The Crown and the Sword

CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE

‘Do you think it has a chance of working this time?” Sulfie asked, eyeing the bombard weapon skeptically. The weapon was a massive tube, half again as long as the previous versions and somewhat thicker. It was angled slightly upward, the muzzle facing in the general direction of a small lake in the valley below. “Even with all the extra steel holding the boards together, I’m not sure it will be enough.”

“All we can do is ram a ball down the barrel and see what happens,” the mountain dwarf replied philosophically. “But if this one doesn’t work, I’m not sure we’re ever going to be able to get something we can use.”

The bombard was set up on a low ridge beside the New Compound. The target range was downstream of the town and industrial complex, a shallow body of water marked by lily pads and few floating geese who were-they hoped-about to be startled out of their reverie. The already thriving town snaked along the valley floor below them, a swath of wooden buildings, smoking foundries, and storage yards that was already larger than the original Compound in the Vingaard range.

In a matter of only three weeks, the whole place had sprung into existence, transforming a pastoral wilderness into a smoking, churning manufacturing center. Houses for the workers were still going up, a dozen of them every day, but the production facilities were going strong. Charcoal was being rendered in long fire sheds, and great mixing chambers measured and prepared the charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter in proper proportions to create the black powder.

One reason for the increased size of the installation was the enthusiastic participation of the dwarves of Kaolyn. No doubt inspired by the new market for their steel, that alloy of legendary strength and flexibility, the dwarf king himself had taken an interest in Dram’s endeavors. He had sent several master smiths and stone carvers, as well as miners and forgers, to work in the New Compound-for very good wages, of course.

Soon after the manufacturing was under way, Dram had received word from the Solamnic Armies. The lord marshal was marching overland from Palanthas, leading a large reinforcement of fresh troops, the Palanthian Legion, to join the forces in the field. The mountain dwarf knew that battle was imminent, and any help from the New Compound was urgent.

Rogard Smashfinger, the emissary of the king of Kaolyn, had climbed the ridge to join Dram and Sulfie and a host of hill dwarf laborers, for the experimental firing. Now they stood about, impatient and agitated, waiting for this crucial test. “If this doesn’t work,” Dram had confided, “we’ll be looking at next year before we can make another try.”

The tube itself was considerably modified from the barrel that had exploded in the Vingaards, regretfully claiming the life of Sulfie’s brother, Salty Pete. There were twice as many steel bands around this device, and the ironwood logs were fitted together with tongue-in-groove carvings that ensured even more of the pressure from the blast would be contained. Furthermore, Dram had assigned the Kaolyn stone carvers to carve boulders in perfect spheres, in the exact dimensions of the weapon’s bore. He had already assembled dozens of potential missiles and now only awaited the successful test of the actual weapon.

The fuses, too, had been radically improved. After much experimentation, using the usual trial-and-error method, they had learned that by soaking the twine in a salty brine before infusing it with powder, they could regulate more carefully the flammability of the long strings. No longer did they find, by accident, that an occasional fuse would burn furiously fast or refuse to ignite at all. Now the crucial igniting component of the bombard had been standardized so that every one of the fuses burned predictably.

The black powder itself still possessed the potential for unpredictability. But now all the grains of the ingredients had been ground to standard specifications, and the mixing process had become more efficient and tightly controlled. With careful inspection of the raw materials, still more inconsistencies had been weeded out of the process.

Finally all preparations were complete. The barrel was propped on a heavy wagon, the wheels braced and staked, the end of the weapon elevated to almost a forty-five degree angle.

“Isn’t Sally coming to see the demonstration?” Sulfie asked, looking down the path to the town. They could see the whole mile of the route, and there was no one visible wending their way up to the ridge. “Do you want to wait until she shows up?”

“She’s not coming,” Dram declared. He scowled momentarily then shrugged. “I’m ready to make the test. Let’s get going.”

As before, a cask of powder was rammed down until it was lodged in the very base of the barrel, rigged to ignite via a fuse that extended out the back. When the explosive keg was settled into place, Dram signaled to one of the stone carvers. That dwarf, standing in the bed of a wagon, raised a stone ball that weighed more than a hundred pounds up to the mouth of the barrel, placed it inside, and let it roll down until they heard it thump solidly against the keg of black powder. Quickly the loader climbed down and raced to join the other observers to the rear, and off to the side, of the experimental bombard.

“Fire the fuse!” Dram called.

One hill dwarf remained alongside the weapon, and he quickly touched off the flame then sprinted away. He and the other observers put their hands over their ears, watching as the string was rapidly consumed by the smoking, sputtering flame. The fire burned up to the place where the fuse disappeared into the bore of the weapon then disappeared.

Dram held his breath subconsciously. So much work had gone into this moment-so much planning, sacrifice, and energy-and he really didn’t know if it was going to work. Again he felt that shiver of trepidation: if this one failed…

He shook his head, refusing to consider that prospect.

The answer came in a tremendous eruption of smoke and fire, a blast that emerged from the mouth of the bombard and billowed a hundred feet through the air, churning and sparking like a nightmare of heat and fire. The smoke cloud was so thick they couldn’t see through it; the billowing murk expanded and boiled all around them.

