The Brotherhood of the Twisted Iron: A Case of Whims, a Sack of Wisps - Chapter 13

[seymoure]

Phrang 

The barbarian was not nearly as drunk as he had hoped to be this night. It was one of the few entertainments he now allowed himself. That would change once he attained the summit of his new ambitions.

His climb here was almost identical to the one he had achieved in Preteen only four years ago. He sat atop the council there for a year and stood ready to have himself crowned when his former lieutenants joined forces to depose him.

This time each level of power he attained came with the execution of all his enemies and allies in the lower levels. He had the foes tortured, giving the message that, better to die easily as a helper than horribly for being against him. Or better still, to evacuate as he ascended. He found he had to reward new recruits massively and find those who were ignorant of the politically situation they were entering.

But the ignorant make great cannon fodder, and those bodies became a great ladder for him.

He got drunk alone. He could never take the chance he would find a feeling of anything but indifference towards his comrades. His sergeants built a corps of men who would die for the man next to him and above him. That was the army he liked.

For he would always be above.

The knocking at his chamber door was irritating. This had better be good or someone was going to lose a hand.

 

He stumbled, kicking tankards before him as he fell upon the door.

“What in Croxis name?” he bellowed.

“It’s me, Temia,” came the whisper from the other side of the door.

“What in demon and devils do you want?”

“I’ve done as you asked, master,” came the terrified answer, “And more yet.”

Understanding came, molasses-like to the General’s sodden mind. He grappled with the the lock and pulled the heavy door.

The shivering dwarf stood in the center of the portal, only to be grabbed by the collar and dragged in. His breath left him as the oaken door slammed shut and the iron lock protested but bolted solid.

“Show me!” Phrang demanded.

The magician/scientist withdrew a small cylinder from his pocket and attached it to the cannonette he held in the other hand.

“As the firing hammer returns to the first position it turns the cylander, which loads a ball, not in the barrel, but in the firing chamber,” there was not a little pride in his achievement and it escaped with his voice, “It also provides a new fuse and a flint is instantly ready, then you can fire again almost instantly. That is what you wanted, correct? You asked that I speed up the reloading, and I have improved even on that.”

“How fast is the process?”

“Man with this device is ready to fire again in about 3 seconds,” came the reply.

“And…how many balls does this,” he retrieved the weapon from his underling and regarded it as a necessary evil, “…thing hold?”

“Twelve in total,” Temia said, “But a man can carry a dozen in a belt and they detach and re-attach in a few seconds.”

“How soon”

“They are being forged at this moment. We’ll have a hundred by the end of the week. In a month’s time we’ll have one for every man in your army.”

“Well, little man,” he slapped Temia on the back so hard he slammed against the wall and knocked him out, to crumple upon the floor, “You have turned a interesting gadget into a true killing engine. I may have to keep you around for a longer time than I had expected.”

Phrang began shooting the cannonette at the walls and ceiling and laughing like a man possessed by the most demonic of spirits. The devilish joy in his voice rose with each thundering report.

Those in the barracks without would not sleep well for days after hearing the sounds that came that midnight from the General’s quarters.

 

© C. Wayne Owens
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