Woes and Hose

by Igor Ljubuncic

  I am really hungry. I wonder if Crispin has packed any delicacies.

  Aim, fire, kill.

  The battle raged on until there was not a single soul left standing below the walls.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Flizzards Will Fly

  “Power belongs to the one willing to take it.”

  —COBUS OF FRESNALD, MAGISTER OF THE SWAMPS, 5TH CENTURY

  19th Day of the Month of the Sickle

  “Crispin.”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “Have I lost my mind?”

  “Why, Master?”

  “Yesterday in the battle, I wasn’t afraid. I rather enjoyed the killing.”

  Crispin smiled, carefully massaging Dick’s right foot. “Ah, Master. You are a Drechtoter after all. It’s in your blood.”

  “I am not keen on wars, though. They are too messy.”

  “Of course they are, Master.”

  Dick tried to relax. Thinking back, his actions had been foolish. Risky. Outright dangerous. Why would he have stood there, with sizzling gunpowder all around him and the Voice belching its death at the walls? He should have stayed in his chambers—or better, gone to see Eva and let the killing subside.

  What had compelled him? Was it fear of his blasted father? Pride? A need to prove himself?

  It must be the admiration from the troops. It was intoxicating. The knowledge that soldiers respected him, and that they would follow him into battle, willing to lay down their lives for him, just because of how he led them.

  Maybe that was that Old Fart had alluded to all these years.

  But to admit that meant Dick would have to dispense with the notion of murdering Father and instead wait for the natural course of years—and perhaps luck—to turn him into a king.

  No.

  “Have I changed, Crispin?”

  “In what way, Master?”

  “My…character.”

  Crispin dipped his hands in lavender water and started prodding the left foot. It tickled at first, but then, a sweet pain seeped in. “You mean since I’ve known you, Master?”

  “Well, yes. That’s good. Press harder. Argh.”

  “Maybe a little, Master.”

  “In what way?”

  “You are—” The castle boomed with another hit from the Voice, damn Hyevans! “—definitely more fierce, Master.”

  “Ah! Be careful with my little toe. It hurts!”

  “Apologies, Master.”

  “Fierce. Do you think Eva will like that?”

  “I don’t think she really cares for the warlike side of you, Master. At all.”

  “I see your point, Crispin.”

  “But she is impressed with how you’ve changed, Master.”

  “She is?”

  “Yes, you are…more considerate with her than you used to be.”

  “I am fierce and considerate?”

  “Master, the right word to describe you is—more princely.”

  Mutt rose from his pallet and padded over. He stuck his ugly snout into the bowl of lavender water.

  “Don’t you dare piss in it,” Dick growled. “Argh! Careful!”

  Crispin deftly pushed the mongrel away. Mutt lazily sprawled himself by the manservant, watching him treat Dick’s feet.

  To Dick’s annoyance, the mongrel wasn’t scared of the cannonade, an erratic background noise of distant thunder. He wished the dog would just hide the way animals ought to when there was a storm, fireworks or artillery shooting, but no. Nothing would stop Mutt from fussing and slobbering and pissing everywhere.

  “Please lie down, Master.”

  Dick lowered himself on the bed, his mind awash with thoughts. More princely. He liked that. He had always known he was bold and courageous, a natural leader and an inspiration for his people. Perhaps he had just needed a harsh place like Ostfort to show his talent and skill.

  There was an urgent rap on the door. “Your Royal Highness.”

  Crispin carefully opened the door, his right arm never too far from a knife. Dick’s own palms hovered above a pair of pistols. But it was only a Drechknight courier.

  “Reeve Gotelieb requests your presence, Your Royal Highness. The enemy is readying for another attack, it seems. The Hyevans have moved two battery of sakers into Rubegering, to forestall any sneak counterattacks from our side. And the Barvans are sending five thousand men by the west road. They might try to attack from two directions.”

