03 - God King (35 page)

Holtwine’s timber carriage was a work of beauty, an elegant recreation of the
broken one that had been dug from the ground. Its flanks were embellished with
carvings depicting Cuthwin’s rescue of Grindan Deeplock, and his battle with the
wolves. The machine was locked in Govannon’s forge, but as magnificent as it was
there was one problem.

Without fire powder, it was simply an expensive sculpture.

Govannon had forged plenty of shot for the machine, but he had no idea how to
craft the dwarf folk’s fire powder, which the device needed to function. In
desperation, he’d made Cuthwin read him passages from accounts stored in the
Great Library of Empire tribesmen who’d seen these weapons at war in action.
From these accounts, Govannon had worked out how the devices functioned, which
was more than any man had done before, but knowing how a device worked and
recreating it were two different things.

With Eoforth’s help, they had found a Jutone text purporting to be the
writings of a trader named Erlich Voyst’s journey to the lands of a far-flung
eastern empire beyond the Worlds Edge Mountains where the death of a great king
was marked by great explosions fired into the sky by a fine black powder. Voyst
had tried to discover the secret of this powder, but had been stymied by his
host’s reluctance to divulge its composition. In the end, he had stolen a batch
and tried to recreate it on the voyage home, though all he had managed to do was
destroy three of his ships and lose a leg in the process.

It had been a painful process of illumination, for Cuthwin read slowly and
Eoforth was too engrossed in his own researches to be much help. Throughout
their researches, Govannon noticed that the venerable Grand Scholar took care to
remain within sight of them at all times, as though afraid of being alone in his
own library.

Armed with the many variations of Voyst’s recipe for eastern fire powder,
they had tried numerous experimental proportions of charcoal, saltpetre and
sulphur, sometimes adding mercury and arsenic compounds for added effect. Most
of their concoctions had burned too slowly, while others had blown smoking holes
in the forge wall and begun fires that threatened to burn Reikdorf down. In the
wake of such incidents, Alfgeir had threatened to shut down their work, but
Govannon had, thus far, managed to persuade him of the validity of their
researches.

“So are we far enough back, smith?” asked Cuthwin, breaking into Govannon’s
thoughts.

“Yes,” he said.
“We
should be.”

“Should be?”

Govannon nodded. “Yes, I’m almost sure of it. This new concoction has an
added resin extract to slow the explosive reaction. It should react with just
the right amount of violence, but enough control to allow us to fire the war
machine without blowing it to pieces.”

“Or us,” added Bysen.
“We
don’t want to be blown to pieces neither, do
we, da?”

“No, son, we don’t,” Govannon assured him.

“Well, if you’re absolutely sure,” said Cuthwin.

“I’m sure. Light the arrow.”

Cuthwin lowered the oil soaked arrowhead into the flame and Govannon heard
his bowstring pull taut.

“Best cover your ears after you loose,” said Govannon as the arrow flashed
from Cuthwin’s bow. The burning shaft flew through the air and punched into the
canvas bag. Almost instantaneously, a thunderous bang echoed from the walls and
a fiery plume of orange light erupted from the bag. Acrid smoke coiled upwards,
and a cloud of black streamed up from where the barrel had stood.

Cuthwin and Bysen led Govannon forward, his ears still ringing from the
deafening blast. The barrel had vanished, leaving nothing but splinters the size
of a child’s little finger. A portion of the city wall was blackened in a
teardrop shaped pattern and a number of angry warriors shouted down at them from
above.

“Sorry!” shouted Cuthwin, waving at them.

“Did it work, da?” asked Bysen, sifting through the remains of the barrel and
turning the smouldering fragments over in his hands.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Govannon, able to make out the extent of the
black scorch marks on the wall despite his blurred vision. “Even with the
addition of the resin, the explosion was still too powerful. It would destroy
the war machine.”

Though this concoction had failed to produce a workable compound, Govannon
took out his measuring sticks and began to plot the dimensions of the blast. He
shouted numbers for Cuthwin to note down, running through fresh ideas on how to
retard the speed and violence of the reaction.

As Govannon measured the extent of the blast, a troop of horsemen rounded the
curve of the wall. Even before he heard the lead rider’s booming voice, Govannon
knew who it would be. He braced himself for the Marshal of the Reik’s ire.

