The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel)

by Joshua Johnson

  “You will return to your respective territories and see that the levies are called and armed. They will assemble here at Agilard and then travel by train to Aetheston,” Magnus ordered. “I will have no more need of your council here for some time.”

  The lords stood, bowed and gathered up their things. Roland stood to leave but Magnus stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Stay,” Magnus said. “We have much to discuss.”

  The sun had gone down hours before and a fire blazed in the hearth of the small study. Magnus studied the game board before him carefully. His next move would either seal his victory or consign him to yet another loss at the hands of his most challenging opponent. The game called Generals in the Ansgari common tongue was still new in Ansgar, but across the Vast Sea it was known as Taecel and was ancient beyond knowledge.

  His pieces were spread wide across the board, the result of his very aggressive strategy for this match. He had sacrificed nearly all of his lesser pieces but had taken many of his opponent’s in exchange.

  Roland Jarmann sat across the table from the his father. Twice a week the two had played this game since before Roland could walk. The father had enjoyed the upper hand for many years, but Roland’s relentless study and practice had turned the tides. Now the son won more matches than he lost, and usually in commanding form.

  “I see your moves, Father,” Roland said at last when his father failed to take his turn. “Move your infantry to take my cavalry and it will expose your general to my artillery. Move your skirmisher to flank my artillery, and you’ll lose your own.”

  “I wish you could see that far ahead when we consider the King’s instructions.” Magnus leaned back and rubbed his chin. A thin scruff of stubble had grown over his square jaw.

  “You did the right thing in calling our levies,” Roland said. “As much as we might want to restore our lands to their former glory, Ansgar is much too powerful to attempt to separate from them right now.”

  “And perhaps this folly of King Eadric will work to our advantage,” Magnus suggested.

  The levies from the nobles of Kerberos would account for a small portion of the King’s forces across the Vast Sea and would have advance warning when Magnus decided to separate from Ansgar. He would be able to get word to his commanders in Welos or Istivan, or wherever Eadric allowed the generals across the sea to direct his forces, long before he made the separation official with Aetheston.

  “If Eadric sends a great deal of his army across the Vast Sea, there will be no one left to oppose us should we force our independence,” Magnus continued.

  Magnus studied the board. He looked at the two moves that his son had identified as his only viable options and frowned. The younger Jarmann was right, as usual. He had sacrificed too much, he reflected. Much as those who had come before him had sacrificed.

  Magnus’ great-grandfather, Sigurd, had been the Last King of Kerberos. The king that had led his nation into a poorly planned invasion of Ansgar and provoked the Ansgari into invading Kerberos.

  The invasion of Ansgar had been successful in its first stages. Sigurd Jarmann had rushed his forces into the Earldom of Hamilton and the East End Barony and overrun their mediocre defenses with little effort. He had secured their southern forts and entrenched against any invasions from the south. But Sigurd and his generals had dared to dream that they were able to capture Aetheston, and with it the loyalty of all of Ansgar.

  They had delayed too long in Hamilton and East End. William the Defender, the King of Ansgar, had gathered his levies and called his nation to arms. The Ansgari forces had pushed back Sigurd’s second wave and had held the eastern forces at bay while more troops were brought up from the distant west by boat.

  Had Sigurd been content with Hamilton and East End, he would have been able to defend against the counterattack by William’s forces. The two captured territories had naturally defensible terrain and the Kerberosi forces had been numerous enough to hold the fortresses, but the second attack on the Ansgari had cost Sigurd a third of his force and several of his best generals. When the Ansgari attack came, the western armies had pressed against the fortresses and entrenchments in relentless waves until the Sigurd’s defenses had broken. From there, the Ansgari armies made short work of the makeshift defenses that Sigurd had thrown up in his hasty retreat.

  The forts and castles of western Kerberos had not fared any better and soon the Ansgari forces had besieged Agilard City.

