by John F. Carr
The Highpriest, who no longer wore his yellow robes, nodded. “If we can defeat the Grefftscharrer Army here, we can perform both a service to Styphon and a disservice to the Usurper Kalvan. The Kings of Grefftscharr only rule as long as they show enough strength to cow both their under-lords and the powerful merchants of Greffa. It has been rumored that arms have been shipped from Greffa to the false kingdom of Hostigos. A win here will be the first victory of next year’s campaign!”
Zarphu was impressed with the priest’s knowledge of things other than arcane rites and offerings of his trade and wondered if he had served in a military order before putting on his robes. He had learned from the fat merchant that Styphon’s House had two military arms of its own. Zarphu had tried to question Arkemanes about his past; he might have had better success with a stone, could any be found on this endless grassland.
Zarphu was not as convinced as the priest that his army--though greater in size--would be able to seize the battlefield. His knowledge of the enemy was negligible and his own army had no experience fighting against the firesticks. The Highpriest had demonstrated the noisy and smelly ‘muskets’ and they had proved to be capricious. The fireseed had to be dry or they would not fire. However, the muskets were deadly when fired--if they hit their target. Unlike his archers, who could hit the eye socket of an approaching enemy from a hundred paces.
His soldiers were all experienced troops--fourteen maniples of a thousand men each, eight of horse and six of foot soldiers. Plus, two maniples of the Lord Tyrant’s own Immortals--heavy armored cavalry who fought with spear and broadsword.
Zarphu turned to Stratego Lyphar and ordered, “The enemy is two marches away. When they are one march, have the foot archers and skirmishers run ahead and engage the enemy. They are not to hold, but fall back and draw the enemy in.”
He turned to another general and ordered him to support Lyphar’s foot with his light cavalry, mostly horse-archers and javelin throwers. Then he addressed Highpriest Arkemanes. “I would have taken the river route that my scouts recommended, but I also thought it might be best to test the mettle of the Eastern ironmen.”
Arkemanes looked over in surprise, and even had the grace to blush. It was the first time Zarphu had read any emotion on the priests’ face. If these priestly troops of Styphon’s were not soldiers at arms, they were soldiers of the heart.
“You must remember Highpriest, our records go back almost two thousand winters. We have traversed these lands and trails more times than there are nomads upon the Sea of Grass. While it is true that trade between us and the Middle Kingdoms has dwindled to a trickle, there are still among us those who trade along the old routes. Several of these are among our scouts. I am as anxious as you are to see how well my men hold against the firesticks. However, I suspect you will be the more surprised.”
It was also true that Zarphu sounded more confident about his troops than he felt. His people had heard stories about these fire weapons for centuries, and had obtained more than a few over the years of trading. However, as long as the fireseed was scarce, they were more curiosities than real weapons. One of the former traders had told him that the fireseed mystery was no longer a secret. If this were true, he would take back more than gold from these distant lands. With the firesticks, the Lord Tyrant would be able to complete his conquest of the city-states and expand his reach into the Sea of Grass and maybe even farther.
The light foot soldiers began to run forward and the heavy infantry, with full body shields and long spears, went into a double time. The massed heavy cavalry followed to exploit any breaks in the enemy lines. If all went well, the archers and javelin throwers would sting the enemy army, bringing forth the more impetuous cavalry and foot. Then the skirmishers would retreat behind the shield wall and the slaughter would commence; at least, that was how it was done in the homelands. Nothing was certain against an unknown enemy--except uncertainty.
II
Prince Varrack, purple plumes jutting out from the back of his burgonet, pointed to the growing mass of men, the sun sparkling off their armor, in the distance. “There are the Ros-Zarthani barbarians. We shall ride over them as the buffalo trample the Ruthani tent cities!”
“Your Lordship, I suggest we move to the rear just in case a stray spear comes our way,” one of the Barons suggested. “Let the professional soldiers do their work.”
