Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1)

by Douglas Milewski

  “Take my tableware for example. This iron doesn’t rust. We had to develop it because we needed pipes and valves that didn't corrode. We invented new ways to machine pipes so that they could all fit together in any configuration. We needed new ways to make boilers that could handle higher pressures. We needed new ways to machine parts to minute tolerances. I had to create a self-propelled machine just to pull the damned mobile boilers because we couldn’t hitch up enough horses. After all that, I still haven’t solved all the problems.”

  This didn't move Maran. “What about the slaves that you use to exhume the elven gods? What about the looting of the elven tombs?”

  Before Svero could respond, a knock came at his door and Lord Gamstadt walked in.

  “Gammy! Good to see you. Where did you find this cook? She’s a real piece of work. She’s been moralizing at me, just like Cookie used to do. Do you remember how Cookie used to drive my mother into screaming fits? Damn, it’s good to have a Loam back in the kitchen.”

  Gamstadt sat down, too heavy for himself.

  Svero sighed, “Tell it to me straight. It’s mother. Her hate is making her survive.”

  “Almost that bad. Recollection.”

  That would be Maran's fault.

  Svero smashed his stein onto the table. “Damn them. Damn them all.”

  Gamstadt explained. “The Guild Master elect the Kurfurst. If they don't like your performance, they vote you back out. That’s recollection.”

  Svero exploded again. “Damn Jasper. First, I can’t get him assassinated. Then, he gets me voted out of the Chairmanship. Then, he gets me exiled, calling me Transgressor. Now, he takes away my title from my own guild. Damn him.”

  Gamstadt lit his pipe. “We have inventions. He doesn’t. How is your research coming along?”

  “Terrible. I still don’t have that pressure problem solved. With a little more time, I know we can solve it. I could make better progress, but I can’t work out the math. It’s impossible. How do you describe changes on top of changes while changes happen? Maddening. Forget all that. I’ll go with what we’ve got. I’ll shove it down their throats and they’ll like it.

  “Maran, come topside with us. Come see the future of warfare.”

  Industrial Weapons

  Walking up to the plains, the guards eyed Maran, but she was with Gamstadt, and no one dared question him. She walked last, behind various guild masters and their sons, pulling a keg of ale.

  Greis walked along with her. “I’m standin’ by the Lieutenant, and I won’t hear nothin’ else. Those drifters can all run away fer all I care. To think they’d put him out to farm like the rest of us. They should be shamed. We do good work here. Those weapons make me proud to be an Ironmonger.”

  The new weapons were large iron contraptionswith large wheels and belching smokestacks. Svero stood next to the largest device, speaking to its operators for a while. When the guild masters were too close to ignore, he broke off and walked to them.

  “Welcome, my comrades. Welcome. I am glad to see you.” There was much banging of iron steins and patting of shoulders. Maran filled the cups again and again, only to see the steins clash again, ale splashing onto the ground. Apparently, the more ale that splashed in the greeting, the better the greeting.

  “Show us your undeliverables,” insisted one guild master, somewhat dryly.

  Another one spoke up. “Get on with it, Svero. The Feast of All Gods is coming up, we don’t have time to dally. We need a new Kurfurst to bring us good fortune for the year. Someone who can actually be there to do the job.”

  Svero held up his arms. “Comrades, I am saddened that you doubt me. I must confess that I've left things unattended for too long, but I've not left them unattended for trivial reasons. I pursue our Duke’s work. Look what his dreams have given us. We have new weapons, never before attempted. These weapons are based on steam, their potential limitless.”

  Svero pointed to the first device. “This was our first working device, our one-pounder steam cannon. It showed that our theories were sound. Most noteworthy, this boiler can be moved with only two horses. A second wagon carries ammunition. A third wagon hauls the fuel, but you don’t really need the third wagon as the boiler runs on any fuel. Under full pressure, this device propels one cast-iron ball three hundred yards every two seconds.

  “Operators, fire away.”

  The gun operators filled a tube with small metal balls, then pulled a plate. One ball fell into the barrel, then was immediately ejected in a puff of steam.

