Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

by John F. Carr

  The next dispatch contained disturbing news from Duke Skranga, Chief of Intelligence, about the continuing troop build-up at Tarr-Veblos, Tarr-Harphax and other military centers throughout the kingdom of Hos-Harphax. Maybe Kalvan should have followed his instincts last year and taken his army into Hos-Harphax, while the Harphaxi Army was still in shock from the losses at Tenabra and Chothros Heights. This past spring the Harphaxi could have been routed with ease. The troop build-up, sponsored by Styphon’s House, was getting worrisome. Still, the nomad invasion into the Trygath had been a major problem, one he was able to turn around and spring back upon the Zarthani Knights who’d tried to use the tribesmen as a cat’s paw against Hostigos.

  Dividing his army might have led to a great victory in Hos-Harphax, but it would have come with a steep cost--a very possible defeat in the west by the Sastragathi horde. The truth was that Hos-Hostigos could not afford a defeat anywhere; the minute he stopped winning battles the people of Hos-Hostigos would stop believing in the Gods’-Sent-Kalvan-- then his problems would really begin. His insurmountable problem was that he was surrounded by enemies who out-gunned him, out-numbered him and everything but out-generaled him--at least, not yet!

  This new Harphaxi Captain-General showed every sign of being a first rate commander, unless his capture of Tarr-Veblos was a fluke. Kalvan knew that pigs might grow wings before fate sent him any more incompetent generals like those who’d led the last Harphaxi invasion force. This Phidestros, from Skranga’s reports, was either a fast learner, or a first rate tactician; he doubted he’d face any more witlings like the late Prince what’s-his-name who’d led the Harphaxi lancers into a deadly hail storm of lead.

  There was a timid knock at the door, which sounded particularly feminine--for a moment his heart hammered like a vibrating drumhead. Is it Rylla? Then he heard an unfamiliar voice ask, “May I come in, Your Majesty?”

  Where’s Cleon when I need him, thought Kalvan to himself. What’s the use of having a body servant if he’s never where he’s needed. Then he realized what he was really feeling was disappointment; not anger, disappointment that it wasn’t Rylla coming to his chamber to ask forgiveness. Well, now that he thought it out, that didn’t seem very likely, but one could hope . . .

  “Your Majesty? Are you there?”

  “Come in, please.”

  A very attractive young lady, of obvious noble birth--her dress and carriage were proof of that--entered the room. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Your Majesty.”

  Kalvan shook his head; her he would have remembered. “Sorry, I kept you waiting, but I was tending the fire.” He turned to stir some coals.

  “I don’t mean to intrude, Your Majesty, but Prince Phrames asked me to intercede.”

  Ahhh. This must be the Lady Eutare that Harmakros mentioned the other night, the future Mrs. Phrames. Her father was that rarity on both here-and-now and on his home world; a noble with good business sense. According to Harmakros, he was one of Beshta’s richest grain merchants; an important faction that Phrames would need on his side if his attempt to re-build Beshta were to be successful. Now, having seen Lady Eutare, he suspected that Phrames’ interests were more than political. For not the first time, he wanted to hear Rylla’s take on Lady Eutare and Prince Phrames; it was becoming increasingly more difficult to rule wisely with his best advisor giving him the cold shoulder.

  “Intercede in what? Is Phrames having trouble with your parents? If so, I will certainly stand at his right hand--”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Lady Eutare said, blushing. “I’m Great Queen Rylla’s new Lady-in-Waiting. We weren’t introduced when you returned. The Queen has sent me to remind you, which I’m sure you haven’t forgotten ...” She paused to blush an even deeper red. “The Allmother Festival is coming soon--in a moon-quarter.”

  Kalvan slapped his thigh--he had forgotten. It was almost time for the harvest festival and, with the kingdom-wide bumper crops, their subjects would expect him and Rylla to lead the festivities held in the name of the Goddess Yirtta.

  “What does she want now?” he asked too sharply, and Eutare drew back from him as if expecting a slap.

  “Excuse me, but I’m not myself these days.” He turned to the fire, rubbing his hands vigorously. When he was breathing in measured breaths once again, he turned back to Lady Eutare. “What does the Great Queen have planned for Harvest Festival?”

