33rd Autumn’s Feast, ?. 1792

  Horses neighed as their hooves galloped through the assembly camp’s official port of entry in an early pre-noon rush.

  ?[Divide!]? There was a declaring shout. ?[Reinforcements are here; I want them sorted and arranged!]? As if already knowing what to do and where to go, the arriving free troop split into two groups; one of which ventured forth towards a particular tent—a particular man.

  Relentless were these equines, indeed, having been traveling since before daybreak with speed. Hastily strapped, left dangling, to the side of one such equine was a rifle-sized box—empty evidence.

  Even as clopping hooves struck paved dirt and lingering mud, the riders atop could already tell that today seemed to be a busier day. There were more coats of various colors, too clean; more noise and shouts, soldiers rush-marching about.

  More strikingly, however, was the apparent…damage to the delicate earthy road; as if large beasts ferrying massive wheels had stampeded through, leaving streaks and dents in the ground. They could only wonder, indeed, the what. Yet answers would arrive—or rather be arrived to—when this group of equines were forced to a pause, the road ahead…blocked.

  ?[Easy now! Shan’t panic the creatures; won’t do you any good, boys.]? Standing aside, attempting to aid and help—or rather just…guide and observe, commentating—was, by Fortune’s chance or perhaps sheer luck, the very man they sought.

  Blocking, obstructing, the rest of this narrow pass, however, were…

  Rhinoceroses. Three of them—single horned, domesticated variety; bulky, muscular, large, almost armor-skinned. Strapped to their harnesses—that which they had been so dragging—was an awfully…large cannon; one which could turn its barrel vertically via a stiff and unwieldy metallic wheel.

  This ordinarily fixed artillery piece was menacing enough to require railroad transportation; however, being in primitive underdeveloped lands, they had no such nascently trendy infrastructure. Instead, they had rhinoceroses and what appeared to be some kind of…carrier contraption, one of the wheels of which had become stuck in the mushy mud—another spillage, it seemed.

  A frustrating situation for the transporting men, indeed, however rhinos—being skittish creatures—required careful and delicate handling as to not fright and…well, cause an unfortunate incident.

  ?[…is that a siege gun?]? one of the riders so remarked, almost bewildered as to why such a thing was even here. ?[Wrecking thing’s a bloody trench breaker, Trinity’s Son…]?

  ?[Keep your tongues inside.]? the collected sergeant-major had to remind.

  ?[Ah!]? And, indeed, a certain field commander had quickly noticed that aforementioned sergeant-major. With a greeting wave and charming smile, Manuel so stepped his way their way. ?[Hathway! You’re back! Excellent! Right at the perfect time!]?

  ?[We need to talk.]? Hathway spared little for leisure; he gestured the horse and man that so ferried the Greenfield box, who proceeded to clop forward and up. ?[We brought evidence, though this was all we could collect. I’ll elaborate when we are—]?

  ?[Straight to business, are we?]? Manuel, however, plainly spoke as he halted his muddied boots before their strained hooves. His blue eyes glanced at the dangling box. ?[You’re right that we need to talk; though, of a slightly…different matter. Have your men carry the…box to my tent and then sort themselves in—they could use a rest.]? He looked at Hathway, straightly. ?[You, meanwhile, dismount. We shall have our chat, friend.]?

  Hathway…blankly stared at him for a second too long, before sighing; he dismounted, beckoning his men with his neck as if to nudge.

  ?[I’ll take him to the stables.]? The corporal-major of this group proceeded to clop his steed to Hathway’s stallion, grabbing its harness and departing.

  The others proceeded to gallop off in kind, leaving only the two of them.

  ?[Good news: your reinforcements have arrived. Your free troop is now double its size.]? Manuel so courteously informed, the soldiers behind his smile still struggling with the stuck wheel.

  ?[I know.]? Hathway just replied; ?[A group is already sorting them in.]? His own eyes then turned up, looking towards the stuck siege gun’s tip. ?[That’s a monster cannon.]?

  ?[Isn’t it?]? Manuel so turned and looked in kind, almost pleased. ?[Such a nasty whore to transport, however once positioned well, we won’t even need to storm crumply caves. We can pulverize—collapse—the very hills in which they live.]?

  ?[These cannons aren’t just for the Fallen.]? Hathway plainly remarked, deducing already.