“There will be few casualties today, my friend.” Prince Varrack said, slapping the Baron on the back with his gauntleted hand. The nobleman, who wore no more armor than a silvered breastplate over his red and black velvet doublet, staggered forward, almost falling off his mount. When he had regained his poise, he gave Varrack a pained expression. “My back hurts!”
Varrack had to choke back a laugh. Such weakness was all too typical of Greffa’s decadent nobility. Many of them wore more perfume than his courtesans. This will all change after the vile dog Theovacar is put in his place. I will return the Middle Kingdoms to their past glory, with Thagnor the king of cities, and it all begins today with my crushing defeat of these barbarians.
Another noble, this one with a cultivated lisp, announced, “Please, let us stay at the front, Varrack, so we can watch these creatures die up close!”
A young Count, with a wispy blonde beard, cried, “This is so much better than one of Theovacar’s Spectacles. One grows tired of pantomime sea battles and bear fights.”
Captain-General Errock said with gritted teeth, “Your Lordship, my men need to prepare for battle. We will be hampered if we have to spend our time protecting your guests.” The way he stepped on the last word left no doubt about his own feelings concerning the martial ability of Grefftscharrer nobles in general.
“We shall retire, Captain-General. It is your job to win this battle.” Under his breath, Prince Varrack added, “And win me the glory I need to challenge Theovacar in his own city.”
III
The battle opened almost like a scroll-written exercise out of Arch-Stratego Zarphu’s library. It appeared the Grefftscharrer soldiers held his army in contempt, allowing their own front ranks to break as they attempted to chase down the annoying skirmishers. The archers and spearmen quickly pulled back behind the now stationary shield wall and--once the enemy was within bow range--began to fire at will. Several hundred disorganized enemy light cavalry ran into the shield wall; many of them were impaled on spears or shot out of their saddles by arrows. When an enemy fell, a skirmisher would rush from behind the shields and dispatch him with a quick sword thrust.
When the enemy cavalry advanced to the shield wall, the surviving skirmishers and light cavalry moved to the wings. Meanwhile the enemy foot soldiers marched forward, setting their long spears and firesticks. The archers continued their steady stream of arrows, with gratifying results as the enemy was forced to close ranks and cease forward movement. Now the Grefftscharrer cavalry was forced to stand and take fire until their own infantry arrived. Meanwhile the archers and spearmen killed hundreds of Grefftscharrers, since only the front ranks of the Grefftscharrer cavalry wore full armor.
The enemy horse parted and a large body of firestick men and others carrying short bows with stocks moved forward. Suddenly, the firesticks crackled and sputtered, and a cloud of smoke with the stink of brimstone filled the air.
A noise like thunder hammered Zarphu’s ears! For a moment he thought his horse would buck him off its back. Several of his officers were thrown, but most quickly re-mounted. For a few moments there were holes in the shield wall, and the entire line buckled, until the rear ranks moved up. Only a few men broke ranks and they were cut down by the swords of their comrades. It appeared to Zarphu that most of the firesticks’ force was spent on the shields. The flight of arrows fired in answer inflicted many more casualties among the unprotected Grefftscharrer infantry, especially the firestick men who were not wearing steel chest plates.
The firestick men fired several times, but the shield wall held. The enemy’s own lines continued to take many mor
e casualties from bow fire and javelins.
Out of the cloud of smoke a large body of enemy horse, mostly armored, rushed forward striking the shield wall. Again the wall held, while the spears points spitted horses that screamed and bucked off their riders. Skirmishers rushed forward with long knives to slash the throats of the fallen horsemen and their mounts. The stalled enemy cavalry milled in front of the shield wall, futilely hacking at it with their swords or firing short firesticks, until their commanders ordered a retreat. When their surviving cavalry were back behind their own lines, the firestick men fired off their firesticks in unison.
One of his chief officers dropped off his saddle, sprouting a red hole just above his left eye. Zarphu cursed and wondered how many more irreplaceable troops he would lose in this battle.
The infantry battle continued, with their arrows inflicting three times as many casualties as the firesticks. The enemy infantry began to bunch up even tighter and the slaughter mounted. The Grefftscharrer foot became bunched together so closely that the enemy cavalry were forced to fight along the wings, where they were sternly rebuffed by the Immortals. Zarphu decided it was time to order forth his own heavy horse.
