Gunpowder God

by John F. Carr

  He could only rise with help; without aid he was too dizzy to walk to the latrine. He looked down at the brown bandage, which probably came from a discarded dress, that was wrapped around his chest. The bloodstain hadn’t grown any larger since the old lady who passed as their healer had changed it from the earlier one. If the stain grew bigger, the healer had told him, he would die for certain. It took most of his strength to reach for the clay bottle that contained some bitter wine heavily diluted with water.

  He took a few sips, then carefully set it back down.

  Still, he not only felt useless stretched out like a corpse, but about as worthless as one as well. He should be taking care of his family, if they had survived the sack that followed the Styphoni. It was the not knowing that was killing him inch by inch.

  Even the old lady healer was surprised he’d survived such a hit to his chest. Most of his company had died in the trench when the Styphoni guns had fired into them. It was only a day later when a looter was scrounging through the dead bodies for purses and old armor that could be refurbished and reused that he was discovered. He’d lost consciousness when the man tried to lift him and had no idea how he arrived at the makeshift infirmary.

  Someone was banging on the front door, which was hanging by one brass hinge and had been liberally gouged with sword cuts and pocked with bullet holes.

  “Who is it?” the healer cried.

  “Mistress, it’s a soldier down on his luck. I’m searching for a comrade….I heard you had several wounded soldiers from the breach quartered here.”

  The voice was naggingly familiar.

  “Aye,” she replied. “You may enter, kind sir.”

  He heard someone rummaging around the room.

  Finally the familiar and shaggy head of his friend Lathos peered down at him. “You did survive, Praise Allfather” He stopped in mid-phrase, placing a filth encrusted hand over his mouth. “Sorry, saying that name now is worth your life….”

  “Then, it’s true; the Styphoni own the City.”

  “Yes, curse them branch and tree. But the Allfather does work in mysterious ways; you are here and alive.”

  Darnos coughed and it felt as though a mace had just slammed into his breastbone. He paused for awhile before continuing, “Just barely, my friend. How goes Agrys City?”

  Lathos shook his head. “Badly. They say that Grand Master Soton gave orders that the city was not to be torched, only sacked. But you’d never know it by the number of fires that day and the burnt ruins that remain. We were all captives of their raging anger and lust for two days. Anyone outside, or even inside without a hideout, was fair game. Thousands died and women, from girls to grandmothers, were raped and abused. The dead from those terrible days are stacked outside the walls like cordwood.

  Darnos shuddered. “What about my wife, Vasa?”

  Lathos wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Is she dead?”

  “No, but wishes she was. She was attacked and held captive by three Styphoni soldiers. It appears they abused her grievously.”

  A cry ripped its way out of Darnos’ throat. I should have been there protecting them instead of fighting in some trench for naught.

  Lathos touched his forehead. “You’re too hot for this.” He picked up the clay bottle and, using a rag from his pocket, wet the cloth and put it into Darnos’ mouth.. “Suck on this,” he said.

  “I do have good news about the rest of your family. Your wife had time to hide the two girls in the cellar. She was able to keep her captors from inquiring about them….”

  At least, my girls are safe, he thought. “How bad are Ava’s injuries?” he asked, after he took the rag out of his mouth.

  “It’s mostly to her spirit. The Styphoni demons used her hard and left her for dead. Ava despairs you’ll never forgive her.”

  “Me forgive her!” he yelled, rising up. “It’s me who should be down on his knees beseeching her forgiveness! Where was I when they needed me to protect our hearth?”

  Lathos eased him back down on the straw tick, saying, “It was Styphon’s House’s greed and arrogance that brought about this war. You had to fight for your City, or risk being labeled a traitor, or worse. You did all that any man could have. It’s the gods who let us down, my friend. Now, go back to sleep and I will return tomorrow. If you’re up to it, I will escort you back home. You have a family that needs you….”

  “What about your wife?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Still looking,” he said wistfully.

  III

  Great King Sopharar had listened to Duke Mnestros for almost a candle, as he went on and on before the Privy Council about how important Zygrosi support was to the future of both Hos-Agrys and Hos-Zygros. It was hard to keep his mind focused in the flickering light. His Privy Council was seated at the trestle table in his private chamber, which was illuminated by whale-oil lamps set in sconces along the stone wall.

