by N. C. Reed
“Ma’am!”
“Please designate one platoon for the first shooting and post the others where they can pay rapt attention.”
“Ma’am!” Price grinned. She might not be that old, but she knew what she knew.
Roland nodded as well.
Yes, I think this will do nicely. Very nicely indeed.
*****
About the same time that Winnie Hubbel was creating such a stir among Roland’s company of archers, Parno had decided to pay Roda Finn a visit.
“Master Finn, how goes it today?” Parno walked into the fussy scientist’s workshop carefully. One never knew what might come flying by.
“Hello, Prince Parno,” Finn smiled happily. “How is my favorite benefactor today, ah?” Finn had been working on something inside a small glass tube. He now set the tube aside and looked to his prince.
“I’m your only benefactor, Roda,” Parno smiled easily.
“That’s true, that’s true,” Finn chuckled. “But no matter how many more I have between now and my final destination, you shall always be my favorite. Thanks to you, I am not ashes, spread over some fanatic’s flower bed and sprinkled with Holy Water.”
“Well, I thank you for that special place in your. . .heart,” Parno grinned. “What are you working on today, by the way?”
“Well, let me show you,” Finn said, waving the Prince closer to his workbench. When Parno hesitated, Finn chuckled. “Come on, come on. I promise, no fire, no explosions.”
“Very well, if you promise.” Parno eased forward carefully. Though he tried to appear at ease, he was also ready to bolt for the door at a seconds notice. Finn’s experiments sometimes got away from him.
“See this?” Finn said triumphantly. ‘This’ was a small, round ball. Iron, Parno realized as he took it. The ball weighed perhaps two pounds. As he turned it in his hands, he was surprised to see that a hole had been bored into the iron.
“I see it,” Parno nodded. “What is it?”
“It’s a small ball of iron, but that’s not really important,” Finn replied with a smirk. Parno shot the inventor a murderous glance, which Finn chose to ignore. He picked up the test tube, waving it toward a basin along the wall.
“Bring it along, and I’ll show you what it’s for,” he promised. “No one around here has a sense of humor,” he grumped.
“It doesn’t pay to bring one’s sense of humor into your place of business, Roda,” Parno pointed out politely. “It’s far too easy to get something blown off that way.”
“Ah,” Finn made a pushing motion with his hand, as if waving off the comment. Finn really had made some spectacular . . . ‘miscalculations’, as he preferred to call them.
“Let me have the ball,” he ordered, and Parno gladly passed it over. He watched as Finn carefully poured the substance from the beaker into the hole. Stopping before it was filled, Finn handed the glass back to Parno.
“Set that back on the bench, if you would,” Finn asked. Parno had taken it and started for the bench when Finn added, “And do be careful. You don’t want to drop that.” Parno cursed under his breath, his feet softly treading across the roughhewn floor as if walking on eggs. He was very careful to set the glass down softly, and level, then backed away. When he returned, Finn had sealed the ball with wax and was slowly tossing it a few inches into the air over his hand, then catching it again.
Parno stopped suddenly, trying to gauge where it was safer, near the table, or the basin. Finn laughed.
“Don’t worry, Prince. We’re fine, long as I don’t drop it.”
“Then might I suggest you stop doing that?” Parno said tersely. Finn only laughed again as he headed for the door.
“Come along, Prince Parno. I have something to show you. Something I think you will like. Like very much, in fact.” Parno gingerly followed Finn outside, the inventor still juggling the ball.
“Roda, please,” Parno said urgently.
“Oh, it’s fine, so long as I don’t - ”
“Drop it, yes I know. And if you aren’t juggling it like that, the odds of your dropping it are so much lower, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m about to throw it, so it’s a moot point anyway,” the scientist cackled harshly. With that he grabbed what looked like a miniature catapult and began pulling the cocking arm into place. This caused him to further juggle the small iron ‘bomb’, (Parno had decided it had to be some kind of bomb, that being the name that Finn gave to so many of his exploding toys), which in turn caused Parno much grief. Finally he stepped forward and grabbed the lever himself.
“Allow me, if you will keep that thing firmly in your hand.” Finn growled under his breath, but allowed the younger man to ready the small catapult. Once the weapon was ready, Finn placed the small iron ball into the cradle. Attaching a string to the releasing mechanism, he began to walk away. When he saw Parno wasn’t following, he turned back to the Prince.
“You might want to follow me, Milord,” he said, almost without sarcasm. “You were so worried about my dropping it. This thing might not launch correctly, you know.” Parno, his face showing his shock at the thought, hastily followed Finn.
The scientist retreated thirty feet or so, Parno figured, to a small wooden barricade, made with close fitted oak logs. The logs were staggered so that no part of the barrier was less than two feet thick. A sturdy and formidable shield, Parno thought thankfully. He huddled behind the barricade with Finn. The little inventor looked at him, grinned evilly, and then pulled the cord.
