Woes and Hose Read online

  Dick smiled sourly. The perils of ice and blizzards seemed so distant now.

  He wished he knew Father’s expectations. Surrender at some point? Become a hostage? Flee? History volumes on the Drechtoters of yore were scarce on the humiliating details of their affairs. They mentioned no defeats. Even gallant yet ultimately futile last stands were hailed as victories.

  I must do all I can to show that I care.

  But deep down, he did care. He was the Warden of the East. Even though the duty was forced upon him, he did not intend to see sheep-loving savages burn this ugly fort-city.

  “The forces are ready, Your Royal Highness,” Reeve Gotelieb said.

  Dick took a deep breath. No point waiting any more. He wished Crispin was at his side right now, but his manservant had a different assignment. Dick felt exposed.

  “Begin.”

  As one, the cannon in the embrasures fired. The din was absolutely painful.

  Anywhere between five hundred and a thousand steps from the walls, the clay shot shattered against the ground and village houses, spraying yellow lime and saltperte. The mixture quickly burned and turned into a thick screen of acrid smoke.

  Three thousand steps to the west, the Fearless Brigade let loose its own volley.

  Dick was impressed by the mercenaries. Perhaps the stories and compliments by the Ravash mirca and Lord Ignac were true. The brigade were experts when it came to sieges. They had deployed their light guns with such amazing speed the savages had hardly been able to respond.

  The gatehouse awoke to the noise of chains. The portculli went up, and the heavy iron gate halves were opened. Hidden from view by the smoke, Drechknight saboteurs poured out, dressed in light brown and green clothes, armed with grenades, pistols, knives, and skins full of oil. A thousand auxiliaries followed, arquebusiers and spearmen, deploying behind the breastworks and inside grass-eaten trenches left from the last siege.

  “May the Saint protect you,” a soldier intoned, eyes closed.

  The Barvans were moving, a fierce, boiling mass rushing toward the brigade. But the mercenaries were already pulling back, having baited the enemy. Their horse was now angling toward the castle, confident they had protection from the walls, moving into the Village of…Eichenholz.

  Dick had carefully studied the maps and made sure to remember the names of all the settlements surrounding the city.

  The second wave of the enemy was forming up, ready to repel the left prong of the brigade, which was moving against their less-protected north flank. The Hyevans had all their guns trained on the city; they had not expected any surprise counterattacks, and they were busy pushing the cannon east. But the terrain was hilly and the ground rutted from countless wagons and feet, and they made sluggish, filthy progress.

  Arquebuses started firing, a disjointed crackle that soon became a rumble, like thunder. The brigade had a beautiful rhythm; a dance. A unit would charge forward, heavily flanked and defended, discharge its weapons then roll back and around. Another unit would form up in the middle and the dance would begin again.

  The horsemen weaved through the villages, over the fields, trying to inflict as much death as they could without getting trapped by the seething mass of angry tribesmen. The enemy was mostly on foot, ponderous and ungainly, but like a mudslide, unstoppable.

  Dick realized his own palms were sweating on the grip of an arquebus—an ordinary weapon. The specially commissioned gun wasn’t ready yet. The smiths were having trouble aligning the sights for some reason, and they had called in a clock maker and a glass maker to help them.

  The enemy had still not seen the saboteurs. They had dashed past the last row of houses in Grunhugel and had a stretch of wheat fields to cross to Rubegering.

  “Fire.”

  The wall cannon discharged again. This time, the shot landed between the two villages. The wind scattered the smoke too quickly, and it looked like morning haze, clinging to the furrows. The sight of the burned-out chapel in Rubegering was eerie.

  The Drechknights ran. Their best hope was to clear the ground and reach the next defensive position.

  The Nurflanders held the east and south side of the siege line, and they had hundreds of men farming the land, even ahead of the expected assault. They were alert now that the guns were firing and horns were blazing, and sporadic clashes erupted in the ripe fields. The savages were no match for the finest warriors of the realm, but the Drechknights had to slow down their charge.

  Dick felt impotent, watching, unable to help them.

