The Chesian Wars (A Griffins & Gunpowder Collection) (7 page)

The terms were more generous than Kasimir would have expected: everyone would be allowed to return to their homes once the government at Cestimir surrendered to the Chesian army. The officers were offered commissions in the Chesian Army and the upper officers were offered lands in the wealthier Chesian districts.

"Trying to fucking bribe us," Niklos said as he threw the offer into the fire. "Do they think that they can pay for the years of service and loyalty with gold and lands?"

"Apparently they do," Kasimir said with a shrug.

"Of course they think they can; otherwise they wouldn't have sent the offer," Niklos said harshly. "We should send our response back with a headless messenger."

"Sir, the rules of warfare are rather clear on the treatment of messengers," Kasimir pointed out.

While there were no international treaties governing the rules of war, there was a set of unofficial rules that everyone knew and adhered to. Messengers were considered untouchable; sent at the behest of their commanders, they could not be held responsible for being sent, nor for the contents of the messages that they carried. Only couriers came close the protections that messengers were afforded.

"I'm aware of the rules of warfare, much better than you are," Niklos pointed out. "Have a letter drafted in response. Inform their commander that we refuse their offer and will entertain no further messengers."

"Yes, sir." Kasimir nodded and stepped out into the chilly night.

The moons of Zaria cast a sharp light over the fortress' yard. Sentries paced along the top of the walls and small groups of soldiers huddled around fires. Karel Shor leaned against the wall of a nearby building and hurried over when he saw Kasimir emerge from the lounge.

"Draft a letter for the Chesian messenger to take back to his commanders," Kasimir ordered. "Inform the honored commander that we will not be accepting their offer of surrender and that we will entertain no further messengers. Have it sealed and give it back to their rider."

"Yes, sir," Karel said and hurried to his office.

"So what of it?" Jarak asked as he emerged from a shadow.

"You should be sleeping, Junior Commander," Kasimir said as he looked to see if anyone was near.

"As should you, Commander," Jarak countered. "Out with it."

Jarak and Kasimir had served together for five years across multiple deployments. They had grown to be friends during their first deployment together and had kept in touch, even when they were assigned to different areas of Malkala. If anyone knew Kasimir's mind, it was Jarak.

"They offered us all the chance to go back to our homes," Kasimir reported. "After the war is resolved, of course. The officers were offered commissions in the Chesian Army and Niklos and I were offered lands in one of their wealthiest districts."

"And how did the old man take it?"

"Exactly as I expected him to," Kasimir said. "Threatened to behead the messenger and send him back with our answer."

"Ruler save us," Jarak whispered.

"I have a feeling that this is going to be a fight to the death. All of our deaths," Kasimir said somberly.

"Nothing to be done about it."

"They won't attack until dawn," Kasimir said. The moons were directly overhead; it was midnight. "If we hit the racks now, we should get about six hours of sleep."

*
             
             
             
             
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*

Kasimir woke to a commotion outside of his quarters. He heard shouting, the clang of steel on steel, and then the crack of a shattering chair or table. He pulled his revolvers out of their holsters as he stood and took a step toward the door.

The garrison commander of Demitas had a split second to realize what was happening as bodies crashed through his door in a shower of splinters. The sight of gold and red was all he needed to know and he brought his revolvers up with lightning speed.

The first Chesian soldier had less than a heartbeat to realize that they hadn't taken their target asleep. The man was enormous, for a Chesian, with broad shoulders and thick arms. The boom of the pistol deafened everyone in the small room and the lead bullet slammed through his forehead. The men behind the charging bull blinked at the spray of blood and brains, but had barely more time than their ill-fated comrade before the revolvers thundered again and they fell beside their leader.

Five Chesians fell before the others were able to push their way back into the common room and out of Kasimir's line of sight. In the room beyond, Kasimir could see Chesian and Malkalan bodies piled together in the center of the common room.

"Surrender!" a voice shouted, thick with a Chesian accent. Kasimir answered with a pair of pistol shots through the open doorway. "Your fortress is taken. You have no choice but to surrender."

