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Sixty

 . . .and their powder charges were uniform. Because instead of teaching the Gorballis to make gunpowder, which would not have been suitably uniform and would thus have resulted in inaccurate fire, Lord Kryger appropriated much of the standardly manufactured powder in carefully weighed powder bags in the magazines of the Emperor Dard. This permitted excellent accuracy. He also gave the Gorballis most of the Dard's explosive shells, and had the cannon barrels cast and rifled to accommodate them.

Captain Stedmer at first refused to surrender either powder or shells. By wireless, Lord Kryger then took the matter to the prime minister, who authorized him to confiscate them if necessary. At that, of course, Captain Stedmer gave in.

From: Memoirs of Midshipman Erlin Werlingus

* * *

General Doziellos stood on the wall, peering through his telescope. Two days after Brokols had left Kammenak, lookouts at the advance forts had reported Gorrbian army engineers setting up a vast camp on the plain across the border. Now, this morning, they'd reported the appearance of numerous small haystacks associated with paddocks for the Gorrbian kaabors. Hay would be brought in, of course. But a dozen of the stacks had each a wagon and cart parked near it, with tarpaulins tied over them. Much as the foreigner, Brokols, had said might happen.

Lowering the telescope, Doziellos turned to his intelligence aide. "Major, d'you see those haystacks? With the covered carts by them? I want you to carry out Cannon Plan Two tonight. Find out if there's anything besides hay in them."

The man lowered his own glass. "Cannon Plan Two. Yessir. And for what it's worth, sir, my guts tell me we'll find what the foreigner said we would." He'd wrapped his tongue cautiously around the foreign word, cannon. It'd be interesting to see one, especially in action, but not pointed in his direction.

* * *

Their uniforms were dyed black and their faces smeared with charcoal. They moved through the starlit night almost as quietly as a barbarian hunter.

Lieutenant Vendunno could see the haystack now, and more dimly the wagon. He stopped creeping, the two men with him following suit. After examining what he could see and hear of their immediate surroundings, he signalled—made three low sharp hisses—and continued toward the haystack. His two men should be creeping to examine the cart and wagon.

There seemed to be no sentries around. Probably the Gorballis saw no need of any and preferred not to draw attention to the haystacks. Or maybe they were just hay. Nonetheless he slowed as he neared the stack, and lowered himself to his belly, crawling.

The hay smelled fresh-cured. When he reached it, he burrowed in, forcing his way, eyes closed to protect them, feeling ahead of him as he crawled, breathing dust, and quickly touched something hard that felt like stout timber. He stopped, felt around, discovered a rather small thick wheel. Pushing against the weight of hay, he got to his knees, hands probing higher now. Leaves and chaff itched inside his uniform. He felt hard cylindrical metal with the texture of unpolished iron.

On hands and knees once more, he backed away carefully, trying to disturb the hay as little as possible, then stopped and rose to his knees again, feeling above him. The iron was still there. His hands crawled, found an end of it. With a hole! A hole that his hand said was about the width of his palm.

Lowering himself again, he crawled backward out of the stack and looked around. He wished he could take off his uniform and shake the chaff out. Both his men were ready and waiting for him. Without a whispered word they crawled toward their own lines. When they were well away, they heard trotting hooves, and flattened till the Gorrbian security patrol was well past. After that they rose to a crouch and hurried, but not carelessly, until the ends of two ridges rose on each side. Inky shadows filled the canyon bottom, and a low voice challenged: "Who's there?"

"Borrsio's grandsons," Vendunno answered quietly.

"Advance and be recognized."

They did, one of the sentries stepping out to peer closely at them, while others unseen surely stood by with bent bows, naked swords, and one with trumpet ready to blare.

"They're all right," said the first, and the reconn patrol walked through, still quietly.

"Maatio, what did you find?" Vendunno asked at last.

"The cart was full of cylinders, sir, tapering at one end to a sort of blunt point. About this big around." He indicated a diameter of roughly four inches.

"Not iron balls then?"

"No, sir."

Vendunno looked at the other man. "And you?"

"The wagon had sacks in it. Felt as if they were full of sand."

Unconsciously the lieutenant began to walk faster, eager to report. It was pretty much as Doziellos suspected. The only difference was that the carts held cylinders instead of iron balls. Verdunno wondered if he'd be going out there again tomorrow night.

* * *

Doziellos had sent patrols to check out two haystacks that had carts and wagons by them, and two that did not. They'd checked out as he'd expected: The stacks with carts and wagons concealed what could only be the "cannons" the foreigner had warned about. Those without wagons and carts seemed to be simply hay.

So, he thought, twelve cannons then. The only false note was that the carts held cylinders four or five inches across instead of iron balls. He didn't know what that might mean, but cannon they surely seemed to be, which meant carrying out Plan Three tomorrow night.