  He put the gun down and picked up a telescope. The battlefield narrowed to a small, intense spot of death. He saw the grimaces on the soldiers’ faces, he saw their mouths move, but he could not hear their voices, and it maddened him. But then he imagined firing an arquebus and felling the Nurflanders with his shots. He calmed down somewhat and started enjoying their deaths.

  “Move the auxiliaries forward,” Ritter Heimo commanded. The order cascaded from the walls to swift runners.

  The Hyevans finally responded. Their minions lobbed death above the heads of the Barvans and into the ranks of the brigade. The mercenaries faltered and their tactical retreat was clumsy, leaving stragglers behind who were quickly trampled by the tribesmen. The north attack failed, and the horsemen had to dash through a rain of arrows, curses, badly aimed cannonball, and an odd pistol shot from a stolen weapon in the hands of a furious, winded Barvan raider.

  Dick held his breath until the mercenaries regrouped with the main body, narrowly escaping getting cut off. He had never imagined he would feel any sympathy for the hired swords.

  “Fucking savages,” a friendly soul piped in, sharing Dick’s anguish.

  Dick put the telescope away. It was making him dizzy.

  The Fearless guns were firing once more, and the Barvans had to hunker down in the grass, cowering, waiting for the hail of lead and iron to cease. Every time a ball raked their middle and turned flesh into pulp, Dick cheered, and so did every other soldier on the walls.

  Dick wished he could guide the shots. Watching and not being able to help made him restless. His anxiety soared.

  Do you really want to be out there, in that hot, bloody mess?

  Not in particular, he replied to his conscience. But these men are fighting for me. I need to cheer them.

  The enemy clearly wasn’t happy with the counterattack. A large force of Barvans was forming up, enjoying the safety of their numbers and the support of Hyevan guns. Dick realized this new body wasn’t going to chase the Brigade.

  They were going to sally the walls.

  He noticed the look on the reeve’s face and realized the Drechknight shared the same sentiment.

  “Load the guns with grape,” Dick ordered. He had learned the distinction from an armorer just the other day.

  Hundreds of children, volunteers and apprentice carpenters rushed forward, filling the barrels with nails, chains, old tools, and anything sharp and nasty they could find. Finesse, range and accuracy would no longer matter.

  “General Eusebio is pulling back. He signals he will retreat a thousand steps toward the old mill and setup a defense position there,” a winded messenger relayed.

  Ignoring the news, Reeve Gotelieb watched the progress of his men through a telescope, and Dick swallowed his nausea and did the same. Most of the saboteurs had cleared the ground to Rubegering and had sneaked into the nearby grove of wild chestnut. They would probably stay hidden for a good few hours before they got a chance to attack the enemy camp and torch their supplies. Dick hoped they would be able to set fire to the Voice, but that was a distant, feeble illusion, as tangible as having Old Fart agree to allow him to marry Eva.

  The rest of the knights were busy fighting the tribesmen. Ugly, personal fights, with plenty of gore. The auxiliaries were edging forward, arquebuses leveled and firing while walking. Their shots missed most of the time, but they kept the bulk of the Nurflander raiders pinned down.

  Meanwhile, a wedge of angry tribesmen wa
s marching toward the wall, swarming around a big gatebreaker. The whole thing was covered in wooden shields and wet leather, and they had men pushing the ram; animals got scared too easily in battle, and no one wanted a mad ox in their midst, kicking and bucking.

  “Gives you a rush, don’t it?”

  Dick looked. A pale-faced, sweaty wall sentry was standing at his side, shivering.

  Other things give me a rush. “It sure does. Aim your arquebus at the ground below and wait for a Barvan to step into your sights.”

  Rubegering was burning now. The remaining Drechknights were torching their way back to the castle, lobbing grenades and oil bombs at the Nurflanders. Spearmen and arquebusiers tightened their ranks, bracing for the tribesmen charge. They held for a while, the enemy force flowing around them like flood, but then, their formation crumbled, and they were swept away.

  The diversion had not worked quite as he’d expected. The Monrich troops were on the defensive, everywhere. Too soon. The enemy was just too powerful.

  “My men are dying,” Ritter Heimo said.

  He was going to lose close to a thousand soldiers today, Dick knew. Few of those auxiliaries would make it back. But the Drechnknights seemed to hold, nursing their way toward the gates.