"Why don't you come in and tell me that to my face?" Kasimir shouted defiantly. He kept one eye on the doorway as he slid new cartridges in his revolvers' chambers.

"Kasimir, you are surrounded!"

"General Hollatz?" Kasimir's eyes were wide and he dropped a cartridge.

"Throw your revolvers out the door and we'll talk about it!" the general ordered. "There's been enough bloodshed already, there doesn't need to be any more."

They must have taken him prisoner
, Kasimir thought.

It was the only way that the general would order him to surrender his weapons to an enemy in the middle of his fortress. Even a man as respected and brave as him would do as told when there was a pistol shoved in his face.

Kasimir wondered how the Chesians had been able to breach the fortress walls without anyone sounding an alarm. The sentries would have been able to see any force crossing the open fields, especially under the double full moons. He tried to remember who had had left on sentry when he realized that all of his troops had been sent to the racks just after dark. The well-rested troops from Aldris had taken over watch and had been put on sentry duty.

The two regiments had escaped a cavalry force more than ten times its own size, but how? Chesian heavy cavalry was the most ruthless and feared cavalry in the western nations and would not have given up easily. The regiments had escaped completely intact.

"How much did they pay you to sell out your nation?" Kasimir demanded.

"It wasn't like that, Kasimir," Niklos said, his voice suddenly less harsh. "They had Aldris under siege, with more soldiers than I've ever seen in one place. One volley from their artillery would have crushed the fortress walls and it would have just been a matter of cleaning up the bodies at that point. They offered me a way out of all of that bloodshed. A way to keep my soldiers alive."

"Yet you completely refused them when it came time for me to have the same offer?" The general didn't answer. "Cat got your tongue, old man?"

"Why don't you just throw the fucking pistols down and surrender. I can still get you a commission with the Chesians. It's not too late for you."

"What about for all of the soldiers that you killed tonight? What about all of the soldiers that are going to be killed because you handed our enemies two of the main fortresses that stood in their path?"

The fortresses beyond Demitas would not be ready for an assault so early. They would have expected Demitas to hold the attackers at bay for days, and the garrisons would still be on the road to their strongholds. If the Chesians were to make their move before those soldiers made it to the safety of the inner fortresses, it would be a massacre.

"It had to be done, Kasimir. They sent a merchant to talk to me last year. They told me that they would kill every man in my garrison if I didn't go along with them," Niklos said. "They offered me a way out and I took it."

"And what happened to the rest of the garrison at Aldris? What happened to those who stood against you?"

"There were losses at Aldris, far greater than there were here. I tried to convince the commanders to surrender the garrison and play their part. Commander Garis tried to raise the alarm; I had to shoot him in the back."

Kasimir grimaced. Florian Garis had been in the same class as he had in the Malkalan Officers’ Academy. They had studied tactics and artillery together.

"This is your last warning, Kasimir," Niklos said as he leaned into the doorway. He pulled back when Kasimir brought his pistol up. "I don't want to have to sacrifice any more of these men to get you out of there. They have families too, Kasimir, remember that."

"What assurance do I have that they will honor what you promise me?" Kasimir asked as he stood. He crouched and pulled back the hammers on his revolvers.

"They will honor my promises," Niklos said.

"You're going to have to do better than that." Kasimir pressed his heels against the wall of chamber opposite of the door. He wasn't the fastest soldier in the Malkalan army, but he was deadly accurate with his revolvers and he would have the element of surprise.

"His promises will be honored," a Chesian voice said. "I am a captain. My word will stand before our generals."

"You'll forgive me if I don't trust either of you," Kasimir said. He breathed deeply to steady himself. He would not survive this, he knew, but at least he would do a part of his duty before he was killed.

"What do you want then?" Niklos asked, and Kasimir smiled a wry smile.

"I want you dead," he said as he pushed off from the wall.

Several feet separated the wall from the doorway, but Kasimir was strong. He had pushed off hard and his momentum would carry him far. He dove forward and twisted as he crossed over the shattered remains of his door. Chesians brought their muskets up around him and shock covered Niklos’ face.