  Dick hated the interruption. He did not object when Crispin dried his feet. “And the Fearless Brigade?”

  “They are firing at the villages of Blaukern and Elend to the south, Your Royal Highness, so maybe the Barvans will try to dislodge the mercenaries rather than scale another costly assault. The reeve wishes to consult with you.”

  Dick sighed. “My duty never ends. Crispin, shoes.”

  The north gatehouse was swarming with activity and repair work. Scaffolding covered the walls, and carpenters were busy patching the caved roof of the Sibling Tower, tiptoeing gingerly in the slick, warm rain.

  Dick let Crispin shield him with a large shirm, but then he noticed the soldiers, soaked through, miserable, weighed down by their armor and sodden clothes. He looked at Crispin, and the manservant understood. He put the shirm away, and Dick’s face and hair were wet instantly.

  Yet another shirt ruined, he lamented as the rain battered him. He was soon going to run out of tolerable items in his wardrobe.

  The reeve was hiding under a tent-like cover, but it was only because he was viewing maps with his officers. Ritter Heimo was there too, and a manky old man with two caged flizzards.

  “Your Royal Highness.”

  “Another day of killing ahead of us?”

  “Perhaps not,” Reeve Gotelieb replied. “The rain is heavy enough, so we might just be lucky. But the rain also limits the use of our guns, which might be why the enemy is moving the forces.”

  “General Eusebio seems to be handling the rain well,” Dick commented against the distant rumble of falcons firing to the south. Old Fart was definitely not going to be pleased when he learned about the burned villages, ruined bridges and scorched fields, but Dick couldn’t just let the tribesmen gorge on the summer harvest uncontested.

  The reeve did not respond. He looked back at the maps.

  “Any news from our allies?” A few more days, I just need to hold the foe off for just a few more days.

  “Nothing yet, Your Royal Highness. We wanted to send a message to Gradt, but the flizzards won’t fly in this weather.”

  “Saint willing, it will clear soon,” the bird handler lisped.

  Even the damn reptiles will not stir their wings, and yet I am here, rather than having my pain relieved from my legs. “What does General Eusebio report?”

  “He is busy lobbing cast iron and grape at the enemy. Very industrious,” the Drechknight reported with something approaching admiration for the mercenary.

  Dick listened to the rest of the report, told in pieces by the reeve, the ritter and one of the messengers, a burly, bald fellow who seemed too heavy to ride a scout jennet. Dick was impressed with the general’s conduct. Despite significant losses in the previous engagement, he had still masterfully led the bulk of his troops to safety, avoided encirclement twice, slipped from a trap thrice, and his cannon continued firing well into the night. Well, he had it easy: he just had to aim somewhere into the mass of torches and camp fires, knowing the shots would land among the enemy.

  The cover of darkness saw him move his forces south to begin pestering the enemy siege lines thus far left unmolested. Dick hoped it would unsettle the Barvans into rash action.

  A diversion—an opportunity for the saboteurs to continue their work—demolish, torch, destroy, and then retreat. A chance for the castle folk to rest, lick their wounds and clean the cannon barrels.

  I am not that lucky, Dick thought sourly.

  There was a stirring of noise and action behind him, and Dick left the shelter of the improvised comm
and tent to look down the walkway. Emerging from the Heart Ward through a barrel-shaped passageway bearded with murder holes was Master Udo, Kief and a sizable group of trainees. They were all fully armed and looked determined to climb to the top of the parapet.

  “A new banner,” Reeve Gotelieb commented.

  Dick nodded. There were fresh army units being trained and formed all over the city.

  Master Udo joined them. He nodded at Dick in a very soldierly fashion. Surprised, Dick nodded back.

  “Commander,” the master said, looking at the Drechknight.

  The reeve pointed at the gathered group, as though Dick was completely ignorant of the effort. “Master Udo has volunteered to lead the city garrison in battle. The trainees have been seconded to the corps as an auxiliary banner.”