  A guild master shook his head. “We’ve seen this device before. It wasn’t practical then, and it isn’t practical now.”

  The other guild masters nodded.

  “Comrades, I admit that this steam cannon has flaws. I know that has significant limitations, such as low muzzle velocity. In tests using drifters, a simple turtling defense easily deflected the balls. Likewise, the power generated is not sufficient to batter down a proper wall. This cannon doesn't produce panic among the animals with its smoke and fire. Most importantly, aiming it is nearly impossible. I've shown you this gun, not to remind you of its limitations, but to highlight the progress that I've made.”

  Svero pointed to a larger device. “This is our improved version of the steam cannon, a ten pounder. We’ve developed a new boiler technology, enabling us to reach even higher pressures. The new boilers are made of non-rusting steel, reducing the need for cleaning and increasing reliability. We can keep this thing in the field for years. We’ve worked out gears and wheels, allowing us to aim the device more precisely. Most importantly, we’ve scaled up the barrel, allowing us to hurl a far larger projectile. Even if our enemy employs a turtling defense, we'll batter down their shield bearers. Finally, by using a larger projectile with more mass, we can employ this device against fortifications at a relentless rate of fire.

  “Just as important, look at the vehicle in front of it. Not only does it provide steam for the cannon, it pulls the cannon. How many cannons do you know that can drive themselves across the battlefield? And hooked behind the cannon is its ammo. One steam-mechanism can pull everything.

  “For this demonstrations, we’ll shoot ten shots, then move the device over to that point there, then fire another ten shots. Operators, demonstrate.”

  The operators opened their valves, letting some steam escape. Dutifully, they dropped one ball into the barrel. Almost immediately, the cannon erupted in a swath of steam, producing a distinct thump sound, hurling the projectile down the range.

  Svero pointed. “Note how the steam disperses quickly. The same isn’t true for black powder.”

  “Muzzle velocity is still low,” a guild master criticized. “You must still have that pressure issue. The range isn’t useful. I don’t think it went four hundred feet. And how are we going to dig that thing for a siege? I’d rather have a mortar.”

  A different guild master commented, “It might work in a fortification, but what happens if the boiler gets hit by a ball?”

  Svero held up his hands. “Comrades! Don't underestimate this device. You haven’t seen it move yet. You have to see this to believe it. Go ahead. Hop on. That thing will haul the whole lot of you.”

  Younger visitors rushed over to ride the steam-powered gun, clinging to every piece. Greis waddled over as well, beaming with pride. The operators knew her well and pulled her up to the driver’s seat.

  With a great cloud of steam and water droplets, the tractor produced a distinct cha-cha sound, accelerating to a fast walk even with all the people and equipment.

  Svero beamed. “While they move, comrades, we'll demonstrate my masterpiece.” He pointed to another contraption with pistols and rails. “As you know, we produce the finest artillery in the world. Unfortunately for us, the Malachites possessed some of those field pieces when they rebelled from us, which means that they can equal us. So when it comes to black artillery, we have to do better.

  “Comrades, I introduce to you the most superior weapon ever p
roduced by the Ironmongers: the steam catapult. It might not look like any catapult that you have ever seen, but that’s because it exceeds anything that you have ever seen. This device is rated up to ten TONS. You heard me right, my friends, TONS. Not only that, the whole thing disassembles so that we can move it anywhere. The boiler moves with only eight horses.

  “For this demonstration, we have some multi-ton items lined up. We’ll start with an anvil, and then work up to that marble column. The whole process will take several minutes. Operators, proceed.”

  The operators loaded the anvil with ease. In a flash of white steam, the anvil accelerated into the sky. Maran counted to eight before the anvil landed.

  Svero hooked his thumbs into his belt. “As you can see from those poles out there, the anvil landed somewhere between two and three thousand feet out.”

  “That’s no better than a trebuchet,” a guild master complained.

  “It will save on manpower,” Svero countered.

  “Who cares about manpower during a siege? The men are all sitting around doing nothing. I can put a company to work and they can fire a trebuchet at the same rate.”

