by John F. Carr
Royal dignity demanded that he make a peace offer sitting up. The royal hangover demanded that he stay down. Kalvan finally compromised by raising himself slightly higher on the pillows. Rylla did the same, so that the blankets slipped down from her freckled bare shoulders.
Kalvan had the chilling thought that last night he would have gone to bed with any willing woman, and thanked Dralm it had turned out to be Rylla. No, thank Ptosphes and Harmakros. His memories of their hauling him up the stairs after he was too drunk to climb them by himself returned; now it was his turn to flush.
Still, it had all worked out, if not for the best, at least, without doing any more harm.
“And besides, Rylla, you’re the most beautiful woman in Hostigos, so what made you think I’d have the bad taste to be unfaithful?”
The smile, like the laugh, was a ghost of its usual self. But some of the old Rylla was still there. Time to see if a peace treaty could bring the rest of it back.
“Rylla, the damage done by your invasion of Phaxos won’t be undone. I should have realized that when I came home and said--well, things I shouldn’t have said. I went ahead and said them, and now our marriage is--was--- almost as dead as the Phaxosi Princely House.
“That’s a gift to Styphon’s House, our being divided. Will you join me in not making us separated anymore?”
The silence this time seemed to last long enough for a man to ride to Agrys City with a side trip to Balph on the way. Part of that was the hangover, but Kalvan wouldn’t even contemplate servants in the chamber until he and Rylla were done. Or at least until he had his answer, whatever it might be ...
“Yes.” She gripped his hand more tightly. “I won’t promise to always take your advice, Kalvan. But by Dralm, Galzar, and Yirtta Allmother, I promise to ask for it. And, I’ll even admit, I shouldn’t have gone against your wishes--not that I won’t do it again--if necessary!”
That was as close to an apology that Kalvan would ever hear out of those lovely lips. Somehow he managed to find the strength to bend over and kiss her on the forehead, which left him so exhausted that it was Rylla who finally pulled the bell cord.
After tea and toast, they held one of their bedroom councils. Neither of them felt quite up to dressing and unfolding a map, but they’d both nearly memorized the Harphaxi frontier. There, clearly, the decisive battle of the next campaign would be fought.
“Well, you certainly took care of the Phaxosi problem for once and for all.”
“I just couldn’t stand by and let Araxes continue to defy our sovereignty any longer!”
Kalvan bit down on the groan that was about to escape from his lips. “I know, I know. At least, that’s one subject we won’t argue over again.”
“And you did shut the back door against the Knights,” Rylla hastily added. “Thank Dralm and Galzar for that. If the Order wants to come against us next year, they’ll have to come through Harphax. And King Lysandros is no man to give Soton a free passage.”
“Not the way he’s grooming his Captain-General,” Kalvan said. “Maybe Phidestros and Soton will be too busy quarreling to fight us.”
“I’m not sure I’d count on that,” Rylla answered. “From what Skranga has told me, King Lysandros has hocked his lands, his kingdom and his younger sister’s trousseau to Styphon’s House.”
“I’ll pray that they do quarrel. I’ll even ask a few of Sargos’ tame shamans to chant spells. But what I really think I ought to do is visit Agrys City and talk some sense into the League of Dralm. Duke Mnestros will stand behind me.”
“Kalvan, no! The Kingdom needs you. Besides, what’s to ensure your safety in Demistophon’s lands?”
“Great King Demistophon isn’t a fool. He knows such treachery would give the League a perfect excuse to turn against him. The ones who aren’t against him already, that is. Remember all the Zygrosi and would-be Zygrosi in the League of Dralm.”
“I haven’t forgotten them, Kalvan. I also haven’t forgotten that King Demistophon has the shortest temper of any Great King since Pytros the Iron King. Or that he sent an army twelve thousand strong to fight us the summer before last. If you entered his lands with enough men to keep you safe, he’d suspect it was an invasion. If you kept your guard small to reassure him, you couldn’t protect yourself against the Styphoni. King Demistophon and the Archpriests of the Inner Circle wouldn’t care who was angry with them, if you were dead. It wouldn’t matter.”