“Damn you, smith! What in the name of Ulric’s blood are you doing? I warned
you about testing that fire powder!” shouted Alfgeir, dismounting from his horse
and marching over to Govannon. He could smell the sweat and anger of the man
coming off him in waves.

“Ah, Alfgeir,” said Govannon. “Yes, you did warn me, I remember it vividly.”

“Then why are you trying to destroy the city walls with your damn
foolishness?”

“You said you didn’t want me to burn down the city,” pointed out Govannon.
“So here we are outside it. The wall may have suffered some slight damage, it’s
true, but nothing that should affect its structural integrity.”

“Some slight damage?” snapped Alfgeir, kicking over a pile of blackened
timber. “You damn near put a hole in it.”

“Scientific discovery requires some… experimentation and trial and error
methodology.”

Alfgeir paced along the length of the wall, staring at them all one by one,
struggling to hold his anger in check. Govannon wanted to remind him of what
they might learn from this experiment, but knew the man needed to vent before he
would listen to reason.

“Damn me, but if our advancement requires the work of a blind man, a
simpleton and a huntsman, then we’re doomed for sure,” said Alfgeir. “And aren’t
you supposed to be making me a sword? Didn’t I commission the finest blade in
the land, and didn’t you promise that it would be ready by the first snows?”

“It’s not snowing yet,” said Govannon, looking towards the sky. “It’s not is
it?”

“Not yet, but it will be a week at most, and I still haven’t seen any hint of
a blade.”

“You’ll have your sword, Marshal of the Empire,” promised Govannon. “And, if
I’m any judge, something far more impressive.”

“What are you talking about?” said Alfgeir, kneeling beside the shattered
pieces of timber, and Govannon heard the warrior’s sudden pique of interest at
the idea the weapon might actually function. “Did it work?”

“No,” said Govannon wearily. “It didn’t, but we’re close.”

“Close isn’t good enough, Govannon,” said Alfgeir. “Either get it working in
the next few days or I’m loading it on a wagon and sending it east to the
dwarfs. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Govannon.

* * *

The dragon roared, sweeping the ramparts with its deathly dry bellow. Marius
tasted ash and caustic fumes, throwing himself flat as the hot breath billowed.
As the heat washed over him, Marius realised these were not the corrosive fumes
that stripped flesh from men’s bones, but simply a terrible exhalation of long
dead lungs.

Cries of terror spread away from the dragon as warriors fled from the
nightmarish creature. He rolled onto his side, gripping his sword tightly as
though his terror could be kept at bay simply by holding a weapon touched by
protective sorceries. Incredibly, it seemed as though that were the case, as his
terror diminished in the face of what was surely the most horrifying thing he
had ever seen.

Its eyes were sunken, rotted orbs that burned with emerald fire. The rider
astride its clattering bone neck loomed over them all, its mailed gauntlets
crackling with dark energies that flowed into the dread mount and filled its
dead limbs and corpse-flesh with animation. Reeking clouds of bloated, blood-fat
insects swarmed around the monster, a haze of flesh-eating creatures ready to
feast on the dragon’s leavings.

Beneath the rider’s hood, twin orbs of smouldering fire swept its gaze across
the collection of mortals arranged before it, as though understanding that the
masters of this city were within its grasp.

“Aldred!” shouted Laredus, running towards the count of the Endals. “Get
back!”

Marius felt the eyes of the black-robed sorcerer boring into him, a hollow
gaze of utter evil, but his sword hilt grew hot in his hands and he felt the
power of the creature swirl around him without effect.

He smiled, flexing his fingers on the copper-wound handle of his sword as the
feeling of invulnerability surged through him once again. The dragon lurched
forward, not sinuously, but with an awkward gait that was at odds with the grace
it showed in the air. Marius was reminded of a fish scooped from the water onto
a river-bank, or the wide-winged birds that lived on the cliffs above Jutonsryk—poised in the air, but waddling and graceless on the ground.

