John Marco - Tyrants and Kings 2 - The Grand Design

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Book Information:

Genre: Military Fantasy

Author: John Marco

Name: The Grand Design

Series: Book Two of Tyrants and Kings

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John Marco

Book Two of Tyrants and Kings

The Grand Design

ONE

The Light of God

The night burned a pulsing orange.

General Vorto, supreme commander of the legions of Nar, stood on a

hillside beneath the red flash of rockets, safely distant from the bombardment

hammering the walls of Goth. It was a cold night with frost in the air. He could

see the crystalline snow in the sky and on his eyelashes. The northern gusts

blew the battle rockets up and over the city and bent the fiery plumes of flame

cannons. Goth's tall walls glowed a molten amber at its weakest parts, and in

the city's center small fires smoldered, the result of lucky rocket shots.

Gothan archers rimmed the catwalks and battlements, raining down arrows on

the thousand legionnaires encircling the city. High in the hills, rocket launchers

sent off their missiles, while on the ground war wagons lumbered on their

metal tracks, grinding the earth to pulp. Inside the iron tanks, teams of gunners

pumped kerosene fuel into the needle-noses of flame cannons and blasted

away at the unyielding stone of Goth.

The war machines of Nar were at work.

General Vorto pulled off a gauntlet and tested the wind with a finger.

Southeasterly and strong, he determined. Too damn strong. A curse sprang to

his lips as he pulled his metal glove back on. So far, the Walled City didn't

seem to be softening from his attack, nor had the winds abated to cooperate.

It had only been a few hours since he'd begun his attack but he was already

growing impatient—not a good trait for a general. He ground his teeth together

in frustration, and watched as the city of Goth withstood all he could throw

against it.

"Resist, then," he grumbled. "Soon we will have the ram in place."

Nearby on the hillside, the gunners of a modified acid launcher awaited their

general's orders. They had loaded the first cannister of Formula B hours ago,

when they'd first arrived around the city. Vorto had hoped the wind might

cooperate, but the breeze had picked up and so the order to fire had never

come. There were five more such launchers in the hills around Goth, all

primed like this one, all awaiting Vorto's order to fire. Vorto blew into his

hands to warm them.

"They are strong ones," said the general to his aide, the slim and dour-faced

Colonel Kye. "I've underestimated them. They have a stomach for siege, it

seems. I would have thought Lokken weaker than this."

"Duke Lokken is weak," corrected Kye. He had a rasping voice that Vorto

had to strain to understand, the result of a Triin arrow through his windpipe.

"When the dawn comes he will see what's out here waiting for him, and he will

surrender." The colonel smiled one of his sour smiles. "I am optimistic."

"Yes, you can afford to be," said Vorto. "I cannot." He pointed toward the

city's towering walls, thick with archers ignoring the bombardment. "Look.

See how many men he has? He could hold out for weeks in there. And these

damned winds . . ." Vorto halted, mouthing a silent prayer. God made the

winds, and he had no right to curse them. He confessed his sin, then turned

his attention to the giant launcher sitting nearby. Ten cannisters of Formula B

waited beside the magazine, ready for loading. The bellows that would propel

the cannisters was swelled with air. It groaned with the sound of stretched

leather. Vorto reached down and picked up one of the cannisters. His gunners

gasped and inched away. The general held the cannister up to inspect it,

turning it in the pulsing rocket light. The cylindrical container was no bigger

than his head. Inside it, he could feel liquid sloshing around. There were two

chambers in the cannister, one full of water, the other loaded with Formula B,

the dried pellets the war labs had synthesized. Upon impact, the cannister

would shatter and the components would mix. Any small breeze would do the

rest.

Theoretically. Formula B had never been tested in the field. Bovadin had

fled Nar before its perfection, leaving a handful of tinkerers behind to finish

his work. Formula A had proved too caustic to transport, even in its dry state.

