by Brian Murray
For the next hour Zane explained his plan to Rayth, who added points or questioned his young liege. At the end of the discussion, Zane sat back, sipping his now cold tisane, gazing into Rayth’s eyes, waiting for a reaction.
Rayth’s weathered face creased when he smiled, nodding to himself. “I will be with you, you know that?”
“I want you with Aurillia.”
“I’ll be with you and that’s the end of it. End of discussion!” barked the former axe-wielder.
“Rayth, I have the best of men and friends to call upon and you’re one of them. A man to walk the mountains with.”
“I’m more than your friend, son, I will soon be your father,” said Rayth softly.
Zane rose from the table and the two men embraced. “I’ll visit tomorrow to see Aurillia.”
“I will see you then.”
Rayth showed Zane out. When he opened the door, the sound of men snapping to attention made the old warrior smile. “So you have stuck with the axe-wielders, then?”
“They would not leave the tavern until you woke, so I thought they should hold their position.”
“They remained here?” asked Rayth, stunned at the news.
“Aye, men guarded the front and rear of the tavern even when I was at the palace. The commander insisted; one of their own had fallen and they would ensure your safety.”
Rayth stepped out into the night and walked up to the company’s commander. The axe-wielder recognised Rayth immediately, stood to attention, and saluted the former warrior. Slightly embarrassed, Rayth returned the salute.
“Thank you. I did not know you still held the tradition of watching over fallen comrades. I’m proud that you remembered me and that you guarded my family.”
“The honour was ours. You’re one of the greatest axe-wielders. You’re one of the bravest and we remember our own. It will never be said that the axe-wielders left one of our own. Your actions epitomised the character of our company and I was proud to guard your door. I was one of the men who saw you after the Kharnacks had retreated. You stood over your comrade’s fallen body and did not budge. You’re a mountain of a man and every new axe-wielder has been told your story with pride.”
“What’s your name?” asked Rayth, offering his hand.
“My name is Urkin,” replied the axe-wielder, shaking Rayth’s hand warrior-style, grasping wrists.
With a lump in his throat, Rayth fought his emotions as he saw the axe-wielders around the tavern standing to attention. Zane walked up behind Rayth and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder, smiling broadly.
***
A knock on his door dragged Zane out of his daydream. “Come,” he called.
General Brooks entered the office, still in his travel-stained clothes, and bowed. He looked tired and Zane immediately pointed to a chair for the older man to sit down. With a huge sigh, the general collapsed in the chair. Zane walked around his desk and poured a goblet of watered wine for the older man. Brooks thanked his king and sipped the liquid, enjoying the feeling of it running down his dry throat. Zane returned to his chair and patiently waited for the old man to ready himself.
“Sire . . . ” Brooks received a harsh look from his young king. “Um . . . Zane, I have done as you have asked and the surrounding towns and villages have been contacted and warned. I have spoken to all the city merchants and they have pledged their support.”
“Did you have any problems?”
General Brooks smiled. “Nothing the presence of your axe-wielders could not change.”
“So no problem?”
“Well, we had a few village elders who did not see our point, but we could not threaten them.”
Zane nodded glumly at this news, but knew he could do no more. The thought of people staying in the path of the beasts did not sit well with him. “But the merchants will give us what we need?” he asked.
General Brooks smiled. “They’ll give us what we need. Your axe-wielders can be quite persuasive, even when they don’t talk—a formidable bunch.”
Zane looked thoughtful. “We need to give ourselves some warning of the Dark One’s arrival.”
“That’s in hand. I have sent out scouts with fast horses. They have mounts at strategic locations for their speedy return so they can arrive in the fastest time possible. We will not have much warning, but anything is better than nothing.”
“So all we need is Admiral Reedie to return home to play his part in our plans, and everything else is in the Divine One’s lap.”
The general nodded.
***
Admiral Rendel enjoyed his time at sea but for the first time in an age, he rushed back to Teldor. He had been asked by his new king to return straight to Teldor after he had seen the princesses of Phadrine safely home. The Gliding Falcon had a good tail wind and with full sails made good time back to the capital. Behind him, the Empire disappeared and his ship effortlessly passed the Glass Mountains.
***
A squad of Royal Lancer scouts were ordered by General Brooks to ride out of the city towards the northeast and scout the lands west of Single Tooth Gorge. Their orders were simple: if they saw anything out of the ordinary, they were to gallop straight back to Teldor and bring news. Captain Marley knew he was not being told everything when he and the other Royal Lancer scouting groups were briefed, but he was a professional soldier and did not ask questions. When given orders, he would always carry out his duties to the best of his ability.
***
The Chosen made the unprecedented move of visiting his master armourer at the forge, rather than have the new weaponry models shipped to the palace. Secrecy was key. There could be spies in his city and he did not wish to take any chances. Early in the morning sunshine, with General Gordonia at his side, the Chosen’s carriage moved through the streets of Kal-Pharina, his personal guards ahead and behind. Behind thick, white drapes covering the carriage windows, Gordonia voiced his concerns.
“Have we put too much faith in Platos?”
“We do not have a choice, Gordy. I know the man has a talent for inventing weapons.
