The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Chu-li Wang, and I’d be grateful if you can help.’ The voice was cultured, the Arabic scarcely accented but studiously neutral.

  The request had no doubt been cleared at a high level for it to come from Hilmi personally.

  The gaunt structure of the siege engine was uncovered for Jared. To his surprise it was not a mangonel but a tall structure with a beam, having a sling at one end and a ponderous counterweight the other. On each side was a man-sized treadmill.

  It must be a trebuchet, he realised, a recent development that he’d not seen until now. More efficient, it needed many fewer men than the mangonel to arm and fire it – in fact there were only about a dozen of the odd-featured men standing about.

  He approached it with care; it was of considerable size, reaching up twice the size of a house.

  ‘This!’ Wang said, going to the end of the beam by the sling and pointing underneath.

  At first Jared couldn’t see what the problem was – the beam was high in the air, presumably after firing and below it was some sort of iron device operated by a long lanyard.

  Then he worked it out: it was a release mechanism for the engine, a trigger but different to those used in crossbows, for it would have to take immensely more powerful forces.

  Below the beam was an eye with a free-swinging releasing link. Securely fixed to the base of the trebuchet was the iron device, a finger rotating about a bolt to engage the link. He noted how the finger was part of a sinuous design to keep a hold on the link until the last, when it would slip in sudden release.

  But it had failed. The finger had worn and bent with use until it no longer held back, rendering the entire engine useless, unable to be cocked.

  Probably a copy, and a poor one. They hadn’t realised that wear under pressure of common wrought iron had to be countered by special treatments at the forge.

  Jared straightened and allowed a look of regret to shadow his features. ‘Ah. A difficult repair. I would like to help but …’

  To his satisfaction it produced consternation.

  ‘Respected silâhtar, the engine is crucial to our plans to end the siege. We beg you to consider how it might be brought back to service.’

  Already he had in mind what he would do, but he was not going to let it seem too easy.

  ‘Very well, Hilmi Bey, I’ll try – but no promises!’

  The big man eased. ‘You shall be well rewarded.’

  Taking the piece Jared headed back to his smithy, rapping out orders as he strode.

  He got busy with chalk and line and quickly had his pattern. But who knew the quality of that iron – to be sure he’d make a new one from scratch.

  ‘Get that fire going, you sluggards!’

  He’d do this one himself, and in front of an admiring audience with a flourish of sparks and hammer blows he drew out the iron billet into shape, leaving a stronger web at the recurve of the finger and the lever.

  It was vital to bring about a true case-hardening but the gear for this process had not been brought along. He’d have to improvise.

  An iron tool chest was found and he sent out the idle spectators to bring him hooves, old leather and rock salt, which he packed around the finished object. Perkyn and two others obliged with urine and the box was sealed shut and consigned to the core of the fire.

  It was now a matter of time – and that intuition a master smith had, to know precisely when to bring out the piece. The longer it remained, the deeper the hardening but there had to be a balance between the increasing brittleness and the resilience of the underlying iron to produce a tough but at the same time hard-wearing part.

  ‘Enough!’ he announced.

  The box was broken open and as the piece cooled, the magical appearing on its surface of blue and purple colours, blotched with darker ones, told him that it was perfect.

  At the sight of the trebuchet the city had woken up to the threat. Crossbow bolts and arrows hissed and thunked but the besiegers had angled palisades covered with felt in place and work could continue without hazard.

  Jared fitted the trigger-piece and stood well back. There was no way of testing the workmanship short of actually firing the engine.

  Shouts rang out in a tongue he didn’t understand. Ropes were connected and reeved, and with a creaking rumble the treadmills started up and the beam was pulled down against the mass of the great counterweight until the link eye reached the trigger-piece.

  The treadmills stopped while the finger was inserted and then were eased away.

  Wang ordered everyone clear, went to the device and gingerly tapped it. It held.

  He lifted the lanyard and stood out to the side. In a smooth pull he operated the trigger and with a mighty convulsion the engine swung its beam, the sling following, but there was nothing in it and the trebuchet settled back.

  It had worked – there were smiles everywhere.

  ‘Do not go, Jared Bey. Now I will show you something!’ Wang said mysteriously.

  The trebuchet was armed and there was activity around the sling, then Jared’s attention was drawn to the front, to the looming gates in the massive walls.

  He heard the sudden clatter and thump of the engine and was aware of a dark object sailing over and down, falling short of the walls.

  And with a flash and almighty clap of thunder the morning was torn apart, a roiling cloud of dirty smoke drifting out the only evidence that the world had gone demented!

  Jared jerked with shock, stunned by what had happened. Was it a lightning strike, called down by some wizard?

  The trebuchet kicked again, and nearer the walls the same thing happened.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the violence, the naked venom of the thing. In a life where only a heavenly thunder could produce anything like it in sound this was stupefying, touching deep primeval fears of the underworld and the Devil.

  Jared became aware of a party of men grouping behind him but could only stare out at the dissipating smoke.

  Another: this time it sailed over the walls to disappear beyond – and the flash and shattering roar could be clearly heard from within the city.

  Suddenly the men jostled out past him, heading for the gates.

