LA Hoburgs Intro (short story)

[DrPraetorious]

Episode I - Wheat, Steel and Blood
I am Dansk, called far-sighted, son of Dansk, also the far-sighted, and I am fifth of the name. Though I am young, I am a wise of my people, a mage of the growing things and of the spheres, and I am come to the fertile lands of our smallfolk neighbors as a diplomat.

Though diminutive of stature, they are in recent generations a fierce and inventive people. I travel with six brave warriors of my own clan, all ahorse, stout, muscled and with fine armaments, and much learned in martial matters (lore in which I am sadly lacking.) We ride along wide, stone-paved roads, flanked by vast fields, packed with a great bounty of summer wheat, near ready for harvest. Having recently come down from the mountains, these are the first such great fields that I have seen, though my clansmen are better traveled.

On the first day, we pass a strange wooden and brass construction driven into the ground, many tens of cubits high and with many wheels. One of our guides, a bronze-armored and black and red robed warrior-priest of their new God, is happy to explain: A system of gears and pulleys drives water from a deep well into a system of aqueducts - it is driven by dozens of the small folk, who turn smaller contraptions with their feet, which in turn together drive something like a great mill-wheel, sucking water up from the earth to feed the thirsty fields. The small folk all pump their feet in unison, singing a high and merry song to keep the rhythm. "The machine is very clever," the priest admits, "and a fine blessing. But look to the joy and unity of the people in the fields, the fertile harvests. This is the true blessing of our God." His little blue eyes shine with bright zeal, and I play the diplomat - "The God is indeed unmatched in generosity." The little priest seems satisfied.

After we have ridden another candle mark, as we are taking a snack on the ride (which the burgmen do regularly) another of our hosts, a heavily armored boar-mounted knight, pats his ample belly, and says "hungry though we burg-folk may be, we need but half the grain of our cousins in your mountains, theurg." He mistakes me, I am but a humble enchanter, but I do not correct him. "The fields you can see with your eye today," they extend to the very horizon in every direction away from the mountains at our back, though it is a bright, clear summer day, "could feed three whole battalions on the march, and keep them in whores and beer, to boot."

I still find it disconcerting to see a man of such short stature, lacking any facial hair (as is the pattern among the burgmeisters) talking so bluntly about drink and whores, but I see that my knight-escorts are duly impressed. More is to come.

We pass a small village, and her residents have come out to drill. In my great-great-father's time, the hoburgs had depended entirely on projectiles for their defense, which my countrymen regarded as cowardly but I think rather sensible. Marching beneath the banner of their new God, commanded by another martial priest of my guide's order, the men of this hoburg have formed a square of gleaming pikes. Though somewhat shorter than the long spears wielded by men in the south, they are fierce weapons nonetheless. They march back and forth with no hesitation, in exceptionally tight formation, and without tangling their weapons. It is later explained to me that such a disciplined pike-square, even of the small-folk, would be a great deterrent to the yeoman-cavalry of which our military is composed.

They have not abandoned their archery, either. The next town is quite a bit larger - nearly as large as the seat of my own lord and Duke, but given the smaller scale of the hoburg dwellings, it probably contains more households. Just beyond the town, the burgmen have lined up in a great array, many scores across and four burgmen deep. Each wields a crank-driven crossbow with considerable pull. When they fire in unison, their darts fall like rain on the targets across the field. The targets have been draped in chain, and where the darts fall, they puncture it with ease.

As we ride along the rode and watch, the target field comes between us and the setting sun. The shadows of each volley roll across the red-gold wheat like a black wave, seeming to sweep us forward toward the plume of oily smoke which is now visible on the southern horizon. The worse is yet to come.

We have ridden across the fields of the hoburgs for three days. If I have my figures right, there are at least twice as many smallfolk in the fields though which we have already travelled as in our entire Duchy.

Shortly after dawn, we approach the city, which I am told is but a shadow of the true Capital in the south. The air grows thick with black smoke, and the clatter of great forges reaches my ears, as well as a stranger noise.

As we crest a shallow rise, we come upon the third and most afeared component of the mighty hoburg war machine, which I had thought nothing more than a spook story. Twelve score little clawed statues, shiny metallic men, are lined up in a field, opposite some ragged starving burgmen (as well as a few tall men) chained to wooden posts. In addition, there are several larger metal statues as well - great boars and some sort of wingless dragon with short, clawed limbs.

The strange noise is from their burgmen tenders, who turn great keys that have been buried into their steel carapaces. As the keys turn, the metal statues emit startlingly loud clicking noises, which I had heard as we approached. It is when I see one of the burgmen oiling the joints of one of the metal statues that I realize they are meant to move.

Another bronze-armored priest supervises the statues and when they are wound and oiled, he raises a hand and speaks a command without using his voice, in that language which is not language but which is known to them in the brighter spheres. Also in the darker spheres, it seems it is known. Very much it is known in the darker spheres. Even those who cannot make sense of such communication cannot help but be aware of it, and the prisoners, who had seemed broken utterly and given to despair, begin to weep and beg anew.

The statues, deaf to such piteous sounds, spring to life at the priest's command, and they hurtle themselves at the chained convicts with great swiftness, reducing them to ground meat and splintered bone in seconds.

The martial priest nods his approval, turns and raises a merry hand in salute to his comrade, my guide and escort. My guide returns a bronze-gauntleted hand-wave and, in the not-language, he tells a joke. The voice which is not a voice is not subject to translation into human tongue, but the sensibility was roughly this: that the prisoners squealed like stuck pigs this time, because they had the manners of them. The priest commanding the metal instruments of death creases his cherubic face in a bright smile and returns a polite laugh.

The gates of the city have been flung open to receive our embassy. A red and gold robed cardinal of the new God stands flanked by a dozen and more burgmen of obvious wealth and distinction. Two rows of burgmen temple-knights, in fine and lustrous black and red and bronze dress uniform, prepare to be our honor guard for our procession through the city. It seems I am to be received above my rank - a banner draped in moonvines hangs beneath the symbol of my duke on a pole, as though it were my own noble sigil. Fine candied fruits and chilled teas have been laid out for our refreshment after the dusty ride, but with the stench of fresh gore and the acrid scent of the great forges of the hoburg city, I find I have no appetite.

(Episode II - The Forges of Molech, forthcoming.)

And yes, the mod nation Hoburgs, Forges of Molech, is in the works for the late era (when, like everyone else, they have descended into blood sacrifice, cannibalism and madness). Mainly I need some artwork for the bigger clockwork monsters, and a few more hoburg infantry. And if anyone has any suggestions, of course I'd love to get them once I've made it clear what I have in mind.