After the Downfall

The place where Hasso ensconced himself was more than a farm and less than an estate. Maybe it was as close as the Bucovinans could come to a Lenello-style estate. It had a big, fancy house – but one with a thatched roof. Several peasant families who worked the fields and tended stock in the meadows lived in cottages not far from the big house. The house and land belonged to Zgomot himself. The place was more than thirty kilometers away from Falticeni – far enough to let Hasso and his men make as much noise as they needed to.

Rautat and Drepteaza went with him. The underofficer translated for him with carpenters and catapult makers when his Bucovinan ran dry. The priestess did some of that, too. She also taught him more of the natives’ language. And she seemed intent on learning all the dirty fighting he knew how to teach.

‘“Sudden death on two legs,’“ she quoted. “That’s what I want.”

“You’re on your way,” Hasso said. She wasn’t as strong as he was, and she didn’t have his reach. But she was a long way from a weakling, and she was fast as a striking snake. She could hurt him, and she had, more than once. He’d knocked her about, too; once you started practicing anywhere close to full speed, that was bound to happen. Thumping down on thick grass in a meadow hurt less than the rammed-earth floor of the fencing room had.

The more-or-less estate didn’t stink the way Falticeni did – another advantage of moving to the country. Sure, it had a dungheap and some odorous privies. But it didn’t have tens of thousands of people crapping and pissing and not worrying much about how to dispose of the filth. Bucovinans bathed more than Lenelli, but their notions of sanitation were just as rudimentary as those of the blonds.

Once Hasso got the carpenters to understand what he wanted, they had no trouble mounting catapults on wheeled carts. Horses – or even donkeys – could pull them. “Field artillery,” he said happily. Back in the world he’d left behind, you couldn’t live without it … not very long, anyway. The Wehrmacht always used as much as it could. The Red Army had guns in carload lots.

Yes, the field artillery was easy. The ammo wasn’t. Hasso rapidly found earthenware pots wouldn’t do. He couldn’t fuse them precisely enough. If a pot hit the ground before a spark hit the gunpowder, it smashed like a broken plate. That wasted far too much precious gunpowder to work.

“Have to be metal,” he said. “Bronze or iron.”

“Expensive!” Rautat said in dismay. He wasn’t kidding, either. Part of Hasso still took an industrial economy for granted. Where everybody did everything by hand … You didn’t get anywhere near so much, and what you did get cost a lot more.

But he answered, “Not as expensive as losing to the Lenelli, eh?”

“Lord Zgomot will have to say,” Rautat told him. “I can’t order smiths to start making these things, not by myself I can’t.”

“Send to him,” Hasso said. “We find out. If he says no, we go back to Falticeni.”

Zgomot must have said yes, because several bronzesmiths and ironsmiths came out to the estate to find out what Hasso wanted. He explained. One of the smiths tapped his forehead, as if to say this foreigner was out of his mind. Hasso let the short, wide-shouldered men watch an ordinary clay pot full of gunpowder blow up. One of them pissed himself in surprise and fear. After that, they didn’t think he was crazy any more.

“Hollow balls,” one of them said. “Can we make halves and solder them together? That would be a lot faster.”

Hasso shook his head. “Not strong enough, I’m afraid.”

“Can we rivet halves together?” another smith asked. “That should hold them till your magic works.”

“It isn’t magic,” Hasso said wearily. “But yes, try riveting.” It wouldn’t be as fast as soldering, but he could see that it would be a lot faster than making hollow spheres from scratch. The bronzesmiths looked especially pleased. They could cast their hemispheres instead of beating them out. The Bucovinans knew how to make and work wrought iron, but they couldn’t cast it.

Yet another smith asked, “How many do you need, and how soon do you need them?” – the basic questions of war.

As many as you can make and a hundred more besides, and I need them all yesterday. That was any field officer’s automatic answer. Here, though, caution looked like a good idea. “How many do you think you can make? How fast?” he asked in return.

They had to put their heads together before they gave him an answer. Some of them were scratching their heads, too – they weren’t used to thinking in terms of numbers. When they did speak up, he was pleasantly surprised. Even cutting their claims in half, he’d have enough shells to fight a battle soon enough to give the Lenelli a proper greeting.

“You really think you can do that?” he asked.

“We do. By Lavtrig, we do,” answered the man who spoke for them. He had impressive dignity – and scarred, gnarled hands that were even more convincing.