The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel)

by Joshua Johnson

  As easily as their social status could be raised by a single commendation from the Herzog, it could be destroyed by a condemnation. The Skau household was well thought of in the Beldanian nobility. Janson’s father and grandfather had both done well in the Herzog’s service and Janson had the opportunity to marry his son to the daughter of a Grafen. Marrying up gave Janson’s heir the chance to one day earn the title of Grafen for himself.

  “I’m glad that one hundred years of subjugation hasn’t left you ignorant of our society,” Janson said as he followed Magnus toward the interior wall.

  “I welcome the training and wisdom that your commanders can give to mine,” Magnus said. “I hope that Herzog Renwyk is swift in his decision to decry the vicious aggression of King Eadric.”

  “As do I,” Janson said with another smile.

  Magnus led Janson and their entourage back into the fort’s massive stone keep. The building had been used as a fortress for more than three thousand years and the faces of the stone gargoyles had been worn smooth by years of weather.

  The keep was a hive of activity. Stewards hurried between chambers carrying trays of food, pages carried messages, and squires rushed to prepare weapons and clothing for the gathering that would occupy the great hall at sunset. Magnus could smell the beef roasting over open spits and the faint lingering stench of poorly made coffee.

  “This is where we must part ways,” Magnus said. They were stopped at one of the main passages on the upper floor. To their left were the quarters that Magnus had claimed for his own, and to their right were the general quarters that the other nobles and honored guests had been provided.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Janson said with a bow. He retreated into one of the smaller chambers, his small retinue of guards on his heels.

  Roland was waiting in Magnus’ chamber, a map rolled out on the table. A half-smoked cigar sat in a small dish on the corner of the table. Though its end still glowed orange, it looked as if it had been ignored for some time.

  “Reviewing our battle plans again, Roland?” Magnus asked as he threw his greatcoat over a chair. “I thought we had settled our differences on that.”

  “Our battle plans are not what concerns me, Father,” Roland said as he picked up the cigar. He took a long draw from the brown stub and exhaled a puff of thick gray smoke. “Our heavy cavalry raids aren’t hitting the right armories.”

  “What do you mean?”

  They had planned their raids to hit the best stocked armories in East End and Hamilton; the weapons that would be secured would go to arming a major part of Magnus’ armies.

  “The armories that Lord Nyberg captured were half-full, and Lord Drier captured two armories that had been completely emptied,” Roland said. He took another drag from his cigar and set it back in the small black dish. “We’ve captured sixty-five thousand rifled muskets, sixty-five ten-pounders and twelve fifteen pounders. Lord Nyberg reports that he’s seized twenty-five tons of gunpowder and fifteen tons of shot. Lord Drier reports similar numbers, but he also took two lesser lords as hostage.”

  “We need more rifles,” Magnus said.

  The majority of the Kerberosi levies were armed with hunting rifles or smoothbore muskets passed down for generations from the men that had fought against the Ansgari invasion a hundred years before. The capture of the armories in Kerberosi territories had gone a long way toward arming the core of Magnus’ forces, but they would need nearly all of their troops to be armed with modern weapons if they hoped to defeat the Ansgari.

  King Eadric’s forces would be in the same predicament that the Kerberosi forces found themselves in, but the Ansgari forces had regular training and a seasoned core of officers that the armies of Kerberos lacked. Weapons and drill would not erase the gap that was created by experience and training, but it would provide them with enough of an initial advantage to give the Kerberosi troops experience of their own.

  “Where should we procure them, Father?” Roland asked and took another drag of his cigar. “We’ve cleared out all of the armories in our territories and half of the armories on the borders with Hamilton and East End.”

  “There are armories further into Hamilton,” Magnus pointed out. He removed a map from the stack and spread it across the table. It marked the location of every armory in the eastern half of Ansgar. The best supplied were noted with large black stars. Three of them were spread across western Hamilton and northeastern Elsdon.

  “Father, that’s much too far into Ansgari territory.”

