Railroad Rising E-Book

J.P. Wagner

• Herausgeber: Beth Wagner
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Gunpowder magic, steam-power, adventure, and intrigue...

Carrtog, landless third son of Tsingallik and warrior trained in the use of powder magic, intends to make his way as a mercenary for hire. On his travels north, he and his personal guardsman stumble upon the royal christening of an expansion to Cragmor's burgeoning railway -- in this case a gift from the King as a sign of goodwill to the conquered north of old. When the gathered populace prove they are not there to be pacified, Carrtog isn't about to standby and do nothing. Cloaks sweep back, swords and pistols are drawn. Luckily for Carrtog, charging in might be his best chance of earning a name. But then the trap springs around the royal party and Carrtog realizes his eagerness may lead to his demise.

Worse, if he manages to survive the ensorcelled contraption and rescue the King from the depths of the rebellious north, he might find that holding the King's favor could prove more dangerous than any duel against a combat magician in the haze of battlefield smoke. He'll need more than a little wit and inventiveness to survive this uprising.

Leseprobe

JP Wagner

ISBN: 978-0-9949865-3-5

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Table of contents

Railroad Rising: The Black Powder Rebellion

For Beth

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author:

Other titles by JP Wagner:

Railroad Rising: The Black Powder Rebellion

Railroad Rising

The Black Powder Rebellion

by J. P. Wagner

Copyright © 2015 by J. P. Wagner

ISBN: 978-0-9949865-3-5

Second Edition Published by MOONGATE STUDIOS, BURNABY, BC

www.revjpwagner.com

First published by HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC., CALGARY

Under the EDGE-Lite and EDGE imprints

www.edgewebsite.com

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For Beth

Chapter 1

Yakor pulled his horse up beside his master’s and spat in the mucky road that wandered through the trees ahead of them. In this vicinity, much of the heavy northern forest had been cleared for the town, of which some rough and ramshackle buildings were visible just ahead.

Nor were the two of them alone on the road. Ahead of and behind them were a number of people, mostly men, and from their dress hunters and farmers off to attend some special occasion in the local city.

“Tenerack. As you noted by the smells, you could tell we were coming up on a major town for the last couple of hours. And, Lord Carrtog, since the only large town in the vicinity is Tenerack, I tell you this one will be it. And do you also remember what I’ve told you about it?”

The blond young man beside Yakor frowned his annoyance with the business of learning and lessons. “It was the center of resistance during the late war, and it is still suspected of being a center of resistance against the king. And since my grandfather counted up the odds and rode behind the old king, when the king declared the necessity of the recent border adjustment, he is now in the present king’s favor. Which means that if I promise my service to the wrong person, I may find myself facing one of my uncles or my many cousins across the battlefield.” Carrtog waved his hand, letting his horse follow the flow of people on the road, “Don’t worry yourself, Yakor, we came here mainly because I wished to see a large city. We can look around, then go somewhere safe.”

Yakor snorted. “I’d still prefer it if I could convince you to go somewhere safe first. Or even better … somewhere else instead.”

Carrtog grinned. “But Yakor, we’re heading off to hire on as mercenaries. That’s not a safe occupation any time or place.”

“You’re right about that, of course. But a smart mercenary always tries to lessen the danger to himself whenever he can. Riding into Tenerack with only your faithful armsman by your side does not seem to me to be lessening the danger to you very much at all. I really don’t look forward to going back to your grandfather and explaining to him that I couldn’t convince you to use a bit of sense, and therefore lost one of his grandsons.”

“As to that, Yakor, I’m only one of his younger grandsons, unlikely to inherit anything unless a war or a plague wipes out all the family ahead of me, an extremely unlikely event.”

The bulk of the town was still hidden by trees and rising ground, but smoke was rising into the air ahead of them, and a stream of white suddenly shot up as well. A steam-whistle shrieked up ahead on the heels of that puff of steam.

It took the two a few moments to calm their horses, then Yakor grabbed the shoulder of one of the men hurrying toward the sound.

“What’s happening?”

The man looked up at him. He was a broad and burly fellow dressed in the muck-brown tunic and trousers that marked him as lower-class with a short, hooded cloak over the lot, the hood almost covering his eyes.

“Far from home, aren’t you, soldier? Everyone knows the king promised us a new railroad. The king himself has come to open the railway.”

He spun round and went off at a near run toward the sound of the railway train.

“Well, now, Yakor,” said Carrtog, looking after their informant, “That seems to be a sight worth seeing. If I’m not mistaken, when kings do this sort of thing, they tend to supply food and drink as well, even for strangers from far off.”

Yakor snorted. “Of course, they may look suspiciously at traveling mercenaries, with no apparent local connection. If they don’t seem welcoming, we move along without causing trouble. Agreed?”

“Oh, yes, agreed.”

Yakor sent him a mildly suspicious glance, as they set their horses in motion. “I hope you don’t have anything tricky on your noble mind.”

“Goodness, no! I am the very model of decorous and genteel behavior!”

“When you say things like that I’m almost certain I should clout you across the head with the flat of my sword, and haul you away bodily! I might just do it, too! ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but my master occasionally takes these fits, and the only thing I can do is take him someplace quiet until the fit passes.’”