  Sopharar looked down the table, from one man to another. His younger brother, Prince Eudocles, sat sardonically above it all, cleaning his fingernails with his dirk, smiling at some whim or secret only he knew. The devout and austere Prince Nador of Pellor, the head of the Zygrosi League of Dralm, sat in rapt attention to young Duke Mnestros’ every word. His elderly Chancellor, eyes at half-mast, was fighting sleep, his gray-bearded chin all but resting on his robe. Captain-General Ianestros, commander of the Royal Zygrosi Army and an ardent Dralmite, was sitting ramrod straight and all but drooling at the possibility of a war against Styphon’s House. The Highpriest of Dralm, who looked more like a king than Sopharar himself, was fidgeting nervously, his fingers playing an imaginary lute to some tune that only he could hear.

  Sopharar had called this meeting with the Agrysi League of Dralm’s representative to discuss whether or not the Realm should come to the aid of their Agrysi allies. While Sopharar agreed with most of what the younger man was saying, he didn’t feel all that much concern about the Styphoni menace. But, then he hadn’t been concerned about much of anything since the death of his son, Prince Pariphon. Without an heir to take his seat on the Ivory Throne, life had lost its zest and urgency. Still, it would not be in Hos-Zygros’ best interest to have a Styphon’s House puppet seated on the Throne of Lights.

  Prince Eudocles turned to young Mnestros. “Duke, the Agrysi League of Dralm was soundly defeated by Grand Master Soton in the Battle of Agrys City. Why would the League be any better prepared to defend its lands against a rested and reinforced Host of Styphon’s Deliverance next spring?”

  Sopharar wasn’t surprised at his brother’s stance. He was deeply in debt to Styphon’s House over his gambling losses and would be phenig-less without their financial assistance.

  Duke Mnestros sighed and sat back on his chair. “Your Grace, that battle taught the League a valuable lesson: We found out that we needed to be fully committed to the war against the Styphoni infidel. Many of the League’s princes did not take the Styphoni threat seriously, even after the conquest of Hos-Hostigos where we lost our greatest ally. The subsequent reports coming out of Hostigos about the Investigation have helped change people’s minds about the danger of yielding to Styphon’s House.”

  “Did it ever occur to you, young man, that the Investigation was Styphon’s House’s way of responding to Hostigi atrocities against Styphon’s House and its priesthood?” Duke Eudocles asked with a sneer.

  To his credit, Duke Mnestros did not rise to the bait. “If you consider Kalvan’s dissemination of the Fireseed Mystery to one and all an atrocity, then you may have a point.”

  Eudocles’ chair banged hard on the flagstone floor as he leapt to his feet, knocking his chair aside. “I’ll not let some boy whose chin hairs are still coming in insult me in the family palace!”

  “Sit down, Eudocles,” he ordered. His brother slowly sat back down, while shooting him a look of pure malevolence.

  They had never gotten along, even as children. Eudocles was the more aggressive and willing to go to any le
ngths to make a point or get his own way. He had been the more athletic and was still a renowned swordsman. Their father had spoiled Eudocles shamelessly, while openly showing disappointment in his eldest son who preferred the company of scrolls to taverns. If his father had had his way, Eudocles would have been Great King, not Sopharar. But not even a determined Great King could buck tradition and the law of primogeniture.

  If he wasn’t family, Sopharar would have exiled Eudocles years ago. A few confidants even dared to suggest that his brother was behind his son’s death. The boy had died when his prize horse had bolted and spilled the young Prince on a busy cobblestone street. Eudocles was capable of many things, but not that. After all, it was he who had not listened when the Royal Healer advised that the boy, who was still weak from his mysterious illness, should not be allowed to ride. May the Allfather forgive my presumption.

  Eudocles visibly reined in his temper and said, “No, Duke, I’m not talking about how the Usurper Kalvan stole the Fireseed Mystery and started the Fireseed Wars. I was referring to the wholesale looting, desecration and destruction of Styphon’s House temples, and the shooting of priests out of guns!”