* * *

Great Lillia's crescent was setting later and thicker each night, casting more light. And they didn't want to be spotted by Gorrbian sentries or security patrols, so they hadn't started till well on toward midnight. Vendunno wasn't as relaxed about this one. Last night only three patrols besides his own had gone out. Tonight there were twelve, all told, which tripled the odds of someone being sported and alarming the whole damned Gorrbian army. And last night they'd chosen haystacks with no squad tents close at hand. Tonight they couldn't do that.

He was glad he'd been given the same stack as before. The nearest tents to it were a couple hundred feet away. It didn't help stealth any, though, that Maatio was carrying two tied leather sacks of cement mud slung over his shoulders. They made it harder to sneak. And they couldn't hide for long to avoid security patrols because the damn cement would start setting up, and they needed it liquid enough to pour.

About halfway there they heard hooves again, and lay flat in a slight depression where the grass was longer. Be a hell of a thing if they rode tight into us, Vendunno thought, but they passed a hundred feet away, and he relaxed. Nothing more happened all the way to the haystack.

Vendunno found the cannon muzzle again without burrowing in, just stood outside and groped, then removed an armful of hay and took one of the bags from Maatio. Its lashing had been untied. He poured the mud into the bore, then poked his hand in, pushed the mud deeper, and repeated with the other sack. They'd brought two in case something happened and they lost one of them, but it seemed to him he might as well use them both. When he was done, he stuffed both bags in his waistband, and they tidied up the haystack as best they could.

They'd crawled back maybe a hundred yards when they heard shouts from east aways, then more shouts. Hooves drummed in that direction. "Let's move it!" Vendunno husked, and crouched, they started running through the darkness, back toward the canyon.

* * *

General Doziellos needed to know what the results had been. Thus he waited in the dark, in the mouth of Canyon Three—what the troops had nicknamed Headquarters Canyon. Each returned spiking team had been put on kaabors and brought to him when they checked in at a sentry point. At least six cannons had been spiked with concrete. Maybe more, depending on whether the two teams who hadn't gotten back had spiked theirs before they were discovered. Four other teams had sneaked back without reaching their targets; theirs had been close to Gorrbian tents, and with the uproar, it had seemed both futile and suicidal to go on with it.

So there were between four and six cannons not spiked.

He'd hoped they wouldn't have to use Plan Four, but he'd prepared for it; it meant more casualties than he liked to take. His lips thinned. Before this year was over, he told himself, he'd be calloused to casualties.

So. Plan Four, and carry it out tonight. Odds were that the Gorballis didn't realize what the prowlers had been doing. But by daylight they'd almost surely notice that some of the haystacks had been disturbed—the stacks concealing the cannons. They'd discover what had happened, and set strong guards on the cannons that remained.

And it was important to nullify all of them.

He gave the order. Messengers climbed into their saddles and rode out of the canyon, trotting their kaabors to the cavalry troops waiting for this contingency. With as much neutrality as he could muster, he dropped a hint to Hrum that he'd like this to work. And that he'd prefer to have as many of his men as possible get back safely.

Then, grim-faced, he rode up the canyon some three-quarters of a mile and took the trail that slanted up Ridge Four, the highest, the backbone of the isthmus, toward its first-line fort. He'd be able to see at least something from up there, although dark as it was, he might not know what he was seeing.

* * *

Doziellos stared into blackness. Surely, he thought, they should have struck by now. But he hadn't seen or heard a thing, except for night fires, tiny in the distance, a sign that the Gorballis had become more watchful. Stealth wouldn't buy much now; they'd been alarmed. The best he could hope for was to confuse them. Ride in, quietly until you'd been discovered, then charge hard, carry out your missions, and flee.

He was too far away to hear the shouts or even see the fire arrows as they arced toward some of the haystacks. He hoped they hadn't fired stacks that hid cannons. The idea was to fire stacks that concealed nothing—draw attention to them and the men who'd fired them—while other kaabormen spiked the remaining unspiked cannons. But it was awfully damned dark out there; it would be easy to make mistakes.

And now he could hear trumpets, distant and faint, and Gorrbian because he'd sent no trumpets out. A few minutes later there was a tremendous roar, a great flash of flame, and what seemed to be burning hay blew billowing. A minute or so later there was another explosion, and quickly a third. He clenched his jaw in chagrin; it seemed to him they'd lit some wrong haystacks. A fourth followed several minutes later.

Things quieted then, and after several more minutes of futile staring he rode grim-faced out of the fort and south along the ridge.

His forward headquarters were south along the crest at the third fort. From there his signalman could see all the forts on all the ridges, and read their semaphores and signal torches. The isthmus was a lousy place to invade, but it was even worse to courier messages. Luckily it wasn't the season for fogs this far north.

Arriving, he got off his kaabor. An orderly took the reins and led it to the stable to be rubbed down and fed. Doziellos found himself wondering again how many cannons they'd missed. Maybe the gunpowder that blew up was at cannons spiked earlier; maybe they had gotten them all.

Go to bed, he told himself. Get some sleep. You've done what you could. They'll tell you what happened in the morning.

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Framed