  Flames, smoke and the crackle of guns accompanied them back into Ostfort. Everyone was firing now. They did not even have to aim. Dick discharged his own arquebus into the crowd of Nurflanders, then impatiently handed it to a random squire and waited for another weapon.

  The Nurflanders realized their mistake too late. They stopped their charge, turned and began a panicked retreat. Death from the walls chased them. The torrent of shot was so brutal, not one of the sheep fuckers made it back to their camp.

  Veiled in smoke, the defenders hollered their defiance.

  As the last of the knights returned, the gates closed again. There would be no more coming in and going out of Ostfort today. The auxiliaries were on their own. A harsh, necessary sacrifice.

  The Nurflander force had been slaughtered, but there was no reprieve. The Barvan wedge had stepped into the cannon range, oblivious to the fate of their allies.

  This time, the howl of cannon curdled his blood. Dick had never before heard chain, scrap iron, rusty nails, and hooks scream through the air. The sound was unnatural. The whistle, the ululation, the shrieks; it was nothing like honest cannonade should be.

  Then, the rain of metal landed among the Barvans. The banner of the tribe—a large cow skull with horns and faded green cloth hanging below—went down in a rush of blood and splinters. Dick thought he could see a fine mist of red rise above the decimated sheep lovers. The siege party staggered and stopped. The frame carrying the gatebreaker was weakened, hides torn off, half the men dead.

  The parapet exploded with cheers and happy curses.

  “Load again!” the Drechknight master cannoneer ordered, waving a sooty rod. The crews stepped forward with wads of gunpowder and buckets of smithy scraps, caltrops, and old broken sword pieces. In the fields and villages, the Barvans were regrouping. They were badly hurt, but they were not going to give up their charge. Every chieftain wanted to prove he was the bravest, most daring warrior, and it was up to the man with the fallen cow banner to show the rest of the tribes what he could do. Their union was a fragile thing.

  Dick hoped they would stay divided enough to keep on attacking the city piecemeal. But hopes were, like Volkard would say, as useful as tears to a whore.

  The gatebreaker stirred to life again. The Barvans were coming fast, and they would soon pass under the cannon range. General Eusebio was out of the battle, and the auxiliaries were down to the last dozen men, hobbling away from the killing. If they lived through the day, someone might open the gates for them at dusk.

  Farther afield, there were fires and smoke in Weidenholz. Maybe the Drechknight saboteurs had initiated their attack. If they could burn the two bridges, the enemy would suffer almost a two-thousandstep detour between the two banks of the Frohfluss river, and that meant some of the Hyevan artillery supplies would stay out of the reach of the gun units, buying Dick more time. He needed time.

  Or maybe this all ends today. I should have asked Crispin to pack my best shirts.

  “The Nurflanders are retreating,” someone spoke. Farther afield, the second echelon of the tribesmen was wavering, hesitating, reluctant to move forward and join the fray. Bravery was only fine up to a point, it seemed.

  “They will let the Barvans die today,” Gotelieb said in response.

  Perhaps we don’t die today. “Reeve, our south and east?”

  The Drechknight was once again busy talking to a sweaty messenger. Dick let him finish. “The enemy is keen on concentrating their attack here, where they have the most artillery and best elevation. Your Royal Highness, I would like to dispatch another force and try to break the siege near the Zwerg hill.”

  “And?”

  “We raid their supply lines.”

  Dick wasn’t pleased sending any more troops out of Ostfort. He wanted them close by, to protect him. “The enemy has all our cows and turnips and carrots. They don’t need any more food or weapons.”

  “It might force them to divert some of their troops south, relieving the pressure from our north flank.”

  Dick grimaced. “The best way to relieve the pressure is to have the Voice of Gramik destroyed. Make that happen.”

  The reeve gritted his teeth. “My men are trying to make that happen, Your Royal Highness.”

  “A small raid, then. A night raid. A single banner. They must not burn our own villages, but they should destroy any cart or tools the enemy might use to provide for themselves. They should—”

  Dick fell. The ground had simply moved from under his legs.