But Formula B, the war labs had assured Vorto, was perfect. They had tried it

on prisoners with remarkable results, and they were sure fifty cannisters of the

stuff would be enough to wipe out Goth.

But the winds would have to cooperate.

Brooding, Vorto put down the cannister. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't

risk detonating the formula in such stiff winds. The walls of Goth were high,

certainly, but were they high enough to contain the gas? And what if one of the

cannisters landed outside the walls? If there was a safe distance from the

caustic fumes, no one knew its measure. Maybe Bovadin did, but the midget

was in Crote now, hiding with the sodomite Biagio.

Have faith, the general reminded himself.

"If I fly with dragons, and dwell in the darkest parts of the earth," he said,

"even there will Thy right hand guide me, and Thy light shine a path for me."

Vorto smiled dispassionately at his colonel, who was not a religious man.

"The Book of Gallion," he declared. "Chapter eleven, verse nineteen. Do you

know what it means, Kye?"

Kye was unmoved. Unlike Vorto, he followed the edicts of Archbishop

Herrith out of duty alone, and not of any sense of the mystic. Vorto had tried,

unsuccessfully, to convince the colonel of the reality of Heaven, but Kye had

remained skeptical. He was a loyal man, though, and a fine soldier, so Vorto

overlooked the older man's heresy.

"They fly the flag," said Colonel Kye simply. "That's all I know."

Behind Kye, Vorto could see the city of Goth aglow in rocket fire, its stone

towers tall and defiant. And at the city's heart, billowing in the winds atop

Lokken's fortress, waved the Black Flag, that hated symbol of old Nar. It was

a crime to fly that banner now, but Lokken and others like him flaunted

Herrith's commandments. Vorto would not be satisfied until he pulled down

that flag and stuffed it down Duke Lokken's lying throat himself.

Since the death of Arkus and Herrith's ascension, there was only one flag

that the nations of Nar were allowed to fly. It was the same banner Vorto's

men milled under now, a radiant field of gold harboring a rising sun. Herrith

himself had designed the standard. And the bishop had named it wisely, and

blessed it with the power to rebuke the Black Renaissance.

It was called the Light of God.

And whenever Vorto saw it, he felt a catch in his throat. Now, as they

circled the enormous Walled City, his standard bearers held the Light of God

high so that the glare of the rockets alighted on it like the touch of heaven and

all the misguided in Goth could see it. Tonight they flew their Black

Flag—tonight they displayed their loyalty to a dead Emperor and his equally

dead ideals—but on the morrow if the winds were fair, the Light of God

would wave above Goth forever.

"Check your azimuth," Vorto commanded the gunners. "I want no mistakes

when we launch."

The gunnery chief looked at his leader questioningly. "Are we launching,

sir?"

"We will be," replied Vorto. He strode over to the weapon and checked the

gauges himself. It was unfamiliar work, but the crude dials and sliders were

simple to understand. A small pointer along the barrel displayed the estimated

distance in forty-yard increments. His gunners had set the range on maximum

and pointed the barrel, high enough to scale Goth's wall and lob the cannisters

into the city. Curious, Vorto regarded his gunners.

"Best guess, Chief. These winds . . . too much?"

The soldier wrinkled his nose and looked up into the night. The snow

flurries were coming down in a slant. "Hard to say, sir. The cannisters are

heavy, so they should fly straight. But that's a damn high wall. We'd have to

call back the wagons before I'd be comfortable."

Vorto nodded. "Agreed. Be ready."

The general turned and walked to his warhorse. The powerful dapple-gray,

outfitted with hammered armor, snorted unhappily as its master mounted.

