The Chesian Wars (A Griffins & Gunpowder Collection) Read online

  "I would suggest that you leave the city immediately," Quincey suggested as the group stepped into the common room for the ambassadors.

  "He wouldn't dare seize the Grand Duke of Istivan," Lander Patera said.

  "He would," Quincey said as he shed his cloak. "Warren is not afraid of your guards, Malis, and he isn't afraid of what your nation would do to him if he were to hold you. Or, worse, if he were to turn you over to the Chesians."

  "Do you really think that he would risk a war with Welos and Istivan?" Malis frowned. He had heard that Warren Mercer had slowly lost touch with the realities of the world, but he was surprised that Quincey believed Warren to be suicidal.

  "It would be best if we didn't let it get to that point," Quincey said.

  "I agree," Lander said with a nod. "This place hasn't been the most pleasant."

  "Very well," Malis said. "Quincey, as usual it was a pleasure meeting with you."

  "Your Grace," Quincey said with a bow. "I'm going to try to get some more sleep."

  Malis and his guards started back toward the palace entrance. Now the halls were busier, and as they neared the gatehouse, Ehtroyan soldiers became more common, most looking little better than half-awake. The sweet aroma of brewing coffee began to drift through the palace and Malis wondered if they should stop to eat before they rode back to the rail depot.

  "I could stand a pot of coffee," Malis said.

  "I'd rather we didn't," Lander replied. "Ehtroyan coffee is too dry. I prefer our own."

  "Very well."

  Their horses were waiting for them when they arrived at the palace's gatehouse. Lord Corwin was there as well. He expressed his regret that he had not been able to give Malis a tour of the castle that was worthy of his status. He promised that the next time Malis paid a visit, he would personally give the grand duke a tour.

  Malis thanked the man for his hospitality and led his troops back through the Black Gates. The rain was still pouring down in thick sheets as they rode out into the dying night. Malis pulled up his hood to keep the rain out of his eyes. The paved roads were slick.

  "Your Grace," Lander said as his horse came alongside Malis'. "The guards are all gone."

  Malis looked at the estates around them and realized that his bodyguard was right. Where there had been hundreds of guards on the street when they rode toward the palace, there were none to be found. The fires that had burned in the gatehouses had been extinguished. There was no sign of life in the streets.

  "The rain must have driven them in," Malis said. He continued to scan the houses around them as his party moved closer to the Ruby Gatehouse and the next wall.

  "If those had been mercenaries, I might think you were serious," Lander said as he too scanned the houses. "Trained soldiers don't abandon their posts on account of rain."

  "I know," Malis said. The estate guards had been ordered from their posts – or given good cause to abandon them. "I want everyone alert."

  "Yes, Your Grace." Lander reined his horse up and let the other guards close the gap.

  Malis reached under his cloak and released the straps on his holsters. Not for the first time, he wished he had brought more guards from the train station. There hadn't been the horses available for the full company of guards to accompany him up the hill to Arbina, so he had left the others to guard his train.

  Dozens of city guards stood alert outside of the Ruby Gate, weapons at the ready. A quick glance at the soldiers told Malis that the guards carried smoothbore muskets, not even the rifles that his own city guards carried. They would be slow to reload, and inaccurate. His guards carried revolving carbines imported from the Black Mountain Foundries of Ansgar. They held eight bullets in their revolving chamber and their rifled barrels made them highly accurate.

  "Lord Vikas, a pleasure to see you again," Malis said as he stopped in front of the gate commander.

  "I have orders to ensure that you do not leave the city," Vikas Roy said. He pulled his cloak back over the handles of his pistols in their holsters.

  "You have no right to seize me."

  "You're in my city. I have all the rights I need." The commander rested his left hand on the pistol holstered at his right hip. "And you are outnumbered."

  "Don't do this," Malis said. "I don't want to have to kill any of your men."

  "I have three times as many guards as you do," Vikas said with a sneer.

  "This is your last warning, My Lord. Stand down."