“I promise you, Yakor, I will behave myself.” He pointed ahead to where the station stood forth, a brand-new building, no longer hidden by trees and other buildings. It was decorated with royal pennants, while in front of it sat a small train. “Ah, there it is! Much more fancy than the bit of a train that runs through my grandfather’s holding of Tsingallik, down south, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But you must consider that this is more or less a bribe from the king to make the local people think well of him. For that reason, it has to look like a royal train.”

Carrtog grinned. “As so often happens, Yakor, I believe you are correct. That must be one of the reasons why I put up with your surly nature.”

Yakor cast his eyes heavenward. “All the Gods keep me! I bend all my efforts to keeping you safe, and as comfortable as out-of-work mercenaries can make themselves, and the only appreciation I get sounds more like a complaint.”

“And I try to assure you that I have no intention of causing you trouble and I’m rewarded with suspicion and threats. We seem to be a pair of badly-matched scoundrels, don’t we?”

Yakor smiled slightly. “It’s probably too late for either of us to go back and choose a different companion.”

“I suppose so. I expect we’ll just have to bear with each other as well as possible.”

As they spoke and urged their horses toward the station, the crowd assembled on all sides of them. Most of the onlookers gazed intently at the royal party standing on the platform that had been attached to the railway car just behind the fuel-carrying tender.

Carrtog suddenly lifted his left hand and looked at the ring on his third finger. “My ring’s prickling, Yakor! Danger’s on the way!”

“Nothing more specific than that?”

Carrtog shook his head. “It’s not infallible, Yakor, but any time it signals me this hard, I know something’s coming up.” He continued to regard the ring: an ordinary looking pale yellow circlet which had been carved from a beef-bone and polished while certain incantations were recited over it.

“We should ride quietly away.”

Carrtog shook his head. “Given the circumstances, I think we should at least warn the king’s Guard. I mean, the king’s here, and my ring signals trouble in an area known for disaffection toward the king, so isn’t it the greatest likelihood that the trouble involves the king?”

“Now, why would I have expected anything different? You do realize, don’t you, that the king’s Guard will likely take a wild-looking pair like us to be part of the danger?”

“I’ve got to at least try. You could hang back here and wait for me.”

“I’ll come up behind you, at a little distance, so I can rush in and drag you away if I have to.”

Carrtog rode on without hesitating, and soon could see the whole scene. It was only a modest train, five cars, including a coal-car to fuel the engine.

The king had not ridden up on the train itself, Possibly, Carrtog thought, for fear of starting jokes about the railway being for the purpose of transporting kings, swine, and other livestock. The king and his retinue had arrived on horseback, in proper gentlemanly fashion. There were a few ladies with them, royalty and royal servants from the look of their clothing. Carrtog was surprised to see the princess, recognizable by the tiara on her head. Even she and her ladies-in-waiting appeared to have come on horseback, though Carrtog noted a wagon in the background, in case any of the royal bottoms required a rest from the rigors of the ride.

There were soldiers as well, all horsemen, all dressed in decorated metal back and breast with a powder-blue coat over the steel, as well as a gold-colored sash. These were the king’s Gentlemen. Their numbers seemed a bit low to Carrtog. Of course that made sense, if the king was coming here to make friends with the people by presenting them with a train and railway; best not show too obvious distrust for the locals by bringing along overwhelming force. He’d only seen King Bornival from a distance, but some things he’d heard about the man made this sound like a thing he would do.

He could spot the king on the platform amongst his men by his dress, which was similar to that of his Gentlemen but a touch more elaborate with little bits of extra decoration here and there. Carrtog also noted the captain of the troop; not only did he have a golden sash around his waist, but he wore a diagonal sash of bright red.

The crowd gathering around them seemed mostly to be made up of rough-looking men wearing short, hooded cloaks, and carrying large sacks. Were these part of the danger, he wondered. They all still look like farmers or hunters, or even tradesmen, taking a bit of time off for the occasion.

Carrtog pushed his horse forward through the crowd. The prickling of his ring grew in intensity, was this crowd about to turn into a riot? What did they have in those sacks besides their lunches?

He pulled up in front of the line of guards and said to one of them, “I must speak to your leader. Immediately!”

The fellow looked at him suspiciously, and without taking his eyes off Carrtog, he called “Captain Gwailants! Man wants to speak to you, sir!”

Shortly, the captain came over on foot, there being no room for horses on the platform. He was a hard-looking man, his face browned by the weather, and his short beard and mustache had all gone pepper and salt. His sword was unsheathed in his hand.

“Come up here and talk, and I hope for your sake that you have something important to say.”

The guardsmen grudgingly let him through the line, and the first thing he did was to display his ring to the captain. “My ring tells me that there’s danger here, sir.”

The captain sneered and displayed his own ring. “It does, does it? Would it surprise you at all to know that I know that very well? Our king, however, has decided to ignore the danger in favor of making his political point.”

“Oh.” Carrtog felt deflated.

“Your news is not as vital as you thought, eh? Perhaps you should turn and leave us before—”

There was a shout somewhere in the crowd and what looked like a smoking ball of cloth came whirling through the air to land on the platform.

