Gunpowder God (55 page)

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 timber 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?”

Dylon cuffed him in the face. “Get out of my sight, you piece of garbage!”

The Investigator’s face turned as white as his robe. “Where can I go?”

The Captain laughed. “As far and as fast as you can run, priest! Run like Hadron’s Hounds are on your trail!”

The troopers laughed and made barking noises as the Investigator scurried away with his robes pulled up around his waist.

Dylon turned to his troopers. “You four come with me,” he said, pointing to the headman’s house. They sprinted over to the house, finding their way barred by two Investigators, armed with bills.

“Halt, in the name of Styphon, the one True God.”

Without a word, two troopers pulled pistols out of their sashes and shot them both in the face, then kicked away their twitching bodies as the captain entered the headman’s house.

There were screams coming out of one of the back rooms and Dylon figured that was the best place to start his search. There were no fires in the main room and the house’s few small windows were covered with grease and soot, leaving the rooms cloaked in darkness. Dylon moved slowly through the dark corridor, almost stepping on a rat which squealed its defiance before a kick sent it on its way.

The screams stopped momentarily and he whispered, “Take it slow from here on out.”

The door to the back room was closed tight although some light was peeking out from the warped boards where it wasn’t plumb with the frame. Dylon pulled out a pistol, then kicked the door open, slamming it against the wall with a loud boom.

A blazing fire inside the fireplace inside revealed Archpriest Roxthar bent over a slumped prisoner in a chair. In one hand he had a pair of pliers, holding what looked like a bloody tooth in their jaws; in the other hand, a skinning knife.

He turned, as nimble as a cat, screeching, “How dare you intrude upon Styphon’s Work. Guards, remove them!”

Captain Dylon smiled. “Your guards are dead, probably on their way to the Caverns of Regwarn for their craven misdeeds. Where you will be joining them soon.”

Roxthar theatrically pulled himself up to his full height. “As an Archpriest of the Inner Circle of Styphon’s House, I order you to leave.”

Dylon spit on the floor. “That’s what I think of you, Archpriest. Put down the knife.”

Roxthar leaned forward as though he were about to obey, then leaped forward. Dylon met his charge with his pistol butt. The knife skidded off Dylon’s buff jack and Roxthar fell down to the floor from a blow to his head.

Dylon turned his pistol around and shot the Investigator’s assistant, who was cowering in the corner, in the heart. He tumbled into the fireplace, filling the room with smoke which cloaked the smell of stale sweat, urine and feces. One of the troopers pulled him out of the fireplace, putting out his burning robe with kicks from his foot.

“You two,” Dylon ordered, “chuck this piece of offal out of his robes while I see to the prisoner. Check him for hidden arms first, then strip him bare.”

Dylon, who considered himself battlefield-hardened to the things men did to each other in the name of war, blanched at the sight of the prisoner’s face. “You poor bastard,” he said, as he reloaded his pistol and shot the man in the temple.

When he turned around, Roxthar was stripped to his stained underthings. One of the troopers dropped Roxthar’s blood-stained robe to the ground as if it were Hadron himself.

“Take everything off, then throw some water on him. There’s a jug over here.”

The troopers finished stripping off the last of the Archpriest’s underthings, then one of them took the jug and tossed its contents on the prone figure.

A face full of water revived the Archpriest, who came out of his stupor cursing and calling down Styphon’s wrath. “How dare you lay your unworthy hands on sacred flesh, you worthless—”

Dylon reached down and picked up the Investigator’s underthings, ripped off a big strip and stuffed it in Roxthar’s mouth. “That’ll shut him up.”

The troopers laughed.

“Kill him now,” one said, “let’s get it over with and get out of here before the enemy shows up.”

Dylon shook his head. “Mere death’s too good for this black-hearted bastard. Give me that skinning knife.”

For the first time, Archpriest Roxthar appeared to understand the predicament he was in. His eyes widened and he tried to speak through the wad of cloth in his mouth, making strangled choking noises.

“Arch-Butcher, there is not enough time in all our lives put together to make you atone for your many misdeeds and atrocities. But we’ll try.”

“Cut off his privy parts!” one of the men screeched. “That’ll do em.

Roxthar’s eyes even grew wider.

One of the other men japed, “Too hard to find!”

“No, that’s too easy,” Dylon answered. “He’d bleed right out.”

The men nodded.

“Pick him up and hold him firmly.” Two troopers took his arms while the other two picked up his feet, completely immobilizing the Archpriest.”

Dylon stuck the skinning knife right above Roxthar’s groin, pushed it in, then ripped upwards through his flesh right up to the breastbone, just deep enough to part the skin and muscle below.

Roxthar was rocking and twisting like a madman.

“Hurts doesn’t it?” one of the troopers asked.

Dylon ripped off his riding gloves and stuck his hand deep into Roxthar’s torso, pulling out several loops of intestines. By this time, the Archpriest had passed out and stopped flopping around.

Then he went over to the fire, heating his blade.

“What’s that for, Captain?”

“He’s bleeding too much. I want to stanch it before he bleeds to death. Throw some water on this piece of shite! I want him awake and aware for however long it takes for him to die.”

