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Wedgewood
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“They’re retreating sir,” an aide said hopefully.
Sedge leaned on the command loft railing. The view still unobstructed because, as yet, there was no need to drop the wooden arrow blinds. The streets and woodland paths of Wedgewood were strewn with enemy dead. Here and there a Timberkeep lay, mostly on the wall and along the bloody retreat down Wide Lane. He estimated over a thousand trogs had assaulted the wall, and now approximately half of those were roaming about in lose bands ransacking bivvies, toppling latrines, and rooting in unguarded shops, all the places beyond treefort bow range. Some had already left the town to prey on the countryside. Grimmer were the casualties inflicted on the battalion of churchmen. He doubted seventy pikemen made it back to the gate. Against that slaughter, the town paid with the loss of two ten-man hardpoints.
“Where're their archers?” he called to his operations officer. “Surely the Paleowrights have archers?”
The captain shrugged. “None reported, none seen, sir. I’ve asked. The front-line forts have been instructed to lower their arrow blinds when the archers arrive.”
Sedge didn’t like having to use the arrow blinds. They converted the fort into an enclosed turret, but the blinds drastically reduced visibility and limited the archer's ability to provide supporting fire to the redoubts and hardpoints around them. However, if it came to an archery duel, the blinds could be a decided advantage.
Lettern climbed up through Perrty’s trap door and pulled up the rope ladder. “Oi, all’s quiet on this side of town. There’s a fresh Parrot battalion lined up at the gate, but they’re not moving.” She was excited. Her quiver empty save for two arrows. Today she had exacted revenge for Mergund’s death.
“How many battalions do they have?” asked Pottern, a nervous lilt to his voice. Noodles stood on a branch over his head engaged in a chattering duel with a chipmunk in the next tree.
She shook her head. “No one seems to know.” They let silence stir the implications. Then Baryy broke it by asking “Have you seen Outish?”
Lettern paused, her face blank. “I—No, I was in the archer’s nest atop Murali’s. Why? He’s not here?”
Baryy looked away and gave a short shake of his head.
“Shiren,” she hissed, “This is his rally station for the ward. He should be here.”
Baryy nodded, staring at the trog bodies on the path below. Some moved and twitched feebly, a few moans and guttural raspings added to the alien presence. In a day’s time, the dead lying in the sun would begin to bloat.
Lettern looked to the west; the sun was sinking, two fingers above the shoulder of Mount Mars. “We’ll be mounting a foray to recover our wounded...and dead, at last light. We’ll search for him. He may have made it to a hardpoint.”
Baryy ground his teeth. He’d try calling him on his multi-func but there was no answer. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that Outish, as odd, goofy, and impetuous as the Halorite was, had become his friend, his comrade in arms, a co-conspirator in a great plot. Not having Outish around for him to shake his head at was like missing an emotional foundation, an integral part of their Wedgewood existence, he swallowed.
Stashed in his cabin was a FIPWS, a Field Portable Wound Stabilizer. If Outish were wounded it was their best hope, but he’d have to find Outish first. Then, he’d have to get to his cabin. “I’m going now,” he said.
“What? No, you can’t. We’re to remain up tree until we’re called to muster.” Lettern’s tone brooked no debate.
Baryy shouldered his way past and reached for the trap door.
The old, grizzled fort-warden stepped on the door. “Sorry, laddie, we dropped the ladder for Lettern because she’s assigned here. Otherwise, it stays up till I get orders.”
“Fine.” Baryy jumped on the railing, grabbed the rappelling line, and before they could snatch him, leaped into the void. He’d never used the rappelling line before but had seen it in action. He held on for dear life as he fell, and his stomach lurched to his chest; the cable drum paid out line on an ever-tightening spring. He twirled just in time to hit tree the trunk with his shoulder. Spinning, the rebound swung him away from the tree as the ground came up fast. Rather than hit the tree again he let go of the line and fell the last few feet, rolling in a heap.
He stood, swaying, and looked up. The warden was shaking his head, but not surprised, Baryy had cast his die and now had to live with it. Pottern gawked, his eyes wide as saucers, but Lettern fumed.
Disengaging the latch pawl and setting the retrieval brake, the fort warden let the drum recoil. Baryy watched his safety line snake out of reach. He loaded his handbolt and secretly checked the laser charge status. “Don’t go! We’ll send down the line,” Lettern called out, but Baryy waved with a dry grin that held no humor and set off on a run before he was spotted by trogs. Reaching the nearest building, he hid behind the cabin and peaked around the corner.