  “What—”

  Head ringing and splitting with pain, Dick got up on his knees, resisting an urge to vomit. The world sounded distant, shrouded in tinny wind.

  Several men were crying in agony, holding torn limbs. There was blood everywhere, splattered over his fine cream shirt and pearl-blue hose. The air smelled like singed hair and burned metal. And then there was smoke and fire in one of the blackened embrasures.

  “Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick blinked slowly. The world was all funny colors and fuzzy edges.

  “Your Royal Highness!”

  “What did—”

  “A gun has just exploded, Your Royal Highness. Seventeen men are dead. A score other wounded. Are you wounded?”

  “I…am whole,” Dick stammered. Several soldiers helped him up. Where was Crispin? Ah yes, making sure Dick and Eva could escape the city, if the enemy breached the wall. Somehow, beneath the layer of shock, he knew he should also probably care for Amadea’s fate, but he believed Father would forgive him if she died in the siege. He couldn’t be blamed for that.

  Or could he?

  “Where is my wife?”

  “She is safe in the royal tower.”

  Dick tried to dust himself, but the spots and smears remained. The shrieking was unbearable. Where was Crispin…?

  There was a sudden, immense thud, and everyone winced. Stretcher bearers taking the wounded off the blood-soaked platform dropped one of the injured onto the hard stone. The man was so stunned, he didn’t even moan.

  “They are firing the Voice at the gate again.”

  Dust from the hit was settling down. Dick carefully approached a crenel and looked down. Chunks of disintegrated wall covered the ground. Engineers were rushing about, inspecting the damage, chattering in their own language.

  “The Hyevans must be retaliating to our attack.”

  “The cannon are loaded. We must fire now, or we will overshoot.”

  Dick rubbed his temples. There was no time for him to be soft now. He would have Crispin comb and perfume his hair and clean the blood from his pores with a lemon-scented sponge. Later. Right now, he had to be courageous and clear-headed.

  “Saint protect us, we are doomed,” a guard muttere
d.

  Dick staggered over and slapped him. “If you say that again, I’ll have your tongue cut out.” He looked at the artillery crew. They looked only mildly derailed. They had seen their share of burst cannon and severed legs, even in peacetime. “Saint’s love, fire those guns!”

  The barrage was sweet music, the screams from the Barvans, poetry. The wall shivered with cheering, longer and louder than before. The foe was coming within arquebus range. Bloodied, crippled, with only half the attackers alive. Their gatebreaker rumbled on.

  “I want General Eusebio to attack again. No excuses. He will send the Brigade charging into the mouths of those cannon. Every last man!” Dick shouted at no one in particular. Someone would follow the order. When did I become so audacious and keen on battle? Dick wondered. What has gotten into me?

  “You should leave the wall now, Your Royal Highness,” an ensign said.

  Dick was just about to place the arquebus stock in the soft of his shoulder. He changed his mind and rested the weapon against the parapet. He put his hands on the man’s upper arms and moved him sideways, between two crenels. Then pushed him down into a crouch. The officer looked confused but did not resist. “There. Now you can shield me from harm.”

  The ensign looked helplessly at Ritter Heimo.

  “Move out of my way,” Dick snapped. He picked the gun, couched it and aimed. Old Fart, if you could only see me now. I am everything you hoped I would be. A leader, a fighter. Risking my life just as you’d want me to.

  He fired. Sporadically, the soldiers on the wall did the same. As the Barvans got closer, the crackle intensified and soon, everyone was busy killing the enemy below. Dick didn’t rush his shots. He knew he could just aim anywhere, and the bullets would hit something, but he refused to do so. He was a great shot, and he wanted the enemy to know that first hand.

  Aim, fire, kill. Aim, fire, kill. He would hand an empty weapon to a waiting pair of hands and someone would give him a freshly loaded arquebus. The world of shouting and swearing slowly disappeared. He forgot about the din in his ears and the mayhem and terror surrounding him. His eyes only saw the targets. He didn’t really choose them. His eyes just locked on a random warrior, and he trained the barrel until it danced in rhythm with the enemy’s movement. Then, he let loose, and the warrior would tumble and vanish in the torrent of marching feet.