After leaving the headman’s house, Captain Dylon made his way over to the water trough and washed the blood off his hands. He hoped Eukides, if he still lived, appreciated the work he had done today. A score of dead Investigators littered the dirt road, some of them cut up and dismembered. In the distance, he could hear screams and shots. He dried his hands on his breeches before calling his men together in the dusty street.

“We’ve settled some long overdue accounts this day,” Dylon told his troopers. “The Archpriest Roxthar is dying a most painful death and will soon be in Hadron’s Hall.”

A round of “Huzzahs” and “Praise Galzar!” were sent skyward by the assembled troopers.

“Few, if any, of the Arch-Butcher’s Investigators will survive this day. If their former prisoners do not kill them, the villagers and peasants of Varthon will finish off the survivors long before they can reach the border. We may have lost a battle today, but we have won the war against a blood-crazed wolf and his pack of scavengers. If this was Styphon’s work, I want no more of that false god!”

A chorus of “Down Styphon!” erupted and continued for some time.

When quiet had been restored, he continued, “I must admonish you to keep word of our work here today among ourselves. There are some in Kryphlon who would see us punished, or sell us out to the False Temple. So, for now, mum’s the word.”

They all nodded. Dylon doubted they could keep such a volatile secret for long. This meant he had to make his way back to Kryphlon and gather up Duke Eukides’ family and retainers and get them out of the princedom before word of their massacre reached the ears of Styphon’s House’s many agents, or one of his troopers got drunk and spilled word of their deeds here today.

“It is my plan to return to the Duke’s estates in Kryphlon and rescue his family before Styphon’s House gains word of our loss here today. I am doing this at Duke Eukides’ command. Before the battle he had me swear, upon my honor, to take care of the Duke’s kin, if we were to lose the battle. Since you are all his sworn-men, he wanted you to follow my orders as if they were his own.”

Nods of agreement rippled through the assembled cavalrymen.

“Now, I want a volunteer to approach the League’s Captain-General, under Galzar’s Hand, with word of our actions here this day in the village of Artos. Captain-General Hestophes is known to be an honorable man and he will hear you out.”

One of his trusted petty-captains stepped up. “I will do it, sir. I have no family to see to, Captain.”

Dylon nodded. “Good. I want you to also tell him that we will be returning to Varthon with the Duke’s family and our own kin, and that after we gather them together we will need sanctuary from Styphon’s House. Before we leave, I will give you my own signet ring to take along as proof of your words.”

“As to the rest of you, take all the booty you can carry. It’s better than leaving it for the curs that will come later. However, before we leave, I strongly suggest you gather up as much food as you can from that cottage over there. You may even want to drop some of the gold and silver you’re carrying for more food. Trust me, in a moon quarter you’ll wish you had, since every man’s hand in this princedom will be up against us. But, by Galzar, it’s your choice.”

Some of the men went over to their saddlebags and emptied half their contents onto the street before going to the stores room. He picked up a few choice pieces and joined them.

As soon as everyone had filled their saddlebags and added as many pouches and bags of food as their poor mounts could carry, they set off for the border. As they left, Captain Dylon made his personal good-bye to his friend and superior, Grand Duke Eukides in absentia:
If you are still alive, I pray that the gods will bring us together once again. Meanwhile, I have done as you would have done, and gained some pleasure from it. Now, I will stake my life to protect those lives to whom you hold dearest
.

P
rincess Arminta left the nursery wagon to go and speak with her husband who was plotting the next day’s travel through the Princedom of Cythor with Captain-General Kyblannos in the tent that he used as his headquarters. The guard outside, wearing the green and black colors of the Iron Band, announced her presence and pulled back the tent flap so she could enter.

“My dear,” Phidestros said, pulling her into his arms. “Is everything all right with the baby?”

“Yes, little Simocles is sleeping peacefully. I just finished nursing him.”

Phidestros nodded; he was used to her eccentricities.

“Kyblannos and I were discussing the best route from Arbelon City to Kelos. Rather than have to cross all these mountains,” he paused to point to the northeast, “Kyblannos suggests we follow the Marnos River into the Princedom of Kelos. My father’s got to be holed up there somewhere. Wherever he is, I mean to root him out. This thing won’t be done until my father is deposed.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said.

Phidestros looked over at Kyblannos.

“Do you want I should leave?” the stout Captain-General asked.

“No, friend, you should hear this, too,” she replied. “I think we need to determine what we are going to do with your father before we have to deal with the problem at hand. It would be a mistake to act in haste; after all, he is the Great King.”

Phidestros shrugged. “You mean, patricide. Initially, I had thought beheading would be the wisest course of action. On further examination, I decided that my father’s subjects would never help in his release and that he might best be seated in one of the new dungeons I’m sure he’s already constructed beneath Tarr-Zygros.”

“I believe your punishment is too harsh—”

“Harsh! My love, it’s the thoughts that roam my head that are harsh, this is but a middling punishment for that soulless beast of a man.”

“I know there is no love between the two of you. However, we must look at this as those residing outside our new kingdom will see it. If you punish your father too harshly, they will see in his punishment their own fates. If, however, you are as gracious in your punishments as you are with your rewards, they will come to love you.”

“There is some wisdom in your words,” he said begrudgingly.

Kyblannos nodded.

“I believe a banishment would be much preferred over an imprisonment,” Arminta said. “If we leave your father in our dungeons, he will be in our minds. As an exile, we would not have to carry the burden of his death.”