Congratulations, you’re now a gunnery team. Step to it!”
Two men shuffled forward with all the enthusiasm of a criminal gang going to the gallows. The third hung back, perhaps hoping the soldier had been pointing at somebody near him. The flecks of silver at his temples, the thick ruff of his coat, and the faint hint of nascent jowls made him a merchant or trader. Softened by success. Longchamp grabbed him by the fur-lined collar.
“I could swear the sergeant told you to move,” he said. “So I find myself wondering why you haven’t done so with alacrity. A fine gentleman like yourself would surely do so if he could.So what’s the problem, friend? Legs broken? Or perhaps an imp has nailed your feet to these stones?”
The merchant squirmed within the voluminous fur coat. He shot an alarmed glance at Longchamp. The captain didn’t loosen his grip.
“I notice also,” he continued, “that you seem to have lost your voice. And your eyes are bulging just a bit. Choking on your own fear, I’d wager. Well, not to worry. I’ve seen this, too. Happens on the battlefield from time to time. We’ll get you right in no time.” Longchamp clapped twice, calling for the attention he knew he already commanded. “Lucky us! This’ll give me a chance to teach proper emergency surgery techniques. Sergeant, hand me your knife. You and you,” he said, pointing at the two closest bystanders, “kneel on his arms and legs. And put your fucking weight into it. They flop around like a trout in a canoe once the knife goes in the gizzard.”
At this point Longchamp loosened his grip just enough for the lazy merchant to slip free. He scuttled over to join the other men at the epoxy cannon.
“Thank the Virgin!” said Longchamp, crossing himself. “She’s cured him! It’s a Goddamned miracle.” He clouted the nearest conscript on the back of the head. “Show some respect to the Holy Mother, you cretin. All you cretins.”
As one, the conscripts crossed themselves, good Catholics all.
Sergeant Chrétien made one man the spotter; he crouched inside a crenel, alongside the barrels. The other two, including Longchamp’s lazy merchant, manned the chemical compressor and the firing mechanism. Under the soldier’s direction the latter pair turned the crank that charged up the compressor. The measured
chug-chug-chug
of the hydraulics climbed a few registers and adopted the quickened tempo known to everybody who’d been through a siege: the dreaded rhythm of an epoxy gun fending off an attacker.
The sergeant mounted a battlement and waved a yellow flag half again his own height. The flagman at the edge of the forest returned the semaphore, and then another soldier bolted from the treeline. The newcomer dashed across the field, tracing zigzags and serpentines in the frost. Longchamp wondered which hapless conscript had drawn the short straw for this demonstration.
“Runners on the field!” cried the sergeant. “I say again we have INBOUND MECHANICALS!”
The spotter muttered a string of bearings. “North by northeast. No, wait, he’s turning east. I mean he’s running from the east. East by north… Wait, he’s turning again—”
“I can’t fucking hear you!” said Longchamp. “And it’ll never be quieter than this. When the walls are aswarm with clanking murderers, and every cannon in the keep is chugging along loud enough to wake the Devil after a six-bottle bender, you’d better be able to MAKE YOURSELF HEARD!”
Meanwhile, the hapless sprinter had covered a third of the distance to the wall. Far, far slower than a real mechanical. But far too fast for the novice gunners to handle gracefully.
“He’s getting closer!” cried the spotter. The onset of true panic improved the volume and urgency of his voice, but at the cost of his judgment. “Just fire! For God’s sake, fire!”
The second man flipped the levers that opened the breach chambers on the double-barreled cannon. A momentary
glug
interrupted
Two men shuffled forward with all the enthusiasm of a criminal gang going to the gallows. The third hung back, perhaps hoping the soldier had been pointing at somebody near him. The flecks of silver at his temples, the thick ruff of his coat, and the faint hint of nascent jowls made him a merchant or trader. Softened by success. Longchamp grabbed him by the fur-lined collar.
“I could swear the sergeant told you to move,” he said. “So I find myself wondering why you haven’t done so with alacrity. A fine gentleman like yourself would surely do so if he could.So what’s the problem, friend? Legs broken? Or perhaps an imp has nailed your feet to these stones?”
The merchant squirmed within the voluminous fur coat. He shot an alarmed glance at Longchamp. The captain didn’t loosen his grip.
“I notice also,” he continued, “that you seem to have lost your voice. And your eyes are bulging just a bit. Choking on your own fear, I’d wager. Well, not to worry. I’ve seen this, too. Happens on the battlefield from time to time. We’ll get you right in no time.” Longchamp clapped twice, calling for the attention he knew he already commanded. “Lucky us! This’ll give me a chance to teach proper emergency surgery techniques. Sergeant, hand me your knife. You and you,” he said, pointing at the two closest bystanders, “kneel on his arms and legs. And put your fucking weight into it. They flop around like a trout in a canoe once the knife goes in the gizzard.”
At this point Longchamp loosened his grip just enough for the lazy merchant to slip free. He scuttled over to join the other men at the epoxy cannon.
“Thank the Virgin!” said Longchamp, crossing himself. “She’s cured him! It’s a Goddamned miracle.” He clouted the nearest conscript on the back of the head. “Show some respect to the Holy Mother, you cretin. All you cretins.”
As one, the conscripts crossed themselves, good Catholics all.
Sergeant Chrétien made one man the spotter; he crouched inside a crenel, alongside the barrels. The other two, including Longchamp’s lazy merchant, manned the chemical compressor and the firing mechanism. Under the soldier’s direction the latter pair turned the crank that charged up the compressor. The measured
chug-chug-chug
of the hydraulics climbed a few registers and adopted the quickened tempo known to everybody who’d been through a siege: the dreaded rhythm of an epoxy gun fending off an attacker.
The sergeant mounted a battlement and waved a yellow flag half again his own height. The flagman at the edge of the forest returned the semaphore, and then another soldier bolted from the treeline. The newcomer dashed across the field, tracing zigzags and serpentines in the frost. Longchamp wondered which hapless conscript had drawn the short straw for this demonstration.
“Runners on the field!” cried the sergeant. “I say again we have INBOUND MECHANICALS!”
The spotter muttered a string of bearings. “North by northeast. No, wait, he’s turning east. I mean he’s running from the east. East by north… Wait, he’s turning again—”
“I can’t fucking hear you!” said Longchamp. “And it’ll never be quieter than this. When the walls are aswarm with clanking murderers, and every cannon in the keep is chugging along loud enough to wake the Devil after a six-bottle bender, you’d better be able to MAKE YOURSELF HEARD!”
Meanwhile, the hapless sprinter had covered a third of the distance to the wall. Far, far slower than a real mechanical. But far too fast for the novice gunners to handle gracefully.
“He’s getting closer!” cried the spotter. The onset of true panic improved the volume and urgency of his voice, but at the cost of his judgment. “Just fire! For God’s sake, fire!”
The second man flipped the levers that opened the breach chambers on the double-barreled cannon. A momentary
glug
interrupted
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