  The war had lasted eleven long years and had claimed many thousands of lives. Their nation had been left devastated and the Ansgari had claimed their territories for their own. The nobles of Kerberos had bent the knee and sworn fealty to the King of Ansgar in order to keep their titles, and their heads.

  Magnus’ grandfather had accepted the fact that he had been left with a devastated nation, a broken economy and a defeated people. Ivan the First Duke had married his daughter to King Robert of Ansgar as a token of the East’s loyalty to their new sovereign. But Ivan and his son Helmut had spent a great deal of their family wealth rebuilding the Kerberosi economy and moving the former nation back into a position to return to self-rule. .

  Magnus did not intend to fall to the same hubris as his predecessor. The independence of his people would be enough for him. And with enough preparation, he was sure that he could manage at least that.

  He glanced across the board one last time before he made his move. His general was tucked into a corner, protected by a single regular infantry piece. He had one skirmisher hanging in the center of the board, near the general’s side, his cavalry was in the far corner, tucked away behind a trio of his opponent’s guards, and Roland’s general was on the far side of the field, closer to his father’s side of the board.

  Magnus looked for what must have been the tenth time and finally saw it.

  “We’ll call our full armies to strength,” he said as he rested a finger on the base of his second cavalry piece. “Quietly, of course. But we’ll bring them together in their districts, get them armed and trained. When we are sure that the levies are well across the sea, we will prepare in earnest to reclaim our independence.”

  “Very well, Father.” Roland nodded. His eyes narrowed at his father’s choice of piece. He flicked his glance at the various options for the most versatile piece on the board.

  He doesn’t see it, Magnus decided.

  The shade of a smile tugged at his son’s face as Magnus lifted the piece ever so slightly. As he gently dragged the ivory cavalry across the board, the corner scraped along the marble board. He passed over the square that his son had expected him to land on and the start of the smile on Roland’s face disappeared into a look of confusion.

  He saw the move now. Magnus recognized the look of panic in his son’s eyes. That look that told the father everything he needed to know. Roland knew that he was defeated.

  Magnus set the cavalry down at the edge of the board. On its next move, his piece threatened Roland’s general and last builder at the same time. Roland could not take Magnus’ infantry as he had promised because of the threat against his general. In order to move his general out of danger, Magnus would have to sacrifice his builder, the only piece that could build a bridge across the river in the center of the board. Roland only had one piece on Magnus’ side of board; his father had four on the opposite side and three to support his general.

  “I don’t suppose I could entice you into accepting a draw?” Roland asked with a disappointed but impressed smile.

  “I don’t think so,” Magnus said. “You could have offered a draw many times when the situation was reversed, and yet you pressed the attack.”

  “True enough, Father.” Roland knocked his general onto its side. A surrender. “Shall I call your generals to council?”

  “It’s late,” Magnus said. The massive grandfather clock in the corner showed that it was just past the middle of the night. Some of his generals would still be awake, but some would not. “We’ll meet first thing in the
morning. Have the stewards deliver the message at first light. We will meet in the small hall and break our fast while we make these plans.”

  “Would you like me to put the pieces away?”

  “I’ll do it,” Magnus said. “I would like to take a look at a few of the maps before I retire.”

  “Yes, Father.” Roland bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  Magnus moved to the table covered in maps and looked over a few of them.

  He traced his finger along what would be the western border of a reconstituted Kerberosi nation. He had spent much of his life quietly making plans for this day, because he knew that in his life or his son’s life an opportunity would arise that would lead to the reformation of their once great nation.

  Kerberos had never been the largest nation native to this side of the world. They had carved out a niche on the southeastern coast of the continent, an area rich in resources and land that was ready to be tilled and planted. They had controlled a great deal of the iron trade when swords and spears were the weapons of the world. Their fields had produced overflows of grain that they had sold to the nations around them.

  When he removed Ansgar’s boot from his nation’s neck, Magnus was confident that their overflowing granaries and highly regarded forges and foundries would provide the income necessary for the nation to get back to its former glory.