  Malis pushed his cloak back and exposed his pistols. His guards lifted their carbines from under their cloaks and the city guards brought their muskets up in a swift motion. Vikas wrapped a meaty hand around the handle of his pistol and smiled.

  The sound of a blade slicing through cloth and leather cut through the noise of the rain and Vikas' eyes widened. His smile froze on his face and he lurched forward, then fell face down in the mud. Blane stood where the guard captain had been, a sword in his hand. Blood dripped from its tip.

  Malis' guards didn't need his order to know what to do. A dozen carbines lashed out in the darkness and a dozen guards died where they stood. The horses were moving before the second volley erupted into the still confused guards. Malis grabbed their young guide by the back of his cloak as his guards broke through the line of defenders and through the open gate.

  "Your doing?" Malis asked the boy as he found a target and squeezed the trigger. The Ehtroyan soldier clutched his throat as blood erupted from the hole in his neck.

  "Yes, Your Grace," the boy replied. He drew a pistol from under his cloak. It was a single shot weapon. He took aim at a guard and squeezed the trigger. "Dario Sotor sends his regards."

  Malis drew his carbine and handed it to the boy as they emerged on the other side of the gatehouse. The guards on the walls had realized what was happening and as Malis and his men emerged in the merchant district, bullets rained down on them from above. One of the guards ahead of him slumped in his saddle, his body limp.

  He heard the rapid fire of carbines as he kicked his spurs into his steed. The bark of muskets was more dispersed and quickly fell off as the column rode out of range.

  The mercenary guards of the district looked confused as the Istivani galloped through the district. They clustered around their shops, weapons clutched in their hands, but none of them made any effort to stop the riders.

  The next gate was already open and there were no guards in sight. Malis wondered if their commander had been in the employ of his ambassador, but didn't want to wait around to find out. The warehouse district was empty as well, but Malis could hear a trumpet in the distance behind them: the alarm had finally been sounded. The gates ahead of them would be closed and the guards alerted.

  "Your Grace, we cannot take the main gates," Blane said. "There is another way."

  "Where?"

  "A secret gate, used by smugglers," the guide said.

  "Which way?"

  "Turn left down the next major street," Blane said. "Ride until you see a placard with a red sphinx."

  "I hope you know what you're doing," Malis said. He raised his hand to signal his guards and turned down the next street.

  The path narrowed as they rode away from the city's main avenue. More trumpets sounded behind them and Malis looked through the rain for the placard that Blane had described. The smaller warehouses had few guards and none of the mercenaries, likely those from smaller companies or gunslingers without a home, cared enough to try and stop a dozen galloping riders with carbines.

  Finally, Malis found the building they were searching for. Two stories tall, it was painted half a dozen different colors and was missing shutters on half of the main floor's windows. The awnings over the windows were in tatters and Malis could see more than a dozen bullet holes in the front wall.

  "What can I do ya for?" The lone guard standing outside of the building's door spoke the Trade tongue.

  "The griffin guards his gold with beak and claw," Blane said.

  "It's awful late for that kind of non
sense," the guard said as he stood. He extracted a ring of keys from under his cloak. The door groaned as it swung open and the man stood back. "Hurry now."

  "Let's go," Malis called and dismounted. His guards climbed down off of their horses and Malis took account of his losses.

  Somewhere along the way, three of his guards had been lost. Another limped heavily.

  Malis slid his revolvers back into their holsters and stepped through the open door. He had to stoop to pass through the short entrance.

  The room on the other side of the door didn't look any better than the building's exterior. A single lantern burned in a corner and a dozen tables lay around the room, surrounded by chairs in various stages of disrepair.

  "What of the horses?" the guard asked.

  "I don't suppose we'll be able to take them with us?" Malis asked.

  "No," Blane said. "The passage is too small to lead a horse through."

  "Very well, leave them. Consider them a gift," Malis said as Blane led him toward the back of the building.