Carrtog felt a touch of confusion. Recognizing a battle-magic spell, he waved his ringed hand in front of him as if waving away the smoke. The confusion cleared from his mind. That first ball was followed by three others, thrown from other points in the crowd.

He spun to face outward, drawing his sword and shouting “Tsingallik for King Bornival!”

With any luck, that yell might convince the King’s Gentlemen all around him that he was on their side. On the other hand, members of the King’s Gentlemen seldom took risks with the king’s life; it was too likely that one or another of them would stick a sword into his side just to be sure.

Several among the guard swept hands before them — it was no surprise that a large number of them knew battle-magic, some likely knew much more than he did. Men among the crowd flung back their hoods, revealing caps of metal or leather, though a good number wore only a cloth bonnet like his own. There seemed to be only a couple who wore metal breastplates — the rest had a jacket of leather. The weapons they pulled from their sacks were mostly short swords and stout cudgels, but several had wheel-lock pistols.

The pistols were only accurate at close range and took some time to reload. Carrtog knew how to use a pistol; in fact, a pistol would have had more than one use for him at this moment given his training in battle-magic. His grandfather had offered him one before he and Yakor started off on their journey, but he had turned it down. The things were very expensive, particularly in a hinterland place like Tsingallik, and though he hoped at some time to earn the money to buy one of his own, he hadn’t wanted to ride away carrying one that his grandfather might well need worse than he.

The pistol-men in the crowd opened fire, the King’s Gentlemen replying. The powder-smoke began to gather, obscuring visibility, though not to the extent of hiding either of the two sides. Several men in the crowd went down. Carrtog noted at least two pushing their way back out of the crowd, just trying to get away.

An attacker stuck a pistol into his face, but Carrtog managed a frantic chop just before the fellow pulled the trigger. The pistol fired off to the side, and the man staggered aside clutching his bloody wrist.

Carrtog thrust at him, but his sword glanced off the man’s leather jacket as he went sidewards. The thought went through Carrtog’s mind that he should grab the dropped pistol, but good sense told him he didn’t have time. Indeed, there was a man jumping forward, extending his sword in a thrust. Even as he reacted, Carrtog noted that something had taken off most of the man’s left ear, leaving the blood streaming down his left side. He parried, and did his own thrust, then pulled his sword free, jumping back to avoid further attacks.

He called out once more, “Tsingallik for King Bornival!!” Then stepped forward, thrusting again.

He noticed that the attackers did not seem to be trying to kill the king or his party, but working to force them backward into the train car where the ladies and the rest of the retinue had already taken shelter. If the attackers were trying to force them inside, it seemed to him that the best thing to do would be to try to force their way out.

But with Captain Gwailants shouting “Rally round the king! Rally round the king!” It seemed that they would be playing into the enemy’s scheme.

The King’s Gentlemen tried to close in around the king, and one glimpse that Carrtog was able to get of Bornival showed the man standing tall and grim, his bloodied sword in one hand, and blood soaking his left sleeve. Obviously, someone had gotten closer to him than his guard would prefer.

Carrtog could hear Yakor’s wisdom telling him not to get trapped in a train-car with the enemy’s target. But with the next surge of rebels he had little choice. He fell into formation with the king’s Gentlemen. Then they were all inside fighting to prevent the numbers of foe inside with them from growing. Strangely, several of the rebels were pushing backward out the door, while trying to prevent any of the royal party from leaving.

Shouts went up from outside the car, shouts that Carrtog couldn’t make out, but he suspected a signal of some sort.

The train jerked into motion. There was a great groaning as the fastenings tore from the outside platform. Then the train was dragging the outside platform with it, leaving bits scattered along the way as they gained speed.

Chapter 2

They’re trying to take the king hostage!

Even as that thought went through Carrtog’s head, wooden poles sprang up from the floor, each pole shooting out branches to join with the next as they formed a cage around the king and his party. Several rebels jumped back and pressed against the car’s walls just in time to avoid being imprisoned with them.

By the Gods, this is powerful magic, Carrtog thought.

More was to come though, as the walls and the floor began to fall away revealing a smaller cage attached at the front by means of a long framework of seemingly flimsy wood, wood that Carrtog had a feeling was heavily reinforced by more magic. The roof spun sidewise, forming itself into a long pair of wings which shot out magical extensions from their ends.

Now there was magic!

The winged contrivance began to lift away from the bed of the train, listing badly to the left. Some of the attackers had fallen away with the disappearance of the walls and floor but others clung desperately to the cage.

One of the operating crew turned and shouted, “Jump off! Jump off you fools or we’re all going down.”

A rebel near the front turned and growled, “You jump! I volunteered to risk my life fighting, not to splatter myself all over the landscape!”

Another rebel lost his grip and fell with a scream, his pistol skittering across the cage floor. Carrtog grabbed it just before it fell through one of the openings and thrust it into his sash. The glider lurched upward, but the sideways list remained. The crew didn’t do any more shouting, but saved their breath to manhandle the controls. For a moment it seemed they might succeed, then the nose tilted sharply towards the sky and the craft stalled. Carrtog’s stomach climbed into his throat as the glider slipped sidewards in the air and dove towards the ground.