At first Dram wondered what had happened to the ball-in previous experiments he had always been able to see it fly from the muzzle-but then he looked across the valley and picked it out. Already a mile away, it had soared hundreds of feet into the air. With a sense of awe, the mountain dwarf watched it arc downward and fall away, finally splashing into the placid lake, creating a gout of white water. The startled geese flapped their wings and honking, took to the air.

Dram whooped, a cheer that was echoed by all the workers on the hilltop.

“Never had a test with even a quarter of that distance before!” he proclaimed proudly. “That thing must have flown a mile and a half!”

“Do you think it will work again?” asked Rogard.

Dram shrugged. “Only one way to tell,” he replied.

This had been the crux of previous problems. None of their trial barrels had survived more than four or five firings before the bombard itself had been blasted apart, either completely shattered or, at the very least, too cracked and crumbling for further use. But they’d find out soon enough. Already the gunners advanced with the mops and were swabbing out the barrel, making sure that no sparks lingered before they rolled down the keg for the next test. Swiftly another ball was loaded, a second fuse rigged.

“Shot number two-fire away!” Dram called.

Again the bombard blasted, tossing the second ball right after the first, the same arc and distance, into the far pond.

Now the team of loaders found their rhythm. The loading and firing procedure was repeated, and the barrel spewed its fire for a third time. The workers had come out of the buildings down in the New Compound, and the loggers gathered at the edge of the woods. All eyes were on the ridgetop as the bombard shot this ball toward the lake, where it landed very close to the place where the first two shots had struck.

Again and again the procedure was repeated, until ten shots in succession followed the same pattern. Each ball of stone reached the lake. However, on the last few shots, each fell a few paces shorter than on the prior explosions. With these later blasts, smoke began to emerge from the joints where the ironwood logs were connected, and the steel straps holding the barrel together were growing noticeably more loosened.

“We’re starting to forfeit a little pressure,” Dram said critically, eying the wooden planks and steel rings holding the contraption together. “But that’s nothing we can’t solve by tightening these clamps a little. I do believe we’re almost there.”

He lifted his gaze to the north, where the city of Solanthus was just barely visible on the horizon. It was too far away to see the army camp, but he knew where the Solamnics were gathered and approximately where Ankhar had retreated.

“Jaymes, my old friend,” he said softly. “I think I have a present for you.”

Ankhar approached the gray tent, the only such shelter in the whole vast encampment of his army. As the commander, he was entitled to go anywhere he wanted in that camp, but for some reason he hesitated outside this tent. He cleared his throat gruffly and was rewarded by a faint voice beckoning him from within.

“Come!” croaked the Thorn Knight.

The half-giant ducked and pulled back the flap, squinting against the darkness within. The tent was larger than most, but Ankhar still had to duck down pretty low in order to get inside. He moved inside and hunkered down on his haunches, studying the pale face of the Gray Robe.

“How is pain?” he asked.

Hoarst moved a hand to his chest, where the lord marshal’s bolt had pierced him-had actually punctured his heart. He would have died if it weren’t for Laka’s healing magic.

“Severe,” he said. “I can hardly draw a breath.”

“I am sorry,” the half-giant acknowledged. He extended a cup that he had carefully carried in his big hands to the Thorn Knight. “Laka says you must drink.”

The human didn’t ask any questions. He merely reached out a hand, took the vessel, and tipped it to his lips. The vile stink of the liquid filled the tent-like a skunk had been startled nearby-but Hoarst didn’t hesitate to drink the strong tea down in several bitter, galling sips. He coughed violently, and Ankhar helpfully removed the cup so the Thorn Knight wouldn’t drop it.

“Did that help?” the half-giant asked when the man’s coughing had eased and he was again able to draw a breath.

“Surprisingly enough, it did,” Hoarst admitted, pushing himself to a sitting position. He inhaled and exhaled, clearly relishing the deep lungful of air. “I can breathe again!”

“Good. I need you to get up and go to work now.”

Hoarst propped himself up with both hands. “It must be important,” he grunted. “But I’m not sure I can walk.”

“You don’t need to walk-you need to carve,” the half-giant said. When the man raised his eyebrows in mute question, Ankhar continued. “The army of the knights is reinforced. They are moving from Solanthus now, coming toward us. We must fight them here, in the shadow of the mountains. The king is up there, in mountains someplace. I wish to get him back. But to unleash king against humans, I must have another wand.”

Hoarst nodded, understanding. “All right, I can make another one if you bring me the material.”

“What do you need?”

“The branch of a mature willow tree. The tree must be large-larger, for example, than I could wrap my arms around and touch my hands together on the opposite side. The limb must be one that hangs down far enough so that the tip is brushing the water. You must bring me the whole branch, even though I’ll only use the very tip. And after you cut off the limb, the tree itself must be cut down and burned in a very hot fire.”

Ankhar nodded, committing these curious instructions to memory. “You rest,” he said, “and I will return.”