  ?[Official narratives are, well, official.]? Manuel so flung his face back to Hathway, holding an arm behind his back. ?[Let us just say that I haven’t just been sitting on all that which you have told me, wasting our…arrangement.]?

  ?[I specified howitzers, not monsters.]? Hathway remarked.

  ?[And so did I.]? Manuel thus replied; ?[However, there were only so few of my fellow field command fellows in that room who were willing to take action on…my suggestions. Can you guess whom?]?

  ?[The Gothian.]?

  ?[And the Bombardian; and as we know, Bombardians…]?—His hand twirled itself in the direction of that monster cannon behind—?[prefer…bombastic displays. We have six only, however one scouting look of these, and the Grandberriens may double think their…antics.]?

  ?[Those things are too clumsy to be effective.]? Hathway so pointedly said.

  ?[Clumsy in battle, maybe, but effective in bending minds—and isn’t the latter our specialty?]? Manuel merely replied; ?[Besides, these cannons were not the only thing the Bombardians brought. And, in fact, you are just in time for the demonstration.]?

  ?…[of what?]? Hathway preferred specificity over vague surprises.

  ?[Have you been attuned with the mainland as of late, sergeant-major?]? Yet Manuel replied with not an answer but counter-question. ?[The Gothic War.]?

  ?[Groussergdom is trying to reassert authority in Gothia.]? Hathway knew the basics.

  Gothia historically was considered de jure affixed to the Groussergdom dominion, Groussergdom herself (then Arzhergdom) having once been within the dominion of Old Raiche (D’Oltera?che). De facto, Gothia had always retained autonomy in both external and internal matters, though nominally paid fealty to the Grousser grand duke. Gothia’s stalwart performance in the Valerian War, however, had fully cemented her rise as a major militarized power in her own right, effectively severing her from Groussergdom’s post-war sphere.

  Jealousy, power politics, and prestige—Gothia threatened to surpass her former suzerain; Groussergdom would prefer if the Gothic cake was baked in her name… Amongst various instigating complexities.

  ?[Should change that ‘is’ to ‘was’.]? Manuel, however, so informed; ?[The Goths won, the Grousserzog thoroughly humiliated.]?

  Hathway was immediately surprised. ?[Wait, has it already?]? He had only heard about this conflict a month or two ago. Truly, news was one to travel haphazardly across the Great Ocean. ?[Trinity damn those undefeated Goths…]? In a way, the Gothic rise hurt his Valerian pride. Gothia was cementing herself as the mainland’s terrestrial demon—Valeria’s former title.

  ?[Besides the politics, however,]? Manuel so continued, ?[are you aware, by chance, of the…instruments used in that short scuffle?]?

  ?[Just spill it already.]? Hathway, again, preferred specificity over retort.

  ?[A no, then.]? Yet Manuel found his answer. ?[Gothic victory was attributed to their valor and discipline—Groussergdom, disorganized, outdated, too…multi-lingual—ironic, I know. But they did have plenty of liquid. That is how I first heard of these…new inventions from Bombardy. Groussergdom used them to…interesting effectiveness; the design, I was told, has only improved since then. And now, we have several here.]?

  ?Uhuh…? Hathway could not admit it, but Manuel’s vagueness was making him…quite curious now. ?[When is this demonstration?]?

  ?[In literally thirty minutes—as I told you, you arrived perfectly on time… Without even knowing you were scheduled.]? Manuel thus told, charming in his satisfaction. ?[I knew you would be interested too. Come now, shall we?]? He turned and began to walk.

  The men still struggling with the mud-stuck wheel merely blank-eyed glared as the two departed away. So much for officer support, they could only mutter in mind.

  However, with the field commander turned, his back facing Hathway’s eyes, the sergeant-major noticed as he trailed behind…

  ?[What’s that on your neck?]? Indeed, quite the pinkish, reddish, purplish mark. ?[Bruising?]?

  ?Oh! Muhah!? Manuel grasped the spot with his hand, giving Hathway a certain kind of eye. ?[Right, this… I suppose it’s still there. Heh. Oh, my friend, there is much I ought to catch you up on, maybe.]? He slowed his pace so that he could walk next to Hathway, as if buddies instead of officer and subordinate. ?[Shall we just say…my campaign has been won, the spoils seized.]? He winked, almost elbowing.

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  Interim

  Two of Hathway’s men stepped into the field commander’s decorated tent, carrying their confiscated Greenfield box.