The horns sounded, and the infantry pulled back into lines. The iron-scaled cavalry moved forward through the infantry, while the shield wall re-formed behind them.
The three maniples of plumbati pushed forward until they were within range of the enemy, then took out their heavy darts, casting them into the massed infantry. The enemy infantry were momentarily paralyzed, then forced together so closely only a few of the firestick men could shoot their weapons. The archers ran forward again, supported by horse-archers and began firing point blank into the massed Grefftscharrer foot. The slaughter was horrific, with many of the enemy’s long spearmen casting their weapons aside and trying to break rank--only to find there was nowhere to go. The ground ran with streams of the enemy’s blood.
The plumbati pulled out their swords and cut their way through the ranks. Suddenly the entire body of enemy foot broke ranks, trampling those who stood in their way. The heavy spearmen now moved forward, cutting and slicing those left behind by the forward movement of the heavy cavalry. The enemy cavalry, spurred by the sight of their own retreating foot, rode over and through their own ranks to reach the plumbati-- and died by the score.
Zarphu nodded and another horn sounded. Both left and right wings of heavy cavalry moved out in a flanking pincers movement to surround the enemy army. He was sorely disappointed when the enemy horns suddenly rang out, and the Grefftscharrer horse turned and retreated, leaving behind several thousand foot soldiers. The enemy horse reformed ranks before the wings could close, but the plumbati struck them hard from the rear.
The Grefftscharrer infantry were now completely surrounded and disordered; the battlefield was littered with their brightly colored corpses. The cavalry reformed to chase the enemy horse, which fled so hurriedly they left behind their wounded.
Seeing their own cavalry flee, the Grefftscharrer foot surrendered, putting their helmets upon their swords. The survivors numbered less than half of those who had joined the battle. Zarphu rubbed his hands--a nice ransom.
Highpriest Arkemanes, too, had a big smile. He nodded, saying, “I am impressed, Arch-Stratego.” They both watched as the enemy horse, under withering fire, left in a massed but orderly retreat. “Are you going to ride them down?”
“We could grind them into the dust, but they are not cowards. We would take unnecessary losses. Also, another army lies in wait some forty marches away. There is no profit in goading them to attack. Better to let them hide behind their walls and lick their wounds, Highpriest. They will not forget us soon. We have other more important battles to win. And there will be no reinforcements.”
“Wisely put,” the Highpriest said. “I think many will be surprised by the Iron Men from across the Sea of Grass. None more so than the Usurper Kalvan!”
IV
“What happened to my army?” Prince Varrack cried when Captain-General Errock pulled up alongside, his horse breathing like a bellows.
The Captain-General’s face was white and there was blood splattered across his breastplate. “A lot of good men died because we under-estimated the enemy. It’s the Trickster’s own luck that the Ros-Zarthani didn’t decide to chase us to the City walls.”
“This is good fortune?” Varrack screamed, looking around at the ragtag collection of horsemen that surrounded him, their finery soiled and their plumed helmets discarded. “We have lost a great battle, and you talk of luck!”
“We will be laughed out of the City,” one of the Barons cried.
Varrack punched the Baron in the face with his armored hand, knocking him off his horse and onto the ground, where he was stretched out frozen as if he’d been poleaxed.
“You’ve killed him, Varrack!” the young Count cried. “This day has been a disaster for all of us.”
Except Theovacar, thought Varrack, who right this moment is laughing himself off his throne! He ground his teeth until they squealed. If we’d had King Theovacar’s support, this defeat would never have happened. He withheld his soldiers to play us as fools! This disaster is his fault. Theovacar is in the pay of the Usurper Kalvan, as the priests of Styphon’s House claim, otherwise he would have helped us take the field. Yes, this disaster is the result ofTheovacar’s treason! Wait until the City learns of it.
EIGHT
Kalvan woke with the knowledge that siege bombards were going off beside one ear. He couldn’t decide whether it was the left ear or the right ear.