“The way’s clear to Wide Lane,” Pottern called.
He held up his hand in acknowledgment and saw Lettern scampering across the footbridge to Broomstick fort. She’s running to tell Odgen, he guessed. Pushing away from the wall, he darted to the next hut in a low crouch. Out of sight, he opened his multi-func and issued a low energy ping. If Outish were nearby, his embed would respond. They’d had to disable most of the embed’s location functions, otherwise the Matrincy could turn the embeds against them. On Wide Lane in front of him lay the first bodies from the shield wall. Judging by their armor, two were mercs and one was a Timberkeep. Peering down the street the nearest mobile trog—that he could see—was at the gate, a fair distance away. There was no response to the ping. Dread sank heavy in his stomach. Maybe... He scuttled to the nearest Timberkeep body and turned it over. It was Bagonen. “Damn,” he cursed. The man’s lifeless eyes stared up at the sky. He closed the branch warden’s eyes and felt sick. Choking down vomit, he wiped his mouth on his shoulder. A palpable, chest-crushing fear seized him. Up in the tree looking down, he’d been safe, relatively. Here on the ground amongst the dead and dying....
“What is the problem with the chieftains?” asked Uloch when Larech returned from eavesdropping on a heated conclave between the troglodytes and the Church commanders. “The trogs are upset that the churchmen have stopped their attack. They want them to attack now. They think the Paleowrights are either snake piss liars or muck bottom cowards.”
The decurion laughed. “The trogs may be right, but they’re an impatient lot. We’ve been fighting for a half day. These reptiles have no sense of strategy other than direct, brutal assault. If they can’t club and eat it, they’re confounded.”
“Not so,” replied Larech, finding himself in the odd situation of praising the reptiles, though like many humans he found them viscerally repelling. “They do understand tactics. In the swamp and open field they are devilishly cunning, but in this town warfare, with treeforts no less, they’re lost. I dare say many attackers would be, witness the Paleowrights.” Larech let the point sink in. “If the trogs can’t skulk and maneuver about, plotting ambushes and sudden charges, they avoid combat. They are having a hard time adjusting; they’re lizards after all.”
Uloch grunted, it made sense from what he’d seen, and so far, the Washentrufel agent’s guidance had been accurate. The agent appeared to know middle Isuelt, whereas this was Uloch’s first foray beyond the Darnkilden frontier.
“The head chieftain says he’s lost half of his wiptails. That’s what he calls his warriors. The Paleowrights promised him an easy victory and lots of Doroman meat to drag back to the swamp.”
With a snort, the decurion waved his hand at the treeforts. “The only easy meat to be had here is raw reptile on a Timmy arrow.”
“Perhaps you should join the conclave; your council would be useful.” Larech’s tone was respectful yet challenging.
Uloch returned the look with disdain. “You preach futility. Every step of the way here the churchmen ignored my suggestions. No archers, no fodder for the mounts, no skirmishers, no grapples, no scaling ladders, and a single point of attack. Bah, you were there Larech, why do you suggest more folly?”
“They are building the catapults, and perhaps their mood has changed. The reality of war could persuade them to listen to your professional opinion.”
Uloch’s brows dripped scorn. He turned to watch the Timmies in the nearest fort lean idly on their railing, strung bows propped beside them, arrow bundles draped on the boles like moss streamers. “Yes, the catapults will help; but let the churchmen send a messenger requesting my counsel. Until then, don’t annoy me with daydreams.”
“I hear you have news for me, Brookern.” Sedge straightened up from the planning table, pouring over message dispatches and scouting reports.
“I do, my lord.”
Sedge ignored the honorific; he’d grown tired of correcting people. It didn’t seem to matter to the Timberkeeps that he’d refused the lordship the King of Mestrich offered him.
Brookern, the leader of Clan Mearsbirch voyants, stood tall for a Doroman, wearing his long brown hair tied back, and a suede coat over a white linen shirt that hung loosely on his wire-thin frame; his grey eyes were watery. “We’ve convened a moot of town sensitives and are seeking to ken the nature of the disaster that has befallen us. Our voyants, dreamers, and pathics concur on related and intriguing aspects.” To a voyant, it was important that their personal visions be compared with those of others to separate simple temporal dreams from real images spawned from astral inspiration.
