Now I Rise (The Conqueror's Saga #2)(69)

With all the clanging and shouting, Radu was disoriented. His head felt light, and his heart was beating far faster than the run here should have made it.

The sound of a stone ball smashing against a stone wall shook him out of his stupor. Cyprian guided Radu through the chaos to where the emperor and Giustiniani waited. They stood beneath a tower, gesturing emphatically. The barrel of a very large cannon stuck out of the tower, pointed toward the Ottoman troops.

“No!” Radu shouted, sprinting toward them.

A cracking noise rendered him momentarily deaf. As though it were happening from a very great distance, he watched the unanchored force of the cannon shoot it backward. The heat and movement of the blast were too much for the gun. As it hit the back of the tower with shattering force, both gun and tower exploded. Radu turned and tackled Cyprian to the ground beneath them, covering his head as rubble rained down on them. Something slammed into his shoulder.

When only a fine shower of dust was left falling around them, Radu rolled off Cyprian, clutching his shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” Cyprian leaned over him, searching him for a wound.

“Look for the emperor! He was closer.”

Cyprian stood, dodging around the remains of the tower. “Uncle? Uncle!”

With a pained groan, Radu pushed himself up to a seated position. The tower was gone. Only its stone base was left. Several broken bodies were half buried in the rubble.

“Over here!” Cyprian shouted. Radu grimaced as he tried to stand. Cyprian must have found the emperor. Or his body. Radu knew he should feel relief or even joy that the emperor had been killed this soon—and by his own men’s folly, no less. But it made him sad.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, looking up in wonder as Constantine held out a hand to help him stand. “I thought— You were so close to the tower!”

“Giustiniani heard your shout and we jumped free. How did you know it would come down?” Constantine looked toward the remains with murder written on his face. “Is my weapons master a traitor? Did he sabotage us?”

Radu grabbed his shoulder as though that could ease the pain pounding through him. “Not a traitor. Simply a fool. You cannot fire a cannon that large without padding all around it. The force of the blast pushes it backward. He packed too much gunpowder, too. I told you I knew of the sultan’s guns. Urbana, the engineer who made them, was from Transylvania. She was my friend. We spoke often.”

“Let me see,” Cyprian said. He turned Radu around and gently peeled Radu’s shirt free from his injured shoulder. His fingers were as light as a promise where they traced Radu’s skin. Radu shivered. “You are not bleeding. There will be a lot of bruising. But if you can still move your shoulder, it is probably not broken.” Cyprian’s fingers lingered for a few infinite seconds longer; then he replaced Radu’s shirt. That sense of breathlessness was back.

Giustiniani cleared his throat, spitting. He had so much stone dust in his hair he looked as though he had aged thirty years. He considered Radu thoughtfully. “Are you an expert in cannons, then?”

“Not an expert. But none of these towers are equipped for cannons. They are not strong enough, and there is not enough room to support the guns. You will have to figure out another way to use them.”

“We thought if we could fire back at the sultan’s cannons, we could—”

“Too small a target. By the time you used enough shots to get the range right, they would move their guns. You have seen their camp. If you managed to destroy even one cannon, they have the means to repair and cast new cannons. I am certain Urbana will be with them. No one is better than she. And I am guessing they have dug in and are firing from behind a bulwark.”

Constantine nodded grimly. “That first shot at the Saint Romanus Gate—even I thought the world was ending. But it has not been repeated. Maybe the cannon broke?”

Radu tested his shoulder. He could move it, but the pain was excruciating. “The Basilica.” He almost smiled, thinking how delighted Urbana would be. “It has to cool between firing, so it’s limited to several shots a day. It was more to prove they could than for any practical use. It is the number of guns you should fear, not the size of one. Are the walls holding?”

Giustiniani shook some of the grit from his hair. “So far there are no holes big enough to threaten us. They fire wrong. They should fire in sets of three, one on each side and then one in the middle, to bring a whole section down. Instead, they fire at the same spot over and over again. They are doing damage, but not enough.”

Giustiniani leaned out, watching without flinching as a massive ball shattered against the wall some ways down from them. The sound was louder than any Radu had ever heard, like thunder smashing against thunder.

“We cannot absorb these blows. The fragments from the wall are as likely to kill our men as the cannon shot itself.” Giustiniani was silent for a while, deep in thought. “We cannot answer their cannons, nor can we trust the strength of the walls.” He smiled grimly. “It is time to become more flexible.”



Because of Radu’s shoulder injury, he helped Cyprian with organizing rather than going to fix the walls. All day they ran, directing men to dump mortar paste down the walls to strengthen them. They attached rope to bales of wool and lowered them to absorb impacts. The palace was raided of all tapestries, the elegant stitching and bright depictions of the past now draped over the walls in a desperate attempt to secure a future.