“She’s not coming,” Dram declared. He scowled momentarily then shrugged. “I’m ready to make the test. Let’s get going.”
As before, a cask of powder was rammed down until it was lodged in the very base of the barrel, rigged to ignite via a fuse that extended out the back. When the explosive keg was settled into place, Dram signaled to one of the stone carvers. That dwarf, standing in the bed of a wagon, raised a stone ball that weighed more than a hundred pounds up to the mouth of the barrel, placed it inside, and let it roll down until they heard it thump solidly against the keg of black powder. Quickly the loader climbed down and raced to join the other observers to the rear, and off to the side, of the experimental bombard.
“Fire the fuse!” Dram called.
One hill dwarf remained alongside the weapon, and he quickly touched off the flame then sprinted away. He and the other observers put their hands over their ears, watching as the string was rapidly consumed by the smoking, sputtering flame. The fire burned up to the place where the fuse disappeared into the bore of the weapon then disappeared.
Dram held his breath subconsciously. So much work had gone into this moment-so much planning, sacrifice, and energy-and he really didn’t know if it was going to work. Again he felt that shiver of trepidation: if this one failed…
He shook his head, refusing to consider that prospect.
The answer came in a tremendous eruption of smoke and fire, a blast that emerged from the mouth of the bombard and billowed a hundred feet through the air, churning and sparking like a nightmare of heat and fire. The smoke cloud was so thick they couldn’t see through it; the billowing murk expanded and boiled all around them.
At first Dram wondered what had happened to the ball-in previous experiments he had always been able to see it fly from the muzzle-but then he looked across the valley and picked it out. Already a mile away, it had soared hundreds of feet into the air. With a sense of awe, the mountain dwarf watched it arc downward and fall away, finally splashing into the placid lake, creating a gout of white water. The startled geese flapped their wings and honking, took to the air.
Dram whooped, a cheer that was echoed by all the workers on the hilltop.
“Never had a test with even a quarter of that distance before!” he proclaimed proudly. “That thing must have flown a mile and a half!”
“Do you think it will work again?” asked Rogard.
Dram shrugged. “Only one way to tell,” he replied.
This had been the crux of previous problems. None of their trial barrels had survived more than four or five firings before the bombard itself had been blasted apart, either completely shattered or, at the very least, too cracked and crumbling for further use. But they’d find out soon enough. Already the gunners advanced with the mops and were swabbing out the barrel, making sure that no sparks lingered before they rolled down the keg for the next test. Swiftly another ball was loaded, a second fuse rigged.
“Shot number two-fire away!” Dram called.
Again the bombard blasted, tossing the second ball right after the first, the same arc and distance, into the far pond.
Now the team of loaders found their rhythm. The loading and firing procedure was repeated, and the barrel spewed its fire for a third time. The workers had come out of the buildings down in the New Compound, and the loggers gathered at the edge of the woods. All eyes were on the ridgetop as the bombard shot this ball toward the lake, where it landed very close to the place where the first two shots had struck.
Again and again the procedure was repeated, until ten shots in succession followed the same pattern. Each ball of stone reached the lake. However, on the last few shots, each fell a few paces shorter than on the prior explosions. With these later blasts, smoke began to emerge from the joints where the ironwood logs were connected, and the steel straps holding the barrel together were growing noticeably more loosened.
“We’re starting to forfeit a little pressure,” Dram said critically, eying the wooden planks and steel rings holding the contraption together. “But that’s nothing we can’t solve by tightening these clamps a little. I do believe we’re almost there.”
He lifted his gaze to the north, where the city of Solanthus was just barely visible on the horizon. It was too far away to see the army camp, but he knew where the Solamnics were gathered and approximately where Ankhar had retreated.
“Jaymes, my old friend,” he said softly. “I think I have a present for you.”
Ankhar approached the gray tent, the only such shelter in the whole vast encampment of his army. As the commander, he was entitled to go anywhere he wanted in that camp, but for some reason he hesitated outside this tent. He cleared his throat gruffly and was rewarded by a faint voice beckoning him from within.
“Come!” croaked the Thorn Knight.
The half-giant ducked and pulled back the flap, squinting against the darkness within. The tent was larger than most, but Ankhar still had to duck down pretty low in order to get inside. He moved inside and hunkered down on his haunches, studying the pale face of the Gray Robe.
“How is pain?” he asked.
Hoarst moved a hand to his chest, where the lord marshal’s bolt had pierced him-had actually punctured his heart. He would have died if it weren’t for Laka’s healing magic.
“Severe,” he said. “I can hardly draw a breath.”
“I am sorry,” the half-giant acknowledged. He extended a cup that he had carefully carried in his big hands to the Thorn Knight. “Laka says you must drink.”
The human didn’t ask any questions. He merely reached out a hand, took the vessel, and tipped it to his lips. The vile stink of the liquid filled the tent-like a skunk had been startled nearby-but Hoarst didn’t hesitate to drink the strong tea down in several bitter, galling sips. He coughed violently, and Ankhar helpfully removed the cup so the Thorn Knight wouldn’t drop it.
“Did that help?” the half-giant asked when the man’s coughing had eased and he was again able to draw a breath.
“Surprisingly enough, it did,” Hoarst admitted, pushing himself to a sitting position. He inhaled and exhaled, clearly relishing the deep lungful of air. “I can breathe again!”
“Good. I need you to get up and go to work now.”
Hoarst propped himself up with both hands. “It must be important,” he grunted. “But I’m not sure I can walk.”
“You don’t need to walk-you need to carve,” the half-giant said. When the man raised his eyebrows in mute question, Ankhar continued. “The army of the knights is reinforced. They are moving from Solanthus now, coming toward us. We must fight them here, in the shadow of the mountains. The king is up there, in mountains someplace. I wish to get him back. But to unleash king against humans, I must have another wand.”
Hoarst nodded, understanding. “All right, I can make another one if you bring me the material.”
“What do you need?”
“The branch of a mature willow tree. The tree must be large-larger, for example, than I could wrap my arms around and touch my hands together on the opposite side. The limb must be one that hangs down far enough so that the tip is brushing the water. You must bring me the whole branch, even though I’ll only use the very tip. And after you cut off the limb, the tree itself must be cut down and burned in a very hot fire.”
Ankhar nodded, committing these curious instructions to memory. “You rest,” he said, “and I will return.”
It was harder to find a willow tree than he had expected, but after dispatching dozens of human horsemen-the scouts of Blackgaard’s light cavalry-he learned of the whereabouts of such a tree in a valley not terribly far away. Not trusting anyone else to the task, he and Laka traveled there with several ogres who were skilled in the use of axes. With Laka’s guidance, the half-giant selected a proper branch and hacked it off with a few blows of his knife. Then he instructed the ogres to chop down the tree and burn it on a large bonfire, fueled by dozens of brittle, dead pine trunks that stood nearby.