Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  I left the living crystal and the data bank alone to talk for a while. With a little luck, Diogenes would figure out how to run in a futuristic computer core. At worst, it simply wouldn’t work. But if it did, the computer core was going to get a lot more magic dumped into it.

  Sunset went about its business and I went about mine. Mary joined me shortly beforehand and reiterated her disappointment at my schedule. We talked, waterfalled together, and dressed.

  “You do know it could be a long while before we see each other again?” she asked. “You’re talking about some sort of weirdness with time, after all.”

  “Immortality,” I countered.

  “Yeah, but it gets boring without someone to share it.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Good. So hurry. Regular people don’t last very long.”

  “If you were a little less rough on them…” I trailed off.

  “Where would be the fun in that?”

  “Fine, fine. I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying.”

  “So where are you off to in your hurry?

  “Mochara. I know a particularly inventive and clever fellow named Flim. He practically invented the Giant Artillery Crossbow.”

  “Did you help?”

  “Only by suggesting a few improvements. He’d have figured them out on his own.”

  “Why is he important?”

  “Mochara has a fleet of ships headed for it and they probably have defenses against someone pounding an explosive spike into their keels. I’ve done that trick more than once.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but it’s likely. I don’t want to discover what their defenses are by trying it and having a spike go off in my hand like a stick of dynamite.”

  “Seems reasonable. So this Flim has… what? Medieval artillery?”

  “Pretty much. I want to see what he’s come up with and if it’ll help.”

  “What happens if it doesn’t? What if he’s only got a ton of drawings and nothing built?”

  “He doesn’t work like that. I’m sure there are any number of drawings, but he’s a builder.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Then I’ll think of something else.”

  We finished our rinse cycle and toweled off.

  “Did you mean it about smiting Carrillon?” Mary asked.

  “Not really.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do it. It would kill too many innocents. Oh, if I did nuke the place, I’d only do it after three days of warning them—then it would be their own damn fault if they stayed. Unfortunately, anyone dangerous and powerful enough for me to consider…. What?” I asked. She looked at me funny while I spoke.

  “You mean you can nuke the place?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s easier than you think. I have a suspicion this world is a little more unstable than a ‘scientific’ world—although that may be a misnomer. Science and magic may not be opposites, but rather different aspects of a particular quality—assuming they have any relationship whatsoever. Anyway, this world was, I believe, created as a stand-alone habitat. It was undeniably put together by some entity. More likely a committee of entities, based on the eccentricities it displays. My hypothesis is any world with a high magical flux must be inherently unstable at a fundamental level, making matter itself somewhat unstable when subjected to appropriate forces—”

  “Back up. Unstable?”

  “Remember Einstein and the energy equals matter times the square of the speed of light?”

  “I recall something about it. I seem to remember it from school, and more recently in the news about the Beijing fusion reactor disaster.”

  “In your world, it’s hard to get fission or fusion to happen—matter turning into energy. Here, it might not be as hard.”

  “You’re saying you could use the local technology—and magic, of course—to build a nuclear weapon?”

  “Essentially, yes.” I didn’t explain. If she thought it required a nuclear engineer and an enchanted machine shop, that was fine with me. I really didn’t feel like sharing the principles of world destruction with anyone.

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “Again, too many innocents die. I’d rather use something tactical. I’m hoping to live a life free of weapons of mass destruction. I’m a retail killer, not wholesale. Wholesale gives me indigestion,” I added, changing the subject. Mary accepted the change.

  “Ah, yes. Softie.”

  “Seriously, it’s the indigestion.”

  “Suuure it is.” She squeezed me. “You go down to Mochara and geek out with your engineering buddy. I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re gone.”

  “Okay. And I just remembered—this is for you.” I handed her the ring. She took it, regarded it, put it on and considered it.

  “I like the black and gold,” she decided. “I don’t think I can quite make out what it does, though, from the inscription.”

  “It’s your Ring of Hiding from Magical Detection,” I told her. “With this ring, I thee conceal. It ought to keep nosy magi from finding or identifying you. But don’t push it, please. Use all caution.”

  “I will.” She kissed me. “And I love it. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. By the way, did I show you the metals room?”

  “The treasury?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “You might check on the piles of gold and get Seldar to start stamping out coins. If I have to put a bounty on Thomen’s severed head, I’ll need money.”

  “Can I have some?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “I love having a rich boyfriend,” she said. She kissed me on the nose and skipped out. I went to Bronze’s stall and found her crunching her way through a pile of coal.

  “Ready for a run?”

  She snorted wisps of fire and smoke, rang her mane with a shake, whipped her tail like a wire lash, and stomped. The floor vibrated, but I didn’t hear the thud.

  Stupid question.

  I mounted up and Bronze headed farther into the mountain. This puzzled me for a moment. The main door was right there; we should go out that way, down the Kingsway, negotiate the turns to get out of town, and head south. I was actually looking forward to seeing the changes in the Kingsway bridge on the way down.