We will just have to wait and see if he can realise his potential and deliver what is needed.”
Gordonia nodded.
The two men chatted casually for the rest of the journey to the forge. Half an hour after leaving the palace, the convoy arrived at Platos’s small forge. It was a simple two-storey building made of light tan sandstone, with a blackened chimney out of which dark smoke belched lazily, briefly staining the pale blue skies. The forge was built near the western gates with the luxury of backing onto one of the few parks in the city.
Nervously awaiting the procession stood Platos. The imperial personal guards had ridden ahead to notify him of the emperor’s arrival. The Chosen alighted from the carriage and was greeted by what he assumed was the man’s family and helpers. Platos and his people bowed deeply as their emperor moved forward to meet them.
“Rise, my friend,” the Chosen said warmly to his master armourer.
“You honour me with your visit, your Highness. Please let me introduce my wife.”
The Chosen, Rowet, was an honourable man and proud of his family. However, during the previous months, he had lost his wife to an assassin’s crossbow and his son to drugs and greed. He was now left with just his daughter by blood, and another adopted through friendship. When he left the palace, both were still sleeping soundly.
Rowet was introduced to Platos’s wife, Erykah, and his two apprentices. He spoke to each, putting them at ease. The Chosen was a godlike leader to the Phadrine and in the past had spent very little time outside his palace. But the events of the previous few months had changed the emperor and his outlook on both his people and his reign. He had met new friends as Rowet, the man and father, rather than the Chosen, emperor of a nation. To his surprise, he enjoyed his friendships at an informal level and treasured his new friends.
Platos escorted Rowet and Gordonia through to his small forge while the i
mperial guards took up defensive positions around the building. Outside, the Chosen’s standard was held by the front door, fluttering in the morning breeze.
“You have a beautiful wife, Platos,” commented Rowet.
“Aye, she’s my life,” replied the blacksmith, smiling shyly.
“That is the way it should be.”
To Rowet’s surprise, the man’s forge was extremely tidy. He did not know why, but expected the place would be in disarray, as Platos did not seem the most organised person. Platos showed the men to a large workbench where three stools had been placed. Rowet smiled inside at the thought: they must have been from the man’s wife. Platos busied himself around the forge, looking for parchments and his notes. Suddenly, he swore aloud.
“Erykah?” asked Gordonia softly.
“Pardon me.”
“Your wife cleaned your forge?”
“I love the woman with all my heart and more, but she should not be allowed in my forge. I told her you were visiting here and she went mad cleaning everything. I’m sure she would have scrubbed out the furnace if it was not on.” Platos chuckled to himself. “But I would not change her.”
“A good woman,” commented Rowet.
Platos’s wife entered the forge with fresh tisane. She bowed to Rowet and placed the tray on the bench.
“Erykah, where are my parchments?” asked Plato.
The woman looked at the Chosen, then at her husband. “Where you left them, husband.”
“I left the damned things on the bench,” he snapped tetchily.
“Oh! Those parchments, they’re in your cupboard behind your desk.”
“Desk? Why did you move them? You know I was working on them.”
“If you kept the place clean and tidy, then I would not have to come in here and clean it for you,” she snapped. Then she looked around at her emperor, embarrassed. Rowet gave the woman a wry smile and a discrete wink.
“This is a man’s place,” muttered Platos, moving to his desk.
Erykah slapped Platos’s back lightly as he passed. “It may be a man’s place, but you could keep it tidier.”
“Found them,” beamed Platos, waving the parchments in the air.
“Yes, where they should have been,” snapped Erykah, leaving the men alone in the forge to return to their adjoining house.
Platos reddened when both Rowet and Gordonia boomed with laughter. “You should know better than have a woman clean your place,” advised Rowet.
“You try stopping her,” replied Platos with a cheeky grin.
Rowet poured some of the tisane into the three goblets. So at ease was Platos with his emperor, he did not give this action a second thought. Platos opened out the parchments with his plans. “I have created three new designs,” he started, “including the two of them we discussed in your office. I also created another which is not ready and I’m not sure if it will be ready in time.”
“Concentrate on the designs that will be ready,” ordered Rowet.
The three men poured over the plans, sipping their tisane. “How long before you have working models of them?” asked Rowet.
Platos gazed at the emperor as though he had said something in a foreign tongue. “Working model?”
“Yes, when will you have working models ready for us to see?”
Platos looked at the two men as if they were insane. “You said you wanted to see them so I’ve already got them made outside the back. Come, I will show you.”
Gordonia suppressed a smile at the man’s matter-of-fact tone. The three walked through the forge to the back door.
“We will need a couple of your men to help with the machines,” said Platos to Gordonia.
The general walked back through the forge and ordered two imperial guards to accompany him. When he reached the backyard, he sucked in air from shock. Before him stood the Chosen and Platos, and in front of the two men was a weapon, the likes of which Gordonia had never seen before. He stepped forward to join Rowet and Platos, who were examining the weapon. Hidden under a coarse canvas sheet was another weapon.
The first was a huge crossbow that shot long iron bolts. Platos walked around the structure with Rowet and Gordonia, explaining the mechanism. The crossbow was about chest high, and the bow itself was the length of a tall man.