Vorto was an enormous man, and so required an equally enormous horse to

support him. This one was from Aramoor and big in the shanks. Upon

Vorto's back was strapped his axe, the only weapon he favored since the loss

of two fingers. Though less precise than a sword, he had found the axe at

least as devastating in battle, and its twin blades gave him a desirably

frightening presence. He wore no helmet, for he liked the sounds of battle and

feared no arrow. He armored himself traditionally in black, but he knew his

greatest protection came from Heaven. He wore his head shaved and his

cheeks smooth, and he adorned his hands with silver gauntlets polished to a

mirror shine. Big in the extreme, he was not fat at all, but rather muscled the

way a bull is muscled, and when he was shirtless his deltoids gave him the

appearance of a wing-spanned hawk or the hood of a cobra. Save for Herrith

himself, no man in the new Nar held more power than he, and no man was

more feared.

Everything about Vorto was inhuman—particularly his eyes. They were a

faded blue, like two lusterless ferns, dim and without life. As a boy they had

been brown, but the potions of the war labs had changed that. The same

potions that had once made him very near immortal had done strange things to

Vorto's body. Like Arkus and the rest of the dead emperor's Iron Circle, they

had all become addicts, dependent on Bovadin's amazing narcotic. But since

the little scientist's departure there had been no more of the drug. It was just

one more secret Bovadin had taken with him to Crote, and so Vorto and the

others loyal to Herrith had learned to live without it, despite the bone-crushing

withdrawal. Sometimes, when it was quiet and he was alone, Vorto still had

cravings, but with God's help he had tamed his demons. Others had not been

so lucky. Some of the foppish Naren lords had been unable to withstand the

pain and had perished. A few had even flung themselves out of Nar's towers

rather than endure another moment of agony.

But Vorto was more stout-hearted than those weaklings. He had overcome

the drug and Biagio's schemes for the throne, and he considered that his

proudest struggle. Now he and Herrith were rid of this tribulation, mostly, and

ready to destroy the rest of Biagio's designs. There was wise work to be done

in Nar these days. Men like Lokken still held on to the ideals of the Black

Renaissance, Arkus' godless disease. The Black Flag still flew in at least four

other nations, and those who didn't fly the symbol of the past often refused to

fly the flag of the future. Very few had come willingly to the Light of God.

Archbishop Herrith could count only a handful of the Naren nations as true

allies. But he had Vorto behind him, and Vorto had all the legions of Nar. In

time, Lokken and everyone like him would heel.

God's will, thought Vorto as he spied the city. God's will that they should

die this way. Like cows on the killing floor.

In the days of Arkus and the Black Renaissance, Vorto had trod the world

like a prince. He had maimed and slaughtered for the emperor's false ideals,

and had bargained away his soul for soft beds and lewd company. But he was

not that man anymore. He had heard the call of the Lord and had been

cleansed. Herrith and God had saved him.

Vorto had no remorse. The Black Renaissance was a cancer, and the only

way to deal with it was to eradicate it utterly. Ideas were powerful, hard to kill.

To leave a trace of them was to invite death. Those who were called to do

Heaven's work needed to be iron-willed and, sometimes, iron-stomached.

There would be a stench from Goth for months, and the buzzards would

feast, but Duke Lokken would be dead. Biagio would have one less ally on

Naren soil to threaten the throne, and the Light of God would fly above the

city, a symbol of God and his mercy.

Vorto spurred on his horse and guided it down the slope. When this was

over, he would sleep well. Colonel Kye mounted his own horse and followed

his superior down the hillside, sidling up to Vorto and shooting him a suspect

stare.

"We're going to launch?" he asked. "When?"

"When I say so, Kye."

"But the winds . . ."

"I've come a long way to bring justice to Duke Lokken and his rebels,"

snapped Vorto. "I won't leave defeated."

Kye grimaced. "Begging the general's pardon, but I think you just want to

try the formula."

Vorto shrugged. Kye was almost a friend, and sometimes overly familiar.

"It's God's will," he said simply. "When the other nations see what's

happened here, they will think twice about siding with Biagio. They all have

armies, Kye. Vosk, Dragon's Beak, Doria. We can't be everywhere. Biagio

knows this. And the memory of Arkus is strong." He gave his second a

mordant glare. "We must be at least as strong."