  Jared couldn’t make sense of what was going on but saw that they scuttled out completely unmolested. The battlements and towers that looked down on them were empty – the defenders had fled in panic.

  The men did something with a frame and bundle against the gates, then ran back.

  There was an even bigger crash of thunder and when the smoke cleared the gates were teetering in splintered ruins.

  A bloodthirsty howl broke out along the siege lines. Warriors surged forward toward the breach, pouring into the city in an unstoppable tide. The slaughter began.

  Numb by what he’d seen Jared turned away.

  ‘Wh-what did you do?’ was all he could think to ask Wang.

  The man gave a superior smile. ‘We sons of Han did discover the secret of huo yao many years ago. It is naught but this …’

  In his palm was a pinch of ash-grey powder.

  Gingerly Jared took some and smelt it. Beyond a metallic, sulphurous odour there was nothing remarkable about it.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘You are not expected to. Our philosophy would be needed and you foreigners are deficient in this.’

  ‘Try me!’

  ‘Then I have to tell you that this is a mixture of substances of opposite yin and yang properties. If fire is brought to them they are excited and try to escape the embraces of the other. If in a confined space, they must bring heaven’s wrath down to enable them to break away.’

  He pointed to a series of clay pots ranged ready by the trebuchet.

  Jared shook his head in wonder and headed back to the smithy held in thrall.

  Carousing was well under way; artificers like himself did not join in the sacking of the unfortunate city. As skilled men making it all possible, they were assured of a share of the loot
and had only to wait for the bloodshed and destruction to conclude and a high-level division of spoils to be made.

  But Jared had no taste for merriment while the brutal hacking was still going on and he wanted to think.

  Picking his way over the debauchery he was confronted by a gaggle of his Persian forge-hands, glassy-eyed and swaying.

  ‘The most high and wise silâhtar Jared Bey,’ one of them said with an exaggerated Arab gesture of respect, ‘who did restore the engine of the Cathayans to its dread purpose, we salute you!’

  He held up an obviously looted chalice. ‘Sire! We offer you due libation.’

  Jared took it and sniffed suspiciously. It was not any kind of ale. Instead a rich wafting of rose-petal and honey rose up, no doubt pillaged from some rich merchant’s pantry. He saw no reason to refuse it and took it off to his tent.

  Kicking off his sandals he stretched out on his bed, the appalling crash and violence at the trebuchet still dominating his thoughts. He took a sip of the ambrosia – it was sweet and had an elusive herb-like scent that was very pleasant.

  It didn’t make sense: the strange powder he’d been shown couldn’t possibly produce the effects he’d seen. Either the Cathayan was lying or it was part of a much more elaborate magic spell to call down thunder and lightning on demand.

  Taking another pull of his drink he felt a rising elation. To be possessor of such power! To reach out and tumble to ruin his enemy and his works – nothing could stand before it!

  A strange lassitude crept over him at the same time as his thoughts soared. He took another drink – the saints preserve him, but it was good.

  Supposing he had the secret and invoked the spells to their maximum power: he would see rivers change their course, the sky fall … whole towns swept away in a glorious tide of chaos. A lurid and colourful image filled his mind of dogs and pigs whirling helplessly through the air, blown away by the forces he was raining down, god-like.

  He blinked blearily. The bastards had put hashish in the drink, which explained their generosity and mirth, but he didn’t care, for an even more compelling picture was forming.

  With his fearful powers he was now wreaking a cruel revenge on those who had wronged him, and at the head of the line were the knights of Acre who had abandoned him to the Saracens. In a surge of glee he saw their ship shivered in pieces, the floundering armoured nobility sinking helpless into the depths.

  Then slamming into his vision with stark clarity came Castle Ravenstock, every lineament in pitiless, loathsome detail.

  In a fury of hatred he hurled his terrifying bolts of destruction at the walls, one after the other, until they began crumbling before their irresistible onslaught. More! The whole face of the grim fortification was now hidden in the flash and thunder of his assault and out of the smoke and ruin began tumbling the figures of lords and ladies, bailiffs and stewards, men-at-arms and horses until at last he was spent – and there was left only a smoking heap of stones!

  Beyond, another castle loomed and he visited the same on it – and another, each in turn succumbing to ruination until he lay back, exhausted.

  In a haze of euphoria, his senses dissolved and he slid into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 32

  Jared woke in a sweat, muzzy-headed.

  As his mind cleared there was one thing that refused to leave – the vision of castles tumbling to ruin.

  It could happen. He was certain there was nothing in Christendom like these powers, or why hadn’t the Templars made use of them at Acre? In some way these beings from far Cathay had discovered how to create the dread devices that he had seen with his own eyes. And as a man of practical experience with fire and iron he felt instinctively that this was no mere magic spell.

  Just supposing the possessor of such a secret appeared suddenly in the old country. In a very short time it would be taken up and unleashed. Castles everywhere would be brought down. And for each one the proud, arrogant and all-powerful occupants would be robbed of their impregnable sanctuary and be forced to the same level as all others, compelled to live by the same laws and to face their fellow man.

  Was it all a foolish dream?

