that it be built as quickly as possible, diverting much of his workforce from the important work of repairing the rest of the city and especially the walls. And he wouldn't have even as many workers as he did had Simon not locked the city down. As it was the city now had at best ten thousand souls calling it home. Two in three at least had fled before they'd locked the city down.
Vesar also annoyed him with his constant insistence on removing those with magic or faith from the kingdom. Even those who were already locked away – though that was now a moot point. Who was he to make demands of him? And while Simon had originally planned to have all the sparks and flames executed right from the start, the fact that Vesar had demanded it had instantly changed Simon’s mind. The fact that the sparks and flames scared Vesar was in Simon’s mind excellent justification for keeping them alive. Simon liked it when his advisor worried. It kept him off balance.
Besides, April was a spark and the only one of all his brothers and sisters that he quite liked. She was weak minded and didn't understand the value of gold. But she alone did not constantly look down upon him. She didn't lecture him about his mercenary ways. And she had a gift for music as well. He would not hand her over to the accursed black priest.
The thing that annoyed him most about Vesar though was that he kept secrets. Who was Vesar to keep secrets from him? That angered him. The man refused to tell him anything of himself. Anything of his master. He refused to show his face or any part of his skin. And even his name was a lie. Simon was certain of that. He knew nothing of his advisor save that he could do what he said he could and he guarded his privacy fiercely. Vesar had done so ever since that very first day when he had arrived at his door with his plan. That made Simon nervous.
But the man still had his uses. More importantly his master whoever he was had his uses. Without him the portal could never have been opened to bring the mammoths through. Nor the second one to bring the sprigs. Those were the things that had made his ascension possible. He also seemed well versed in the political intrigues of the court. He knew who was doing what to whom, and how to make use of that knowledge.
Simon needed him. He hated that, but at the moment he needed him. His rule was precarious. More so now than before as his father had returned, arrived in Bitter Crest and subsequently disowned him. He was no longer a member of the House of Barris. He would not be Count Severin one day. Everything now depended on him securing his throne. It was that or death. Just at the moment his life was completely in Vesar's hands. And it would remain that way until Vesar provided him with the unstoppable army he had promised.
But the time was coming when the black priest's usefulness would expire. When his reign would be secure. And when Vesar's head too would adorn a post.
Simon looked forward to that day. But unfortunately this wasn't it.
Chapter Twenty Seven
“The Seven be praised!”
The captain wasn't the only one to be shocked as the impossible happened. All of his men were the same. But it wasn't possible. He couldn't understand it as he suddenly found himself facing the town they'd just left. It was almost as though they'd all turned around. But they hadn't! They'd just left the town, cantering up the road toward the old fort at the crest of the small rise overlooking it, and riding in a straight line. They hadn't stopped. They hadn't turned around. The road didn't even have a corner they could turn. But then all of a sudden they were riding away from old fort, charging back down the hill towards the town. It made no sense.
Except that as he turned back to look at the fort not five hundred yards away from them and saw the wall filled with faces, heard the sound of people cheering, he knew it had something to do with them. But he could not let them continue cheering.
“Halt and wheel!” He screamed the order at the top of his lungs, suddenly frightened of whatever had happened to them. It had to be magic, he knew that.
His men surely knew it too. But that didn't matter. Not when they had a job to do and his king would not tolerate failure. Since Simon had come to the throne the number of soldiers who'd died at his hands had been far greater than the number who'd died in battle. The moment they had turned back he gave the order for the next run.
“Charge!”
As a unit they galloped the last few hundred paces back up the hill towards the old fort. This time there would be no sedate canter along the road, no chance for whatever evil old spark the enemy might have with them to turn them around again. This time they would take the tinker before he could cast his glamour. And then they would kill him. It was him or them.
Fifty strides, a hundred, they covered at full stretch, the horses breathing heavily, the men screaming their war cries, and for a moment he thought it was going to work. He dared to hope. But then without warning the fort vanished, and they found themselves galloping at full stride back into the village, still screaming.