by John F. Carr
“I thought you’d already have figured out how to cast your own.”
Kyblannos ran his fingers through his curly helmet of gray-streaked brown hair. “I have lots of ideas, but what I don’t have is the time to make the molds, train pattern makers and determine the right mixture of copper and zinc for the molten brass. We can cast more guns if you hire Zygrosi brass casters and put them to work, while I spend my time working on the trunnions and gun carriages.”
Phidestros reached into his belt pouch to take out his pipe, remembered where he was and quickly removed his hand. “I wish I could help. The problem is that I’m not ‘recognized’ in my birth land. Besides, the Zygrosi brass casters who know how to cast hundreds of pounds of brass have never been numerous, not with the shortage of fireseed in Hos-Zygros. You know how stingy Styphon’s House was with fireseed until Kalvan gave away the secret of the Fireseed Mystery. Now, with the fireseed mixture common knowledge, brass founders who can cast guns are worth their weight in gold--and they know it.”
Kyblannos agreed. “In Hos-Harphax and Hos-Agrys we’ve had more fireseed, but never enough to burn wastefully on big guns, so the cannons have kept to the same design for centuries. Until Kalvan.”
Phidestros nodded. “Styphon’s House does not like change, but it’s unlikely the fireseed mystery will disappear just because Kalvan’s defeated. Soon every town will have its own fireseed mill, and Styphon’s House will go back to healing the sick--if they remember how!”
Kyblannos laughed. “Styphon’s House, a plague on it! I’ve been hearing stories about an Investigation in Balph--and not just of commoners, but highpriests as well!”
“This Investigation is common knowledge. Even Soton recognized it, but not happily. This rogue Archpriest Roxthar is trying to purge Styphon’s House of unbelievers!”
They both roared with laughter, enough that the artillerymen around them gave them funny looks. Kyblannos added, “The streets are full of talk of his Investigation! The Ktemnoi merchants talk of nothing else. Has Roxthar actually found any Styphoni faithful?”
“No. He’d have better luck finding a virgin at the One-Eyed Boar!”
They both hooted. When he caught his breath, Phidestros said, “It is wise to watch what your tongue says regarding Styphon, when among strangers. Great King Lysandros appears to be one of the faithful--don’t laugh! If he isn’t, he gives a very good imitation, attending all manner of Temple rituals and services. Fortunately, being sworn to Galzar means I have no business being dragged to Styphon’s House’s tedious services. Still, I have to show proper respect to Styphon’s images and highpriests.”
Kyblannos gave him a look that said better you than me. In a low voice, he added, “By Tranth’s Hammer and Galzar’s Mace, we live in strange times, when Captain-Generals are judged by their respect for a failed god!”
“You speak the truth, Kyblannos. Soton also warned me that Roxthar might be bringing his Investigation right along with our army. It appears Archpriest Roxthar is afraid that the Kalvan heresy might infect the rest of the Northern Kingdoms if not stamped out completely in Hos-Hostigos. I wonder if the lands Lysandros has promised me upon our victory may turn out to be as barren, after this Roxthar’s passage, as Regwarn’s Caverns of the Dead.”
Kyblannos nodded soberly. “In the wine shops it is said that even the Inner Circle fears the Investigation.”
“Yes, if Grand Master Soton is worried, the Temple must be quaking right to its very foundation!”
“Then it is up to us to avoid all appearance of heresy.”
“Right,” Phidestros answered, “which means not mentioning the name Kalvan in association with your new carriages.”
Kyblannos spat on the floor. “This is a Dralm-damned way to fight a war.”
“Is there anything else you want to show me before I return to Tarr-Harphax?”
Kyblannos nodded eagerly. “I want to show you my latest gun carriages. We have to go out back.”
Phidestros followed his old comrade through the Artillery Works moving out of the way of tree-stump sized anvils and forges belching fire. In the back lot amongst broken wagons and second-growth trees were some ten or twelve dismembered carriages, several of them longer than any carriage he’d ever seen before. There was a stone wall twice the height of a man between the Works and the next building.