  “Sword practice is over,” Dick said and glanced at his bastard relative. And you got to cohort with the Drechknights. A slightly better commission than the one you’d hoped for. Riskier too, I would say.

  “It is never over,” Voytech’s spiritual cousin muttered.

  “Well, Reeve, make sure the men are put to good use,” Dick commented.

  None of the officers looked pleased with the remark. The reeve recovered first. “I would like us to scale another incursion into the enemy lines. But this time, I want us to try to take and hold a village. Close to the river, so we can control the battlefront. Send arquebusiers into the forest, to prevent the river crossing. Use the Drechknights as the first line, use the trainees as the second line.”

  “The auxiliaries need a name,” Dick said.

  The reeve frowned. “What?”

  “The men need to feel proud. Give them a name. Or better, ask them to choose one.”

  A pause. Everyone seemed to be thinking. Dick was pleased with his idea. Another example of his ingenuity and leadership. A name would be good for the morale.

  Ritter Heimo cleared his throat. “They will be officially assigned to the Sixth Corps, Your Royal Highness.”

  Master Udo frowned. “With your permission, Your Royal Highness, Commander, Ritter; I would like my men to have their own name and banner.” Voytech’s spiritual twin glanced at Dick. There was an admission of grudging respect there.

  Dick agreed to play along. Having Master Udo indebted to him sounded like a smart investment. “I agree with the master. The auxiliaries should be independent. Master Udo, I trust you will sort it out with your men later.” Young, fierce, proud and deluded—except their poxy commander. Cocks. That’s an apt name. And their banner should be a bloodred rooster.

  The master bowed his head ever so slightly.

  The Drechknight sniffed. He wasn’t pleased with the interruption. “Very well. My battle plan calls for holding the northwest siege line busy as long as we can. This will keep them marching against the wall, if the Voice manages to breach our defenses. Our troops must hold until reinforcements arrive from the south.”

  “What will we—”

  “The Hyevans are moving their artillery forward,” an observer reported calmly, as if reciting from a prayer book.

  Dick snatched a telescope. The filthy mercenaries were rolling their cannon through the muddy fields, advancing them toward the city. They still had a long way to go, and their weapons would still be inferior to wall-mounted guns, but Dick wasn’t pleased. The enemy seemed to have ideas.

  “They are keeping us busy,” the reeve growled.

  Dick realized what the foe was doing. “They are not going to attack today. The army to the west is there to block the Brigade, so it won’t be able to attack the north camp again. Then, they will edge their front line slowly to just without the range of our own barrels and hold until the Voice pulverizes our walls. After that, they will rush everything forward, and we will need to choose between fighting their artillery or the surge of attackers.”

  The grizzled warriors did not argue.

  Not only have I become a true leader of people, I am also a mastermind of war, and it only took me a handful of fights to figure this out. I should probably write a book. Or ask someone to write it. That would be more appropriate.

  The Voice of Gramik fired again.

  This time, the enemy aimed at the royal tower.

  It was a glancing blow, maybe a lucky shot. But there was enough force in the large ball to hammer out a big slice of the tower. Like teeth, slabs of rock exploded in a wide arc, crashing down on the storehouses, the armory, the chapel, shattering rooftops and supplies, crushing people.

  Dick stared in fascination as the tower bled—masonry, wood and dust. It was happening all too slowly, almost as if the tower wanted his eyes to catch every detail of the damage. Then, just as he thought the rumble would settle, more stone cracked and rained down. The top balcony still held, but it had a strange angle, pushed up like a swollen lip.

  It decided to give up and crumble. More dust. More noise. More swearing. And an odd scream or two.

  “Saint be merciful!”

  “Damn mercenaries.”

  “Fuck.”

  Dick wanted to silence the chatter, but he let the men vent. They needed it. Then, amidst all the lamenting and quiet, awed blather, a clear, lucid, beautiful thought struck him.

  Amadea was in the tower!