  ?[Thanks for the help.]? One said to Two. ?[Yesterday must’ve strained my arms; could barely whip my horse’s harness.]?

  ?[No thanks required.]? Two so replied, helping his peer set the box down on the floor next to Manuel’s table. ?[We are comrades of the same troop.]?

  With the evidence carefully positioned so that it would not be accidentally stepped on or missed, easily spotted from entry, the two stepped aside. However, having never before been within this tent, they could not help but do what many enlisted tended to do: gawk around because boredom.

  ?[Bloody, look at these chairs…]? Indeed, they were genuine furniture—soft and plushy fabric; official, comfortable, and royal yet ordinary—not too luxurious… Somewhere in the middle of classes. ?[Commander Manuel spared none, huh? Even the floor…]? Indeed, occupied by a mighty rug.

  Naturally, they just had to start touching things.

  ?[…ever sat on a cushioned chair like this?]? One asked Two.

  ?[Never.]? Two answered, stroking a chair. ?[Only metal and wood.]? However, his nose then began to…scent. ?Hm…? And he kept scenting—sniffing, smelling.

  ?[What?]? One was quick to notice.

  ?[…there is a…stench.]? Two stepped back, his nose absorbing the scentful particulates, almost. Focusing, gauging, identifying. It was not his chair—rather, the one next to it; the one closest to Manuel’s desk.

  This chair seemed to be one of two which normally faced the desk, yet it had been repositioned—turned, facing away so that there was no table in the way; provided thus would be suitable space and room for someone to sit or lean against whilst another to stand, close.

  ?[…this stench], yeh…? Two approached this chair, the smell only becoming more…evident to his nose, especially now that his mind was latching onto it.

  Although one could make out some sort of…vague smell, he had not nearly attuned himself to it.

  Two was something of a…‘half-breed’, or ‘quarter-breed’. His grandfather from his mother’s side had been some sort of Valerian aristocrat or upper bourgeois class; his grandmother, meanwhile, was…an imported pleasure slave—a kind of elf or some other ‘exotic race’, with whom breeding was, in fact, possible…as discovered the hard way.

  No more needed to be specified.

  But by consequence, although his ears were only barely pointier than average, this nevertheless apparently inherited to him enhanced senses, particularly olfactory.

  ?Hm…? Two noticed a sort of colorless stain… He leaned in, sniffed, and retracted. ?Huh, [that is…]?

  ?[What are you sniffing, wild hog?]? One meant that as a friendly jest.

  Two turned to One. ?[A kind of…piss.]?

  ?[Piss? Yuck…]? One tilted his head with a sharp grimace. ?[Did the commander get drunk or something?]?

  Two scanned the desk and general tent… ?[No bottles here…]? he remarked, turning his eyes back to that chair, scenting more. ?[Or,] hm… [Not exactly piss—it’s mild, different… But…]? He really needed to think, since it was…specific. Again looking at One, ?[Ever been inside the private chambers of a brothel?]? he suddenly asked.

  And One was quick to bounce back as if having been struck. ?Uhm, [absolutely not.]? He was stern, indeed. ?[We know far better than to partake in such exploitative activities.]?

  ?[Oh, believe me, I wasn’t partaking.]? Two yet again turned his eyes and nose back to this particular chair.

  Because it was fabric, it was more absorbent than most other objects in this tent, including the dirt. Hm… And he noticed, the carpet below it too.

  ?[Before this, I was with disciplinary,]? he began to elaborate, ?[so, I had to venture into several to retrieve troublesome indulgers a few too many times… Centralish whore houses are wicked dens, especially if they’re slaves; the pricier ones use some sort of potion or concoction to make the whores…hysterical—noisy, moany, uterine-mouthed, even from gentle prods.]? He was disturbed by his own recalls.

  ?[…and this concerns piss, how?]? One so revealed his…ineptitude.

  ?[In the private chambers, it’s the same…category of stench—I can’t describe it.]? Two thus said. ?[Piss… On the beddings. Mild, diluted almost…]? Certainly, his nose was…specific in its details.

  His brain was wired to be able to parse advanced olfactory differentiation, seemingly.

  ?[…but why piss?]? One was still confused.

  It was a peculiar phenomena, after all.