For Sedge, a person of no sixthsense ability, a man of the physical realm where he trusted what he could see, believing the adepts was a leap of faith, and he had little patience for their fretting. “Good. Is it any different from what I can see with my own eyes?” He pointed in the direction of Wide Lane. “We have four, maybe five tribes of trogs and two, probably three or more battalions of Paleowright Church troops in possession of our Main Gate. What can you add to that?”
“Yes, my lord. There are, we admit, conflicts in what we augur, and often the visions are blurred. There is a great deal of turmoil in the ether here. It can be hard to concentrate while under duress.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Sedge ran a hand through his grey hair, “but I don’t need excuses, I need information. Now tell me what you have.”
The voyant cast his expression down and ordered his thoughts. “We see seven distinct groups, or what you call formations, obvious enemies to Clan Mearsbirch judging by the images they project.”
“You can read their thoughts?” he asked.
Brookern shook his head. “No, we can’t, but we’ve been comparing the impressions of our senses; They draw the same picture.”
“And that is?”
Brookern cast about and saw the town map laid out on the planning table. He went to it and put his finger on the Main Gate. “We can see this group of hostiles visually, and they have proved helpful in gauging the size of the other groups we see through our visions. Some bodies are weaker in energy; hence we can interpret size and numbers. Only one group is stronger than the body at the Main Gate in its emotions and imagery.” The group at the Main Gate was the fresh Paleowright battalion arrayed in four neat ranks just out of bow range.
“And that larger group is?”
He moved his finger to the area near Hollowmeade tree fort. “The troglodytes, they— they are most bizarre, alien.” He shuddered.
“Good,” replied Sedge, his caustic tone biting off the word. “So far you’re two for two.”
Brookern put his finger behind the gate. “Here stands another formation of these same men,” comparing the group behind the gate to the Church battalion in front of the it. “They have pious thoughts of the Ancients but bear ill will towards us nonetheless.”
“Funny that,” Sedge quipped dryly.
Then Brookern moved his finger to the south of Wedgewood, a short distance beyond the wall. “And here, another group of Ancient worshippers, but they are moving.”
Sedge leaned on the map. His captains and bosses crowded closer. “Moving you say?”
“Yes, heading west along the wall. When we perceived this, we decided I should hazard the trip here to convey the message directly.”
The fortifications engineer tapped the map with his pointing foil. “They’re heading for the Timber Hall gate.”
Sedge nodded. “They can scale the wall anywhere they want; we’ve pulled the wall defenders back. That tells me they want to attack Timber Hall directly. Bastards know it is the seat of the clan. What else?”
“Another group, perhaps half in size, composed of Drakans, has set off to follow them.”
“Drakans,” someone exclaimed. Sedge’s head rose from the map. His gaze pierced Brookern. “How do you know?”
“One of our voyants had a clear vision of their faces. They are Nakish. Moreover, they think images of a land that can be none other than the storm cliffs south of Ompo. They emanate pictures of their true uniforms. They are Drakans.”
The Scout’s boss cleared his throat. “Half the size of a full Paleowright battalion? If it is Drakans, then that group is probably one or two centuries.”
Sedge swallowed the implications. The plot deepened. “First trogs, then churchmen, and now Drakans? All just for Wedgewood? What else? I count five formations.”
“The sixth group is greatly diminished, a mere shadow of itself and emits much pain.” He tapped the Ungern Road. “We can sense they were once proud, but now humiliated.”
“More churchmen?” the warlord asked. The voyant nodded.
“Probably the remnants of the Church battalion we clobbered,” surmised the operations captain.
Sedge let out a breath. “And the seventh unit?”
“They were one, but of late split into two groups, neither very large.” He pointed behind the Main Gate, to the southeast corner of the wall near the Drakan formation. “And they are?” asked the Scout's boss.
Brookern looked up, a pained expression on his countenance, “You’ve met them before; we have sensed them here at Murali’s. Most definitely Scarlet Saviors,” he said distastefully. “Haughty, arrogant men, with thoughts of Ancients and vengeance. Our visions of their rachiers are clear.”
