right now—but if she waits too long, it’s going to slam shut.” He stood up. “Once we aren’t forced to rely on captured couriers, as soon as we can send the 82nd Airborne across, we aren’t going to need the Clan any more. And we want her to know that.”
In Otto’s opinion one camp was much like another: the only difference was how far the stink stretched. His majesty’s camp was better organized than most, but with three times as many men it paid to pay attention to details like the latrines. King Egon might not like the tinkers, but he was certainly willing to copy their obsession with hygiene if it kept his men from the pest. And so Otto rode with his retinue, tired and dusty from the road, past surprisingly tidy rows of tents and the larger pavilions of their eorls and lords, towards the big pavilion at the heart of the camp—in order to ask the true whereabouts of his majesty.
The big pavilion wasn’t hard to find—the royal banner flying from the tall mast anchored outside it would have been a giveaway, if nothing else—but Otto’s eyes narrowed at the size of the guard detachment waiting there.
“I am.” The tallest of them tilted his helmet back.
Otto stiffened in shock, then immediately knelt, heart in mouth with fear: “My liege, I did not recognize you —”
“You weren’t meant to.” Egon smiled thinly. “No shame attaches. Rise, Otto, and walk with me. You brought your company?”
“Yes—all who are fit to ride. And your messenger, Sir Geraunt.”
“Good.” The king carefully shifted the strap on his exotic and lethal weapon, pointing the muzzle at the ground as he walked around the side of the tent. Otto noticed the two other house hold guards following, barely out of earshot. They, too, carried black, strangely proportioned witch weapons. “I’ve got something to show you.”
“Sire?” Behind him, Heidlor was keeping his immediate bodyguard together.
“The witches can walk through another world,” remarked Egon. “They can ambush you if you keep still and they know where you are. Armies are large, they attract spies. Constant movement is the best defense. That, and not making a target of one’s royal self by wearing gilded armor and sleeping in the largest tent.”
Behind the royal pavilion there was a hummock of mounded-up earth. Someone—many someones—had labored to build it up from the ground nearby, and then cut a narrow trench into it. “Pay attention.” His majesty marched along the trench, which curved as it cut into the mound. Otto followed him, curious as to what his majesty might find so interesting in a heap of soil. “Ah, here we are.” The trench descended until the edges were almost out of reach above him, then came to an abrupt end in an open, circular space almost as large as the royal pavilion. The muddy floor was lined with rough-cut planks: four crates were spaced around the walls, as far apart as possible. The king placed a proprietorial hand on one of the crates. “What do you make of it?”
Otto blanked for a moment. He’d been expecting something, but this…“Spoils?” he asked, slowly.
“Very good!” Egon grinned boyishly. “Yes, I took these from the witches. Hopefully they don’t realize they’re missing, yet. Tonight, another one should arrive.”
“But they’re—” Otto stared. “Treasure?” His eyes narrowed. “Their demon blasting powder?”
“Something even better.” A low metal box, drab green in color, lay on the planking next to the crate. Egon bent down and flicked open the latches that held the lid down. “Behold.” He flipped the lid over, to reveal the contents—a gun.
“One of the tinkers’,” Otto noted, forgetting to hold his tongue. “An arms dump?”
“Yes.” Egon straightened up. “My sources told me about them, so I had my—helpers—go looking.” He looked at Otto, his face unreadable. “Twenty years ago, thirty years ago, the witch families handed their collective security to the white duke. He standardized them. Their guns, your pistol—” he gestured at Otto’s holster—“when you run out of their cartridges, what will you do?”
Otto shrugged. “It’s a problem, sire. We can’t make anything like these.”
Egon nodded. “They have tried hard to conceal a dirty little secret: the truth is, neither can they. So they stockpile cartridges of a common size and type, purchased from the demons in the shadow world. Your pistol uses the same kind as my carbine. But they kept something better for themselves. This is a, an M60, a
Otto looked at the gun. It was bigger than the king’s MP5, almost as long as a musket. Then he looked at the crate. “How much do you have, sire?”
“Not enough.” Egon frowned. “Four crates, almost eighty thousand rounds, six guns. And some very fine blasting powder.”
“Only six—” Otto stopped. “They haven’t noticed?”
The king lowered the lid back on top of the gun. “Ten years ago, the witches began to re-equip with a better weapon.” He patted the MP5: “These are deadly, are they not? But it is a side-arm. They held the M60s to defend their castles and keeps. But they’re heavy and take a lot of ammunition. They have a new gun now, the SAW. And it takes different ammunition, lighter, with a shorter range—still far greater than anything we have, though, near as far as a twelve pounder can throw shot, and why not? A soldier with one of the new demon-guns can carry twice as much ammunition, and war among the witches is always about mobility. So they gradually forgot about the M60s, leaving the crates of ammunition in the cellars of their houses, and they forgot about the guns, too.” The royal smile reappeared. “But their servants remembered.”
“Sire. How would you have me use these guns?”
The royal smile broadened.
“The foe has been informed, by hitherto unimpeachable sources, that I will be attacking Castle Hjorth in the next week. They will concentrate in defense of the castle, which as the gateway to the Eagle hills would indeed be a prize worth capturing. Baron Drakel, who is already on his way there at the head of a battalion of pike and musketry, has the honor of ensuring that the witches have targets to aim their fire at. Meanwhile, the majority of the forces camped here will leave on the morrow for the real target. Your task is to spend a day with your best hand-men, and with my armorers, who will remain behind, instructing you in the use of the machine guns, and the explosives. Then you will follow the main force, who will not be aware of your task.”
“Sire! This is a great honor, I am sure, but am I to understand that you do not want to bring these guns to bear in the initial battle?”
“Yes.” Egon stared at the baron, his eyes disturbingly clear. “There are traitors in the midst of my army, Otto. I know for a fact that you are not one of them—” Otto shuddered as if a spider had crawled across his grave “—but this imposes certain difficulties upon my planning.”
Otto glanced round. The two royal bodyguards stood with their backs to him. “Sire?”
“The witches cannot be defeated by conventional means, Otto. If we besiege them, they can simply vanish into their shadow world. There they can move faster than we can, obtain weapons of dire power from their demonic masters, and continue their war against us. So to rid my kingdom of their immediate influence, I must render their castles and palaces useless as strong points.”
Egon paced around the nearest ammunition crate. “At the outset, I determined to pin them down, forcing them to defend their holdings, to prove to my more reluctant sworn men that the witches are vulnerable. Your raids were a great success. For every village you put to the sword, another ten landholders swore to my flag, and for that you will be rewarded most handsomely, Otto.” His eyes gleamed. “But to allow you to live to a ripe old age in your duchy—” he continued, ignoring Otto’s sharp in-take of breath “—we must force the witches to concentrate on ground of our choice, and then massacre them, while denying them the ability to regroup in a strong place. To that end, it occurs to me that a castle can be as difficult to break