  Mnestros dismissed those objections with a wave of his hand. “Only upon provocation, when Styphon’s House attacked the Princedom of Hostigos to put forth their claim to the sulfur springs in the Wolf Valley. The False Priests of Styphon gave gold, fireseed and arms openly to Hostigos’ neighbors, Gormoth of Nostor and Sarrask of Sask, openly encouraging them to invade Hostigos. Kalvan and Prince Ptosphes only responded to naked Styphoni aggression and treachery. Since then Styphon’s House has engaged in a ruthless war of extermination against the Hostigi as well as a purge of the other True Gods in the name of the One God Styphon. Styphon’s House will not stop until they rule all of the Five Great Kingdoms!”

  “The Duke has that right,” Prince Nador agreed. “I have talked with the other Princes in the Zygrosi League of Dralm and we all agree that the Styphoni must be stopped before they cross the border. If we allow Grand Master Soton, who has already taken and sacked Agrys City, to defeat the Agrysi League of Dralm and extend Styphon’s suzerainty over all of Hos-Agrys, Hos-Zygros will certainly be the next Kingdom to be swallowed whole.”

  Captain-General Ianestros nodded in agreement. “Since the defeat of Hos-Hostigos, Styphon’s House has the strongest military arm in the Five Kingdoms. With each new victory, they grow stronger. We must stop them now, or soon we will be under their fist.”

  “Your Captain-General speaks the truth,” Duke Mnestros added. “To aid our efforts against the godless priesthood, Great King Kalvan sent us his best Captain-General, the hero of Narza Gap, Captain-General Hestophes. Our Princes have now agreed that he is our sole commander and that we bend our wills to his. Thus, we have greater unity than before.

  “In addition, we are mustering more soldiers than we had in our last attack. However, we need help from our allies in both Hos-Harphax and Hos-Zygros. As Captain-General Ianestros has warned, if Hos-Agrys comes under Styphoni suzerainty your Kingdom will be the next one to fall.”

  King Sopharar nodded. “This we can agree upon. Now that the world knows the fireseed formula the linchpin of Styphon’s House dominance over the Five Kingdoms is gone. Now, they must rule us by direct conquest, or face defeat in detail. I do not know how many men I can actually send in support of the League until after I talk it over with Captain-General Ianestros, but I can promise a minimum of three thousand Royal soldiers.”

  The Captain-General nodded. “That much we can guarantee. We may be able to spare another ten companies as well.”

  He looked at Prince Nador. “How many troops can the League provide?”

  The Prince threw out his hands. “I provide fifteen hundred men and Prince Archlos is good for another thousand. With the Royal Army, we should be able to muster at least eight thousand soldiers and cavalry.”

  Duke Mnestros looked like a prisoner who’d just gotten a reprieve from a public beheading. “Your Majesty, your aid could save a Kingdom.”

  “Brother, you’re making a big mistake,” Eudocles interjected. “If you support the Agrysi, Hos-Zygros will be Styphon’s House’s next objective.”

  King Sopharar smiled knowingly. “And what makes you think we aren’t already?”

  SEVENTEEN

  I

  Archpriest Danthor moved his way cautiously up the ladder from the catacombs, while trying to keep the candle he was holding from going out. He didn’t relish the possibility of entering the secret floor portal into Styphon’s Golden Image, or what the people called the Great Idol, without even this pitiful light to make his way. Or using a flint tinderbox to relight it; not while hanging onto a ladder.

  Once inside the Idol entrance, he climbed up the scaffolding until he reached the Speaker’s platform, where he maneuvered himself into a small chair some four stories above the floor. The speaker’s mouthpiece was set before the chair and a brass speaking horn ran around the inside of the idol’s head. Its job was to act as a megaphone directing the Speaker’s words through the voice-hole where it became, to the listeners in the Square, the “Voice” of Styphon’s Great Idol.