Sedge lingered over the map, analyzing the enemy positions and movements. “Scouts,” he addressed the Scout’s boss, “send pickets to confirm what the voyants are reporting. A quick look beyond the south wall, please.” He sighed and straightened. “I count at least twenty-two hundred troops facing us, compared to our seven hundred. But that does not include our ordinary townsfolk who have acquitted themselves well.” They were the principal defenders of the hardpoints. “They may be our hidden strength.”
He straightened, stretching his back. Speaking to no one and yet everyone, “Hopefully, unknown to our visitors is Perrin’s company of Zursh mercenaries at Wayland’s Farm. They’ve reported in via pathic and await my orders. We’ve received messengers carrying dispatches from two Plains wards on patrol in the lower foothills. Refugees from the surrounding farms alerted them. They want to know if we need their help. I sent runners back with instructions for them to rendezvous with Perrin. It’s too early to hear back from the Plains or Rock clan’s elders, but I’ve sent word to them of our situation and asked them to raise all their wards, which they will not do unless they know our situation here is dire. It’s the planting season for them, and their folk will be in the fields and outland hamlets.”
“But by the time they—, we could be—”
Sedge held up his hand. “Be that as it may. For the moment we are stuck with it. The other Timber clans, except for Red Elm, are even farther away and will be of less help. Red Elm, has a pathic of their own, and has responded. They are marching. But it will be two days before their lead wards arrive.
“On the plus side,” the captain of operations said, “our Sixth Ward is returning from patrol. They have a telepath with them and are moving with haste to join Perrin.”
“Right,” noted Sedge. “That accounts for all of our fighters. With the aid of the Plains wards, we’re up to nine hundred effectives.” He traced a finger to where the Church battalion marched towards the Timber Hall gate. “These must be stopped. There are only four treeforts in range of the Hall. Assuming we keep them from taking the Hall, that still leaves them in possession of the Hall gate. If the enemy blocks the gate, they not only block our main supply route but our retreat as well.” At the mention of retreat, there was a stirring amongst the bosses and mumbled comments.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said tersely. “But a commander who has a route of retreat has a route of attack. Men fight better when they’re not worrying about how or if their wives and children can escape. Fetch me the Ascalon. I have a task for her.”
Baryy checked the body, a female warder. Putting two fingers on her neck, his urgency doubled. He shook the woman, slapping her face. She moaned. He leaned close and whispered into her ear. “Stay still. Trogs are roaming about. I’ll send help.”
The woman licked her lips. “Water,” the word came out like a breath from a grave. “I’ll fetch some,” he said. She made the third alive but gravely wounded fighter he’d found, and he’d not checked the mercenaries.
There was one last group of bodies to investigate, but they were the closest to the gate. “Spirits, Outy, you would have to fall with the first stand.” The sun had settled behind Mount Mars, and twilight began to deepen. There was a hardpoint up ahead. He darted to the left out of sight of the gate and ran up to the building. His chest heaving, he nearly leaped out of skin when the shuttered window popped open.
“Baryy, how many have you found alive?”
“Huh?”
“We’ve been watching you. Is that Territern? Is she alive?”
He peered past the shutter and saw the familiar face of the teamster who’d hauled his trade supplies. “Yea,” he said hoarsely. “She needs water.”
He heard voices inside, then a shuffling and grinding noise. The door beside the window opened, and three men sneaked out. “Get in, quick. We’ll go for her.” One of the men peered around the corner watching the gate. He made a hand gesture, and the two others bolted up the street. Baryy waited outside with his handbolt ready while the two rescuers grabbed the warrior by the arms and dragged her back. The trogs at the gate and a small band outside a sacked hardpoint took notice, but then a white and brown-fletched arrow twacked into the dirt in front of them, a cloth-yard reminder of what awaited them. The troglodytes peered up at the tree fort and held their ground.
Baryy followed the men into the dimly lit building that became even darker when the door closed, and the window shutters were pulled tight. The room smelled of sweat, blood, and urine. From what he remembered, the building was a knitting parlor. Someone lit a lamp in the darkness, and sure enough, there were the two weaving looms disassembled and neatly stacked in a corner. Someone hissed about the lamp, “It be dark soon. Trogs can see better’n us at night, and that lantern won’t ‘elp.”
The lantern was dimmed but not snuffed. Baryy spied an empty bench and sat heavily. A water bottle was thrust at him, and he drank deeply. “You’re either a damn fool or a brave one,” a voice said in the gloom. There was a chuckle. “Probably both,” said another. “Fine line between a fool and a brave man.”