Finally he decided it was both ears. He groaned and pulled the bearskin coverlet over his head. This movement made the bombards fire salvoes. It also made Kalvan realize that they were inside his ears.
A memory returned--he had been sitting on a bench, watching the All-mother Fires with a jug of wine (a whole jug, not a cup) in one hand and the other arm around a woman. He knew where the wine had gone. What had happened to the woman?
Half remembered fragments of a stage production of Midsummer Night’s Dream that he saw on stage in Philadelphia ran through his mind; for a moment, he wondered if some confused here-and-now Puck had turned him into a donkey, because he sure felt like a jackass!
Meanwhile, if it didn’t involve too much movement, he could do something about the hangover. Uncle Wolf Tharses had a poultice, which in combination with sassafras tea made a decent headache remedy. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Kalvan reached for the bell pull.
Instead, his hand encountered proof that he wasn’t alone in bed. Proof, what’s more, that his companion was a woman!
Kalvan’s gritted teeth couldn’t stifle a groan, more of disgust than pain this time. Well, now he knew what had happened to the woman he’d been drinking with. He also knew what would happen to what was left of his marriage, the minute Rylla found out.
Rylla would have right on her side, too--not just her pride. Kings who shared beds with random women were likely to breed up bastards. To a precariously seated Great King, a flock of royal bastards would be more liability than asset. Few of them would be worthy of admiration, as was Harmakros’ son, Aspasthar--
That’s what started this nightmare, he remembered. Last night had been Aspasthar’s adoption ceremony. Harmakros and Ptosphes had seemed determined to get him drunk on winter wine.
He heard a stifled groan from beneath the bed cover. Kalvan slowly pulled down the bearskin for a look. A thatch of golden blond hair that could only be Rylla’s met his eyes. Dralm be praised! it wasn’t that Greffan vixen from the Foundry--Eldra was her name, who’d been making eyes at him and a most immodest proposal--at the Founder’s Celebration the other night at the University. But how had he ended up in his own bed?
It had been months since his return from Hos-Rathon, and many more besides when he’d fought in the Sastragath, since he and Rylla had shared a bed--or anything else for that matter. Yes, the adoption ceremony. Those rascals! Rylla had been there too!
Harmakros had asked her to be Aspasthar’s godmother--a custom he had accused Harmakros of inventing on the spot. Then Kalvan vaguely recalled apologizing--for what?--to Rylla, and then taking her weeping in his arms. Shortly afterwards they had both retired to the royal bedchambers . . .
Rylla had been as drunk as he was. Had to have been. Yes, he saw the hands of at least two meddlers in this stirring of the royal stew. Now what? Should he slip out the bedchamber before Rylla awakened, so they could both pretend this had never happened? Or should he stay and try to resolve this mess it appeared they had both helped to create?
Kalvan groaned as his head pounded again. Rylla stirred. One lovely arm groped out from under the blankets and pinned Kalvan’s hand in place. Sometimes he forgot just how strong she was.
“Kalvan, are you made of iron?”
“Rylla?”
“Were you expecting somebody else?” Kalvan could hear ice tinkling in those words.
“I was praying it wouldn’t be anyone else.” He was too hung over to come up with any good lies.
“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve been faithful ever since your return?”
“Since it’s the truth, why shouldn’t I tell it?”
“All that time at the Foundry? I know about those Grefftscharrer girls.”
“You weren’t making our home a very pleasant place, Rylla.”
Kalvan felt her arm go rigid as a steel bar. “Well, you made your homecoming something I’m still trying to forget.”
“Maybe if you don’t forget it, you won’t do something like that Dralm-damned invasion of Phaxos again!” Kalvan took several deep breaths and sighed. “I’m sorry, darling. That was not only unnecessary, but unkind.”
A long silence, a faint ghost of Rylla’s usual hearty laughter. “I’ll admit that last night you didn’t behave like a man who’s found other women.” Rylla’s head was now on the pillow, blond hair streaming every which way, eyes red and bleary, her face slowly turning the same color.