  Styphon’s Golden Image, the huge statue of Styphon which usually resided in the Innermost Circle of the Great Council Hall of Styphon, was only visible to the public during special occasions or times of great crisis. It was propelled out of Styphon’s Golden Temple on a huge cart, designed to resemble an altar while in the Great Council Hall. The altar-shaped cart was covered with hammered gold and jewels. It was propelled into the Temple Plaza along an iron track by thirty horses and fifty slaves wearing masks and dressed in cloth-of-gold robes.

  Part of Danthor’s new job, as Speaker of the Inner Circle, was to provide the voice for the megaphone that allowed the giant idol to mimic human speech, while using levers to work the jaws and talk to the people as if it were alive. Usually this chore was the province of Styphon’s Voice, but Anaxthenes was going to make an appearance in the Plaza beside the Idol to address the crowd. Danthor had been given the honor of being the “Voice” as the new Speaker of the Inner Circle.

  This was only the third time in the last four decades that Styphon’s Golden Image had spoken to the people of Balph. The last time was when the Great Idol had announced the Styphoni victory at Ardros Field in the war against Hos-Hostigos. This time it was to announce another great victory. It was a signal honor for Danthor and, in most cases, would have signified that he was next in line for the position of Styphon’s Voice. Of course, since he was playing the part of a man of some sixty winters, it was unlikely that he would succeed the current Styphon’s Voice who had not yet reached forty years of age.

  Danthor, as a Paratimer would live, barring an unforeseen accident, another two hundred to three hundred years. Of course, his research here would be done long before his longevity became an issue.

  He heard an unexpected noise coming from down below near the idol’s secret opening. He peered down anxiously into the Stygian black. He was not expecting company as this was supposed to be a solitary job and the idol’s secret was known only to the Inner Circle. Of course, a Hostigi assassin could change the course of the war by killing him and making a false announcement to the throng outside, telling the crowd that Styphon’s House was in secret league with Kalvan, or that the current Styphon’s Voice was really a Hostigi agent. The majority of the multitude, already whipped into a religious frenzy, would believe whatever it was told. And Duke Skranga was just the man to come up with such a devious plan.

  Fear was an emotion Danthor rarely encountered, but this time it was completely justified. He used his First Level mental discipline to slow the blood racing through his veins.

  The light from his candle didn’t penetrate the darkness far enough for him to see just what or who was coming up the scaffolding; it almost sounded like a monkey, but there weren’t any monkeys this far north on the Northern Continent, Minor Land Mass. “Who is it?” he whispered, trying t
o keep his voice steady.

  A nasty little laugh accompanied the scurry noises. “It’s Yagos, Your Sanctity.”

  Yagos was Anaxthenes’ Special Deputy, sometimes spy and sometimes executioner. He wondered which role this slimy creature had been paid to play today.

  He pulled out the needler, disguised as a pocket pistol that he kept in a special holster under his shoulder. Most highpriests and archpriests had hideaway weapons, since climbing Styphon’s House’s hierarchy was a dangerous career path. There were many aspirants, but few reached the highest ruling body, the Inner Circle, which was comprised of thirty-six archpriests. Assassination was a recognized means of career advancement. For that reason, most upperpriests either had their own bodyguards or refused to go out in public without hired security.

  Yagos was well aware of all this and one of his thrills, Danthor suspected, was making people fear him. Especially since he was a thin, reedy man with little strength and a face like a whippet. Yagos’ only power came from his proximity to Anaxthenes, who used it like a lash to goad him.

  Danthor decided playing the aggressor was his best move. It had certainly worked for him with a legion of undergraduates and fellow academics who, under their surface sophistication and degrees, were not all that different from the priestly hierarchy here in Balph.

  “Deputy Yagos, what are you doing here? Don’t you know that I am here by Styphon’s Voice’s orders?”

  Yagos laughed again, as he climbed higher. “Me, too. I’m here to make sure you don’t say the wrong things.”

  Danthor held the candle underneath his chin so that it accentuated his facial features to the climbing man and pulled his face into a grim expression. “And if I do?”

  The slender man pulled out a small crossbow from under his tunic. “I’m here to make sure you don’t.”

  This time Yagos’ words were forced, he’d gotten close enough to see the small pistol in Danthor’s hand.