“What were you looking for, trader, a customer?” Laughter ran around the dark room; gallows humor the only humor they had. “Must have owed you a lot of money!” More laughter.
“No,” said Baryy heavily, gulping down the water. “I was looking for a friend.”
The room went quiet.
“He was in the Second,” he added, tears threatening to well up.
Silence.
“Yea,” said another, “We all got friends out there. We’ve been sneaking out and dragging them in whenever we can.”
Baryy sat up. “You have?”
“Sure. Who you looking for?”
“Outy, I mean Outish.”
Then a woman’s voice said blithely, “Oh sure. We got him alright; he’s in the big room being tended by Elmern. Got clubbed clean on the head when the shield wall was right in front of us. His pot helmet—” The woman said something else, but Baryy stood and asked, “Where? Where is he?”
Outish lay on the floor amongst the other wounded. The bandage wrapped around the top of his head showed red on the cranium. Baryy knelt beside him. “Outish? You alive?”
Elmern was a young woman with a fresh, bright face just now showing the wear and cares of life. She shut the door and turned up the lantern in the room. “I need light to see by. There are no windows in here; it won’t attract the greenies.”
Outish’s eyes were open. He gave a caricature of a smile. “Ula, Baryy, I got thumped something good on the head.”
Baryy chuckled, “Spirits, Outy, I’m just glad you’re alive. When you didn’t report back to Perrty and my pings failed, I began to think the worst.”
“Oi,” chimed Elmern, rubbing her hands on the blood-stained apron tied around her waist, “a tad bit harder and that awful swamp ape would have crushed his skull.”
“Is he...”
“I have healing skills and applied energy to the wound,” she let her voice trail off, “but before today I never had to work on so many, and not with these grievous injuries,” she paused. “I think his head will be okay. Whenever he complains of pain or headaches, I apply more healing, but I need Mbecca here to help me. Until then I’m doing what I can.”
“I’m sure you are,” Baryy heartily replied.
“What about Ogden and the foundry?” asked Outish.
Baryy shook his head. “Ogden is up in Broomstick. I saw him climb up. He’s okay.”
“But the foundry, who’s guarding it?”
Shaking his head, Baryy asked, “Why? The foundry is not a hardpoint.”
“No—” Outish looked as if he wanted to say more; he tried to lift himself on his elbows, but collapsed back down, closing his eyes.
Baryy leaned down. “What?”
Outish reached up, felt for Baryy, and pulled him close. He whispered, “Ogden left the plans for the rifle on the table. He told me. When Lettern sounded the bugle call from the forward watch post he dropped everything and marshaled the ward. The plans are still sitting there, in the open.”
“Shiren.” He looked at Elmern who concentrated on a wounded merc, then back to Outish. “You may not know this, but the Paleowrights are here. They’ve sent in at least one battalion of Church troops. We beat them back, but there’s more for sure. If they get to the foundry...” he thought about it. “I have to go to the foundry and retrieve the drawings.”
Though his head pounded like a gong in an outhouse, Outish managed a nod.
Night had fallen. Wide Lane was as murky as a ghost’s hollow; the customary street lanterns and porch lights were not lit, the cheery glow from windows gone. Lonely Soul had yet to rise, and when it did, a bare sliver would mark its trek across the velvet night. Baryy moved more by memory than sight. He snuck through the empty stables across from Murali’s, the eenus and burnos gone, herded up to the mines. Through the back door and across the next street sat the foundry huddled in its own cloak of darkness and foreboding. He stepped carefully across the hay-strewn floor, stifling a sneeze from the thick aroma of eenu dung and grain dust. It wasn’t eenus he smelled for, but the thick musk of troglodytes.
Approaching the rear door, he contemplated how to open it without making a noise when, “Don’t open it,” came from the dark. He nearly leaped out of his skin. His heart pounded madly at once relieved and chagrined he’d not used his multi-func to scan for heat and aural signatures. “Who’s there?” he hissed, raising his handbolt.
“Kiltern, Second Ward. Lettern’s hereabout somewhere.” It was a woman’s voice. “We came looking for you and Outish. Ogden thought you might be in the foundry.”
“You saw me coming?”
“Oi, only a Timber leaves the Knitting Mill hardpoint, and only a fool by the name of Baryy the Trader walks this night alone.”