As soon as the catapult fired, Finn was on his feet. Parno followed a tad slower, but was still in time to see fire blossom down range, roughly one hundred yards away, followed immediately by the ‘boom’ now so familiar to those who worked with, or around, Roda Finn.
“YES!” Finn shouted, and jumped for joy. The sight of the little professor behaving so was comical, and Parno laughed despite himself. Finn turned to him, abashed at his outburst.
“Well, I wasn’t sure that would work, to tell the truth,” he admitted.
“What did it do?” Parno asked. “More to the point, what’s it for?”
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Finn said, excitement back in his voice. Parno followed Roda Finn down the ‘range’, as he called it, again laughing at the sight of the fussy and stuffy inventor running. It was like following a duck with arthritis.
Parno’s grin faded, however, as he neared what Roda called the ‘impact area’. Several scarecrows had been set up on the range, all wearing various types of armor, ranging from leather jerkins and buff coats, to mail and even plate armor. As he examined the figures, most of them now on the ground, Parno felt a chill in his bones.
Every one of them was shredded, as if a giant knife had been plunged into each target over and over again. Gaping holes filled the leather and mail clad figures, and smaller, but no less wicked wounds afflicted even the plate armor. A small whistle escaped Parno’s lips as he looked over the carnage in front of him.
“Now. You see?” Finn asked smugly.
“How is this possible, Roda?” Parno breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“No one has, Milord. Not in several centuries, anyway, unless I miss my guess. This is from an ancient form of warfare called ‘artillery’.”
“We have artillery,” Parno objected. “You used one of our artillery pieces to launch this. . .thing!”
“True,” Finn allowed grudgingly. “You have a form of artillery, in your catapults, trebuchets, and what not. Even ballistae are a form of such, though they are what the ancients referred to as ‘direct fire’ weapons. But the secret of artillery fire, my Prince, lies where?”
“In range, and in damage done,” Parno answered immediately.
“Correct,” Finn nodded. “The weapons themselves do not cause the damage. They are merely delivery systems. In ancient times, Milord, such delivery systems could hit targets miles from where they sat and cause significantly more damage than this.”
“Miles,” Parno said softly, shaking his head. “With weapons like that - ”
“Unfortunately,” Finn squelched that thought, “we do not have the technology to make that work. Such weapons as I have described are beyond us, certainly for the present. Too much of the knowledge needed to create those weapons was lost in the Great Dying, but,” Roda waved to the ground about him, “we can do this!”
“It’s not much range,” Parno objected mildly. “Good as a last ditch defensive weapon, of course, and deadly too, but. . . .”
“But, but, no buts,” Finn interjected. “What you just saw was simply a scale model demonstration, with a one-quarter scale catapult. Imagine, Milord, a ball weighing ten pounds, rather than two, and fired from a full size catapult, rather than my toy, there. Imagine that! And what do you see?”
Parno opened his mouth, but found no words. A ten pound. . .bomb, causing five times the damage this one had! At far greater ranges, to boot! With such a weapon, and in good defenses, a force could hold its ground against an attacker many times its own strength.
“Roda, how big can you make these things and have them still function?” he asked finally.
“I have no idea,” Finn admitted with a shrug. “I suppose that the bomb can be made as large as needed, or wanted. Transporting them would be, difficult in the extreme, I fear, if they were too large. Not to mention. . . .”
“Not to mention the danger involved in grinding over bumpy roads, tree roots, or a wheel coming off,” Parno finished for him. He frowned, considering the problem.
“What if,” he said suddenly, “we transport the balls, bombs,” he corrected at Finn’s grimace, “unloaded? Fill them with. . .whatever it is you fill them with after we arrive? Could that work?”
“It could,” Finn replied, hand rubbing his chin in thought. “Still leaves the trouble of transporting the concoction, of course, but maybe I can work something out for that as well. We might, for instance, use many small beakers, sized for only one shot. That way, anyone, well, not anyone, of course, but someone very careful, could simply load and seal the bombs on the battlefield.”
“And,” he continued excitedly, mind racing, “we can rig some kind of framing that will allow the beakers to move with the motion of the wagon. Swaying gently to the rocking, like in a boat upon the water, instead of rattling around inside a wagon box. That would make moving the compound safer, though it won’t eliminate the risk altogether, mind you.”
“Some risk is acceptable if it means having a weapon like this at our backs,” Parno assured him. “I want it to be the least risk possible, mind you. And, I’d say you’re going to need some assistants, too. Men will have to be trained to transport the…concoction, as you called it, and to assemble the bombs once we reach we ever it is we’re going.”
“They’ll have to be steady men, Milord,” Finn warned, with no trace of humor or his usual smugness. “Steady, and have some intelligence. This isn’t a sword or shield.”