  But no, Bronze had her own ideas. Bronze gave me the impression she spoke with the mountain—don’t ask me how that works; I’m not clear on how Bronze works—and asked about good running routes. Therefore, we went into the palace, through a couple of doors, and down. The sloping hallway took us deep under the nominal ground level and terminated in a sizable room. Four other tunnels led away, probably in the cardinal directions. The southward one would lead to Mochara, of course, probably under the central divider, the road between the canals. West led to the mountains and to Rethven beyond them. North? Probably to that town, the one occupying the eastern portion of the pass. It might run farther north, too. And east… what was east? Canals went that way. Did we have a tunnel that way just because we had canals?

  This is the problem with having sentient and/or sapient things doing whatever they do without supervision. Stuff happens. I’m still not caught up. I’m not even sure I approve.

  Bronze took the southern tunnel without hesitation. I suspected it could use a bit more engineering. It wasn’t lighted and only poorly ventilated. One person, or a small group, could probably travel along it without risking suffocation, but I’d hate to rely on torches for light.

  On the other hand, it was as wide as a three-lane road and arched to about twenty feet high. Bronze went straight down the middle like a bullet down a gunbarrel. I held on and enjoyed the ride, thinking of ways to improve the tunnel.

  The other end of the tunnel arrived surprisingly quickly. It made a sharp turn to the right and divided. We could turn left, or continue straight, ascending.
Bronze chose to ascend. The tunnel angled upward, narrowing, and eventually came to a dead-end. It was rather cramped for Bronze. Fortunately, one wall was a pivot-door; Bronze nudged it with a shoulder and walked around with it as it swung open. She closed it neatly by completing the turn.

  We stood in a high-ceilinged room, square, with neither windows nor furniture. The only feature was another pivot door. I opened this one and found it led outside. The door was part of an unmarked and unremarkable building inside Mochara. It appeared to be built up against the inside of the city wall. It even had steps along the outside to the walkway atop the wall.

  Bronze and I left the building as soon as I determined no one was watching. I pushed the door closed with one foot and it immediately started to disappear. The stone of the frame joined with the door.

  Well, that explained why the room wasn’t used, at least.

  We worked our way out of the neighborhood, heading for places with people. This area didn’t seem too popular or well-trafficked. Another good reason to put a secret tunnel exit there, I suppose. I wonder where the other tunnel branch went, though. A Temple of Shadow? Out to sea? The Temple of Flame, perhaps?

  Flim still lived in the same house. He was easy to find; several lanterns lit his workyard and his current project. He had a bow-spring ballista pretty much perfected, apparently, given the thirty-foot-wide example sitting ready. His latest work seemed to involve launching multiple arrows rather than a single projectile.

  Flim, of course, was still outside and tinkering while waiting for me to show up. His sons, Reth and Zaren, were with him.

  Zaren kicked under the arrow engine when Bronze and I came into the light.

  “Dad! He’s here!”

  Reth snapped upright and tried to stand at attention. Flim hauled himself out from under the contraption and bowed. Zaren copied his father and Reth joined them. I noticed Flim wore a necklace—a pendant, really. A simple leather cord holding part of a chain link. I recognized it.

  “Evening,” I offered, dismounting. “Nobody stand on ceremony; relax. I understand there’s been some confusion on how you get paid?”

  “Yes… um…” Flim trailed off.

  “Okay. I’ll have a word with Seldar; he’ll take care of it. If you need anything, send word to him.”

  “Yes,” Flim replied, still trying to think of how to address me.

  Everyone takes the King so seriously. Why don’t I? My native culture? My upbringing? My genetic defect about royalty?

  “Good. My, but you’ve got some fine men for helpers. I recall Reth being such a little fellow. And Zaren has grown up and filled out. Been working hard on these things?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Glad to hear it. Flim, would you care to explain and demonstrate?”

  “You bet I would!” He immediately launched into an explanation of his pride and joy, the giant crossbow. Different layers of wood and steel were laminated together, but not joined—impossible in earlier times, but with the forges in Karvalen turning out some of the highest-quality steel in the world, now almost practical. These layers slid across each other, making it possible to bend without breaking. Steel cable formed the bowstring. A geared crank turned a shaft. The shaft had two different sections—one to take up cable, the other to feed cable out. The cable ran through a pulley with a hook; this pulled back the bowstring.

  Flim, or one of his sons, invented the Chinese windlass. I am impressed.

  Then he used it with a variable gear system—and a ratchet and pawl, for safety—making it possible for one man to crank back that enormously powerful draw. Admittedly, it took forever for one man to do it, but there was a selection of different gears and handles. He had gears low enough for a six man team or high enough for one man.

  “It doesn’t launch quickly,” he admitted, “but once it’s prepared, it will go through anything short of a magician’s barrier.”

  “What do you launch?”

  Zaren produced a metal spear and handed it to his father. Flim took it with a grunt and handed it to me. It was really a length of pipe with a solid point, sharpened like an old-fashioned pencil. It had a length of cloth, a ribbon, at the rear. Not as accurate as vanes or fletching, but the slight drag would at least keep it oriented properly.