  “A party at her father’s palace.”

  Prince Ptosphes’ summer palace, that’s good, he thought, neutral ground.

  “She thought you might want to spend some time with your daughter, since you missed her Name Day.”

  Yes, I was off killing Zarthani Knights in the Sastragath! Kalvan fought to keep his temper in check. Don’t blame the messenger! “Of course, I do,” he answered. He wanted to spend all of his time with his little girl, but not with her mother standing over Demia shooting daggers at him with her eyes. “Tell her I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lady Eutare answered, curtsying. She turned and all but fled the room. That had been happening a lot lately, and not just with the ladies. His being out of sorts with Rylla was not only bad for them, for Princess Demia and for their friends, but hard on the other people around them too. If only there were some way they could turn back the clock, but he might as well wish for another cross-time flying saucer to land, or Styphon’s House to declare peace--

  II

  Myros the Apprentice tightly clenched his chattering teeth, wondering what was more chilling: the screams coming from behind the plank door or the frigid stones he sat upon. Myros had been sawing lumber at the shop of Eranes the Carpenter when the Investigators had arrived to drag off the Master and all his apprentices into the dungeons of the former Balph City gaol. Master Eranes, who was also a secret highpriest of Allfather Dralm, had found Myros begging on the streets of Balph and given him his first job, had even taken him into his home--an act of kindness Eranes was certainly regretting now. It’s not my fault, he thought, I can’t stand pain.

  The screech of the cell door’s hinges set his whole body to shivering beneath the thin tunic he was wearing. The flame from the oil lamp flickered as a shadowy form emerged into the dim antechamber, though whether from fear or the slight breeze that emanated from the cell, Myros could not answer. As the dark figure stepped into the dim light, Myros made out the stark, angular face of the Holy Investigator Roxthar--a devil in human form! The Investigator was wearing a butcher’s apron liberally splashed with dried and fresh blood; he didn’t know what scared him more, Roxthar’s glowing red eyes or the blood-spattered apron and all the anguish it promised.

  Myros had seen blood before, sometimes copious amounts; after all, he’d grown up on the streets of Balph as the unrecognized bastard son of some temple priest and a tavern drab who’d died when he was seven winters old. If fact, his life would have already been ended had not Highpriest Eranes taken him in as an adopted son. Allfather Dralm, what have I done?

  “Boy, stand up,” Roxthar said in a voice that didn’t allow for discussion.

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  Roxthar’s lips twisted into a small smile that somehow was more frightening than his usual tight-lipped grimace.

  “You have done well, boy, giving us the name of this false priest, Eranes. Unfortunately, he does not bend to my rod. Are you certain that you have given me all the names of the worshippers of the False God Dralm?”

  Myros’ body writhed in fear. “Yes, Holy One--I have told you everything. I don’t know any other worshippers . . .”

  Roxthar nodded for him to continue. A fresh chorus of screams from the hallway outside the chamber punctuated the motions of his long head.

  “For a hundred winters, since the worship of Allfather--I mean the False God Dralm--was banned in Balph, the worshippers of the False God have met in secret in the tombs below the city. Each body of worshippers is kept secret from the others. The Way of the Secret is that only one person from ea
ch finger knows anyone else in any other finger. The highpriest is the one person who knows all the leaders of each finger of Dralm’s Hand--as the hidden Temple is called.”

  “How many fingers are there?”

  “Only Highpriest Eranes knows, Your Holiness.”

  “This way of the Hand shows more wisdom than I’ve given these blasphemers credit for. Unfortunately, the false Highpriest Eranes will not talk. Follow me, boy.”

  Myros walked into a stone room lit by three flickering candles that reminded him very much of the catacombs under the city streets. Master Eranes slumped from the wall, held upright by the chains on his arms. Eranes’ right hand looked strange, and it wasn’t until Myros moved closer that he could see that all of the fingers were missing. The stench of burning flesh lingered in the stale air.

  “He is a brave man, this false priest,” Roxthar intoned. “I’ll give him credit for more stomach than my new scribe.”

  In one corner of the stone cell was a ball of rags that upon closer inspection revealed itself to be a young man in a vomit-stained white robe. The scribe jerked spasmodically and started to choke.