Shrill yells went up, both from people in the cage and those hanging on the outside.

The crew fought the machine all the way down, but Carrtog knew by the prickle of his ring that they hadn’t the height they needed. They were almost straightened out when the lower left wing clipped the trunk of a medium tree, smashing the appendage irretrievably despite its magical strengthening. The glider turned leftward around the pivot of the tree-trunk, then hit the ground still moving, only the right wing scraping across the patchy snow cover and bits of underbrush prevented a tumbling roll.

The men on the outside shook loose with the first and succeeding impacts and the people inside the cage were thrown against the walls.

Carrtog slammed headfirst into one of the bars and lost consciousness…

#

He came back to himself with pain in both his head and his left ankle. He was lying on something soft, which revealed itself to be the princess’ lady-in-waiting…

He pushed himself off almost frantically, then laughed to himself. She was unconscious and couldn’t begin accusing him of taking liberties, though his mind insisted on recalling her warm softness — Stop that, Carrtog!

He investigated his ankle and found it not broken as he had feared, only sprained. Using bits of the smashed cage and a couple of strips of his shirt, he immobilized the joint. He then took the pistol from his sash and considered it. There was a spell, a powder-charged spell, that could cut down on the pain. But it would have to wait, discharging a pistol in these circumstances could cause panic unless everyone knew what he was doing.

He put the pistol back in his sash and began checking the rest of the cage’s occupants where they lay tangled beneath the broken and collapsed wood.

The results were not encouraging. There had been twenty-two of them in the cage; of those, eight were dead, either from wounds received in battle or from injuries sustained in the crash itself. Three more had suffered crushed chests, which were beyond Carrtog’s ability to heal or patch. Others had suffered various fractures rendering them incapable of helping out to any degree. Only four could lend a hand if necessary having suffered cuts or scrapes and bruising.

The princess’ maid was dead, a broken neck, while the princess’ lady-in-waiting had regained consciousness and was seeing to the princess, who apparently had broken her right forearm and was barely aware of the world around her.

The king was still unconscious but didn’t seem in any great danger from his wounds. One of the the King’s Gentlemen had already done what could be done for his royal charge’s hurts.

Carrtog noticed that Captain Gwailants was dead; his face ruined by a pistol ball. Carrtog turned to speak to the nearest of the Gentlemen who seemed to be recovering somewhat from the shock. “Who’s the senior man left to you?”

The man gave a glance at Gwailants, then shook his head. “Don’t rightly know, sir.”

Carrtog gave a mental shudder; he’d been going at doing things just because they needed doing, and now it seemed that this fellow was assuming that he, Carrtog, was a voice of authority.

Well, the worst thing he could do was to stop doing things and wait for someone else to take charge. Though the people who had tried to kidnap the king had been a bit hit or miss regarding some parts of their plan (having the train start moving before the attackers could dismount, for instance) one couldn’t count on similar faults in the rest of their plan. They would probably have people out looking for the glider.

The survivors of the king’s party had to be ready for that.

“Do you, any of you, know healing magic, or at least a pain-killing spell?”

There was silence for a bit, then one man, after looking around at his fellows, answered. “Most of us know how to do bandages and set broken bones, sir. I know how to cast the pain-killing spell with a pistol. The others, if I’m not mistaken, know only bits of combat magic besides.”

Carrtog nodded. “I see. What’s your name and rank?” If he were going to assume command, even temporarily, best try to do it right. He could almost see Yakor shaking his head at him with that ‘you always get yourself into these things’ look.

The fellow straightened, his training taking over. “Trained Private Roisilan Harrad, sir.”

“Right, Private Harrad. You get some reliable people to see to all the bandaging and bone-setting you can manage. Then take one person and see what you can find for weapons on those other fellows. I’d be surprised if they don’t get some people out here looking for us when the glider doesn’t turn up where it’s supposed to. We left my companion behind at the railway station, and I expect him to come looking for us as well, though he might try to find some trustworthy people to bring along. If we bet on the rebels getting here first, though, we can avoid nasty surprises. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Get to it, then.”

As the man went off to carry out his orders, Carrtog inspected his command — such as it was. Several of the worst-hurt had already died and there were several others who would almost certainly do the same without application of more powerful healing magic than anyone present had available.

For the sake of the morale among the sadly battered royal party, it was likely best to keep the obviously dying and the seriously hurt separate from the rest.

Carrtog knelt by one of the wounded men who was barely conscious and gasping with the pain of broken ribs among other hurts. “Would you allow me to use the pain-killing spell on you?”

He could, and might well if he thought it best, use the spell without the man’s consent, but it was a proven fact that the spell worked better on willing patients.

The man gasped out agreement.

“Then hold still while I work,” Carrtog said.

He spoke the incantation, then aimed the pistol down just next to the man’s battered chest. He squeezed the trigger. The wheel spun shooting a stream of sparks into the priming pan. The pistol fired, and the man settled back, breathing a little easier.

Carrtog leaned forward and extinguished the sparks the discharge had left on the man’s vest. He wished he could do more, but the spell could only be applied once in eight hours or so and the man’s wounds beget more pain than the spell could remove. The best the man could hope for was this amelioration.