  ?[The potion makes the whores piss in-action, I guess—I don’t know.]? Two did not seem to understand either. ?[All I am saying is…that’s what this stench is reminding me of.]?

  ?[You saying the commander fucked a whore in here?]? Such would be a regulation violation.

  ?[In a camp full of men, it could’ve been a different scandal.]? Two joked. ?[Let’s not jump to conclusions. My nose could be wrong, being only one amongst many. Note this and move on, let’s.]?

  ?[Yeah. We’ve overextended our stay…]? Also against regulation.

  -||-

  An open field, shortly outside the assembly camp. Many had gathered; many were present, especially those higher. Hathway stood in place, Manuel at his side—or rather, the sergeant major at the field commander’s side. Ahead of their sight to their right were mannequins—dummies of straw and hay, decorated in locally made armor. To their left…

  Guns. Four of them. Artillery weapon-looking pieces, mounted on two wheels. Goths were the ones manning them, their officer waiting with discipline in his stance, order in his heart; an obedient soul.

  Wobbling and waddling, almost, in his explanatory walk, gesturing bombastically as he talked, was, of course, yet another almost cannonball-shaped Bombardian officer.

  ?[Now-a, compared to the, uh, previous models,]? he was thus explaining, voice loud; ?[the cranker has been-a improved-a—no longer getting a stuck-a. It can be cranked-a faster too. The, as we call it-a, magazine…]? He was speaking to a presumed audience of those unfamiliar with even that concept. ?[Is, uh, located on the top-a, not the side-a. The design was-a simplified.]? Being newer to the Company’s service, his accent was…stronger. ?[Now-a, to demonstrate-a.]? He raised his hand.

  And the Gothic officer raised his commanding sword in kind. ?[Load!]?

  The stationed team immediately loaded a ‘magazine’ into the top slot of these…hand-cranked contraption of rotating barrels.

  ?[As the crank-a is-a turned,]? the Bombardian continued, making a crank-turning motion with his hands, ?[the barrels spin-a and rotate-a; as they-a fire, cartridges feed-a down-a from the top-a by the gravity. This-a cycling helps with the cooling-a and facilitates-a the faster fire.]?

  Hathway, naturally, was very attentive—enthralled, almost, though hardly in a pleasant way. ?[So… Like rotary cannons? Ones the navy uses, but…]? No, not cannons—or artillery. Small-arms. These…pieces were more analogous to rifles—even the barrels looked almost as though they had been taken straight from long rifles.

  ?[Additionally,]? the Bombardian did a sort of gesture, ?[these-a crankguns, as we’ve-a come to call them-a, can be, uh, detached-a from their rollers-a, for-a the fixed positiones.]? Doing another gesture, the Gothic officer raised his saber.

  ?[Detach guns!]?

  The weapons’ crew proceeded to demonstrate the detachment procedure, unloading the magazines first, of course, despite them being empty.

  ?[Notice-a, you’ll see that-a integrated is the stick-a, you can-a use to attach-a to the surfaces or the fixed stands-a, suitabile for-a the entrenched positiones.]? Another gesture, another command.

  The weapons’ crew reattached the crankguns back to their wheeled bodies.

  ?[Now-a, to show-a the, uh…power, as-a you’ve all-a been anticipating.]? The Bombardian finally stepped aside.

  ?[Load shots!]? The Gothic officer took command, shouting with his saber.

  They loaded magazines filled with live shots.

  ?[Loaded!]? the crews shouted back.

  ?[Position guns!]?

  They rolled the guns forward.

  ?[Hands on crank!]?

  Those responsible for cranking these multi-barreled rotary guns placed their hands on the crank.

  The officer thrusted his saber forward. ?[Fire!]?

  Brratatat. The sound deafened as smoke filled the air, blueish plumes discharging from the barrels as they rotated and cycled each shot—fast and only getting faster as the crankers cranked around and around, around and around.

  Not a single volley—not a single shot. Multiple volleys; multiple shots; all at once.

  Rapid, mechanized, firing.

  The shots tore through the mannequins’ armor and strawed bodies, relentless and unstopping.

  Hathway’s eyes were frozen, opened wide and widening more.

  The firing stopped only when the magazine stopped feeding, emptied of all shots. Left behind was a thick shroud of blueish-tainted smoke, torn straw, and a breathless silence beyond the pants of the crankers’ exhausted arms.