  “Comrades, if this prototype device can work this well, imagine how well it will work when we get the issues worked out. With a little more development, I am confident that I can surpass the one mile mark.”

  The mobile steam cannon turned into it's final position, then exploded.

  Before anyone could react, the loudest thing that Maran ever heard ripped across her ears. The blast hurled people in all directions, the vast noise drowning out their screams. Stoic masters cried out in anguish over their sons.

  Maran counted to ten before the boiler landed.

  Maran led the Ironmongers in collecting the corpses. Into their pallid hands, she placed mugs of ale and bits of jerky. The dead would all go down the Iron Road.

  Unexpectedly, Maran spotted twice-broken corpse of Greis. Somehow, out of the numbness, some grief welled up.

  “This is what it means to be an Ironmonger. You knew that. I’m sure that the Iron Duke will smile on you. He will welcome you into his forge and give you an honored place at the bellows. The trip will be easy for you. You have nothing to fear.”

  Nothing to fear except the crows.

  That vision stopped Maran cold, causing a shiver. If the Ironmongers died in these elven lands, then she felt certain they would travel to the Bonelands as she had. The walls of death were thin here. Those souls would go to the wrong place, wandering forever in that forbidding wasteland. They would never reach the Iron Duke.

  Maran hastened to see Lord Protector Gamstadt, but the protectors at Svero’s office refused her entry.

  “I need to speak with Lord Svero!” Maran appealed. “It’s about the dead.”

  The protectors acknowledged her presence, but said nothing more.

  “I am Maran Zarander of the Eighth Rod. I have seen the Iron Duke and all secrets are open to me.”

  The iron door flew open of its own accord, knocking the protectors aside.

  Maran walked in, pushing her way through the arguing guild masters and confronting Svero.

  “I need a horse. A stallion. Order one for me. You need to do this. Order it.”

  A guild master raised his fist to Maran, but Gamstadt was too fast. He interposed himself with his iron rod.

  “Strike me if you would strike,” he stated.

  “She's a Loam!” the guild master retorted. “Why give her your honors?”

  “She is Maran Zarander, Initiate of the Eighth Rod, whose name was written into the Iron Book by the Missus herself. I saw it recorded. All was witnessed and lawful.”

  A murmur of dismay ran through the crowd.

  “How did that happen?” Svero demanded.

  Gamstadt planted his iron staff onto the ground. “The Iron Duke wanted it to happen. He ordered, and the Missus obeyed.”

  A guild master almost rent his tunic. “By all the Earth Lords, Svero, what have you done?”

  “We are ruined.”

  “Blasphemer!”

  As the arguing resumed, Gamstadt grabbed Maran and pulled her from the room.

  “That was perfect. Now the guild master know who you are, but you don’t get the blame. I’ll get you the horses you want. What are they for?”

  Maran spoke to fast. “The dead will go to the wrong place. Somebody needs to fix that. They’ll get lost in the bones. We have enough misery without that.”

  Gamstadt yelled. “I need a horse from the Duke’s own stables. Get it here as fast as possible. Get all the dying out of here as fast as possible. This is an elven grave. We must fear for their souls.”

  The orders given, Maran walked to the dead and paced. She went over what she knew in her head, having the barest notion of what she was about to do. Mother had taught her agricultural sacrifices, but nothing about funerary sacrifices. When a soldier brought a stallion in, he handed the reigns to Lord Gamstadt, who took the horse to the center of the work floor.

  “I've seen this done before. We break no bones,” Gamstadt informed her. He began the ritual by making the horse lie down, then tying a bag around the horse’s head. He used a sledgehammer to knock the beast out.

  “You need to do the rest,” said Gamstadt, holding out his killing blade.

  Maran hesitated at this new responsibility, then banked her fears. She took the knife. “I need help. Twist its head. Its throat must face the ground.” Gamstadt did as she asked. When the neck was in the correct position, Maran slit the horse’s throat, letting its mortal life soak into the ash. In that moment, Maran felt the stallion shudder again. Acting quickly, Maran grabbed on and mounted the horse's spirit form, swinging her legs over its back.