Kasimir brought both of his pistols up and squeezed the triggers; Niklos, who realized only too late what was happening, fell against the wall clutching his stomach. Kasimir pulled back the revolvers' hammers and squeezed the triggers again. One of his rounds exploded through the back of Niklos' head; the other cut through the nearest Chesian's throat.

The last thing that Kasimir saw before a dozen muskets boomed and darkness closed over his eyes was the Chesian captain clutching at his bloody throat and the corpse of Niklos Hollatz slumped against the wall. One hand clutched his stomach, the other clutched a bag emblazoned with a red dragon and full of Chesian gold.

The rain fell in heavy sheets as his horse moved slowly up the steep hill. The road had turned to mud and the horse could not find solid footing. Above him loomed the city of Arbina, capitol of Ehtroy, a black mass against the lightning. Fires burned in windows along the walls and with every flash of lightning he could see the sentries pacing along the walls.

The hill finally leveled off and the road turned to cobblestone; the horse regained its footing and trotted to the gatehouse. A dozen mounted guards followed behind him.

"Who goes there?" a voice from above the gatehouse asked in  Trade.

Malis Acantha looked up at the battlements, his face pelted by rain as he searched for the source of the voice. Half a dozen sentries stood on the battlements a hundred feet above, muskets clutched in their hands.

"I am Malis Acantha, Grand Duke of Istivan. I am here to treat with the King!" the leader of the small band of riders shouted. He was taller than six feet by a pair of inches, his hair was black as night, and his green eyes twinkled with every flash of lightning. The men around him wore black cloaks with hoods pulled over their heads to keep the rain out of their eyes.

"The Grand Duke of Istivan would arrive with more than a dozen guards in the middle of the night, I think," the voice said from wall.

"What is your name?" the leader of Istivan demanded.

"Sergeant Nolan Ferland," the voice replied.

"Well, Sergeant, if you would like to come down and kiss my ring before you admit me into the city, you are more than welcome to. Consider this, though: if I am forced to prove my identity to you by standing here in the rain and having you grovel in the mud, this will the last night that you serve as a guard of Arbina. I think a deckhand on one of your king's merchantmen would be an ideal assignment for you."

The guards were silent for several long moments before the thick iron doors began to swing open, their hinges screaming. The inner doors were already open and a dozen soldiers stood inside, waiting. Malis spurred his horse forward and his guards followed.

"Your Grace." The man that stood before him wore a blue uniform with white cuffs and accents. The badge over his heart had a black fortress on a blue field with white stripes from corner to corner. Three chevrons on his sleeve marked him as a sergeant and an onyx pendant in the shape of a fortress hung from his neck.

"Sergeant...Ferland, was it?" Malis reined up so close that his black beast's flank pushed the man back a pace.

"Uh...yes, Your Grace. My apologies, Your Grace." The man bowed low. "It is late. I would not expect someone of your position to arrive with so little warning and in the middle of the night."

"These are perilous times, Sergeant," Malis said. "Your vigilance is admirable. I will need a guide to show me to the palace."

"Of course, Your Grace!" The sergeant waved to the nearby stables and a young man, or maybe an older boy, emerged from one of the stalls leading a small horse. "This is Blane. He will guide you to the palace."

"Thank you, Sergeant." Malis nodded and turned his horse toward the city.

They emerged from the gatehouse into an open plaza, surrounded on all sides by walls fifty feet tall and broken only by three smaller gatehouses. If the main gatehouse were to fall, this would be a secondary line of defense against invaders. Their guide led them directly across the plaza and the wooden gates swung open with the wave of his hand.

They emerged from the second gatehouse in what seemed to be a warehouse district. Tall buildings made of clay, with wide wooden doors and small windows, lined the street and wooden placards described their use. Many of the placards were written in the sharp angled language of Ehtroy. Malis spoke the language well enough to carry a conversation, but had never learned to read it. The few that were written in the Trade tongue made it clear that this district was used to store goods going to and coming from the rest of Ehtroy. The open warehouses would be closer to the harbor.