  ?[Father in Heaven…]? Hathway muttered, at a loss for words… There was a tremor in his arm, a ringing in his ears.

  Even Manuel seemed affected.

  He had never seen such a fire rate; it was almost inconceivable. How so many shots could be fired at once… How many…guns would it take to match? He had not any the clue.

  ?[Now-a,]? the Bombardian officer stepped himself again in place as the smoke cleared, ?[it’s-a recommended-a to use-a the powder that makes-a the less soot-a, such as-a the blue-grade enchanted.]? He gestured to his own men stationed near the mannequins—out of the way, of course.

  They proceeded to remove the…now torn and hole-ridden dummies, or the scraps thereof. They then took their time in assembling a new set of armored foes—dozens of them, lined up in several rows.

  ?[Now-a, hypothetically, let us, uh, say-a we are against-a the traditional…line-a formatione.]? He stepped off. ?[Demonstrate-a.]?

  And, again, the Gothic officer raised his saber. ?[Load shots!]?

  The crews proceeded to replace the magazine, the same commands shouting; the same procedure followed.

  The Gothic officer thrusted his commanding blade. ?[Destroy them!]?

  And yet another storm of lancing lead fired. Bursting, banging, cracking, relentless cranking, the mannequins were torn apart row after row; so much smoke filled the area. The crews replaced emptied magazines mid-cycling as to keep a near-continuous rate of fire, until the dummy formation was, as commanded, destroyed.

  Naturally, as to make the demonstration potent, the Bombardians were using a specially tuned and destructive type of ‘enchanted’ munitions—not the ones a mass military would precisely use. Nevertheless, when the firing stopped, the audience was left again at a loss—silent, ears ringing.

  ?[Inferior models of this-a, my friends-a,]? the Bombardian so stepped himself yet again, ?[is what had-a devastated the Gothic lines-a in the Battle of Hamshterdam-a!]? The irony of these shouting words was not lost on the Gothic crew.

  The smoke clearing, the Bombardian officer turned to evaluate the crankguns.

  Even with their specialized powder, they were becoming slightly sooty at the tips.

  ?[In-a those models-a, the cranks would fall off-a!] Hah! [But see here-a? Perfectly fine-a.]? In reality, one of the cranks had become slightly…cramped, so to speak—stiffened. One had nearly jammed in another, likewise.

  However, such details were irrelevant to this product demonstration—which, indeed, had been sufficiently demonstrated.

  Firepower.

  An entire line formation annihilated, from only four guns.

  ?[Now-a, imagine these on a wagon—a carriage-a. Mobile destructione. Ludicrous? Impractical?]? The Bombardian then bombastically flared his arms as he waved them at the guns. ?[They said that about these-a!]? His voice was passionate. ?[They said that about-a the handbombs-a in the Valerian War-a! Grenades-a! They said-a that about the revolvers-a! Then the lever-action! The needle! The breecher! The very first-a hand-cannon!]?

  He paused, his eyes looking them down.

  ?[Give us, say-a, ten more-a years—nay, five-a! And you’ll be carrying these-a things-a! Smaller, better-a, maybe without even the crank-a! Machine guns.]? Thus, had been proclaimed. ?Haha! [Would you have-a believed it? Five-a years ago?]? He took a breather, voice strained. ?[Now…you can.]?

  The Bombardian turned himself again to the most recent of the Far West’s innovations—more toys to add to their growing arsenal.

  ?[Damnationes!]? he chuckly scoffed; ?[An orc can-a probably carry these-a right now-a!]? He was already giving the tacticians ideas.

  Hathway, meanwhile, felt blank—without any ideas. He had seen many things already—grenades, firethrowers, experiments with novel bolt-pulling mechanisms. Yet for whatever reason, himself unaware beyond perhaps the deepest consciousness, he felt a shiver.

  Not from the demonstration in and of itself; rather, the implications.

  Year after year, new invention after new innovation; the rate of progress had already far exceeded any one person’s—king, politician, soldier, officer—ability to truly understand, fathom and comprehend, the direction—the destination—of where any of this was even going.

  War’s future…becoming ever the present.

  There was something to be feared, as he held his tricorn hat.

  Long had it been said… The ocean, a horizon so vast and unbounded, was seductive to the daring. Yet for as much as the ocean was wide, it was deep. And those who lost themselves in its tide, taken they would be…by the leviathans beneath. Devoured by the sea.