Kyblannos pointed to a carriage, which had a long bed for the gun. “This is our new carriage.” He gestured to two of the artillerymen following behind and told them to load the gun. “Use sand, we don’t want to lose any more neighbors.”
It must be artillerymen’s humor, thought Phidestros as the gunners all laughed out loud.
“See, that’s the counterweight there. Watch and see what happens after the gun goes off.”
After putting in powder and ramming it home, the rammer put in a wad of sand wrapped in cloth. When he was finished tamping it down the barrel, another gunner lit the fuse coming out of the touchhole. “Fire in the hole!”
THWACK!
The ground shook as the gun pushed back to the end of the carriage. The moment the backward motion stopped, the counterweight yanked the cannon back to its former position on the track.
“Galzar’s Great Ghost! Very impressive, Kyblannos.”
All the artillerymen grinned like proud fathers, including Kyblannos. “It means that the crew doesn’t have to waste half a candle aiming the gun again.”
One of the wheelwrights came forward. “Not even the Daemon Kalvan has these recoil beds!”
“I never saw anything like it before. Kyblannos, making you General of the Hos-Harphax Royal Artillery was one of my smartest decisions.”
Kyblannos beamed. “Thank you, Captain-General.”
“Where did you get the idea for these recoil carriages?”
Kyblannos paused to take his pipe out of a pocket in his apron and stick it in his mouth. “Back when I was younger and a camp follower, I was drafted into the Agrys City Traveling Dramaturgical Theatre Band as a prop artificer.”
Phidestros laughed. “I don’t know where you get these stories, but you have more of them than a one-eyed Trygathi troubadour!”
For a moment Kyblannos looked hurt, and took his pipe out of his mouth, sticking it back into his pocket.
“I’m sorry, old friend. Please, continue.”
“I remembered we used to build drawbridges that, when lowered, flew back up again.”
“Yes, like the counterweights on a portcullis.”
“Exactly, so I used the idea of counterweights on the carriage bed, only with a cannon instead of a drawbridge.”
“Ingenious, old friend. I swear by the Wargod’s Beard, this recoil gun carriage looks like one of Kalvan’s wonders. Now, how many of them can you build by spring?”
Kyblannos looked crestfallen. “I can have eighteen six- and eight-pounders on Kalvan-style carriages ready by spring, and maybe four more on these recoiling ones.” He held his hands out. “For these new recoil carriages, there’s not enough time. They take three times as long to build as the Kalvan, I mean, new-style carriages, and we’re still working out the kinks in the rigging.”
“I was afraid of that. Do your best. I’m going to need all the mobile guns you can build for me. The Usurper’s got the edge on us there, but maybe we can show him a surprise or two.”
III
As Prince Ptosphes followed Cleon into Kalvan’s private audience chamber, Kalvan couldn’t help but notice how much the Prince had aged since his arrival here-and-now over three years ago. Ptosphes’ hair was almost all gray and his goatee had turned from rusty gray to silver. His shoulders were no longer bowed, as they had been after the disaster at Tenabra, but his head still drooped. And something new, Ptosphes’ breathing was noticeably louder.
“Have you been chasing after the Princess Demia again?” Demia had suddenly gone from tottering to sprinting and was wearing out the entire corps of Royal nursemaids.
Ptosphes answered his words wit
h a smile that lit up his face. “No, it’s those damn stairs. Have you noticed how they just keep getting steeper?”
“I’ve noticed,” Kalvan answered. One of these days the war with Styphon’s House was going to end and he would have time to get around to building the long delayed palace he’d been promising Rylla. Kalvan wasn’t sure of the design yet, but he’d promised himself no more drafty castles and high stairwells. Tarr-Hostigos was not only impossible to heat but had staircases that were both too narrow and too high for comfortable climbing.
As the Prince lowered himself into a chair, Kalvan loaded his pipe, tamping down the leaf carefully so that none spilled. Styphon’s House’s ban on selling goods to Hos-Hostigos hadn’t dried up the flow of trade, but it had raised the cost--especially of items that were made or grown, like tobacco, in the southern kingdoms. A big tobacco shipment had been confiscated two weeks ago by Hos-Harphax customs agents, which meant that tobacco was temporarily in short supply. Of course, Kalvan could have commandeered all the tobacco he wanted, but he made an attempt to share the lot of his people. He didn’t want himself or his Princes to grow isolated the way the Tsars of Russia had: a course of action that had led to their eventual overthrow.