“I suppose not. But--does this mean you’re not going to be risking your neck in the next battle?”
“The man who fought hand-to-hand with King Nestros in the Battle of Spirit Grove asks that question?” Rylla’s laugh was practically back to normal. “An army needs inspiration. You can’t give it to them by leading from the back. That silly bunch of old priests in Agrys City needs something that neither kings nor captains can give them.”
Kalvan nodded. “I’d counted on Xentos supporting our position in Agrys City. But I underestimated his own ambitions--or, worse yet, his piety.”
Rylla looked as if she were holding back tears. “Xentos is no longer the man I knew. He believes in his god, maybe too much--”
“Oh, he’s sincere, I’ll grant him that. But right now hypocrites like Skranga and Baron Zothnes are more useful.”
This time Rylla laughed out loud. Kalvan’s head still ached too much to let him do the same, but he smiled. There was still a distance between him and Rylla that hadn’t been there before. Maybe now, for the first time since his return to Hos-Hostigos, it was no longer too great a distance to cross, with time and love.
NINE
Warntha Sain was sitting by the campfire drinking the piss-water the Ros-Zarthani called beer and discussing close-order tactics with an under officer of the 4th Maniple when he felt the vibration from his locater alert. He quickly excused himself from the conversation, using the time-tested excuse of going to the latrine. Instead of going straight to the trenches, Warntha swung around to the northwest where his locater indicated, through increasing vibrations, the homing signal was originating.
Warntha spotted the silver mesh of the twenty-foot transtemporal conveyer in a small glade. He had been wondering when Hadron Tharn was going to send someone to pick him up. After their defeat of the Grefftscharrer army, the Ros-Zarthani army had followed the trail to Dorg where water transport was being arranged to ferry the army down river south of Wulfula to Tarr-Ceros, where they would winter. The Dorgi had refused transit right to Zarphu down the river until the defeat of the Grefftscharrer army. Now the Dorgers couldn’t get the Ros-Zarthani on their way fast enough.
Warntha wouldn’t have minded staying with the Ros-Zarthani; the company was good--mostly fellow soldiers who had accepted him as one of their own despite his disguise as one of Styphon’s highpriests. The possibilities for future fighting seemed endless, so he was content. He was especially looking forward to fighting against Kalvan and his Army of Hos-Hostigos.
On the other hand, things were never dull when Hadron Tharn was around. Warntha was surprised to find he actually missed his crazy boss.
The conveyer door opened to show Tharn with a welcoming smile, flanked by two guards in black uniforms. “How was your exercise?”
Warntha took a seat inside the conveyer across from his boss and said, “It was a nice vacation. The Ros-Zarthani soldiers are good troops, even without gunpowder weapons. They’ll give Kalvan fits, but not enough to be decisive.”
Tharn’s face blanked. “None of my plans are working. I’m hemmed in on every side by morons and incompetents! The Opposition Party has refused my latest donation! They claim that Chief Verkan’s new policy of phased harvesting of the Europo-American Sector is workable and acceptable by all parties. So Verkan wins once again!”
Warntha was used to his bosses sudden mood shifts, but this one took him by surprise. He wasn’t exactly sure why his boss hated Paratime Chief Verkan Vall, but he suspected it had something to do with his sister Dalla. “So what’s the next move,
boss?”
“We’re on our way to Fifth Level Base One.”
Warntha, as an ex-military specialist, had originally been recruited by Tharn’s Organization to help train troops at the Base, mostly proles being trained for military action groups. This had been going on for a decade and Tharn had created quite the private little army. The proles he was using as his shock troops thought Hadron Tharn was a supporter of the Prole Liberation Movement. Warntha, knowing Tharn’s prejudices, seriously doubted that! Warntha still didn’t know Tharn’s plan, but he knew that Tharn had no good purpose in mind for any proles, whom he looked upon as little better than beasts of burden.
He had just finished cleaning his kit when the overhead flickering ceased and the silver mesh began to solidify overhead signifying they had arrived at Fifth Level Base One. The conveyer came to rest in a small room; from there they went aboard a rocket transport and traveled to a large island, at the base of the largest southern continental mass, that usually served the First Level population as a recreation spot--meaning there was little possibility of a Paratime Police conveyer dropping in unexpectedly.