"General," said Kye evenly. "We have enough men to take the city."

"I intend to take the city and more, Kye. Now get that damned ram into

position. It's time we knocked on Lokken's door."

Inside his castle of stone and cedar, Duke Lokken of Goth kept the lights

out. The rockets were imprecise and hardly a threat to his fortress at all, but

his family was in this room and Lokken was a superstitious man. One stray

battle rocket, one lucky shot, and a fire might start that would consume them

all. Around his private chambers high in the western tower, there were guards

aplenty to hold back Vorto's legions, but they could do nothing against the

onslaught of flame cannons and rockets. Lokken stood by a window,

brooding over his falling city, his face awash in the glare. In his chambers

were his wife and two daughters. His eldest and only son was outside

somewhere, probably on the wall.

A rocket slammed into the courtyard below, rattling the tower. In the hills

around the city, the duke could see the distant flares of launchers as they sent

their missiles screaming skyward. His daughters were crying. The

bombardment had hardly dented his wall, but it had already turned the brains

of his people to mush. Even Lokken was starting to fracture.

The room was dark. Lokken felt a shiver of cold and the unmistakable

shoulder-tapping of remorse. Overhead, the Black Flag of Nar still flew above

his castle, along with Lion's Blood, Goth's own standard. In a fit of outrage,

Lokken had ordered that detestable banner of Herrith's shredded. He had sent

the flag's remains to the bishop in Nar City. But now, looking down at the

legions, he wondered if his valor had merely been bravado, and he regretted

the ugly death he had invited for his family.

Arkus had not been a perfect emperor. He had been a tyrant, and Biagio

was probably no better. But he had been Lokken's tyrant, and he had

understood the importance of a nation's pride. Never once had Arkus asked

any country of the Empire to lower their own flag, nor did he ever insist that

they fly the Black Flag. Lokken had complied with Arkus for years, and for

years the old man had left Goth alone, content with the yearly taxes Lokken

sent to Nar City. But this Herrith was a demon.

Lokken missed Arkus. He missed the old ideals of the Black Renaissance,

of peace through strength and world domination. And when the old man had

finally died, Lokken knew with whom to side.

"Kill me if you can," whispered the duke. "I will never fly your flag."

"Uncle?"

At the sound of the voice Lokken turned from the window. There in the

darkness was little Lorla, her face full of dread. She had dressed for travel, as

ordered. In her tiny hands she clutched a leather bag full of food, hopefully

enough to get her to safety. Her brilliant green eyes looked up at Lokken with

profound sadness.

"I'm ready, Uncle," she said. Her eight-year-old's face tried to smile, but

there was no joy in the expression. Lokken dropped down to a knee and took

her hand. It was small and soft, belying the truth of her nature. Not

surprisingly, Lorla hadn't shed a single tear throughout the entire

bombardment. Lokken was proud of her.

"I wish I could take you to Duke Enli myself," he said. "But you'll be safe

with Daevn. He knows the way better than any of my men. He'll get you past

the legions."

Lorla looked dubious. "I've seen them through my window. There may be

too many to pass. And they won't hesitate to kill me."

Lokken smiled. "Then you mustn't get caught, right?" He ran his hand

through her splendid hair. She had been his ward for almost a year now, ever

since Nar fell to Herrith. Biagio had asked Lokken to keep the child safe, and

though Lokken had thought it a hardship at the time, he had adored every

moment he'd spent with Lorla. Blood might have separated them, but she still

felt every bit his daughter.

"Lorla," began the duke solemnly. "I don't know what's going to happen to

you, even if you do reach Dragon's Beak. Biagio hasn't told me anything more

about you, and I've never met Duke Enli. But it's important that you get there.

It's important to Nar. You know that, don't you?"

"I know what I am, Uncle. Whatever the Master has planned for me, I'm

ready."