Another wall thirty feet high loomed above them and their guide dismounted to speak with the soldiers huddled around the gate. He made some gestures toward Malis and his guards. After a moment, he climbed back onto his horse and waited for the gates to open. They were wood, banded and studded with iron.

The next district was lined with shops, massive stone buildings with placards scrawled in Ehtroyan. Jewel encrusted doors, gilded door handles and curtains and awnings made from rich velvet and silk, marked this as the merchant district for the wealthy locals. More guards were visible as well, and not all of them wore the uniform of the city guard.

"Mercenaries," Lander Patera said as they passed a cluster of men dressed in garish golden uniforms with black accents. They stood under the awning to one particularly large shop, carbines clutched in shivering hands and ivory handled revolvers holstered on their hips.

"Indeed," Malis said to his captain of guards.

Lander had been served in his role as the Grand Duke's primary protector for more than a decade. At six and a half feet, he was taller than Malis by a hand and had shaved his head. Most of his olive skin was adorned with tattoos. One particularly disturbing image crawled up his neck and twisted around the right side of his face; it made his green eyes stand out. A single gold stud pierced his left earlobe and a simple gold chain hung from his neck.

"It's only a little further," their guide promised. They had continued to climb up the hill on which Arbina had been founded and the buildings had become larger, spaced further apart. "This will be the last guardhouse before the palace."

The final gatehouse was nearly as large as the main gatehouse. The walls here were fifty feet thick if they were an inch and the battlements towered sixty feet high. The gates were made of wrought iron. Tall, narrow windows served as rifle cuts. Malis could see fires burning on the other side of the openings.

A man in a thick black cloak stepped from the gatehouse with his hood raised. Their guide dismounted quickly and went to one knee on the cobblestone road. The man in the robe raised his hand and brought it down across the guide's face with such force that the noise could be heard over the torrent of rain.

The guide remained on his knee, his palms pressed to the cobblestone, as the much larger man stepped past him. Lightning flashed and Malis saw the hard nosed face under the cloak. The man scowled as he grabbed the reins of Malis' black charger.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" the man demanded in a growl. With each flash of lightning he was illuminated: cold gray eyes, long black hair that flowed over his shoulders, and a strong jaw. A gold pendant hung from his neck, an onyx fortress marked with a ruby stone at its center.

"I am Malis Acantha, the Grand Duke of Istivan," Malis said calmly. "And you are?"

"I am Lord Vikas Roy, Commander of the Ruby Gate," the man announced proudly. "What is your business here?"

"My business here is none of your concern, My Lord," Malis said. He despised nobility that felt they were entitled to know everything because of their title.

"I cannot allow anyone through at this time of night without cause," Vikas said. He crossed his arms and Malis caught the sight of revolvers at his hips.

"I understand that you have your orders," Malis said. "But I have urgent business with your king and I'm sure that he would be displeased to know that you prevented my passage."

"The king is a cousin of mine," Vikas announced. "He will understand my concerns with allowing more than a dozen armed soldiers into our inner district in the middle of the night without orders or satisfactory
cause
."

"I see." Malis nodded in understanding. He untied a small bag from his belt, felt its weight and tossed it at the lesser lord. "I think that should give you enough
cause
to allow us through."

The man opened the pouch and spilled the gold coins into his hands. He took a moment to count them and then poured them back into the bag and pulled the drawstrings. Vikas pulled a glove off of his right hand, put two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle.

The low growl of gears turning could be heard from beyond the walls and the doors began to crank open. The gears groaned and Malis watched as the wealthy district beyond became visible through the gatehouse. Long rows of low houses separated by yards and their own walls lined the street that was suddenly wider than it had been. Where a pair of wagons would have had trouble passing each other in the outer districts, the roads in the inner district were wide enough for three wagons to pass without trouble.