A woman’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You killed him?”

Carrtog turned to see the princess’ lady-in-waiting looking at him having just finished bandaging the princess. “No, Lady, just a pain-killing spell. The nearer the discharge is to the patient, in particular to the part giving pain, the more effective the spell is.”

“Do you intend to use this spell on the princess?”

He never claimed to read minds and even his ability to read expressions and tones of voice were limited, but it seemed to him that she was challenging him with the full expectation that his spell was nothing but fakery.

“This sort of spell works best if the patient gives her willing consent. If you will ask her, and she agrees, I willl do it. In the meantime, I will deal with the others who are presently suffering.”

“Hmph.” She snorted. “If it truly does them any good. Go ahead, then.”

Carrtog gave her a quick bow. He had not convinced her, not by any means, but though the fact annoyed him, he was not going to allow her disbelief to affect him.

He went from one wounded man to the next, asking permission to do his spell and carrying it out. When he was done, he looked at the king. He was still unconscious but, from the look of him, he might be coming around any time. Bornival was taller than most of his soldiers and looked to be as hardy as the toughest of them, still he was fortunate that his wounds were not all that bad.

Carrtog checked his supply of powder. He was glad that, though he had turned down the pistol his grandfather had offered, he had accepted the bag of spell-grade gunpowder. It would quickly prove the most useful of his possessions if he were to treat a king.

He glanced back to the princess and the lady-in-waiting. The princess seemed to be having trouble following the lady’s questions, though she was much more aware than before. Carrtog, who had suffered a broken bone from time to time, suspected that her pain was making it difficult to concentrate. It was likely time to intervene.

“Does the princess wish me to do the pain-killing spell on her, Lady?”

The lady raised her chin. “She has given her consent.”

“What of yourself? I am not extremely proficient at the spell, but I can probably ease the pain for up to three people at once.”

She looked at him, startled. “I hadn’t thought—” She let her voice trail away.

He shrugged. “Your choice, Lady. I will force nothing on you.”

She touched a hand to her forehead, then said, “Then I suppose you may try.”

He made his preparations carefully. This time, instead of using ordinary powder, he reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a small pouch of spell-grade powder. Much of its special nature came from the incantations spoken over it at various stages of mixing, caking, and grinding, which increased its ability to carry out spells.

It was possible that by rejecting the possibility of the spell’s effectiveness the lady could prevent it from having its full outcome. Unless her doubt was extreme however, the most she was likely to achieve was a weakening of the spell.

Whether she would allow the spell to have any credit was another matter. From her attitude, he suspected she would claim the amelioration of her pain was due only to her having grown used to the discomfort. Of course, if she decided to be fair about it and took into account the effectiveness of the spell on those soldiers who were conscious, she might just admit that he’d done her some good.

“Now, Lady, if you will please lie down, and remain still. Try not to flinch when I fire the pistol. In order to make the spell more sure, I have to aim close to you, but you will notice that there is no ball in the pistol. On the other hand, sparks of only partially burned powder will land on you, and I will extinguish them as quickly thereafter as I am able.”

She looked at him a little doubtfully, then clenched her teeth. He could almost hear her thinking that she had planned to show this self-declared magician a thing or two, and she would not pull back now.

He pointed the pistol at the ground beside her and squeezed the trigger. Though the spell worked best if the pistol was fired as close as possible to the affected body part, the sensation of firing even a blank round near the head might affect the patient’s ability to accept that the spell had done its good. He had therefore picked a spot about an arm’s length from her head. The pistol fired, and the lady winced despite his warning. Carrtog dropped to a knee and quickly brushed the sparks from her hair before they could do more than singe.

The lady gingerly put a hand to her forehead, then said, “It does feel better. Of course, I may have grown a little inured to the pain.”

Carrtog bobbed his head without speaking. There was little to be gained by arguing with royalty — or the servants of royalty. If the king accepted the spell, she might change her mind, but he wasn’t going to worry over it.

In the meantime, here came Private Harrad and the four Gentlemen who, though injured, were still capable of working. From the path they had left through the patchy snow, they had gone straight to where the section holding the crew of the glider lay canted against an evergreen, then made their meandering way back, pausing here and there to pick something up, or to search a body.

They were hauling a litter made of two long poles thrust through the sleeves of two coats, the whole strengthened by a couple of belts. On the litter were piled several more coats with the metal glint of weapons here and there underneath. “We thought it best to bring along more coats, sir. It’s likely we’ll be out overnight, and the cold’s going to be hard on us, particularly the wounded.”

“Good thinking, Private Harrad. Anything else?”

“We brought along whatever scraps of food we could find, sir, though truth to tell, it wasn’t much. We picked up all the weaponry there was, but if those buggers catch up to us our problem is going to be finding hands to wield them.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking of that. Have any of you had experience with the Grove of Battle?”

The others looked at each other, then Private Harrad looked back at Carrtog. “No, sir. That is, we’ve heard of it, but none of us have done it, nor seen it done.”

“I see. Well, it would have been useful if you could have helped me with it, but I should be able to do a reasonable job of it by myself. Don’t fret yourselves over it, just be ready to do what you can.”