“Aye,” Baryy exhaled, lowering the weapon and de-cocking it. It would be just their fortune he’d trip in the inky blackness and shoot someone. Sidling up to the door, he sensed three others there with him, one peering out a crack into the street. “A group of swampies came through a while back. Bastards are looking for food. They’re eating dead churchmen and Woodies alike. Seems we all taste the same.”
“Ugh,” replied Baryy. “Where’s Lettern?”
“Right here,” and Baryy jumped at the harshness in her voice. “I’m not talking to you Baryy. You scared the needles off my tree when you jumped off the fort. You use a rappelling line like a drunk farmer. Did you think we’d let you come out here alone? I brought a squad to search for you.”
She sounded genuinely hurt and maybe something more.
The voice called Kiltern said, “Be thankful you found us and not the trogs or the Parrots.” She used the derogatory name for the churchmen as the Timbers had taken to calling them. Their uniforms resembled the plumage of a Uralda Parrot.
“Did you find Outish?” Lettern asked moving close.
He nodded but realized she couldn’t see it in the dark. “Yes. He’s got a nasty bash on the head, but he’s alive and being tended to in the Mill.”
“Great. Then we can get back to Perrty.” Lettern grabbed his arm and made to haul him away.
What to tell her, thought Baryy. His night’s work was not finished. He stood firm. “Uh, Lettern, Og’s been working on some prototypes for Achelous, you know, new weapon designs like the handbolts we supplied to Sedge.”
“Oi, and good ones too,” remarked Kiltern. “Handy things,” by the sound he made a motion and held one up in the dark. “They load fast.”
“Killed a couple of trogs climbing up Perrty with one,” said another warder.
“Right,” said Baryy. “The plans are safe from the troglodytes. They wouldn’t know what to make of them. But if the damned Paleowrights find them, we face the danger of their monks turning them against us. Og left the plans and prototypes for other ideas in his drafting room.”
“Oh.” Lettern’s voice was quiet and close to his ear.
He knew she held Ogden in high regard.
“You sure?” she questioned. “Ogden didn’t say anything about plans.”
“I’m sure,” he replied firmly. “He’d want them, and I was willing to come get them by myself.”
After a pause, “Alright then.” She turned her back, and her ponytail brushed across his face as she stepped to peer out the door. After a day of fighting, he could still smell rose water in her hair, mingled with sweat and pine sap. “We’ll need to cross the street. I’ll go first.” She tapped Kiltern who slid the large door aside on its wheels, magically not making a noise by lifting on the handle.
Baryy watched her lithe form dart across to the foundry slipping into a coal-black shadow. Time passed, each second a minute. Finally, seemingly at leisure, she leaned out and in the lesser darkness waved her arm.
The five of them ran across, and two warders bumped each other, their shields and axes gnashing in the night. One cursed and the other shushed him. Lettern held open the entry door in the giant wagon doors. Baryy found himself in the pitch-blackness of the foundry.
Kiltern unshuttered her beacon lantern, and the wan glow seemed brilliant against the inky reaches of the foundry. “Over here,” Baryy instructed Kiltern, and they made their way to the drafting room. Outish told him that Celebron had locked the drafting and gunroom doors before they left. In the dark, he searched for the spare keys hidden in a kindling tin behind a false wallboard. The Timberkeeps watched him in silence, the air charged with intrigue.
Finding the keys and opening the door, he went in. Inside the room, unmolested on the drafting table, sat a notebook opened to what Baryy recognized as the design for a trigger mechanism. It rested on top of a free-hand sketch of a second-generation rifle; Ogden’s pencil notations of dimensions, metal composition, annealing characteristics, and concerns about blast pressures scribbled in the margins. “What is it?” asked Lettern standing beside him. Someone found a candle lantern and lit it. The smoke from the burning wax made him sneeze. “That’s our future. But for now it is a secret, and you must all swear to me you’ll not speak a word of this.” He looked around at them in the dim yellow glow, shadows playing across their uneducated faces as they had no idea what the drawing showed. “Swear it!” he barked, “Swear on Mother’s Life.”
They nodded meekly, making the sign of Infinity over their hearts. “Oi,” Kiltern said.
“But what does it do?” asked Lettern confused. Her brown eyes shimmering in the lamp glow.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.” He said it to mollify them; little did he know Fate agreed with him. He rummaged around looking for a pack. “Quick, stuff anything that looks important in this bag.”