  “I know it is,” Magnus said.

  Attacking further armories was not part of his plan. The raids would be too far outside of their own territory to be effectively supplied and it would take far too long to move tens of thousands of rifles back across the border through hostile territory.

  Magnus paused for a moment. Then he smiled.

  “Father?”

  “We need Black Mountain rifles. Why don’t we buy them from Black Mountain?”

  Kerberos was not as wealthy as some of the larger nations, but control of the Straits of Steimor provided a steady and sizeable source of taxation and passage fees. The coffers of Agilard, and to a lesser extent Forest Glen, were fat with gold collected from merchants looking to make the journey through the Straits. The western dukes and their loyal nobles would have control of several very wealthy territories and major trading ports. But any rebellion could use additional funding, and Kerberos needed weapons more than it needed gold.

  Eadric’s fleet would be severely depleted by the loss of both the Kerberosi and western squadrons. Their attention would be devoted to protecting their coast and protecting their own merchant fleet. They wouldn’t have time to hunt down the merchants that flew hostile flags. It would take a merchant thirty-eight days, just under an Ansgari month, to sail from the trading posts at Sea Guard to the docks of Hellhound Harbor.

  “I want letters drafted to the western dukes. We’ll have to send someone that we trust to conduct the negotiations, otherwise it’s going to take three to four months to get the weapons to our soldiers.” Magnus rubbed his chin in thought. With three of his nobles imprisoned by Eadric and another three assigned as commanding officers in his army, Magnus was short of high-born diplomats.

  If he sent a lesser lord to negotiate with the dukes, it could be taken as an insult, and Kerberos needed to keep the western nobles on their side. Magnus knew what he needed to do, but that didn’t make what he had to say any easier.

  “You have to go,” he said at last.

  “Absolutely not, Father,” Roland protested. “Not only am I in charge of our naval defense in the strait, I’m your son. My place is by your side.”

  “We don’t have any more nobles to send, and we can’t send a lesser lord. I need someone that will have standing with the western nobles, someone that they will listen to. You are a prince, and even if they don’t recognize our independence they will recognize you as a duke’s heir.” Magnus shifted slightly. “We need those rifled muskets, Roland. I know that you want to stay here, but we don’t have the time to be playing messenger with the western dukes for six months or more. If you carry our message and gold, we can have the weapons back here in less than three months.”

  “Father, I—”

  “You will do as you are told,” Magnus interrupted. “I’ll draft the letter and you can leave tomorrow. I want you to take a full squadron of frigates.”

  “That’s a fourth of our frigates,” Roland said.

  “I’m aware of how many ships we have, Roland. You will need the cargo capacity to carry the gold and weapons. And a lone patrol ship won’t try to attack a full squadron of frigates with schooners serving as escorts.”

  Roland nodded reluctantly. “Very well.”

  ***

  The sun was well overhead when the order was passed from Magnus’ position atop Fort Sigurd’s central keep to the artillery batteries on the fort’s lower levels. Flags signaled the other forts and the artillerymen began loading
their weapons. Powder charges were pushed down the long steel barrels and massive cannonballs followed. The primer was the last piece, slid into the breech and attached to a lanyard.

  Magnus stood as each of the batteries signaled that they were ready. Ten batteries of twenty-five pound cannons waited for his signal to begin the bombardment of Fort William. He stood for a moment at the edge of the platform and closed his eyes.

  His family had been preparing for this moment for so long that he felt he needed to say something to honor the memory of every Kerberosi that had suffered under the boot of the Ansgari. A century of subjugation to a nation that wasn’t even of their blood, intruders on their lands and the lands of their ancestors. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

  He would have liked for Roland to be here, to see the first major blow against those who had held a heel on their nation’s neck for so long. It was the first step on the long road to re-establishing independence for the people of Kerberos.

  He opened his eyes again and turned to his signalman. Magnus nodded. The man lifted two red flags directly over his head.