He was still hoping that Yakor would bring a rescue party before the rebels found them, but experience in warfare and life in general had taught him to prepare for the worst.

He began to make preparations for a spell to increase his hearing. He considered calling his available soldiers together and putting the spell on all of them at once, but people experiencing it for the first time often had difficulty with it. If they were out here more than overnight, he would begin training them in using it for brief times. Probably get a survey of what battle-magic they did know, maybe even teach them more.

This spell didn’t require a full shot of powder, burning a small pinch should suffice. While firing the powder in a pistol was more effective in terms of powering spells, some spells were not much weakened by simply tossing a pinch of powder into an open flame.

He called his men to him. He could see that they were all wondering what he had in mind.

“The next thing I intend to do is to increase my hearing temporarily. This will make it more difficult for anyone to sneak up on us. Have any of you had experience with such a spell?”

It turned out that Private Harrad and one other had previous experience under the spell and were willing to undergo it again.

“Don’t any of you agree just because you think you should. We’re likely to be using it for serious this time, and that’s not the best time to be having your first experience with it.”

He recalled back in the late war, the old and battered commander of his grandfather’s troops had expressed the same notion, though there’d been times when it didn’t work out that way. He’d had to deal with the fact or die, and he’d managed to survive without even becoming appreciably magic-shy.

He carried out the spell and watched the changing expressions on the two soldiers’ faces. Satisfying himself that they did not seem to be overly surprised by the increase in their hearing, he nodded, then said, “I will now cast a ward around all of us, to warn us if any enemies come on us in the night.”

He poured a small circle of powder on the ground in front of him, then spoke the words of the incantation, not quietly as most times before, but in a loud voice.

Then he touched off the powder. It flashed in a blue-yellow flame, then died down to a pale yellow gleam expanding out of the camp on all sides.

“It will go out about fifty yards,” he told them, “and it will let us know if an enemy crosses it.”

He had no idea how the spell differentiated between friend and enemy but he was not going to mention that: doubt did not mix well with magic.

“You may be interested to know that the effect of the expanding ward kills all fleas and lice and the like, so you will find yourself itching less for a time.”

He saw grins on their faces and answered them with a smile. By now, evening was well on its way so he ordered Private Harrad to schedule watches for the night.

He watched as that was done, then oversaw the distribution of what food was available, stretching it with liberal quantities of water derived from melted-down snow.

Following that, Carrtog made the rounds of the camp and discovered that several more of the gravely-hurt had died. He felt those deaths in the pit of his stomach despite the fact that he knew full well that he could not have prevented them. Still, he had taken command of the situation and they had died under his charge.

On the other hand, one of the men Carrtog had considered most likely to die had seemed to rally just about the time he’d established the ward.

That brought to mind the rumor he’d heard about the occasional curative properties of the ward. Some day he would look up a real magician, not just someone who knew various magics involved with war and battles, to pose his questions. For instance, how did it work? And why only one or two occurrences at any time? He shook his head, pulling himself back to the present.

He sat down and forced himself to relax. He looked over at the king who had been drifting in and out of consciousness. What kind of reputation could he gain as the man having taken charge of the party where the king died? Even despite the fact that the king’s death would not be attributable to any action he had taken. It was a worrisome thought.

Then suddenly he was waking up with Private Harrad’s hand at his shoulder, “Pardon, sir, but His Majesty is awake and asking for you.”

Carrtog shook his head to rid himself of the fuzz, and said, “Ah, how is His Majesty doing?”

“About as well as could be expected, sir. That is, one has to step carefully around him.”

Yes, what was supposed to be a simple ceremonial function has ended with uprising and battle with his command cut to pieces and now stranded in unfriendly highlands. He’s likely been brooding.

Those were not safe thoughts to express aloud, so he got up and followed Private Harrad to the king , who sat on a couple of coats, his back propped against a sack apparently stuffed with another coat or two. His outstretched legs were covered by a pair of coats in lieu of blankets. He held his sheathed sword in his left hand, and with his right twiddled at the gold knot on the cord which, in battle, would be wrapped around his right wrist. The expression he turned on Carrtog was fierce.

“Your Majesty?” Carrtog said respectfully.

“Humph! So you’re the young soldier from nowhere who has taken command of my Gentlemen?”

“With respect, Highness, I did ask first who was the most senior of those left on their feet. None of them seemed willing to put themselves forward, so I gave what directions I thought were proper. I’m quite willing to turn the command back to you, Highness.”

“Are you indeed? And what payment were you expecting? A wandering man, armed, and skilled at the use of those arms, but with no marks to show you belong to anyone’s army, or under hire to anyone. That would make you a mercenary, and no mercenary does anything except in expectation of payment.”

“I did not expect a reward, Highness. Let me introduce myself. I am Carrtog, third son of Gwahalad, son of Dlestan of Tsingallik. And I do seek to hire on as a fighting man though I know not where.”