It was harder to find a willow tree than he had expected, but after dispatching dozens of human horsemen-the scouts of Blackgaard’s light cavalry-he learned of the whereabouts of such a tree in a valley not terribly far away. Not trusting anyone else to the task, he and Laka traveled there with several ogres who were skilled in the use of axes. With Laka’s guidance, the half-giant selected a proper branch and hacked it off with a few blows of his knife. Then he instructed the ogres to chop down the tree and burn it on a large bonfire, fueled by dozens of brittle, dead pine trunks that stood nearby.

He returned with the limb to the camp on the following day to find the wizard had, once again, lapsed into uncomfortable, restless sleep. Ankhar waited impatiently while Laka brewed another cup of the vile, but restorative, tea. He watched her mix ingredients that looked like bark and berries with some unidentifiable components that might have been dried animal parts, pulling all the varied elements from different pouches and pockets on her person.

While he was pacing about the fire, Ankhar was approached by Rib Chewer. “The army of the knights is coming this way still,” Rib Chewer reported.

“How far away now?”

“Less than ten miles, by my best mark,” the goblin-whose idea of distances was imprecise at best-replied.

“They are getting close, then. We must make ready to face them very soon,” the half-giant concluded.

Finally the tea was ready, and the army commander took it in to the magic-user. Once again Hoarst sat up on his cot, breathing easily for a few hours because of the potion. He instructed Ankhar to trim the leaves from the willow branch then told the army commander to leave him alone while he went to work with his tiny, razor-sharp knife.

The half-giant paced back to the fire, where his stepmother sat on her haunches, staring into the flames.

“Can you make another brew of that terrible tea?” he asked. “In case the Gray Robe cannot finish before the effects wear off?”

“I can make another batch, and still another and another,” Laka replied with a shrug. “But it is a dangerous blessing-for though it makes him well for a few hours, if he drinks enough of it, the stuff will build up in his system.”

“And then what?” Ankhar asked.

“Then it will kill him,” she replied, reaching for her mortar and pestle and starting to grind up another batch of herbs.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” Jaymes Markham said as he greeted Dram Feldspar.

“You ain’t that lucky,” said the dwarf, who was feeling his usual disgust with traveling by horseback. He was dusty and saddle sore. Still, he clasped his old companion’s hand in a firm grip as he slid down from the saddle and stretched the kinks out of his muscles. “Got anything cold to drink around here?” he wondered.

“I’ve been chilling a cask in the stream over there ever since I heard you were on the way,” Jaymes replied. He dispatched a pair of men to fetch the barrel while he turned his attention to the wagons that were still rumbling into the camp-the wagons that Dram Feldspar had brought down from the New Compound.

“Six of them, eh?” the lord marshal remarked, impressed.

There were an even half dozen bombards, one each on the leading wagons of the train, their muzzles extending out the back of the bed. Each bombard wagon was hauled by eight oxen. The following wagons were smaller and varied in type and cargo. Many of them were filled with kegs containing the black powder. Others were piled with rocks, each stone carved to an identical smooth, perfectly round sphere. Jaymes took in the whole train with his hands on his hips, nodding in satisfaction.

“We got a range of more than a mile in our tests,” Dram finished explaining an hour later as he pulled on a cold beer. He was unmistakably proud.

And with good reason, Jaymes acknowledged.

“Ankhar’s army is over the next ridge, with his left flank anchored on the mountains. Our numbers are about equal to his, so up until now it’s been a standoff,” the lord marshal said to his mountain dwarf companion as he poured them each a fresh tankard.

“Old friend,” he said, raising his glass in a toast, “I think you’ve just changed the odds in our favor.”

It was the goblin warg rider Rib Chewer who at last brought Ankhar the news he had been waiting to hear-and dreading he would never receive.

“The fire-monster has crossed over the mountains,” reported Rib Chewer. “He moves down through these valleys, coming toward your army.”

“How far away?”

“Less than one day’s march, for sure.”

“Excellent,” growled Ankhar. He immediately went to fetch his mother, who emerged from her tent, clutching the small, ruby encrusted box that she had repaired. With Rib Chewer on foot leading the way, the army commander and his stepmother proceeded up the nearest valley leading between the foothills. Ahead of them loomed the tall, snowy crest of the Garnet Mountains.

By the time the half-giant and his mother, who despite her frail appearance could scramble overland with remarkable speed, had hiked ten miles from the army camp, Ankhar detected the smell of smoke. They came across a low ridge to see an entire forest smoldering, blackened trunks still casting up clouds of smoke. Only the moist ground and verdancy of the forest had prevented a major conflagration from erupting.

And there, looming against the backdrop of the blackened landscape, rose the elemental king. His cavernous eyes, flaring like the coals of the Abyss, burned brightly as the half-giant boldly stepped within view of the monster. Ankhar raised his emerald-tipped spear, waving the weapon over his head in a taunt.

The elemental king roared, the sound so ferocious it was like a physical assault. Ankhar roared back challengingly, and the conjured creature charged him.

The ground shuddered underfoot as the great creature advanced upon the half-giant. Whirlwinds swirled around its massive legs, tearing up trees and sending great spumes of water into the air as it cut across the mountain stream. It roared closer, rearing high, the sound of its cries echoing back from the ridges, filling the valley with noise…

Until Laka opened her small, ruby-encrusted box.