  Outside, the trumpets were getting louder and closer. The guard gave Blane a look of concern, but the boy whispered something in Ehtroyan and opened a door at the back of the common room. Then he led Malis and his guards down twisting passageways, narrow stairs and through a series of doors until they found themselves in a dark, wet cellar facing a door made of iron bars.

  "This door leads to a tunnel that travels down the hill and comes out a mile from the train station," Blane said as he inserted a large key into the door's lock. "It is a long walk, but there will be no one following us."

  "Well, let's get to it then," Malis said as he ducked through the entrance and into the dark tunnel.

  -The Cerberus Rebellion, Chapter 1

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  The day was cool and dry but a stiff wind heralded a storm. Cold; the kind that would ride over the northern mountains from the tundra beyond and blanket the city of Aetheston in snow.

  His Grace Eadric Garrard, King of Ansgar and Duke of Elsdon, was deep in thought as he read a large, leather bound book. He was taller than most, and broader too, with a full head of chestnut hair and vivid green eyes. He wore loose green trousers and a white cotton shirt, buttoned three-quarters of the way to his throat.

  The wind howled outside the thick window.

  The study was small, meant only for the king and a single guest. A long desk cut the room in two; on one side, the king’s massive leather chair, a smaller on the other. Book lined shelves were built into two of the thick black stone walls from floor to low ceiling and a pair of lanterns flanked the oak door on the third wall. Behind the king, a stained-glass window stood in for the fourth wall. The room was near the top of Old Keep and faced north; sunlight filled the room from sunrise to sunset.

  The tome was the abbreviated history of every king of Ansgar.

  Robert the Unifier, the Thirty-Fourth King of Ansgar, ascended to the throne one thousand, one hundred and fifty-nine years after the founding of Aetheston, at the age of thirty-four years, Eadric read. The book had been printed, not handwritten, so it was easier to read than most of the ancient tomes in his study. Robert was so named after he married Helena of Agilard, the first daughter of the first Duke of Agilard, the Last King of Kerberos having died thirteen years earlier. Robert dedicated his reign to bringing peace and stability to the conquered lands of Kerberos. Robert fathered three sons and two daughters that survived to adulthood, including Charles, his heir.

  The study door groaned open and Eadric looked up. It was his steward; the only person allowed to enter without permission. The man's leather shoes scuffed at the stone floor as he shuffled across the room toward the king's table. The man was short, stout and bald. He wore a simple green robe and carried a silver carafe, a cup, a dome covered plate and a folded newspaper on a tray. He set the tray on the desk and lifted the dome. Steam rose from the plate beneath; the bacon still crackled, there was some sizzle left to the small strips of steak, and scrambled eggs covered the rest of the plate. Eadric looked the tray over.

  “Has it been tasted?” he asked. He saw the chunk of steak that had been cut at one end of the thick strip, and a piece of bacon half as long as the others.

  “Yes, My King,” the steward confirmed.

  “You may go,” Eadric said curtly. The steward nodded and turned.

  Eadric waited for the door to close behind the man, then sighed. He pulled open the small drawer at the top of his desk, reached inside, and retrieved a small round tin.

  He twisted the lid off the tin with practiced ease and sniffed at the black and red powder within. Satisfied that it had not been tampered with, Eadric took a heavy pinch and sprinkled the powder across the plate, careful to get every part of the meal but waste none. Another heavy pinch went into the carafe of coffee.

  Eadric spent a small fortune every year to keep himself supplied with Dragonsalt. The powder was ground from the seeds of the Dragonleaf plant, which only grew in high mountain caves and passes. Each flower only produced enough seed for a pinch of salt and each plant only flowered twice a year. By itself, the powder had a bitter taste to it, but when it was mixed with anything else it had no taste at all. It had taken years of practice and experience to find the right amount: too much and his stomach burned for days, too little and it would have no effect on the poisons that it was meant to counter.