The king straightened a little and a quick flicker of pain twisted his face. “Dlestan of Tsingallik? He served my father well in the late war. Though I believe he took our part because our numbers were more favorable.” He snorted, briefly, “But then any leader would prefer the side with the better numbers,” he looked up at Carrtog. “You were calling ‘Tsingallik for the king’ if my mind recalls properly. That suggests I can put my trust in you, and yet, the people of Tenerack cheered me when first I arrived before things turned ugly.” He narrowed his eyes, “How far then do I trust you?”

Then the king shook his head. “Hmph, listen to me. This bash on the head has turned my thinking foolish; it seems hardly likely that you would have been fighting on my side merely to give yourself the opportunity to do me ill. No, I think you had better go forward as you’ve begun. When we reach safety, we’ll see to what reward you merit. Though positions among my Gentlemen are filled months, perhaps years, in advance. Unless you are carrying a recommendation from your grandfather particularly asking for such a position…”

It occurred to Carrtog that he ought to have asked for better letters than he had. “No, Highness, all I have is a letter of introduction from my grandfather’s Master of Arms.”

The king grimaced. “Intent on making your way without playing on your grandfather’s reputation, then? So be it. It may make finding a place for you a little more difficult. But that all depends on our surviving this debacle. What do you think of the attempt to take me hostage? A near thing, was it?”

“Yes and no, Highness. It was too complex for the way they handled it. Certainly they did well at subverting the building crews, but they had no opportunity to practice the actual kidnapping. That meant that when the train started to move, apparently a little sooner than was expected, no one was ready to improvise.

“Furthermore, they hit the spell turning the railway car into a glider too suddenly, leaving the men who had not been able to get off with no choice except to hang on to the glider, which in turn was fatal to the glider’s attempt to fly.”

“A flight we were lucky to survive. You have thought all that out, have you? I don’t think I dare let you get away, young man, whatever political battles I have to fight in my court.”

“Father?”

The two of them looked up to see the princess approach. Carrtog scanned her face for indication that she might need another pain-killing spell to bolster her against the ache of her splinted arm.

“You need to rest, Father.” There was determination on her face as well as concern but it seemed she was handling the pain well enough on her own.

The king smiled. “She’s right, Carrtog of Tsingallik, if one assumes that we’re going to survive this thing. You will also need your rest, particularly if we assume that the rebels will find us before our own people. You have done well today. Continue to serve me well, and I shall do well by you.”

“I did only my duty, Highness.”

Carrtog bowed first to the king and then to the princess, and went back to his place, the spot from which he could oversee his small force. They were not likely to face an attack while it was dark, not in this kind of country, rough and hilly, with patches of evergreens, and the snow that hung about in shady patches reminding one that winter was not far in the past. He recognized, though, the breadth of difference between ‘not likely’ and ‘impossible.’

Twelve hours was the maximum time for the ward-spell to maintain its full power, after which it would begin to weaken. He would then be required to make the decision as to whether or not to replace it.

They all lay down to get what rest they could, save for those who had the first watch.

It seemed only shortly thereafter that a sound as of several hundred faint brass bells sounded in his head. Enemies had crossed the line of the ward-spell.

Chapter 3

“ Take positions!” he shouted, “They’ve just passed the wards!”

With very little wasted motion the surviving soldiers, who resembled beggars wrapped in extra garments against the cold, took up positions around the king.

Having so few soldiers, Carrtog had them all take up covered positions around the camp. Now, having a direction from which the enemy were coming, he quickly shifted two of the men into other positions he had previously noted on the side of the camp from which the enemy were approaching, then took his own position among them.

“Have any of you had experience with the Grove of Battle?” Carrtog asked of the men around him.

As he’d come to expect from this lot one spoke up diffidently, “Here, Sir,” while the rest wore expressions of varying degrees of blankness and confusion.

“I’m going to set up a Grove of Battle around us. Among its main features is the ability to conceal us and reveal the enemy. Be ready to take advantage of that, but don’t expect too much of it.”

He took up a previously charged pistol and pointed it at the sky, calling out the incantation. The pistol held no ball, only powder and a loose clump of wood-slivers and similar debris.

He squeezed the trigger and the wheel shot sparks into the priming. The charge went off, flinging a mass of flame and sparks into the sky.

As the sparks began to settle, a grove of evergreens sprang up around them. He heard the muttering of his troops; this was visibly powerful magic.

He hoped they did not depend too much on it; it might be that someone among their attackers might know a stronger spell, one that would show them a safe path through the Grove, or worse, one that would whiff the Grove out of existence. The best they could hope for was the momentary advantage while their attackers worked out their own best tactics.

There was movement out in the Grove beyond his line of defenders, Carrtog raised another specially-charged pistol; this one had a smaller charge of powder behind five balls. “Fire when you see a decent target!”

Speaking an incantation, he himself fired.

The pistol bucked ferociously and four of the moving figures out in the Grove went down. Hah! The Accuracy Spell was more effective than he’d hoped. It guaranteed at least three out of five hits, and four meant luck was on his side today. Might it also mean that the Grove would be particularly effective as well, today?

He let go his pistol and drew his sword, then took his dagger in his left hand. From the look of things, unless the Grove was very effective, the enemy would soon overwhelm his tiny group of fighters; surrender, however, was not an option.