“I’ll talk to the Colonel tonight, and with his Second,” Parno assured him. “We’ll find the right men for the job. You just make sure we can move this stuff without killing them, or the rest of us if it comes to that.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tilden Carmichael Jefferson Bane, the Emperor of Norland, stood alone in his study. Quietly, he studied the map before him.
The paper was old, so old that Bane feared it would one day simply turn to dust in his hands. The map itself was replaceable, since many copies had been made, but this map was a part of his birthright. For that reason he seldom opened it and never in the presence of others.
The map before him resembled the maps of his kingdom, at least in part. The northern part of the map. The southern part, as the eastern and western parts for that matter, were not represented as themselves. Instead, on this map, all of the kingdoms were part of one, united kingdom.
For long ago, Norland, Soulan, the United Coastal Provinces, and the wild western lands across the great river had been one. One. A single, undivided kingdom that had ruled most of the world. Bane considered this kingdom, this nation, his as well. His to rule.
For Bane was the direct descendent of the last ruler of the great land that had once been. The last descendent, if he failed to sire an heir.
His family, for generations innumerable, had fought to reunite the old kingdom. Despite initial successes, the war always seem to turn once the fighting fell into the south. There the Soulanies refused to budge, choosing instead to fight to the death for every square inch of soil.
Bane’s own father, Jefferson Johnston Bane, had led one such foray, one of the most successful in history, in point of fact. Yet that war, too, had ended in defeat. Despite all the then Emperor Jefferson could do, the Norland armies floundered once they penetrated too far into the Soulan territory.
The simple fact was that despite their numbers, Norland lacked the strength to occupy Soulan. It galled Bane to admit that, but it was true, nonetheless. He saw no reason to deny it. If he were to seize that which was meant to be his, then he had no time for half-truths or frivolity. Lying to himself was as bad, if not worse, than someone else lying to him…and it accomplished nothing.
But now, things were different.
Always the Soulan cavalry had made the difference. Raiding, burning, destroying baggage trains and supply trains, disrupting communications, attacking headquarters units, and generally wreaking havoc. The Norland Army had never been able to develop an effective counter to the Soulan horsemen.
Until now. Maybe.
Bane grimaced at the qualifier, but the truth was still the truth. He had laid his plans carefully over the years of his reign. Full diplomatic relations with the Southrons had been established- embassies, ambassadors, everything. The border had been opened to trade with Soulan, with free traffic back and forth. There were no excise taxes and no charge for crossing into Norland territory with trade goods. Many of his people had grumbled at that, albeit quietly, but he had held firm. It was only for a time.
With diplomatic relations restored, Bane had worked through the Soulan ambassador to establish trade and other treaties, all designed to show how reasonable he was. Only Bane’s closest advisers knew his true ambitions.
While the one hand was stroking the southern kingdom, the other was making deals under the table with the wild tribes of the west. Horses, tens of thousands of them, had been imported from the west. Advisers from the western lands had been hired to train Norland soldiers how to fight from horseback.
It had been slow going, to be sure. The only experience most of the men in Norland had with horses was staring at the ass-end of one while steering a plow behind the beast and not everyone could master the near wild mustangs from the west. Those who couldn’t returned to the infantry.
But those who could had mastered the art of horsemanship. The ranks of the Norland cavalry had grown to forty thousand. Forty thousand well trained, well mounted and highly disciplined troopers, plus another sixty thousand mounted infantry, men who could ride well enough, but would fight on foot once they reached the battlefield. They would join the two hundred thousand infantry, one hundred thousand archers, and hundreds of catapults, siege engines, and ballistae that made up the Norland Army.
Soon, very soon, it would be time to unleash those forces upon the south. Along with a few surprises. Surprises that would ensure, once and for all, control of the eastern half of the ancient kingdom. With Soulan defeated, the Atlantic Provinces would fall into line with little or no trouble. The coasters had little in the way of military forces, dependent for generations on the South for protection from Northern aggression.
Without them, those of the smaller republic would surrender without a fight, he was sure.
With the coming of the spring, war would come once again, as it had countless times in the past. But this time, the outcome would be different.
Very different.
*****
Bane walked briskly into the ornate hall that serve
d as his Council chamber. Already assembled were the generals and diplomats who were privy to his plans. They numbered fewer than twenty.
All stood as he entered and Bane graciously waved them back down to their seats, taking his own at the head of the long table.
“Please, gentlemen, sit,” he smiled. “We have much to discuss today. General Meade, how are your preparations going?” The aged man who commanded all of Norland’s military looked down from his seat next to Bane.
“Our army is as near ready as it can be, without having stood the test of battle,” he said firmly. “The training regimens we have in place have worked wonders among the troops. I am confident that the army can carry out its mission.”
“Our navy,” he went on, glancing back to his Emperor, “is also prepared. Though their part is more limited, it is no less important to our overall plans. They are ready, and able, to carry out their mission.”