Guards stood watch at the entrance to each estate. A dozen stood guard at the smaller homes, and at least thirty were stationed outside some of the more opulent villas. These were not mercenaries; they wore the uniforms of the city guard and were strictly organized. Where the mercenaries had been milling about under awnings, trying to not get soaked by the rain, these guards stood at their posts with only hooded cloaks to keep the rain off of them.

The houses were fewest closer to the last gatehouse. A wide avenue ran parallel to the wall, a killing zone for anyone who tried to attack. The palace wall was eighty feet tall, forty feet thick and cut from slabs of obsidian. The gates were iron banded with steel and protected by an iron portcullis. Fires burned in the gatehouses and once again their guide dismounted to present them.

The captain that emerged from the gatehouse was not similar to the last. He was a smaller man, covered in a green cloak. His hood was down and in the lightning, Malis could see his half smile and eager eyes. He had long hair, though it was hard to tell what color it was in the dark.

"Greetings!" the man called as he approached them. "I am Lord Corwin Sens, Commander of the Black Gates. What brings you to the Black Palace?"

"I am Malis Acantha, Grand Duke-"

"Of Istivan," the man interrupted and went to one knee. "I am honored, Your Grace."

"Please, rise," Malis said. "I have business with my ambassador and with His Grace, King Mercer."

"Of course, Your Grace. Please, come in out of the rain," the commander said. He turned back to the wall and waved. The massive gates groaned open and Corwin led the party into the entrance.

The last gatehouse of Arbina was nearly a meeting hall in its own right. Lanterns burned in sconces on the walls, an open fire pit roared, and groups of guards sat at tables. Some looked up from their games of dice or cards; a few recognized that someone of importance had entered their presence and watched to see how the guests were treated. The rest did not move except to complain about the breeze that had blown through the open gates.

"I will send a messenger to inform His Grace that you are here," Corwin said as he stripped off his damp cloak. "And one of my men can lead you to your ambassador's quarters."

"What of our young guide?" Malis asked as he climbed down off of his horse.

"We'll see that he's taken care of," Corwin promised and then disappeared into the inner gatehouse.

A sergeant led them into the palace, through twisting passages and dark hallways, until they arrived in a well-lit area. Large tables were covered with stacks of parchment, quills and ink jars. A few scribes worked at scrolls in the corner. One had the look of an Ansgari and the other was an Ehtroyan.

"I'll announce your presence," the sergeant said and went to one of the large doors. He emerged a few moments later, a tired looking man behind him. "Your Grace, Ambassador Dario Sotor."

"Your Grace." The Istivani Ambassador bowed low. He was half of a foot shorter than Malis with brown hair, brown eyes and the same olive skin. He had a bookish look to him and reading glasses tucked into his chest pocket.

"Dario, it's good to see you again," Malis said. "Can we speak in private?"

"Of course, Your Grace." Dario led Malis and Lander through the still open door to his quarters and closed it behind them.

"Of what service can I be, Your Grace?" Dario asked when they were alone.

"I've come to ask King Mercer to join with us in standing against Chesia," Malis announced, and Dario winced.

"The Chesian invasions of Jarin and Malkala have caused quite the panic here in Arbina," Dario said. He poured himself a glass of water and raised it in offer to Malis, who shook his head in refusal. "And not just from the nobles and wealthy merchants. My servants in the city have reported that the common men are concerned with the sudden unification of the Chesian Empire and their interest in their neighboring states."

"Do you have any estimate of the king's stance on the issue?"

"He seems to be ignoring the fact that anything is wrong," Dario reported. "A coalition of his merchants tried to force him to make a declaration one way or the other. He refused to give them an answer and threatened to expel them from the city if they brought it up again."

"That should make for an interesting conversation." Malis shook his head. "I would speak with Ambassador Haskins as well. I made a stop in Welos and spoke with King Caerwyn. The ambassador should be reading the messages that he sent right now."

"Have you secured an alliance with Welos then?"

"Yes, I have. King Ariene agreed with my suggestions that the Chesian threat must be countered and not by a single nation," Malis said. "He agreed to allow our armies to march through Welos and entrench along their border. King Xanthus, however, has refused my offer of alliance."