The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel) (17 page)

“I want their quarters searched and any associates still in the city detained,” Eadric ordered. “And I want my guard doubled. If they were able to slip away without anyone noticing, there’s no telling who they may have slipped in.”

“Milord , we had no reason to watch their movements. Their escape—”

“Their escape is your responsibility.” Eadric rose from his chair. “I want the Kerberosi nobles questioned as well. We can’t know how far this conspiracy has spread.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You are dismissed,” Eadric said, his voice cold. Kendall stepped out of the study and Eadric turned to Altavius. “This is a problem.”

“It is,” Altavius agreed. “But we need to approach this carefully. I think that your declaration today was ill-advised.”

Anger flashed in Eadric’s eyes. His jaw clenched and his teeth ground together. A part of him knew that Altavius was right, that he could have handled the news of the rebellion with a more reasonable approach. His declaration against the western nobles was more likely to push them further away from him than it was to bring them back into his folds.

Eadric had never considered that the rumors of discontent among the western nobles would blossom into full rebellion. He had always believed that the western nobles would grumble about trade policies and treaties, but when the time came to show their loyalty, they would stand behind the throne that had ruled their lands for more than a thousand years.

His plans to help Welos and Istivan were crushed now. There would be no way that he would be able to afford to send soldiers across the Vast Sea when he had a rebellion on his hands. The Welosi and Istivani ambassadors would not be pleased when he informed him that his forces would not be joining theirs in the battle against Chesia. The loss of their goodwill was nearly as troubling as the lack of loyalty amongst his own nobility.

“We must meet this with force,” Eadric said at last.

“Most of our levies are already gathered,” Altavius pointed out. “But if the western dukes have assembled their full levies we will need to do the same. If every noble west of the Hart River joins with their dukes, they will be able to call up an army of nearly one million. Even if they leave half of that number in their territories as defense, we will be facing more than half of a million soldiers.”

“They are peasants,” Eadric said. “They are untrained and only the noble levies will be armed with anything better than hunting rifles.”

“They will seize our armories, if they haven’t already,” Altavius said.

“The armories are well defended by soldiers loyal to me. They will not fall easily.”

“The armories will not know that there has been a rebellion. If the telegraph lines have indeed been cut at the Hart River, then our armories in the west will have rumors at best. And you sent sealed letters telling the nobles to arm their levies and march to Aetheston. If they don’t know better, the armories may let the rebels march right in and take the weapons without a fight.”

“Damn it.” His advisor was right. He needed to put down this rebellion before the western nobles could get those weapons into the hands of their soldiers.

“And I would not discount their training. The lesser nobles will not have been informed of this plan until very recently; their soldiers will be untrained. But the dukes have coordinated this effort. Their levies will be trained and right now those levies form the core of the western forces.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste anymore time talking about it. Take a pen,” Eadric said. Altavius did so. “Forty thousand troops are gathered at the Cutler Earldom and another fifty-two thousand are camped outside of our walls. Who would Medwyn place in charge of his forces?”

“Likely his eldest son and heir, Wynton. A bold man.”

The Duke of West Valley was well past his prime and would not be leading his forces into battle again. Several of his cousins held positions high in his guard and all three of his sons were trained as soldiers and commanders. Hostile mountain clans provided more than ample training for the West Valley guard and their commanders. The elderly Medwyn Chalmers was known to send a different commander against each uprising of mountain-men.

“Send a message to him at Cutler. I want his gathered forces to go to the Hart River and hold all of the crossings,” Eadric said as he began to pace. The quill scratched as Altavius took notes. “Instruct him to establish defensive positions and to maintain patrols, but no contact is to be made with any western forces.”

“I think it would be wise to send Lord Richards to command,” Altavius said. “He has more sense than Lord Wynton, and his territory is near enough to the river that we could make the case to his father that Baron Saxon has a personal interest in ensuring that the river is not crossed.”

“I would rather William remains here,” Eadric answered quickly. Eadric trusted William to command his armies. He had studied military strategy and tactics, been trained in the arts of war and the subtleties of diplomacy. But if Eadric led the attack on the rebels, no one would dare challenge his authority again. “He will accompany me to the front.”

“Your Highness, do you think that is wise?”

“These nobles have broken their personal pledges to me. I will be the one to whom they answer.” Eadric stopped pacing for a moment. “I will have the entirety of the available King’s Shields accompany me and I will be surrounded by loyal nobles and their personal guards.”

“You thought the western nobles were loyal,” Altavius pointed out.

Another flash of anger reached Eadric’s eyes but he held his tongue.

Again, his advisor was correct. If only in his distrust of the rest of the Ansgari nobles. But Eadric would not be swayed. His family had forged their nation with their swords and blood. His great-grandfather had led the Ansgari armies against Kerberos. He would not cower behind his castle walls.

The twelve hundred King’s Shields would be the core of his protection, reinforced by knights that had assembled as a part of his levy. And there would be the eleven thousand other soldiers from Elsdon. If someone wanted to push through the layers of Eadric’s defense, they would not likely be deterred by hiding behind the walls of Founder’s Castle.

Eadric trusted William to command his armies, but if he led the attack on the rebels no one would dare challenge his authority again. He had studied military strategy and tactics, been trained in the arts of war and the subtleties of diplomacy. If anyone was qualified to lead the armies of Ansgar, it was their king.

“And that is exactly why I intend on leading this campaign myself,” Eadric insisted. “You know better than anyone that I am the best person to lead my armies into battle, if battle is necessary.”

“Aye,” Altavius grudgingly agreed.

Altavius had been one of Eadric’s teachers. Though he had focused on the growth of the young king’s mental prowess and diplomatic skills, he had also assisted in the teaching of strategy and theory of warfare. The elf had conveyed as much of his one thousand years of experience to his young pupil as he could.