  Had she, Saint willing, been killed in the attack?

  Just as quickly, he felt his blood curdle. “Where is my wife?” a saner part of his brain uttered loudly, the part that knew what Old Fart would do if Amadea died by a Hyevan cannot shot. “Get the princess! Get her to safety.”

  Dozens of men rushed to the task.

  Crispin tried to run, but Dick stopped him. “Stay.” Dick swallowed a lump of dread and waited. The earlier burst of elation was buried deep now, and his stomach knotted.

  The tower was quiet, the destruction over. A fine patina of smelly dust was settling. Dick sneezed. He realized everyone was looking at him, wondering what he was thinking, what he might do next.

  What should I do? Worry about my wife? Hide in fear?

  No! I am the warden of the east.

  “I want those flizzards in the air,” Dick said abruptly. Thinking about Amadea and the Black Desert was not going to stop the sheep fuckers. But indecision was going to get them killed. He rallied on, unstoppable now. “General Eusebio must not let the enemy cut him off. And I want to know where the Sacony and the Enissian armies are.”

  “They won’t fly, lordship,” the keeper moaned.

  “Then set their tails on fire. I don’t care.” He remembered once when he and Ruddy had sneaked into Master Arnulf’s solarium, stole a red reptile and set it on fire. It fluttered about for a while, before plummeting to the ground, scorched and dead. He remembered the switching even more vividly, and the fact he had had to sleep on his stomach for a good three days.

  First the flizzard had burned, then my behind.

  He missed Ruddy.

  He saw soldiers running back. Grinning.

  “Lady Amadea is safe, praise the Saint,” the words trickled back in a ripple. A long cheer went up around the gate and all along the wall.

  “What about the tower damage?” the reeve asked.

  “The engineers are inspecting it right now, sir,” one of the returned soldiers panted. “There are about a dozen wounded, but mercifully no dead…”

  Dick wouldn’t let his relief show. One less worry for now. He ought to send a letter to the Hyevan engineers and thank them for their attempt to murder his chubby wife, but to berate them on their ill timing. “Those flizzards will fly today, do you understand?”

  The old keeper lowered his gaze. “Yes, lordship.”

  Dick brushed himself off. He noticed Crispin smiling softly. “Reeve, your thoughts?”

  The Drechknight looked at the damaged tower. “We need to destroy the Voice.”

  “And prevent the enemy from cutting off the Brigade,” Dick added.

  The reeve’s face was grim. “As you say, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick blinked slowly. I
’m the truest leader. I’m ready for that crown.

  He just needed to live a while longer to get it.

  CHAPTER 34

  Unburden Your Chest

  “Survive first, worry later.”

  —PRINCE DIETRICH II

  23rd Day of the Month of the Sickle

  “Crispin.”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “This is atrocious.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  The bath chamber was in ruins. There was water leaking through cracks in the walls, and the floor was flooded. Nothing too sinister, and the engineers ensured him the royal tower was sound and would not collapse, but the damage was extensive enough to prevent him from enjoying himself. Some of the pipes had burst, and they had been forced to turn off the water flow.

  The repairs would take a long time, and there was always a chance the Hyevans might target the tower again.

  Time that he seemed not to have.

  But that was the least of his worries.

  His own chamber was unlivable. All the windows were shattered, the ceiling had cracked, and there was plaster, broken pottery, and that smelly dust everywhere. Both he and his unfortunate Sacony wife had been moved to the old customs house, which had sturdy walls and a thick stone roof, and should be safe from flying cannonballs.

  The problem was, Dick shared a corridor with Amadea. He could see his chubby wife coming and going to her prayers in the morning, sometimes alone, sometimes surrounded by maids, and he wasn’t pleased with the fact she was the first thing he saw stepping out of his much less lavish, more peasantlike new chambers. But he lauded her courage and consistency. Even the Voice of Gramik couldn’t stop her from enjoying her piety.