Its claws slashed out at waist height and half a dozen of the Raven Helms
were smashed to bloody ruin. Its skeletal head snapped down and plucked another
from the ground. The man screamed, but his cries were cut off as the dragon bit
down and snapped him in two. Laredus fought to get Aldred back, but to his
credit, the count of Marburg stood his ground. Ulfshard blazed with fey light
that reflected from the tarnished scales that still hung from the dragon’s
bones.

Lancers and Raven Helms stabbed long pikes at the dragon, but the blades
scraped down the beast’s hide or bounced from iron-hard bone. Dozens surrounded
it, hurling spears and jabbing its body with halberds. Marius worked his way
around the edge of the fight, staying close enough to play a part, but keeping
clear of the vast monster’s slashing claws and snapping teeth.

The fire-eyed rider reared back and a gust of parched wind, like a sirocco
blown of the southern deserts, swept down to engulf the ramparts. Endal warriors
screamed and fell to their knees as their bodies were wracked by dark magic.
Their flesh withered and rotted, their bones becoming brittle and dusty. Marius
felt the seething energies around him, but he remained untouched. Likewise
Aldred seemed impervious to the malefic sorcery, so clearly there was an
advantage to bearing a sword enchanted by the fey or foreign kings.

Laredus staggered under the effects of the powerful magic, his skin pallid
and the veins on his neck straining like hawser ropes. The dragon’s neck came
down and its jaws opened, still drooling a wash of blood and entrails from its
last kill. The Raven Helm hammered his sword into the dragon’s mouth and broke
several fangs. Arrows bounced from its bony skull, and a huge javelin hurled by
a war machine plunged between its ribs. Aldred ran to join his champion, but
Laredus pushed him away.

“Stay back!” he yelled.

His distraction cost him dear, as the dragon’s jaws snapped shut on his
shoulders and head. Laredus came apart like a wineskin filled with blood, his
upper body carved open with a gory V shape in his torso. Aldred screamed his
champion’s name as Marius leapt forward to bring his sword down on the dragon’s
head.

His fiery blade clove through the bone of its skull, hacking a fist-sized
chunk of bone from its body. The beast roared and snapped at him, but Marius was
already moving. He dived beneath the dragon’s jaw, rolling to his feet on its
left-hand side. His sword plunged into its eye and a blaze of green fire spurted
from the wound.

Aldred hurled himself at the beast, Ulfshard slashing a burning tracery
across the dragon’s snout. It reared back and its claws slammed down. A cracked
talon slashed Aldred’s chest open and the Endal count fell back. Blood streamed
from the deep wound and Aldred toppled to the ground.

Marius ran to the injured Aldred, but the hooded rider hurled a forking blast
of black lightning from his iron-sheathed fingers towards him. He staggered
under the force of the dread sorcerer’s power as ice poured through his veins,
his sword’s magic unable to prevent the darkness from overcoming him.

“Damn you!” he yelled, more angry than afraid. “Not like this!”

His sword flared brightly, and the enchantments beaten into its folded metal
by the wizards of the Celestial Tower of the Divine Dragon a thousand years ago
unravelled before such dread energy. Its blade shone like the sun, cracks of
light spurting all along its length as the magic dissolved. The sword exploded
in radiant beams of light that spiralled heavenward with the sound of bells and
shattering glass in a far away tower.

The full force of the black sorcerer’s magic surged in Marius’ body, but
moments later it was gone. Marius blinked away dark spots from his eyes and saw
Aldred on his feet before the rearing dragon, the sorcerer’s arcing forks of
black lightning being drawn into the pellucid blue form of Ulfshard.

It seemed impossible that any blade, enchanted or not, could survive such an
assault, but Ulfshard was an ancient weapon of the immortal fey folk from across
the oceans. Their smiths had mastery of magic and all its secrets since before
mankind had crawled from muddy caves in the mountains. Those who had bound their
arcane knowledge into its starmetal had done so with complete understanding of
the winds of magic and how to defeat those who sought to pervert that power to
evil purposes.

As powerful as this sorcerer’s magic was, it was nothing compared to the
power bound to Ulfshard’s elder design. Marius watched in amazement as Aldred,
blood pouring from the mortal wound in his chest, swept his blade down, casting
the corrupt energies of undeath into the earth. The ground at his feet blackened
and withered, its life drained in an instant as the dark magic was dissipated
through the enduring rock of the citadel.