  Looking up, Maran found herself in the Bonelands standing beneath those vast, empty branches. Looking up, she spotted the crows and the bones, and it all seemed more disturbing than it had before.

  Not knowing what else to do, Maran explained the situation to her mount. “Mighty Stallion, there are servants of your Lord here, and our job is to guide them to your master’s house. We must gather them up and show them the way. Will you help me, Mighty Stallion?”

  The stallion made no noise, yet she felt that the horse understood. Not really knowing how to ride it, she treated it like a bull-goat, squeezing her legs a few times, but it didn't react. “I think you are untrained,” Maran noted. “We need to figure this out together. Please walk forward and find your the Duke’s servants.”

  The stallion walked forward, moving gently around the still branches, each step crunching among the bones. Eventually, Maran saw several groups of Ironmongers assembled.

  “To me! To me!” Maran yelled to the dwarves. “I will lead you to the Iron Duke! To me! To me!”

  The groups looked toward her, pointing. They ran up in excitement, but some lost their smiles as they approached, finding yet another cruel joke in the afterworld. Their savior was a Loam.

  “Where are we?” one dwarf shouted out. Maran recognized her voice, but not her countenance. It was old Greis, looking strong and hale, if not downright beautiful.

  “You are in the Bonelands,” Maran replied so that all could hear. “This was once the elven paradise. Now it is knee deep in bones. This is no place for a dwarf. Follow me. We travel to the Steel City and to our Lord, the Iron Duke.”

  “No!” cried a new figure. It was Stechen. “No! You are Loam. I do not trust you. You lead us wrong. You betray us.”

  “You’re all ignorant an’ dumb,” Greis objected. “Hush up. Stop being an idiot.”

  “You don’t know the way, Greis, and the Loam will take us to the wrong place. She will take us to the White Lady! We will live for eternity in a land of peace and flowers and leisure. No! I reject that hell. Do't follow her! Follow me!”

  “Don’t do that!” appealed Greis. “Don’t be a fool again. Paradise is in our hands!”

  “You're the old fool. Your world is gone. It's left us rags and rust. I would rather wa
nder lost in these hells than follow her.”

  A substantial group of younger Ironmongers split off from the group, leaving Maran with the older ones, walking into the wilderness of crows.

  Maran looked down to Greis. “Why do all the young men follow him?” asked Maran.

  Greis shook her head. “The young ones never had a Loam in the kitchen. They think that their way is the only way. Iron does not yield.”

  “I weep for them, Auntie. I do. No dead should be left to wander this horrid place, but what can I do? Greis, form the men up. We’re going to the Iron Duke. Stallion, take us there.”

  Maran let the horse have his head. It walked slowly, ambling along through the wasteland. Just as in a dream, bits and pieces of the world changed inexplicably. The horse seemed nervous, always looking about. Eventually they found rails buried in beet fields, like bones eroding from the earth.

  The mood of the group lightened considerably. Some had doubted Maran, but now they knew that they were safe. Maran dismounted, having Greis catch her as she slid down.

  “Auntie, you can find your way from here. In case anything goes wrong, follows these tracks until you come to a bridge across a river. Below, you'll see the turtles and an open drawbridge. When a train approaches, the bridge will open. Cross a few at a time. Give a drink to Jack. Give the meat to his dogs. Beyond that bridge is the Iron Duke.”

  “I know the stories, ma’am.”

  The horse walked down the tracks, stepping from iron to wood to stone. After some hours, or days, or weeks, they rounded the bend, and beyond them they saw the Steel City in all its glory. The farms gave way to towns, and the towns gave way to city.

  A whistle blew, and great train slowly passed by them, its many flat cars empty.

  On one car, Maran saw Jack. He motioned to her.

  “Onto the train!” Maran yelled. She rode the horse up, slipping off onto the car. Her companions ran up as well, pulling themselves up. Soon they sat in the wind as the train pulled them across the bridges.

  “Jack, what are you doing here?”