  “Boy, drag this sack of excrement out of here. I need an assistant with a stiffer spine for Styphon’s Work.”

  Myros took hold of the scribe’s ankles, just above his wooden clogs, and dragged him out of the cell.

  “Boy!” Roxthar’s voice echoed.

  Myros, against his will, returned to the cell like a sleepwalker.

  Roxthar grabbed Myros by the front of his tunic, lifting him up into the air with one arm, until he was face to face with his former Master and adopted father. Myros’ heart beat wildly as Roxthar removed a nasty looking set of long-nosed grips out of an apron pocket and opened them in front of his right eye.

  “This is the boy who betrayed you, your family and your assistants. Answer my questions, and I will pluck his eye out like a grape!”

  Master Eranes opened his eyes and said, “Spare the boy. He knew not what he was doing.”

  Roxthar dropped Myros upon the floor like a heap of smelly laundry and loomed over him like the great golden Idol in Styphon’s House Upon Earth. Roxthar nodded to the opposite corner where, unnoticed, a man in black robes, wearing a black mask that covered his entire head except his eyes, stood silently. The man lifted up a piece of wire in both hands, which he held out.

  “Boy,” Roxthar said, “ if your answer disappoints me, my friend here will wrap that wire around your neck and squeeze until your head pops like a boil. Do you understand?”

  Myros didn’t trust his voice so he nodded.

  “Good. What does this false priest value above all things?”

  Myros thought quickly and then felt his stomach drop when the answer fell into his mind.

  “Speak up, or die.”

  “His daughter, little Arlass. He always says she is the bright ray of his days!”

  A tortured “Noooooo!” burst from between Eranes’ lips.

  “You have done well,” Roxthar said, nodding to himself. “There maybe hope. You have renounced the False God and taken Styphon as the One God. Leave me alone and repent your sins. I will speak to you again after my work here is done.”

  The man in black escorted him out of the cell and back to the cold stone bench. To Myros, having just touched death’s face, the stones felt surprisingly warm and comforting. The scribe was nowhere to be seen; it was as if he’d never been. A horrible howl, somehow less than human, echoed down the corridor.

  I am in Regwarn, Myros thought, and all the gods are dead. If Allfather Dralm can stand aside and let his highpriest be tortured and maimed, what good is this god? And Styphon, what kind of god is he? One who releases a fiend like Roxthar to do his grisly work? Henceforth, I no longer believe in gods, only in the evil that men do to each other. I will do whatever I must to escape this madman’s grasp.

  While his mind pondered the capriciousness of fate and the indifference of gods and men alike, a young girl, her blonde hair cascading down her back in ringlets, was brought into the cell by the man in black. Her entrance was shortly followed by a chorus of shrill screams and a primal growling like that of some beast. Then the cell door slammed shut.

  A long time later, when the flame from his oil lamp began to flicker and grow dim, the cell door creaked open, revealing Roxthar, his apron dripping with fresh blood. “Your false priest has given me the names of every blasphemer he knows. We will quickly pluck the garden of Balph of all worshippers of the False God. You have done Styphon’s work today, boy. The girl was his weakness.”

  He threw a handful of bloody, broken teeth at the boy’s feet. Some, Myros noted, were quite small.

  “Is she ... ?”

  “She rests with her father. I have said a prayer over her body and asked Styphon to accept her in his Hall. She was too young to know Dralm or any other of the false gods.”

  If only there was a god--somewhere, anywhere--to forgive me for what I have done! Now that I am no longer of use, what new purpose will this monster bend me to now?

  “The last apprentice I Investigated informed me that you know your letters. Is this true?”

  “Yes, Holy One. Mistress Jomna--” he paused to stop the involuntary circle he’d been about to make around his breast, a sign of the Allfather. Myros gulped. “The false priest’s wife taught me well.”

  “That is what one of the other apprentices, one who was not so cooperative, told us. He will no longer be able to use his right hand, but he has renounced Dralm and accepted Styphon as the True God--as you have.”

  Roxthar paused to stare into his eyes as though he could peer right through the surface pools and bore into Myros’ mind. “Is your faith true?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Holiness,” Myros said, unable to keep his voice from trembling.