  He didn't know if he'd ever been saved by the salt, but he wasn't about to go without it. Every meal that the king ate was prepared and escorted to him under the watchful eyes of his guards, but even with all of those precautions, Eadric knew that poisons could make their way into his meals.

  Eadric poured himself a cup of coffee. The cup was made from the talon of a particularly large griffin; another method of warding off poisons. He sipped the coffee then lifted a piece of bacon and took a furtive bite; it was still floppy, the way that he liked it. The Dragonsalt had dissolved enough that all he tasted was the grease and black pepper seasoning and pork. He nodded in satisfaction to no one in particular and unfolded the newspaper.

  A fist banged on the door.

  “Enter,” Eadric called, his voice thick with irritation.

  The door swung open again and his captain of guards stepped through it. Kendall Shield was a broad shouldered man with a strong jaw, cold gray eyes and coal black hair. He wore a green, double-breasted frock-coat with a double row of golden buttons down the front and green trousers. Over his heart was the sigil of House Garrard: a golden man with a spear in hand, set on a white and green checked field. Above it was a smaller symbol: a plain brown shield with a golden crown in the center.

  Eadric could see the handle and pommel of Kendall's greatsword Guardian over his shoulder. Kendall was the perfect fit for the gargantuan weapon: he stood more than seven feet tall. The blade was hereditary, as was the title of Lord of Shields and Protector of the King.

  The Shield clan had once been called something else, but whatever that name had been, it had been lost to history twelve hundred years earlier when they had sworn themselves and their descendants to the protection of the King of Ansgar. From the twelve men that had sworn their service, a clan had emerged that now included more than twelve hundred men-at-arms. And chief among them was Kendall Shield. He was called Lord, but he held no lands; only the right to be the personal guard to the king.

  A much smaller man stepped through the door behind Kendall. He was olive skinned and of average height, his brown hair damp with sweat from climbing the winding tower steps. He wore a blue sack suit with the symbol of the nation of Welos sewn over his heart. He kept his green eyes focused at Eadric's feet. A mere messenger.

  Eadric stood to greet his visitor.

  “Your Grace.” Kendall went to one knee; the man behind him followed suit.

  “Rise,” Eadric instructed.

  “Your Grace, I bring a request from Lord Wyne,” the messenger announced.

  “Considering your
attire, I wouldn't have expected it to be from anyone else,” Eadric said and snorted.

  The messenger frowned. “Your Grace?”

  “Never mind.” The king shook his head. Messengers, after all, were not the smartest. “Well, out with it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The messenger's eyes returned to the floor. “Lord Wyne and Lord Biton Savakis wish to have a private audience with you.”

  Eadric's eyes narrowed. While it was not uncommon for the ambassadors from other lands to request audiences with him, they usually did so while he held court, or through one of his council members.

  “It’s still early,” Eadric pointed out with a glance at his pocket watch. “I will see them after I break my fast. I will send someone to get them.”

  “Your Grace, his Lordship—”

  “His Lordship,” Eadric interrupted, “is an ambassador. A visitor in my land. I will see them when it is convenient to me. You are dismissed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The messenger bowed and backed out of the study; Kendall stayed.

  “Have my steward prepare my parlor for visitors,” Eadric said.

  Kendall nodded and withdrew.

  Eadric drained his cup with a single drink, picked up the newspaper, folded it and turned for the door. Kendall waited outside with his arms folded. A guard stood on either side of the door; they stiffened when the king stepped through the doorway.

  Both guards wore green frock-coats with a single row of buttons down the center, green trousers, and, unlike their commander, carried rifled muskets and had holstered revolvers on their right hips. The weapons rested on the stone floor and the guards held them near the end of the barrels.

  At the end of the hall, a young squire shot upright and hurried to the king's side. He was small even for twelve, with short black hair and green eyes. The boy was the son of one of Eadric’s more important lesser lords, though the king always had trouble remembering which.

  “I need to prepare for my visitors,” Eadric announced.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Kendall nodded. Landon and Radnor shouldered their rifled muskets and the five of them started down the passage.