Ptosphes started speaking hesitantly as though he didn’t want to offend his Great King. “I’ve gotten letters and visits from several important people who are most unhappy about the nomad children that have been arriving by the wagonload for the past few days. They want to know what your plans are concerning the Sastragathi orphans.” The First Prince paused, his face blushing. “I think they’re afraid you’ll settle them here in Hostigos.”
Kalvan reined in his temper. The fact that the children were mostly dark-skinned was implied but not spoken. The Zarthani had waged a war of ruthless extermination against the native Indians and had succeeded in eliminating them in the Five Kingdoms, except in the southernmost Kingdom of Hos-Bletha. The Indians, or Ruthani as they were called here-and-now, flourished on the Sea of Grass and to the south in Mexico and Central America where the cannibal Mexicotal ruled--about South America nothing was known.
Despite the Indians’ disappearance several centuries ago in the Northern Kingdoms, there was still considerable prejudice against them. Kalvan had anticipated this problem and was having a large former baronial estate that had reverted to the crown refurbished as an orphanage. The Hostigos Town foundling homes and orphanages were already filled to bursting with children whose parents had died in Styphon’s invasion in the Year of the Wolf. Any townspeople who wanted to adopt children had more Hostigi candidates than were wanted.
Instead, Kalvan decided to put the children under Royal protection; that would keep the townspeople from pestering them, but it still didn’t solve the problem of what to do with what was becoming a wholesale migration of Ruthani children--seven wagons had arrived today alone. In fact, watching the first wagons had reminded Kalvan of stories about the Children’s Crusades where the boys and girls who left Europe to fight the Infidel in Acre and Tripoli and re-take Jerusalem had been badly used. Most of them--those who hadn’t died of disease or wounds--had ended up in chains and a life of enslavement by either their French and Venetian transporters or the Byzantines and Latins whom they’d come to protect.
“Let me level with you, Ptosphes. I’m taking these children to help my friend Warlord Sargos out of a bad bind, and because I know that if I don’t take them no one else will, which will mean starvation and slavery for the majority of them. These are the children left behind by the Ruthani clans from the Sea of Grass, many of whose parents were exterminated by our army or the Zarthani Knights. So in a very real sense they are Our problem.”
Ptosphes sighed. “I’ve seen them--a heartbreaking sight--small children, many in rags, who look like they haven’t eaten a good meal in moons. Sadly, our townspeople don’t share my feelings. Some believe we’re harboring an enemy who will someday turn upon us, or invite their kin into Hostigos.”
Kalvan nodded, then paused to light his pipe. “About what I expected. I’m only keeping them at the Royal barracks while the army is out on maneuvers. I don’t intend to house them in Hostigos Town.”
Ptosphes nodded. “Good. That news will take most of the heat out of the fire. There’s no room here anyway.”
“I agree. I’m having the Duke of Northgate’s old estate rebuilt.”
“Yes, he died in the Year of the Wolf with both his sons. Is it big enough?”
“It will be after I’m finished,” he answered. “If necessary, I’ll get the Army engineers involved.”
Ptosphes nodded. “I would not want to see the children living in tents through the winter like so many new arrivals in Hostigos Town. When does Sargos want us to return the children?”
Kalvan shook his head. “He hasn’t said so, but I don’t think he wants, or expects, them back.”
Ptosphes looked as if he were about to make a comment, but instead paused to take his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his pocket. He filled the barrel with tobacco and used his tinderbox to light a wooden splinter. As soon as the tobacco was lit, he drew deeply. Then he exhaled and, through a cloud of smoke said, “I know the Great Gods have given you wisdom beyond mere mortal men, but it will take more than a miracle for the people of Hostigos to understand why we should provide and care for what appears to be an army of Ruthani children.”