  “I started with wooden arrows,” he said. “They didn’t want to work so well. There were problems with penetration, as well as breakage during launch. These stand up pretty well to launching, they’re heavy enough to damage anything, and they can be sharpened down as fine as you like. Fletching is a problem, too. I’ve tried feathers, but the ribbon works just as well.”

  “That was my idea,” Zaren added.

  “And it was a good one,” Flim admitted. “We also tried making metal vanes for the fletching, but it makes them harder to handle and much harder to make.”

  “We’ve also experimented by filling them with flammable oil,” Reth piped up.

  “Yes, we have,” Flim agreed. “The end-cap at the back gets forced deeper into the pipe, so launching doesn’t lose the liquid, but it’s still a problem to get it to drain while going through something. It usually goes completely through the target and doesn’t spill much oil. I’m still working on it.”

  “Maybe you need a new bolt, one made just for setting things on fire,” I suggested.

  “But it’s got a hollow place already. Seems a shame to waste it, Sire.”

  “And most swords have a blood-groove along their length. It’s there for a reason; it doesn’t do to fill it in. Besides, with all that penetration there’s no point to a payload. But that’s for another time. What’s this new one?” I asked, nodding at the multi-arrow engine.

  “That was my idea, Sire,” Zaren piped up. “Reth’s idea about making the big one launch a fire spear made me think a thousand flaming arrows might be better than one arrow going completely through.”

  “There are cases,” I agreed.

  “If you miss with a single arrow, you’ve missed completely. With this, you won’t hit with every arrow, but you’ll surely hit with some of them. And if you’re aiming at a formation of troops, it’s like a volley from a thousand archers!”

  “Can you really fire a thousand arrows at once?”

  “Well… no. Or not yet. There are problems.”

  “I can imagine. Show me.”

  “I’ve been experimenting with a catapult and a trebuchet,” he explained, “since it’s so hard to launch lots of arrows without wrecking them…”

  A catapult is actually pallanno, literally meaning throw upward. It uses tension, usually twisted rope, sometimes a spring, or even a bent lever arm to store energy for launching projectiles. A trebuchet—a French term for a counterweight-powered throwing lever—is actually pallofond, meaning, throw with a sling, because of the sling-like arrangement at the launching end of the lever arm. They don’t seem to care why the devices work, only what they do. Typical of this world’s general mindset, if you ask me.

  We talked shop for a while. The designs they developed were excellent. In addition to the overgrown ballista, they had other weapons. A smaller version of the ballista required at least a bipod to use properly; it was heavy, but one man could horse it around, even reload it with the help of the built-in crank. Another mechanical contrivance had a hopper on top for arrows, arrangements for a two-man crew to turn handles, and a gunner’s position in back to aim the whole contraption—a full-auto ballista! They also built a double-decker crossbow, even a three-deck crossbow, but drew the line at four. The triple-shot crossbow was already heavy and awkward enough to need a helper or a firing rest.

  “I’m very pleased with your ingenuity,” I told them. They seemed relieved and happy. “For now, though, how many of these engines do we have?”

  “How many? Six. Sort of. One of each of the designs, of course, and Zaren’s experiments with catapults.”

  “The catapult works better, so far. The sling arrangement on the end of th
e lever arm with the trebuchet design isn’t so great—”

  “Later,” I told him. I turned back to Flim. “These are all you’ve made?”

  “Why, yes, Sire.” Flim looked worried. “Was I suppose to make more than one? I thought… I thought I was supposed to perfect them so you could choose…?”

  “No, no—you did very well. Exceptionally well, and I’m enormously pleased with you. I’ll be throwing more money at you as soon as I get back to the mountain, and I’ll have a word with Seldar about an official title, too. You’re the research and development guys. I’ll get someone else to build them, use them, and report on anything they find.”

  “Yes, Sire!” Flim replied, happily. I noticed he seemed to settle on “Sire” as a form of address. I ignored it. At least I’m used to it.

  “However, I’ve word of ships sailing for Mochara. They may be about to assault the place. We’ll need someone to operate the ones we have in combat.”

  Flim looked at Zaren. Zaren looked pensive, and nodded.

  “We have several bolts for the big one, and we have at least a few shots for the rest. I… Sire, may I ask?”

  “Of course.”

  “What good will these be against wizardry?”

  “Ah. You’re thinking of wizards deflecting everything you throw at them, aren’t you?”

  “Even I know the spells, Sire,” he told me, fingering the broken chain link.

  “Good man. Then you know every time it deflects something, it takes power from the spell—which, in turn, came from the wizard.”

  “Yes.”

  “If they spend their efforts defending themselves from your weapons—and if one of those giant metal bolts hits a defensive shield, they’ll spend a lot of effort reinforcing it! —they’ll have less to attack us with, magically. Nor strength to defend themselves from our wizards. And if they divert their power to attacking us, or to blocking our spells, some of your flaming arrows or giant metal ones may get through. It all works together, you see, in a war.”