Warntha, who was dressed warmly for a higher latitude, felt himself begin to sweat as the airboat arrived at the large military compound. It took a great deal of Tharn’s assets to keep this place running, but he had six airstrike teams and fifteen divisions of infantry for his own personal army. To the best of Warntha’s knowledge, it was a bigger force than Home Time-Line’s own military, which primarily existed to put down Prole Insurrections. The two guards remained in the conveyer.
He followed Tharn into a large conference room with a large visiscreen dominating one wall. A dozen proles in military uniforms decorated with gold braid sat around a table. They all stood up as Tharn approached.
“Citizen Tharn, when can we mount our attack?”
“General, the time has not yet arrived. There is still work that needs to be done on Home Time-Line. I advise patience.”
Warntha choked back a laugh. Hearing Tharn advise patience was like hearing someone advise a friend to take a vacation on Second Level Arzl Dykx, a subsector where the survivors of an ancient nuclear holocaust killed each other for table scraps.
One of the other generals, an older man with a gray beard, said, “With your long life, Citizen, you can afford to wait. I was a young man when I joined the PLM. Look at me now!”
The other proles nodded their agreement.
“If all goes as planned, you will all get the longevity treatments and you and your children will live a long life indeed.”
This promise appeared to settle them down and the generals went back to the business of plotting the overthrow of Fifth Level Force Headquarters.
As a veteran of the Home Force, Warntha knew that the Fifth Level HQ would have to be taken by surprise for this band of half-trained and inexperienced resistance fighters to take them out. What kind of surprise attack does Tharn have planned? he wondered. By definition, as a Hadron Tharn plan, it would be irregular, dangerous and with total disregard to casualties. He almost felt sorry for the proles.
II
As he and his bodyguard made their way over the narrow cobblestone streets of Harphax City, Phidestros was surprised by the large number of gawking onlookers and the occasional applause that greeted their party, which was flying the red and white Royal banner of Hos-Harphax and the Iron Band standard. The morale in Harphax was a far cry from that of a year ago, when prosperous merchants and guildsmen were leaving the city in droves for fear of a Hostigi siege train.
The buildings at the center of town were mostly two and three-story white plaster storefronts, but as they drew closer to the city walls these were replaced by ramshackle wood and plaster tenements, timbered warehouses and an occasional stone factory. It was one of the largest of these factories that was their destination, the Royal Artillery Works. The streets were filled with wagons and carriages; Styphon’s gold had finally brought prosperity to the capital city.
At the Artillery Works Phidestros’ ears were greeted by the din of banging hammers, screeching metal and yelling men. He dismounted and walked over to General Kyblannos, formerly head of the Iron Band and now the commander of the Harphaxi Royal Artillery. They touched palms and Kyblannos mouthed, “Follow me,” and led him into the cavernous building. As two commanders entered the building, the artisans and helpers who saw them stopped working and they were able to hear each other over the roar of the forges.
“Welcome to my killing ground, Captain-General,” Kyblannos said, looking for all the world like a proud father.
Phidestros shook his head. “This is too close to Hadron’s realm for my liking.”
Kyblannos laughed. He pointed at a small brass gun, lying on its side next to a wooden carriage. “This is one of the four-pounders we found at Tarr-Veblos. We’re working on some Kalvan-style carriages to mount it on. What’s interesting is that it’s a Zygrosi cast gun,” he pointed to a small proof mark, “but this mark is Hostigi--a keystone, Kalvan’s device. This is conclusive proof that Kalvan has a band of Zygrosi foundry workers working at the Usurper’s Foundry in Hostigos.”
“We knew that from our intelligence, but this proof mark would convince even my father! It’s the Trickster’s Own Luck that during your excursion into Hostigos you were unable to capture the Hostigi Artillery train.”
The artilleryman nodded. “We had a limit on how many men and how much equipment we could smuggle into Nostor. The countryside is still barren from the war, but Prince Pheblon has outriders everywhere. Who expected a troop of Hostigi regulars to be escorting the train?”