  Here he was, a slave of the Mongols and in a land far away and after these long years vanishingly little hope of tasting freedom. Besides which, he didn’t even possess the secret. But by all that was holy, if it ever did happen, what a stroke of vengeance!

  This was madness: it was not given to such as he to do such deeds, that was the business of warlords and princes. Who was he to …

  Like a bewitching enchantress the thought remained to beckon him on. He wouldn’t need to be a Richard the Lionheart, just the instrument of justice, by his action a humble means to an end.

  What was he talking about? Without the secret knowledge it was all nonsense!

  Yet he was a man of skill with his hands, it shouldn’t be too difficult to learn. The Cathayans would soon be moving on, their job done. Who knew if they’d ever meet again. He must seize the chance now and trust to fortune to see him eventually free – ransomed or whatever, it could come at any time or not at all but if it did, within him would be his deadly knowledge.

  He had to see Wang now.

  ‘So how did you like our little show?’ the man said, sipping his usual hot drink with the small leaves swimming in it.

  ‘Well enough, Wang. It was no spell you conjured – was it?’

  ‘Not at all. Our philosophies are sufficient. All is managed by our huo yao powder.’

  ‘Hoh yow – I see.’

  Wang winced.

  ‘Then where do you find this, um, powder?’

  ‘That’s no concern of yours, Jared Bey,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Let it remain as our little mystery.’

  ‘By all means,’ he replied lightly. He was not going to let it rest, in his pouch nestled his second line of attack.

  ‘So. The city’s fallen, you’ll be on your way?’

  ‘Very soon.’

  ‘After we share the plunder.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Then how would you like to take away double your share? Gold, incense, elephants’ teeth – you’ll have all the girls you ever want.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Why, on a gamble, Wang.’

  ‘On what?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, just the local favourite. Knucklebones.’ It had been the work of minutes with a tiny red-hot wire to prepare a cavity for lead in one of the bones.

  Wang inspected them closely. ‘What stakes?’

  ‘This is my third siege, I’ve plenty put by. As high as you like.’

  Sometime later, Wang shook his head. ‘The stars are not right, the gods have deserted me,’ he muttered surlily, eyeing the neat pile of stones next to Jared.

  ‘Bad luck, brother. That puts me ahead … let me see …’ He made much of counting up his winnings, then paused as though struck by something.

  ‘I tell you what. It would pain me if we parted bad friends. I’ll give you a last chance: let’s call it doubles on the next throw, my whole pot.’

  ‘Against that?’ Wang sneered. ‘I’ve nothing left.’

  ‘Yes you have! You’re going to stake satisfying my curiosity about your hoh yow. Show me, or something.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I said I wanted to be friends …’

  ‘How do I know that you won’t start setting up on your own?’

  ‘Me? A blacksmith? Hah! No one is going to listen to me. No, Wang, all I want is my curiosity satisfied or all my life I’ll think you used magic. And to make it sweeter, if you do teach me I’ll forget what you owe me!’

  It didn’t take long to come to a decision.

  ‘If they catch me telling you …’ Wang said nervously, coming back with some containers, then pulled the door-flaps of the tent firmly closed.

  ‘They won’t. And naturally you’re going to tell me true, and I’ll want to see you make a right good show at the end from your conjuring, or …’

&n
bsp; ‘You will. So this is what we must do. There are three elements.’

  The charcoal was easy. Willow or hazelwood was open-pored, and the best.

  Then sulphur. He’d seen it before being fumed in a house of plague, but huo yao needed it well purified.

  The last was hsiao, a white crystal powder.

  ‘Taste it.’

  Gingerly Jared dipped in his tongue – an odd, sweetish sensation.

  ‘You taste salt, it’s bad.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘I don’t know everything! The ancients say it’s the chief of the elements and must be included, so I do.’

  ‘Well, where do you get it?’

  ‘It’s everywhere, but you cannot notice. I’ve three men whose duty is to look about in any quarter we stop and bring me back what they find. If you’re so interested you can go with them.’

  ‘I’m curious – I will.’

  Wang shrugged and went on impatiently. ‘We have just these three ingredients. They have been purified. Now they must be mixed.’

  He brought out a mortar and pestle and began work. Jared frowned. Was this going to be some sort of dabbling in alchemy?

  Wang straightened and held out the pestle. ‘See?’

  It was the same ash-grey, finely ground powder he’d seen before but now he knew how it was prepared.

  ‘Make it … speak, then.’

  With a sly smile Wang produced a small bamboo tube, shook the substance carefully into it and tamped and sealed the openings. A wisp of cloth hung out of one end.

  ‘Here.’

  To Jared it looked and smelt like any man-made trifle, not in the slightest like a sleeping menace. Doubtfully he handed it back.

  ‘And we awake it with fire. Stand back!’

  He took it to the oil lamp and when the cloth caught, tossed it lightly at Jared’s feet.

  The livid flash and ear-splitting crack was petrifying at close quarters, the eddying smoke sulphurous and diabolical.

  It also brought three of Wang’s crew running.

  ‘Showing the kwei lo that we do not need magic to perform our wonders. A suitable demonstration, is that not so, Jared Bey?’