Next to the table, he opened the chest whose lock hung open on the clasp. He sought the Muzzleloading Cap Lock Rifle book. He searched further, scouring the room, but it wasn’t there. Could Og have hidden it? Baryy hadn’t paid close attention to the instructions Achelous had given Ogden in regard to the book. He wasn’t positive that Ogden even had it. Satisfied there was nothing more of value, “Next door, we need to go to the new workshop,” known to those privileged few as the gunroom. The gunroom had been added on to the foundry in the past week. The strong resin aroma of newly sawn pine timbers nearly overwhelming the subtler smells of coal, iron, coke, and baked brick. Baryy unlocked the door. In the room was Ogden’s growing repository of specialized tools and equipment for making firearms. Bullet molds, a bore reamer, a new rifling jig, a lathe, stocks of annealed iron and steel, sand castings in all stages of completion for making firing pin hammers, triggers, and casings sat on ordered shelves. Baryy ignored it all and went straight for the three rifles that rested in a gun rack against the far wall. Two he recognized: the original smoothbore musket and the first rifle. The third one appeared to be another rifle but with a longer barrel.
“Shss! Someone’s coming.”
Kiltern immediately shuttered her lantern, and Baryy did likewise with the candle. The room plunged into complete darkness. He could hear the Timberkeeps in the foundry jostle their way into the dark gunroom. By the sound, someone shut the door and fumbled with the catch. “There be a whole troop of them out the back way,” a male voice said.
“Parrots or trogs?” Lettern asked.
“Parrots.”
A bump followed by a thump came from along the wall outside the gunroom facing the narrow lane behind the foundry. Then the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked in, a crash, and a swinging bang. It came from inside the foundry.
Tension rose in the room as everyone held their breath.
“Quiet you moron! Did you have to kick in the blessed door?! The Ancients themselves are waking up. Was it even locked?” The voice beyond the gunroom door carried the lilting accent of Herberians.
“You’ll bring the stinking rep-tiles down on us for sure.” A second male Herberian voice said.
“What?” A third complained. “They’re helping us!”
“You’re a moron as daft as they come. They don’t care who they eat.”
Another voice, “I heard they were sent away to pillage.”
“Oh, go blow your sack, there’s plenty of them greasy geckos roaming about.”
More voices and murmurs could be heard; the foundry seemed to be filling up. “Well, it ain’t much, but it beats sleeping with goats. It’s cold enough to snow.”
“It’s not winter, you dumb fool.”
Kiltern edged to Baryy. She whispered nervously, “Sounds like they’re looking for a place to sleep. What do we do?”
“Good question. Wait for them to go to sleep?”
By the way Kiltern didn’t immediately respond, Baryy guessed she was thinking the idea through. “All of them?”
Baryy frowned unseen in the dark. It did sound like a lame idea. “Ask Lettern.”
While Kiltern did that, Baryy cracked open the candle lantern. In the dim glow, he eyed the gun rack. Trapped in the gunroom with a host of enemies just beyond the door forced him to do something he thought was far off in the future and belonged to someone else. He never expected to be the first person to use the guns. A Timberkeep watched him with interest. Baryy carefully opened the powder chest and pulled out a sack of black powder. Finding a measuring horn, he pulled the musket from the rack and poured the powder down the barrel. There were two sacks of round balls – bullets—in the chest. He examined the first, wrapping the ball in a cloth patch. He’d never actually loaded a musket but had seen it done often enough. Placing the ball at the end of the barrel, he pushed it down with the ramrod. He silently cursed when the rod scraped against the barrel as he pulled it out. All eyes in the gunroom turned to him.
Carefully, acutely aware of the proximity to the candle, he primed the flash pan. Setting the musket aside, he loaded the first rifle. This time the ball fit tighter, and he had to apply pressure to the rod. Pulling the rod out, it again scraped inside the barrel, and a voice outside the door said, “Ay, quiet everyone.”
“What?” asked someone.
“I thought I heard a noise.”
“Yea, you heard Meggins blowing hot squishy ones.”
“Not me,” a churchman replied. “I didn’t fart.”
Baryy waited until the noise beyond the door resumed, and the voices spoke of the day’s trials, the warmth of the forge, and who had the better sleeping spot. He reached for the third rifle and poured the powder down the barrel. Judging by the lock mechanism and the raw, bright steel at the throat of the muzzle, the weapon had never been fired. He gave the ramrod a firm push and seated the ball squarely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lettern making frantic waving motions. Hastily he dashed priming powder into the flash pan and slapped down the shutter on the candle lamp.