“Then it’s decided,” Eadric said with a nod. “I want to leave within a tenth-day. Order Kendall to make all of the necessary preparations and pass the word to the other nobles and lesser lords to do the same. Begin arranging for trains to the west and have my personal train made ready.”

Chapter 11 - Magnus

A late winter storm had buried the Agilard Duchy in thick, wet snow, and a bitter wind was blowing in from the ocean. Magnus wore a black greatcoat over the black wool uniform that marked him as the commander in chief of the Kerberosi Army. Other than the sigil sewn over his heart, the uniform was identical to every other officer’s.

He had ordered the uniform made to show that he stood with the people of Kerberos and would lead the battle for independence himself. At least on that point, Rorik chose not to argue. His chief bodyguard had, however, insisted that Magnus travel with a full complement of guards wherever he went.

Rorik and four of his best men were clustered around Magnus. Rorik led the way and two guards rode on each of their sovereign’s flanks. Each of them carried a revolving carbine clutched in one hand and rested on their saddle horn. The shortened weapon was perfect for use on horseback and the revolving mechanism gave them eight bullets each. Under their greatcoats, each of the guards wore a pair of revolvers in thigh holsters and carried a short sword.

Another twenty guards rode in two columns behind Magnus. A standard-bearer led the whole procession; the huge red hellhound of Agilard sewn onto an even larger black flag went before the mounted group as a way to announce Magnus’ coming.

The soldiers had dug out trenches of snow along the main camp paths but the going was still slow for Magnus and his entourage as they inspected the camps. Their horses had been mired down in mud more than once and the paths between tents were at times too narrow for more than one mount to pass through at a time.

Despite the bitter cold, blowing winds and unusually heavy snowfall, his lesser lords had assembled nearly the entire levies that he had asked of them. One hundred and fifty thousand soldiers and knights were gathered north of Agilard City and another two hundred thousand had gathered in four smaller camps near the western edge of the duchy.

His generals told him that training was going well and that his infantry would have the skills necessary to be the backbone of the Kerberosi army. He had provided rifled muskets for many from the armories under his control but many still trained with hunting rifles or muskets. He needed to make his move on the King’s Armories and seize the weapons and ammunition held within. Especially the cannons.

Kerberosi foundries had never been able to match the quality or speed of the Ansgari metalworks. They were close on rifled muskets and small arms, but on cannons they fell behind too far for Magnus’ liking. The cannons his men had been trained to fire were close enough to those that would be seized that the mechanics of the action were identical, but their sense of aim and range would have to adjust.

Magnus rode past a battery of infantry cannons and shook his head. The light weapons were rare in Ansgar, where the infantry ignored the utility of the five-pound guns and claimed that they were too small to be effective in a fight with real artillery. While it was true that the five-pound cannonballs were not capable of the destruction the standard ten-pound guns could rain down, they had better range and their longer barrels provided better accuracy.

Magnus reined up his horse in front of the largest tent pavilion he had ever seen.

“And whose tent is this?” The gaudy purple canvas tent structure stood twenty feet at the center pole, at least twelve at the edge and was more than a hundred feet on each side.

“Your Grace, it is mine!” a short man announced and then bowed. “Sir Byron Alfson, of Harristown.”

“Ah, sir, you have me at a disadvantage.”

Magnus inspected the knight with narrowed eyes.

He had a mop of frail-looking brown hair tied into a short ponytail and a narrow nose that was flanked by light blue eyes. He wore a greatcoat that looked like it had been cut from the same fabric as his tent.

Harristown was one of the small villages that had sprouted up along the rail lines that ran from Agilard to Aetheston. The strange grape beer that had made the town famous gave its color to everything the town did. They had even changed their sigil to a purple field with a golden mug.

“This is quite the pavilion,” Magnus continued after a moment. “I didn’t know that the grape beer business had so much money to be made.”

“We do our best, Your Grace,” the knight said. “I hope my pavilion does not offend you, Your Grace. While it is my tent, I have shared it with many of the knights from Lord Tallet’s levies.”

“It does not offend,” Magnus lied. If he had his way, the knights would be sleeping in camp tents with the rest of his soldiers. But his advisors had warned him that not giving the knights and lesser lords their symbols of pride and authority could drive them away. He had been reluctant to accept the counsel, but in the end the tradition of tent pavilions and knightly feasts had been upheld. “Carry on, Sir Alfson.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The knight bowed again and disappeared into his purple monstrosity.

“I hope he doesn’t intend to bring that along,” Rorik grumbled as the entourage started back toward the city.

“He won’t,” Magnus assured his chief of guards. “A word to his lord about a knight who tried to compete with his King’s pavilion will end that sufficiently well.”

The sprawling camp had been set up twenty miles from Agilard City, on the far side of a sharp ridge of hills and a sloping valley, to prevent detection by the Ansgari men at Fort Williams. Sentries, mostly dressed as hunters or farmers, were spread throughout the land between the fort and the camps to prevent any scouts or wandering Ansgari from discovering the encampment.

It was only a matter of time before one of the Ansgari visited Agilard City and heard of the camps from some drunken soldiers or traveling merchant, but so far that had been avoided. The Ansgari preferred to remain behind their thick masonry walls and dirt embankments and only traveled outside when their supply train from Aetheston was late.

The Fort, as he had taken to calling it, was still a major concern and he needed to deal with it one way or another soon. He needed to send his gathered levies west, to prepare for battle with the Ansgari, and past Fort Williams was the best way. The Kerberosi rail lines were not as developed as those in Ansgar and only the major castles and cities were connected.