Gunpowder God (18 page)

“Your Majesty, I too tire of all the useless bowing and scraping,” Ruffulo answered, surprising himself with his honesty.
Be careful, this new King inspires trust, but he may not be trustworthy
.

“I’ve been very busy with a myriad of details,” the King said, pointing to the scrolls and parchments that were piled and scattered all over his large walnut table. “Rebuilding the Army has been my primary concern, but that is now out of my hands and in those of one of my trusted subordinates. Now, I can turn my hand to ruling the City.

“I am mindful of the role you took in keeping Greffa City from destruction. Without your entreaties, Great King Kalvan would have leveled the City to the ground.”

Ruffulo nodded. “Your Majesty, we had heard that Great King Kalvan was a good ruler and trustworthy king, although wrathful when angered or disrespected. Thus, we feared he would take out his anger against Theovacar upon the City itself since King Theovacar was elsewhere. We knew that if King Kalvan destroyed the City, even if he left us, the citizens, alone, Theovacar would blame those of us who survived, search us out and have us all killed. Theovacar is a most vengeful ruler.”

Verkan said, “I do not know what was in King Kalvan’s mind, but he has never been known to punish a city or province for the sins of its ruler. Still, it was wise that you helped surrender the City rather than encourage, by your resistance, those under his command who might have encouraged him to sack it.” He paused to ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Ruffulo said, noting how parched his throat felt.

The King pulled a bell pull and a servant entered with a flask of wine. There were two gold goblets on a small table; the servant filled them and passed one to the King and then himself.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Verkan nodded. “Duke Ruffulo, here’s my plan: I want to make you my Deputy of the Assembly of Lords. This will make you, after my Chancellor, Grand Duke Kostran, the third most powerful man in Greffa.”

Ruffulo could hardly believe his ears. Immediately, he went down on his knees. “Your Majesty, I do not deserve this honor. There are others who will serve you far better.”

King Verkan motioned him to rise. “No need for that. And, yes, there may be those who are more deserving; however, I do not have time to learn who they are. I need your help because you know the City and its citizens. Plus, you have the trust of its people. I have some reforms in mind and I need someone who understands the City’s politics and customs to run them by before I make them formal proclamations.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. You have given me a great honor and I will do my utmost to follow your wishes.”

Verkan shook his head. “This is not a job for a yes man, Ruffulo. What I want—what I need—is someone who will tell me the truth when I overstep myself. I was just a merchant before Great King Kalvan enthroned me on the Iron Throne; there’s a lot of ceremony, regulations and laws I do not know.”

“I will do my best, Your Majesty.”

“That’s all I can ask. You’re excused. We will meet again tomorrow at dawn.”

“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.

D
arnos 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 defeated, 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!”

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.