The double doors to the gunroom opened. Framed in the soft glow of a match-light stood a man in the door. “Anyone in here?”
Baryy raised the rifle and brought it to his shoulder. It was heavy, awkward, and unbalanced to the front. He couldn’t see the sights in the dark, but he didn’t care, the shadowed target clearly outlined. He pulled the hammer back. The double click sounded distinctly like a loud cricket.
“Huh?” The man in the door said, “Eh, fellows, there’s...”
Baryy pulled the trigger. The flint hammer struck the pan and the spark ignited the powder. The flash lit the room, but the explosion that followed eclipsed everything. A jet of flame three feet long stabbed from the barrel. For an indelible instant, the room was lit in a strobe of history. The five Timberkeeps stood transfixed at either side of the doors, their axes and swords reflecting silver-bright. The churchman’s green and blue uniform stood out, eyes glowing orange in awe.
Then the ramrod Baryy had left in the barrel cartwheeled past the man’s head, and the forty-caliber bullet hit the churchman square in the chest. He fell back, nearly blown off his feet. Baryy, in his haste, had overcharged the barrel. The blast shocked the foundry into an absolute stillness, his ears ringing; acrid smoke billowed out of the chamber. The stricken churchman lay on the floor and roused the silence with a gut-deep moan. Someone at the forge knocked over the match light; the illumination went out.
Adrenalin and fear spurring him, Baryy grabbed the two other guns and screamed. He ran to the door and roared at the top of his lungs. At first, as a sociologist, he just wanted to scare the churchmen, but then his fears and anger took control. His rage at seeing Bagonen’s lifeless eyes, of the dead Timberkeeps he’d found, and the tension of the night all churned for release. Remembering Outish nearly dead twisted a wrench in his mind. His primal emotions came welling up and gave a raw edge of hysteria to his voice. He cocked the gun in his right hand and, holding it at his side, fired it. Bang! The blast and tongue of flame strobed the foundry chamber. A churchman screamed, “Aiyee. I, I, I’m hurt! Help me!”
In the black, the room burst into chaos.
Into that chaos, Baryy wailed and screamed. “Die, churchmen! Die! Fear Mother’s Wrath!” He cocked the gun in his left hand with his thumb and pulled the trigger not caring where the bullet went, but with soldiers leaping up from bedrolls and dragging on coats, he couldn’t miss. Bang!
“Arrg,” a gurgling cry came from the center of the room. A body fell, and other bodies stumbled over it.
“Die!”
The explosions, flames, screams, and smoke drove the foundry to an apoplectic frenzy. Baryy went after anything in the room with the butt of a rifle. The back door was thrown open, and churchmen jostled and shoved, falling outside. More soldiers surged towards the door. Baryy ran at the door, bashing and flailing at anything that moved.
“Second Ward! At ‘em!” Kiltern yelled.
Lettern screamed, “Get them!”
“For the Second!” came the chorus.
Pandemonium reigned as the churchmen’s panic was complete. They stampeded the door and were crushed by their fellows.
Every dim, dark shadow that went by Baryy smashed with his rifle butt. Then someone grabbed him from behind. “Back, lad. Out’a me way. I’ve something better to use.” He was veritably flung backward. A man wailed pitifully in concert with the gruesome sound of an axe slicing through cloth and sinew.
Lettern stabbed with her sword, but then a Timber axe knocked her blade from her hand. She gasped and dove for the floorboards. The sweep of an axe-head made a hollow, whooshing noise over her. She scrabbled in the gloom, searching for her sword, and came up ready.
“For the Second!”
“Wide Lane!”
“The Shield Wall!”
The five Timberkeeps made butcher’s work of the churchmen trapped in the foundry. Some, no telling how many, made it out alive, but a half score were hacked down.
Lettern helped Baryy to his feet, where he sat against the wall, stunned and spent. “I didn’t mean to kill them,” he mumbled. “I just wanted to scare them. Get them out so we can leave.”
“Scare them? Mother’s Fire, Baryy, you scared me!” she said holding his elbow, her voice soothing his raw nerves. “Whatever that contraption is, it did what you wanted. We’re getting out of here, now!”