He wished he’d had more power to put into the Grove. His previous experience said that the attackers were in for a tough time working their way through the Grove as he had cast it. They might force their way through the tangle, and still like as not come back out on the far side of the Grove, within a yard or two of where they’d gone in.

He even knew of a man who’d gotten lost in one of his Groves, only to find his way back out when the power upholding the Grove failed. That was not a happy memory. The man was half-mad when they found him, and though he did recover somewhat, he was never fit for much after that. Certainly, he had been an enemy, determined to kill Carrtog and all his fellows, but this punishment had seemed extreme; death, he thought, would have been preferable.

Keep your mind on this battle, Carrtog.

One of the enemy who had made their way through came right at him, thrusting his sword at Carrtog as he came.

Carrtog parried it and put his dagger into the man’s gut. A moment later another stumbled out of the Grove, eyes wide and staring.

Carrtog feinted a thrust toward the man’s eyes with his sword, and when the other’s sword came up to parry, he brought his dagger up at the rebel’s side.

The enemy managed to get his own dagger in the way. Carrtog thrust his sword at the fellow’s throat. The rings of the man’s gorget parted with the force of the thrust.

As the fellow went down, Carrtog had time to note that the gorget had been patched, but poorly.

Carrtog kept his eyes on the Grove while he reloaded a pistol. He noted that several of the other soldiers were following his example, and he also noted that at least one of them had a fresh wound, though it didn’t seem serious. As he worked, he recalled the staring eyes of the enemy who’d managed to come through. Obviously, they’d seen strange things in there. The Grove was clearly having an effect.

For a long while there was no more action. He wondered if someone on the other side was working on a spell that could be used for finding their way through a Grove of Battle.

Unlikely, but not impossible. Upon coming on a Grove the sensible thing to do would be for the attacking force to pause long enough for the leader to poll his men to see if anyone had such a spell; on the other hand, the sensible choice was not always the first one that came to mind.

There was a flicker of movement out there in the brush, “Here they come again!”

A moment later a storm of pistol-fire broke out somewhere beyond the Grove. What on earth were they shooting at? They wouldn’t be able to see the defenders from there.

He swung his pistol up to aim at the flicker of movement and suddenly the man appeared, running toward them.

Before he could squeeze the trigger, one of his men fired and the attacker went down.

Behind that one, men began coming through the Grove in twos and threes, This is it, Carrtog thought, They’ll overrun us this time, for sure.

He fired his pistol, then took up his sword and dagger. There followed several hurried minutes of ringing, clashing blade-work, ending with one man mortally wounded in front of him, another badly hurt, and a third approaching him with great caution.

More men came pouring through the Grove; they must have found someone with a spell after all. Even as that thought went through his mind, he realized that these new arrivals were attacking the men in front of Carrtog’s position. The distance was near enough that he could hear people shouting “For King Bornival!” This sort of thing was vital on battlefields like this, where friend and foe might be intermingled, and uniforms might be non-existent. And yes, there was a figure, recognizable by his movements. “Yakor!”

Carrtog’s remaining attacker approached with a careful series of feints, never committing himself wholly.

Carrtog himself fenced cautiously in return. Even though help had arrived, it was no time to get careless; it would be stupidity to let himself get killed or wounded just as the rescuers had come.

And one of the arriving rescuers was coming up behind the rebel. Carrtog crowded the man a bit and his opponent, hearing the sound of someone behind him, panicked.

Frantically, he knocked Carrtog’s sword out of line and jumped to the right rear, trying to turn while he did so. Carrtog thrust once, violently, right through an attempted parry by the man’s dagger.

A moment later, he was standing over the fallen body, leaning on his sword. The man coming up lowered his sword slightly, but remained watchful; after all, Carrtog was not wearing the uniform of the king’s Gentlemen.

“You are?” he demanded.

“I am Carrtog, third grandson of Dlestan Lord of Tsingallik, and I fight for King Bornival.”

The man was still wary, “You do, eh? Can someone vouch for you?”

The fellow was obviously an ordinary townsman with some amount of military training. Carrtog wasn’t surprised the man was leery about taking anybody’s word for much of anything, he’d likely witnessed a bunch of rough-looking types hijacking a train and kidnapping the king.

“Hold up, Druthan, put up your sword! That fellow’s my master, and a good supporter of the king!”

Carrtog glanced over at Yakor who was coming up behind the other fellow.

It was just like his companion to have gotten a band together to come out after them and to have learned most of the important names on the ride.

“Good to see you, Yakor, I wasn’t sure how long we’d be able to hold out.”

“Nonsense, sir! The moment I smelled your magic on that Grove, I knew we were in plenty of time. From what I could see by the tracks and the casualties out there, less than a dozen out of something over a score managed to get through. Only problem would’ve been if one of that lot had a spell to get them through the Grove, and if they’d had it, they’d’ve used it already.”

“You smelled my magic on the Grove? Gods above, Yakor, you’re always saying things like that, but you never explain them!”

Yakor shrugged and grinned, “If I tried to explain it, you wouldn’t understand the explanation.”

“And you always say that, too!”

Yakor only grinned the wider, “Because it’s true. Anyway, what kind of situation do we have here, sir?”

Druthan was looking from one of them to the other and finally he slipped his sword back in its scabbard.