“It is like a bigger version of a crossbow and works on the same principle,” explained the master armourer, arming the weapon. “It requires two to three men to operate it. One man winds back the bowstring into position to bend the bow. The bowstring is made of rope interlaced with steel strands for strength. Once the crossbow is cocked, the bolt is placed in the slot and . . . ” Platos released the trigger.
The metal bolt, an arm’s length, shot out of the crossbow, piercing a large tree some fifteen paces away, lodging deep into the trunk at its thickest point with a loud crack.
“Please reload and shoot again,” requested Rowet.
Platos showed an imperial guard how to wind the crossbow by using a long peg that slotted into slats on a wheel, turning it clockwise. When primed, Platos placed the bolt in place. Taking aim, the master armourer pulled the trigger.
“Again!” called Rowet. The men repeated the firing routine, this time faster. Rowet then walked over to the tree and looked at the damage caused by the bolts. All of the bolts were a hand’s width apart and this alone impressed him. He bowed his head in thought and strolled back to the others.
“Platos, the weapon you have created is excellent,” started Rowet, still deep in thought.
“But . . . ? I know there’s a ‘but’ coming,” said Platos, squinting towards his emperor.
Rowet smiled at his master armourer. “It looks excellent, but . . . for the time it takes to reload the crossbow, is it worth having two or three men working it?”
“I thought that might be a problem,” said Platos, studying his creation, trying to hide his disappointment.
“I have an idea,” said Gordonia, rubbing his chin.
“Speak up, man,” snapped Platos, turning to face the general.
“What if you replace firing a single bolt with an iron cup filled with balls of iron or nails? The power of the crossbow should send out a lethal spray that could kill or injure more than one creature at a time.”
Platos massaged his forehead as if he had a headache, then smiled. “I like your logic, General. I’ll have the adjustments made to the crossbow. If you bear with me I should be able to do them now.”
Platos rushed off into his forge. Hammering filled the air as the other two men waited, but lost in their own thoughts. Soon Platos returned with a steel cup with two holes cut near the lip. He cut the bowstring, and tied the cup securely into place. He filled it with iron nails, he pulled out of a deep pocket in his leather apron, and the imperial guard helped prime the weapon, arching the long bow. “I would suggest you stand behind the end of the crossbow. I don’t know exactly how the nails will spread,” he admitted.
Rowet and Gordonia moved to the rear of the crossbow, behind the blacksmith. Platos pulled the trigger. The iron cup scraped along the crossbow and released the nails with a loud crack. The projectiles whistled through the air, thudded and crunched noisily into the tree and the surrounding wall, sending a cloud of bark and wood into the air.
Rowet smiled and after the dust settled, he walked towards the tree. The trunk, about three men wide, was riddled with nails that had chipped away a portion of the bark, exposing the greenish-beige tree flesh. The fence beyond, a further thirty paces away, also had holes peppering it. Rowet walked back to the crossbow and nodded slightly to Gordonia.
“Again please,” requested Rowet.
The imperial guard again primed the crossbow. Platos filled the cup with more iron nails and pulled the trigger. The target area again erupted with shattering noise and filled with dust.
“Again,” commanded Rowet. The crossbow was primed and fired. After waiting for the dust and wood chips to settle, Rowet strolled towards the tree. He heard a c
rack and creaking from the tree. From ten paces away, he could see the nails had eaten away a huge section of the trunk. He took another step forward. The tree continued to creak. Then slowly the tree started to fall, luckily away from the group, crashing through the ruined fence beyond. Rowet turned and smiled at Platos and Gordonia.
“Now, that’s a weapon,” exclaimed Rowet, his smile broadening.
Platos examined the crossbow, making mental notes of where there was damage and what changes it required.
“I will need to make some adjustments to the crossbow. I’ll have to make a metal shaft and use balls of iron. These will reduce any damage to the weapon.”
“I think that will make the weapon stronger,” commented Gordonia, nodding.
“I agree with you, General. I’ll make the changes and have the weapons commissioned.”
“Good,” concluded Rowet with a positive nod.
The three men moved towards a structure covered by a large, coarse tan canvas cloth.
“The crossbow is for close quarter fighting, whereas the next weapon is for distance,” Platos said, his eyes dancing with mischief. He pulled away the canvas sheet, revealing a huge wooden structure.
Both Rowet and Gordonia audibly gasped.
“It takes two men to wind the machine, one or two to load the sling, and one to pull the trigger,” Platos explained with obvious enthusiasm.
“So that means four to five men to operate this . . . this,” said Gordonia thoughtfully.
“I have named it a ‘catapult’. But remember, this catapult is to be used for distance attacks and therefore the number of men used is not overly important.” The general nodded. “It can fire virtually anything, from stones to iron balls to clay pots full of fire-oil. This is only a half-size model of the final version.”
“This is not the final structure?” asked Gordonia, astonished.
Rowet looked at the complex wooden and rope structure, smiling with pride. The firing arm was two men tall and a rope basket was wide enough to hold stones as large as a man’s head.
“Can this catapult launch pots of salt water?” asked Rowet.