  Cannons jumped as their powder charges ignited. Thick plumes of smoke and jets of fire belched from the steel mouths of sixty artillery pieces. Seconds passed and then huge tufts of dust and smoke exploded from the walls of Fort William. Cheers rose up from the soldiers gathered around Fort Sigurd and Magnus allowed himself a small smile.

  The fortress’ outer walls were broad and thick berms had been packed against them to protect from artillery; it would take some time for the Kerberosi artillery to break through the outer walls. But the Ansgari fortress would fall and his soldiers would take it from the invaders.

  Chapter 14 - Hadrian

  Hadrian shaded his eyes against the sun as it finally crested the small line of hills beyond the Hart River. A brilliant red glow filled the eastern sky and wispy white clouds drifted overhead. He shifted in his saddle and looked down the long line of mounted soldiers.

  To his left, commanding a quarter of his forces, Raedan sat on his broad shouldered draft horse. One of his griffins, Hadrian couldn’t tell which one, circled overhead. To Hadrian’s right, Tristan Burkes sat at the head of another fourth of the Northern Army’s cavalry contingent and other lesser lords could be seen at the front of columns. A large gray flag with a golden hammer flew from a massive banner behind Hadrian; his own rampant red griffin on white flew from a smaller staff.

  The uniforms of the soldiers that he commanded were a mixture of every western noble’s sigil. The gray of Arndell, the orange of Sea Guard and the blue of White Ridge contributed the largest numbers to his twenty-four thousand strong division, but reds, blacks, whites, and yellows were also well represented.

  Not for the first time, Hadrian thought that a uniform would be a wise decision. Their enemies would be in a similar situation: with a rainbow of colors represented in their infantry and cavalry, no one would know who was a friend and who was an enemy.

  The battle lines had come together fifty miles west of the Hart River and Fort Hart. One of the higher standing lesser lords had brought two divisions of loyalist troops across the river to confront Duke Croutchers’ entire corps. The loyalists had entrenched around a small rise of hills and had been harassing the Western skirmishers with light artillery and scouting parties.

  Lord Croutcher had seen the opportunity to crush nearly fifty thousand of the king’s trained levies and had drawn up plans to defeat the overreaching lesser lord. The First Corps of the Northern Army stood one hundred and twelve thousand infantry strong, with a twenty-four thousand strong cavalry contingent and seventy-two ten-pound cannons.

  A long blast on a trumpet ordered the commanders to prepare their troops for battle and Hadrian moved forward from his column. Raedan and Tristan saw his advance and rode to join him. The three stopped fifty yards in front of the center column.

  “We’ve been assigned to harass the northern flank of the loyalist forces,” Hadrian reminded his commanders. “Tristan, your regiments are going to be on the inside as we wheel around their flank. You will be in direct contact with their light cavalry and skirmishers. I will lead the majority of the force around the flank and attack from behind. Raedan, you are to wheel around my left flank and attempt to sweep their artillery positions on the hillside.”

  “Do we have any estimates of their mounted strength?” Raedan asked. His force would be the most vulnerable when they turned their backs on the main force to attack the artillery batteries.

  “They have held most of their cavalry across the river, so we anticipate no more than six thousand light cavalry,” Hadrian reported. “If you are able to capture any cannons, you are to turn them on the center of the enemy line. Tristan, once I have made my first sweep of their flank, you are to move behind my line and cover Raedan’s back and my left flank.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Tristan nodded and the nobles returned to their commands.

  Hadrian watched his brother return to the left flank and beamed with pride. He had been raised to be a leader, to command military forces, and take the reins of their father’s barony when it was time. Raedan had spent much of his time in the vaults, learning from Damon Kor. He had not been trained to rule over a noble territory or command troops in battle, but he had taken to both tasks with a fervor that Hadrian envied.

  Raedan still occasionally showed the quiet, reserved attitude that he had carried through much of his life, but with every major decision that came to him, the younger Baron Clyve became more and more assertive.