  Over the past one hundred years his family, and the nobles that swore their allegiance to it, had rebuilt the strongholds in their western reaches. They had done it slowly so as not to attract the attention of Aetheston. Castles had been reconstructed and reinforced, earthen fortresses had been built, and trenches dug. Natural defenses had been strengthened and improved with constructions as well.

  Magnus had also put great effort into the diplomatic ties with the nations that shared this side of the world with them. He had formed quiet alliances with Steimor and plans had been made to betroth his youngest child, Talia, to the son of Herzog Renwyk, Grand Duke of Beldane.

  Both of the eastern nations had promised armed forces to help secure the reconstitution of Kerberos, a fact that was not lost on Magnus. They wanted Ansgar’s power checked and they were willing to provide soldiers and arms to make sure it happened.

  Steimor disliked the taxes and transit fees that the Ansgari crown charged ships that passed through the Kerberos Islands. Southern Steimor, the part across the Straits from the main part of the nation, didn’t have the ports or the massive rail network to support the transport of goods from the Anvil to the lucrative markets in the City States of the Rhon or the nations beyond. The channels between the islands were the only way for ships to pass from Steimor to the South.

  Beldane disliked the Ansgari foreign policy, how they forced their will on all of the surrounding nations. While the freedom of Kerberos would not end that hegemony outright, it would show that the Ansgari crown was weak and could be resisted.

  And if I can get my nation’s freedom out of their selfish interests, all the better, Magnus thought as he rested the pieces in their felt lined box.

  Chapter 5 - Hadrian

  Hadrian woke to a nudge.

  The train still moved; the swift, rhythmic click-clack click-clack of the wheels told him that they were still at full steam.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Auberon Strait pointed out the window. “Look there, my lord.”

  A thick cloud of gray smoke hung low over rows and rows of starched white tents set up outside the city’s walls. Thousands of tents that could house tens of thousands of soldiers.

  “He’s called his full levies,” Hadrian observed as he took in the camp.

  “His reaction to the King’s summons is extreme,” Auberon suggested. “His full levies are more than eighty thousand soldiers.”

  “He knows as well as we do that the required levies will not suffice,” Hadrian said. “I’m impressed that he was able to call so many together so quickly.”

  “The majority of his population is right here in Arndell,” Auberon noted. “It would take three days for him to collect sixty thousand soldiers.”

  The tents stretched for as far as the eye could see. Broad avenues ran between divisions and narrow rows separated the regiments. Deep latrine trenches had been dug to carry the sewage away, and long horse-lines marked the cavalry contingent of the duke’s levies.

  The train finally pulled past the last of the camp: massive tent pavilions set up by the lesser lords that commanded the common soldiers. The train passed through the walls of Arndell, thirty feet thick and seventy feet tall.

  The train screeched as it slowed and rolled into the station at the heart of Arndell.

  Hadrian grimaced as he stood in the passenger car’s aisle. His feet screamed in pain as he took his first few steps. The healers said that his feet were misshapen, without enough curve to support him. Mostly it didn’t bother him; they only hurt when he woke, when he had sat for a long period, or after a solid day on his feet.

  He cocked his head to the side. While the car was more luxurious than a normal passenger car, he was a large man and they were not designed for a person of his stature. Raedan stood further up the car, his head to the side as well.

  Cedric McKinley stood as well. The heir to the Earldom of Odwolfe took after his father—perhaps too much, some said. He was shorter than Hadrian by a full foot and could only be called stout by the most charitable person; most called him fat. His red cloak was held closed by a golden wolf brooch.

  Auberon Strait’s black cloak was pinned at the shoulders with a pair of matching onyx griffins. He carried a satchel filled with books and scrolls, though he hadn’t opened it since they left the North Griffin station.

  The rest of the men in the train car stood: ten of Hadrian’s guards, ten of Raedan’s and twenty of Cedric McKinley’s. Kent, in command of the other thirty Clyve guards, would have already departed the train and made certain that the station was safe for his elder brothers.