“Army--” Kalvan jumped up from his chair and banged his desktop, spilling a clay bottle of ink. “Thank you, Ptosphes! That’s it, Janissaries.”
“Janissaries? What is that?” Prince Ptosphes had a puzzled look on his face.
“A Janissary was an elite soldier, who fought for the Turks--a great people far beyond the Cold Lands.”
Ptosphes shook his head as though he had a hard time imagining anything beyond the lands of their ancestors. Zarthani myth cycles variously mentioned the Cold Lands as either a former home or land of the gods.
“Many winters ago the Great Kingdom of the Turks needed soldiers who were both loyal and fierce fighters, so they kidnapped tens of thousands of young children from the Balkan princedoms within their domain that refused to recognize their suzerainty.” Kalvan didn’t even attempt to go into the religious conflict and the fact that the Moslem Turks were ‘kidnapping’ Christian children and then raising them to fight in their homelands and abroad. If Styphon’s House were ever able to raise fanatical armies the caliber of Moslem armies, his time as Great King of Hos-Hostigos would come to a very quick close. “The Turks raised these children to be among the most feared warriors of their age.”
Ptosphes looked horrified. “I do not understand: how could they do this to children?”
The war with Styphon’s House was Ptosphes’, and the rest of here-and-now’s, introduction to wars of religion, and they were beginning to see that the religious element added a new and much nastier dimension to warfare.
“Our friend Sargos has just dropped into our lap the makings of a loyal army for Our children and your grandchildren. If we treat these orphans right, give them the proper training, We won’t have to worry about educating the next generation of titled blockheads who’ve been trained from birth in methods of warfare that were extinct the day after Tarr-Dombra.”
“You mean we train these children in your new style of warfare?”
“Exactly,” Kalvan said, tossing his pipe aside, and rising up out of his chair. He started pacing back and forth in front of the blazing fireplace. “We’ll start an academy--we need the right name, too. The Hostigos Royal Academy of Military Studies--”
“For children?”
“Yes, it’s a tradition in my homeland. Children whose parents are too busy with making money and playing card games to see to their care send their children to military academies to be raised and taught discipline.”
Ptosphes shook his head. “I would never want to live in such a place.”
Kalvan’s response surprised even himself. “Neither would I, not even with Styphon’s House breat
hing down my neck!”
“Do you think the war will continue so long that we will still be fighting Styphon’s armies a generation from now?” Ptosphes asked tiredly.
“No, I hope not. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be other threats to Hos-Hostigos. It certainly would be nice to have the nucleus of a powerful army already in place.”
“Yes, for my grandchildren.”
Kalvan enthused. “We’ll raise them as cadets--junior soldiers--and we’ll give these children a life far finer than they would have had even had their parents not died in the nomad invasions. We’ll give them good instructors too, from the Royal Army--”
“We can’t pull officers from the Army now!”
“No I wasn’t thinking of active officers, but wounded officers and veterans too old for active service. Men who are no longer able to fight for Hostigos with arms, but can fight by molding young minds. We’ll make the Academy more than just a training school--it will be a nice place to live, too. The orphans will be Royal charges and we can even leaven the Ruthani with our own Hostigi orphans. We’ll form a special elite corps comprised of our Janissaries and within a generation they’ll have all the respect they deserve.”
Ptosphes shook his head. “And solve two problems at the same time. You do miracles, Your Majesty! You’ve taken a headache and turned it into an inspiration.”
Kalvan took two goblets and filled them with Ermut’s Best. “To the new army of Hos-Hostigos!”
TEN
Verkan Vall, in his disguise as Trader Verkan, first saw the check station about a quarter of a mile outside of Hostigos Town. He and Dalla rode up and halted behind two carts, a flatbed wagon filled with barrels and a small party of trappers. It appeared that since their last visit Kalvan had mounted check stations on every road leading into Hostigos Town, including the Great King’s Highway. The Iron Curtain was up again.
The six guards wore back-and-breasts with tasses and high-combed morion helmets sporting red and blue plumes. Tortha Karf hadn’t mentioned the increased town security during their talk. Verkan wondered what else had changed since his last visit to Hos-Hostigos.