  A pair of short trumpet bursts echoed over the assembled forces and Hadrian’s attention returned to the target that sat before him. Only the center of the loyalist forces had entrenched at the base of the hills. Their flanks were on foot and exposed. He could see the end of the loyalist line and the low hills behind it that were his goal. Once his troops were in position and dismounted, they would be able to sweep fire down the enemy line.

  Hadrian pushed the revolving chamber out of his pistol and blew through it. It wouldn’t do to have his pistol jam in the middle of the battle. Sliding the revolving carbine from his holster, he did the same. When he was content that there was no dust or dirt collected in the chambers of his weapons, he rested the carbine across his lap and waited for the signal to attack.

  The trumpet call finally sounded. The melody was loud and cut through the increasingly humid air with surprising clarity. Hadrian glanced to Raedan and Tristan and nodded to each. To their right, the infantry began their advance across the field. Cannons barked from both sides and thick gray clouds began to obscure the artillery batteries almost immediately.

  Skirmishers, armed with highly accurate long rifles, scattered forward of the regular infantry and ran close to the ground. Their objective was to explore the enemy lines, scout for weaknesses and harass the enemy from range.

  The regular infantry followed behind the skirmishers in strict, ordered lines, arranged by company. Dalton Croutcher set three of his divisions on the front line and had assigned the other two as reserves directly behind the flank divisions. Hadrian had been ordered to wait for the center division to pass a small grove of trees before he ordered his cavalry to attack. As he watched, the first company pushed through.

  Hadrian raised his hand and put his spurs into his horse. The beast jumped and galloped forward, and thousands behind him did the same.

  The division swept wide toward the enemy flank and Hadrian noted Tristan’s poor form as his troops started to break formation halfway to the enemy line. The first cannonballs began to fall and Hadrian inhaled as the explosions rocked the ground around him.

  The sharp crackle of muskets firing in volley joined the ponderous booms of artillery and Hadrian saw the first infantry fall under enemy fire. A thick cloud of smoke was quickly forming over the battlefield and he tried to get a final bearing before the field was completely obscured. The enemy lines were holding under the bombardment from the western artillery and the volleys of musket fi
re, but the enemy flank had either not seen his advance or were ignoring the threat.

  Hadrian looked to his left; Raedan had guided his regiments into a low defile that cut along the northern edge of the field in front of a thick forest of pines. The defile ended behind the enemy lines and would put Raedan in the perfect position to ride over the battery that anchored the left flank of the enemy artillery. Tristan Burkes had pushed his ragged command ahead of Hadrian and the first of his riders were firing on the loyalists.

  The lesser lord was taking heavy fire from a nearby battery of loyalist artillery. Hadrian couldn’t see the rounds that the enemy was using, but the effect of the canister shot was obvious. The thin tin containers held thousands of smaller lead balls. When the cannon was fired, the canisters shattered and spewed the lead balls in a wide arc. A swath of riders fell as each cannon unleashed the hellish shot into their ranks.

  The enemy line came up quickly. Hadrian fell back in with his men and brought his carbine up to his shoulder. He chose a target and looked down the barrel of his weapon. He lined up the sights and pulled back the hammer. The revolving chamber rolled into place with a heavy click and Hadrian squeezed the trigger.

  The carbine jumped as fire spewed from its end; the man Hadrian had targeted fell clutching both hands to his chest. Again, Hadrian selected a target. This time a loyalist captain fell, a gaping wound in place of one eye. Again and again he fired until his seven rounds were spent.

  The men around him were firing now too. Their carbines barked in a sharp, quick melody and a cloud of smoke drifted behind them as they advanced toward the enemy line.

  They were close now and both sides found it easy to hit their targets. Horses drifted away from the charge, riderless, and the loyalist lines were pocked with holes, unfilled by dwindling reserves. Hadrian’s main force charged forward, the thunder of their horses’ hooves a deafening roar. Then, as one, the whole of Hadrian’s center force turned and swept along the front of the enemy line, less than one hundred yards in front of the loyalists.