  The station was empty. No wonder; no one cared to travel during the frigid winter months in Western Ansgar. The guards and their noble charges accounted for most of the traffic through the station. The train and station workers accounted for the rest.

  The party found a steward and a small force of guards in Lord Croutcher’s gray uniforms and greatcoats outside the station. Two large coaches and nearly a hundred horses were held by the twenty armed guards.

  “My lords.” The steward bowed. “I am Wendell Kye, the Lord Croutcher’s chief steward. He sent me to meet you, and invite you to his castle for a late lunch.”

  “Well, it’s about time someone treated us with some respect,” Cedric huffed and walked past the steward. The crew on the train had been respectful, but had failed to sufficiently bend to Cedric’s will.

  “Thank you,” Hadrian said courteously to the steward. “We are here to serve His Grace.”

  “This way.” The steward waved them into the first coach and then saw to the baggage. The Clyve and McKinley guards found themselves horses and in short order the whole party was on its way to Croutcher Castle.

  The city of Arndell was massive compared to Orintown or Odwolfe. The smooth mortared streets twisted and turned as they rose away from the train station and the nearby harbor.

  “The snow has driven away many of the merchants,” Wendell pointed out. “They’ll be back in the spring.”

  “Has the messenger train from the King arrived yet?” Raedan asked. He turned from the coach’s window and the steward looked at his hands.

  “Yes, milord,” the steward confirmed. “But His Grace made it clear that no one was to discuss the matter.”

  “Of course.” Raedan nodded and rubbed the onyx at his throat.

  “I’m sure that he wants to give us his opinions of the matter directly,” Hadrian noted.

  He met his brother’s eyes with his own and shook his head ever so slightly. He didn’t know the full extent of his brother’s abilities, only that it had something
to do with the black stone in his amulet. They didn’t need to reveal anything to Cedric or Auberon. Raedan lowered his hand and looked out of the coach’s window.

  “Yes, milord.,” the steward said, oblivious to the wordless exchange between brothers.

  “Do you know what His Grace will be serving us?” Cedric asked. Hadrian had to cover his mouth with his hand to hide the small smile that came of its own accord.

  “I believe there were some deer brought in for the meal.” The steward struggled to hold a neutral expression. “There will be pork and beef as well, if I understand correctly.”

  “Good. The food on that train was terrible.”

  The rest of the ride was quiet. Auberon was leaned back against the wall of the coach, eyes closed; Raedan watched through the window as they trudged along; Cedric chewed on some hard salted beef, the steward watched his hands, and Hadrian read a book.

  Croutcher Castle was surrounded by walls a hundred feet high and fifty feet thick. The black stone rose sheer from the hillside and ended in ramparts high above. A thick ebony drawbridge and single massive gatehouse provided entry to the castle. Inside the wall, the keep rose nearly a hundred and twenty feet, cut from the same black stone.

  Four square towers rose massive at each of the keep’s four corners, marked every fifteen feet by musket slits. At the top of the towers, massive gray banners snapped in the cold, hard wind. A massive hammer was sewn in gold across the banner.

  Lord Dalton Croutcher, Duke of Arndell, waited as the column came to a halt before him. He stood at the base of the stone steps at the front of the keep, several of his advisors and a handful of lesser lords spread around him. Guards stood at the flanks of the party and more paced the walls.

  The duke stood just five and a half feet tall, much shorter than the average citizen of Ansgar. He wore a red cloak lined with brown and white fur over a black tailcoat and trousers, with his longsword hung on his left hip in its ornate scabbard..

  “Ah, Hadrian!” Dalton exclaimed as Hadrian climbed out of the cramped coach. He was a year younger than Hadrian and the two had grown up as close friends, despite the distance between their respective castles. He strode down the last of the stairs and grasped Hadrian’s forearm in a friendly handshake. “I trust your train ride south was uneventful?”