The Master. Lokken still hated that term. Since coming to Goth, Lorla never

referred to Biagio as anything but the Master. He supposed it was Roshann

programming. Very thorough. Lorla knew what she was, but that was all. In a

sense she was a freak, a growing woman frozen in the body of an

eight-year-old. She didn't know what Biagio had planned for her, and her

incubation in the labs had made her trust the count implicitly. Lokken pitied

the girl.

"You've meant a lot to me," he said. "I'm proud to have been part of this. I

wish I could have known you better."

Lorla's gaze dropped. "I wish you could have told me more. Maybe

someday."

Lokken's grin was crooked. They both knew there wouldn't be a someday.

Not for Lokken, and not for the family that had cared for Lorla this past year.

Like Biagio's Roshann, Vorto's legions were thorough. Given time, there

would be very little left of Goth. But Goth wouldn't perish entirely. If Lorla

made it to Dragon's Beak, Herrith and Vorto would hear from the Walled City

again. Perhaps Biagio was a madman, but he was brilliant. Whatever the Count

of Crote had planned, Lokken had confidence. Just like Goth, the Black

Renaissance would not go quietly.

Lorla walked past Duke Lokken toward the window. Standing on her

tiptoes, she regarded the battle raging outside. Her eyes scanned the hills and

circling war wagons, the legionnaires armed with flame cannons and maces.

This was the gauntlet she had to cross, with only her diminutive size and the

cloak of darkness to hide her.

"I should go now," she declared. "The snow will slow them."

Lokken nodded grimly. "There's a pony waiting for you. Daevn is in the

courtyard. He'll take you to the hidden gate. Remember, wait 'til the rockets

die down, then head for the first hill with the apple trees. It's rugged there, and

. . ."

"I know the way," Lorla interrupted. She was getting agitated. Too much

talk. So Lokken said no more.

For an hour, Vorto watched his siege machines circle the city. Then the ram

was ready. Vorto rode down to inspect it, surrounded by an armored

entourage of legionnaires. The ram was enormous, the largest the war labs had

ever constructed. Twenty greegans had dragged the war machine to Goth. Its

wheels were as tall as a man, and a hundred wooden handles poked from its

side like the legs of a centipede. Its head was of granite, fastened to the stout

oak shaft with bands of riveted iron, and along its top length were loops of

rope to keep the men from being dragged beneath its crushing wheels. As he

brought his mount up alongside the weapon, Vorto wondered if it was up to

the task. Goth's walls were legendary, and the city gate was reinforced with

spikes and lengths of petrified timber. The Walled City had stood for

generations, shrugging off countless wars. Some said it was impregnable.

But then, nothing was impregnable to God or Nar. Vorto reined in his

bucking horse and turned to Kye. The colonel's helmet was covered with a

sheen of snow.

"Bring up two platoons of cannoneers. Have them concentrate fire on the

walls around the gate. We have to keep the archers back. And stop the rocket

barrage. I don't want those damn things landing near the ram. When the gate

comes down, we'll swarm. Is your infantry ready, Kye?"

"They've been ready, sir."

"Then keep the cavalry back until I give the order. We need a clear passage

for the charge. I don't want them bunching up near the gate; Lokken will be

expecting that. And he'll probably have some surprises for us."

Kye grimaced. "Sir, if we're going to use the gas anyway . . ."

"I want Lokken, Kye. I have a surprise for him. Off with you now. Do as I

say."

Kye dismissed himself with a shrug, then rode off to gather the flame

cannoneers his lord had requested. Vorto watched him go. Once again,

impatience was gnawing at him. The snow was deepening, and the cessation

of rocket fire would bring back the darkness. Beneath his metal gauntlets his

fingertips were blue. Goth could hold out for weeks, and winter was coming

fast. Hunger and cold would soon eat away at his legion's morale, and he

couldn't risk that.

It took only moments before Kye had the cannoneers arranged. As ordered,

he had them flank the ram's path to the gate. A steady stream of fire belched

from the nozzles of the cannons, pushing back the archers defending the city's

entrance. The wooden catwalks along the wall burst into flames under the

barrage. Gothan archers drew back to safer positions. Vorto heard their

desperate cries for reinforcements. They had seen the ram.