“Don’t fret, Kyblannos, you did well. Leaving the dead behind in Phaxosi uniforms was a bit of genius. The Hostigi blamed the entire raid on Prince Araxes who died protesting his innocence.” They both laughed, as no one had liked that cowardly fencestitter.
“If Queen Rylla hadn’t been so anxious to blame Araxes, things wouldn’t have turned out so well,” Phidestros said.
“Again, the Trickster’s Own Luck! Yes, my Captain, and you took full advantage by capturing Tarr-Veblos. Did you ever tell Lysandros or Soton the truth about that raid into Nostor?”
“No. It’s our little secret. If word got out, and the Electors of Harphax ever learned that they had been had, well, Great King Lysandros would have turkey feathers in his beard! And you know who he’d take his ire out on.
The artilleryman nodded knowingly.
“So what is it you want to show me?”
Kyblannos took him over to look at a new Harphaxi gun already mounted on one of the Kalvan-style carriages.
“Small, isn’t it?” Phidestros said, examining the iron tube surrounded by hammered hoops, or metal rings, to give it more strength. As Kyblannos had told him more than once, when the hoops cooled they contracted until they were actually crushing the barrel to a slight degree. This counteracted the tendency of the barrels to come apart when the fireseed charge exploded.
“It’s based on one of Kalvan’s small mobile guns that the Red Hand captured atTenabra.” Kyblannos pointed to a cannon already mounted on a carriage beside it. “This is the Hostigi gun. Can you tell any difference?”
Phidestros shook his head from side to side.
Kyblannos then pointed to a gun beside it that was bulkier and obviously larger. “This is one of our guns of the same bore. It has noticeably more heft than the Kalvan designed gun.” Kyblannos turned back to the Hostigi gun, and said, “I went over it for days until I learned its every secret.” He bent over to pat the breech as if it were a favorite dog. “Can you see the difference between Kalvan’s gun and our new one?”
“Identical.”
“In rough appearance; however, not only are they lighter than the old eight-pounders, Phidestros, but the gun typically only needs four horses to pull it, instead of six, Bless Galzar! This is what gives Kalvan’s artillery its mobility.”
“Why doesn’t Kalvan make the guns even smaller, maybe four-pounders? Then he could u
se two horses instead of four.”
“For a very good reason. It’s been my experience with small guns, like four-pounders, that after a few rounds the metal gets so hot that the gun will ‘cook off’ any fireseed placed in it. I’m sure Kalvan took that into consideration.”
Then he led Phidestros over to the corner of the Artillery Works. “See this brass gun?”
“Yes. It’s a Zygrosi gun. Only the Zygrosi make brass guns in the Five Kingdoms. Where did it come from?”
“Battle spoil from Tarr-Veblos.”
Phidestros nodded, wishing he’d spent more time on the artillery field. The differences between the Zygrosi brass cast gun and the Harphaxi cannon was immediately obvious. Besides being made of brass, the muzzle was thinner and there were no metal rings.
“I don’t recall the Zygrosi guns looking like this. Is this another of Kalvan’s designs?” Phidestros asked.
“Yes. The Kalvan gun has much less metal on the muzzle end, which makes it lighter and easier to handle, yet it has even more metal around the breech so that it will take a double charge.” He banged on the brass barrel with a hammer, which pinged nicely over the bellows. “That means it will take a double charge of Styphon’s fireseed, or a full charge of Kalvan’s fire-seed formula.”
Phidestros nodded. “Remember that gunner who tried to use some Hostigi fireseed in his twelve-pounder at Tarr-Harphax?”
Kyblannos grinned. “They’re still finding shards of that gun and the artilleryman’s teeth in the outer bailey. Fortunately, we’ve got tons of Styphon’s fireseed to burn in our older guns.”
“Nice gun, but that wasn’t why you sent for me, Kyblannos. I know you better than that!”
“I was wondering if you could use some of those Zygrosi connections of yours to get us some pattern makers and brass casters, so we can cast some of our own cannon.”