  “We will see. For now, you will be my new scribe.”

  Myros fought the scream that tore at the back of his throat. “Y-y-yes, Holy One.”

  “First, I must teach you the True Words. How when the Dark God Hadron released the Fireseed Demons upon the Earth, it was Styphon who left the Cloud Temple to take his message to all the mortals. His words fell upon the Earth like rain, but Dralm’s evil worshippers caught them with their hands and swallowed them so no one would realize that their False God was the one who convinced Hadron to release his Fireseed Demons ...”

  Myros tried to focus his attention on the Evil One’s words, because he knew that someday soon he would be called upon to repeat them. Still, he could not escape from the lonely scream that echoed at the back of his skull.

  III

  The guard to the Great King’s private chamber held the ceremonial copper halberd before him with the double-bladed head facing Phidestros. He stomped the butt down on the floor twice and announced, “You may enter, Captain-General Phidestros! Great King Lysandros is expecting you.”

  Lysandros sat in his high-backed chair stroking his goatee with one hand while holding a goblet of wine in the other. Lysandros pointed to a shorter chair. “Have a seat, Captain-General.”

  Phidestros took the seat and tried to will his heart to beat at a measured cadence. This was his first visit to the palace since his return to Tarr-Harphax, after his successful capture of Tarr-Veblos. Soon Grand Master Soton and whatever temple rats he brought with him from Balph would enthrone Lysandros Great King of Hos-Harphax, giving Lysandros his lifelong wish to sit upon the Iron Throne. Still, Lysandros’ temperament was mercurial; one needed a soothsayer to foresee all his moods.

  Lysandros lit his pipe, drew deeply, exhaled and then began to speak. “Grand Master Soton had good things to say about your work with the Royal Army before he left for Balph. He believes that you have done wonders with the re-building of the Harphaxi Army. As a reward for your efforts and the taking of the Beshtan tarr,” Lysandros held up a bank draft, “I present you with this draft on Styphon’s Great Banking House for ten thousand golden rakmars. Like Soton, I believe in rewarding success, as well as punishing
failure.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty!” He was frozen to his seat. Of all the things he had expected, a Styphon’s House draft redeemable in gold was absolutely last on the list.

  “Keep up the good work and when this Usurper is vanquished you may yet receive the princedoms I promised.”

  Phidestros was pleased to hear that Lysandros remembered his promise to grant him the Princedoms of Beshta and Sashta after King Kalvan was defeated. Most kings and princes had poor memories when it came to such promises, especially those spoken in private and not put to parchment. As a man and as a Great King, Lysandros had his faults; fortunately, being an oath-breaker was not one of them. If Lysandros’ aim was to urge him to win the war, he could not have picked a better incentive.

  “The Grand Master did bring up one important point.”

  Here it comes, thought Phidestros. The blade between the shoulders!

  “Soton believes that the Army needs to be blooded. Holding them outside of the Phaxi borders while the Hostigi sacked Phaxos Town was not good for morale. True, your siege of Tarr-Veblos was a great victory, but it was the cavalry who swept the field. Soton believes that if the foot soldiers have a taste of victory, they will fall upon Kalvan’s troopers like wolves.”

  “I agree, Your Majesty. It would be very good for morale. But already the Allmother Festival approaches and soon the roads will be impassable.” If Lysandros wanted him to re-capture Phaxos from the occupying Hostigi, Phidestros would do everything in his power to discourage him. If not, he might be fighting three armies, the Hostigos Phaxosi army of occupation, the Hostigos Army of Observation and the Beshtan Army under Prince Phrames.

  Lysandros paused to blow out a cloud of smoke. “True. So we must make this campaign fast and hard. I have decided that it is time to clean out that wasp’s nest in Thaphigos and take the false prince Eltar prisoner.”

  Phidestros took a deep breath and relaxed. In his heart, Phidestros agreed that the Royal Army needed to take to the field; he just hoped it wasn’t too soon. If it was, this bank draft might be his only reward. There was, however, greater consolation in the fact that he wouldn’t be facing the Hostigi this time. The Thaphigosi army was neither large nor well armed.