Vorto pulled his double-sided axe from his back and thundered down the

hillside. Behind him followed his standard bearers, holding high the Light of

God. The sight of the golden flag attracted the attention of some of the

archers on the wall. Vorto laughed and shook his fist at them.

"I'm here!" he taunted. "Put one through my heart!"

But he was still too distant and the archers knew it, so instead they pumped

their arrows at the ram and the legionnaires taking up position alongside it.

Vorto shouted orders at the hundred-man team. Above the ram's pulling

stations was a hood of metal, a deflector against the rain of missiles. Each

soldier in turn tethered himself to the ram, dropping loops of rope around his

waist. Vorto moved in a little closer, until he was with Colonel Kye again. The

platoons of cannons fired at the wall, pressing back the wave of Gothans.

Fingers of flame splashed against the monolithic wall. Overhead the rockets

had ceased. A dull darkness pressed down on the world.

The walls of Goth loomed fifty feet tall. The gates themselves stood a

proud twenty. General Vorto quickly calculated the required force. Five

passes; maybe more. But that would take time, and the cannons wouldn't hold

forever. Already longbowmen had scored some lucky hits against his men.

From the torches in a nearby tower, Vorto could see the shadows of more

Gothans taking up position. His men would have to hurry.

"Kye," he said very calmly. "Now."

Colonel Kye raised his saber. "Ram!" he directed.

A grunt of exertion filled the air. Very slowly, the massive wheels of the ram

began grinding forward.

Lieutenants near the ram cursed orders, urging on their men. The weapon

picked up speed as it rolled toward Goth's gate. Vorto licked his

wind-chapped lips. The ram groaned as it accelerated. A panicked shout went

up from the Gothans. Flame cannons detonated, spilling against the wall.

Faster and faster went the ram. Larger and larger loomed the gates. Vorto grit

his teeth. . . .

Louder than a crack of thunder, the ram smashed against the wooden gate.

All the world seemed to shudder. Archers along the wall tumbled backward

with the impact, and for one moment the cannoneers stopped their endless

fire, astonished by the sound. Vorto peered expectantly through the

murkiness. As the light grew again, he saw the damaged gate. Impossibly, a

hairline fissure was snaking its way through the petrified wood.

"God in Heaven!" Vorto laughed. A cheer went up from the legionnaires

gathered around the ram. They were two hundred strong now, called from

their circling of the city to storm falling Goth. Men on horseback shook their

swords in victory. Even Colonel Kye broke into an unreserved smile.

"Again!" ordered Vorto. Already the ram was being pushed back into

position. Again the night flashed with cannon fire. A new rain of arrows

poured down upon the soldiers, catching some in their backs. Kye directed a

squad of handhelds toward the new threat. The two-man teams hurried up to

the wall and hosed it down with streams of fire. Though small and lacking the

range of their bigger brothers, the handheld cannons threw their fire high into

the night, scorching the tower of the Gothan archers and halting their barrage.

Once more the ram inched forward. Vorto heard the agonized shouts of the

men as their muscles strained with effort. The ram accelerated slowly, then

faster and faster still. Another concussion shook the ground as the ram

battered the wooden portal. This time the fissure became a groaning rent.

Vorto hurried his charger nearer the gate. Through the crack he could almost

see the city. Several poles of timber still held the doorway fast, but these had

bowed and would never withstand another blow. Kye shouted orders to his

men. The ram started backward for one last assault. Vorto pranced

triumphantly in the cannon-light, laughing and praising Heaven for his coming

victory. The Light of God waved above his head.

"Time's up, Lokken," caroled Vorto gleefully. He spared one last look into

the hills where the launchers were waiting, and a little pang of anticipation ran

through him.

Lorla reached the hidden gate just as the snow began falling in earnest. Her

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