Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

by John F. Carr

  In his freshman year at Princeton, his philosophy instructor had claimed that without the Greek philosophical and mathematical underpinnings of technology and invention, Western Civilization would have been stillborn and history would have taken a completely different course, more similar to the religious and God Emperor tyrannies of the Middle East and China. There would have been no Macedonian Empire, no Roman Empire, no Middle Ages and no Enlightenment--just an interminable, endless Dark Age.

  At best, the Old World nations were at the same pre-industrial level of civilization as the Zarthani, who had a civilization with some medieval trappings--castles, pikes, gunpowder weapons--but whose gods and philosophies were little advanced over those of ancient Babylonia. Maybe someday the course of here-and-now civilization would be reversed, from the ‘New World’ back to the ‘Old World.’ He wondered if he’d live long enough to see it. He hoped so.

  He went to refill his goblet with Ermut’s Best and found the flask empty. He used the pull to summon Cleon, who arrived, half out of breath, with a small wooden cask and another goblet. “Your visitor just arrived, Your Majesty. I didn’t believe a mere flask would do.”

  Kalvan nodded. Knowing Vanar Halgoth, Cleon was correct. “Send him in.”

  There was a clanging, stomping noise and the massive Sastragathi headman came into the chamber. Kalvan rose and got a body hug that would have done Freddie Blassie the wrestler proud back on otherwhen. The huge Sastragathi warrior, with his horned helmet, always reminded him of a Viking prince and he almost expected one day to see a dragonship moored in the Harph River.

  Then Halgoth started to get down on one knee--Kalvan restrained him as best he could. “No need for that, Vanar. We are friends.”

  A smile split the big Urgothi’s face that would have done a jack o’ lantern proud. “We just brought the last wagons of orphans to the Academy. With the fresh teams of horses Your Majesty supplied, we had no trouble following the Nyklos Trail.”

  “Good. I think the children will do well here in Hos-Hostigos.”

  Halgoth nodded. “Yes, very well. The Academy is a better home than these children have seen in all their lives.”

  “We were lucky to finish the Academy dormitories before the first snow. I had the entire Hostigi corps of Engineers and six regiments of regulars building them.”

  “Sargos is pleased. He asked me to thank you for honoring your word and to tell you he owes you a boon. He was most pleased that you honored the spirit of his request as well as the deed.”

  Kalvan nodded. He was certain that someday the boon would come in handy. It was unfortunate he couldn’t call it in this spring.

  “I have also brought the last of your guard.”

  Not being a dictator, Kalvan had no need for his own Praetorian Guard; not only were they expensive, eating kingdoms out of house and home, but after a while they began to take a personal interest in who was going to be their next paymaster. By the middle of the Roman Empire the Praetorians were changing emperors almost on an annual basis, although a few, like Gaius Julius Maximinus, were among the best Emperors of the period.

  Unfortunately, Kalvan couldn’t turn down the well-meaning offer from Sargos’ best friend and confidant without irreparably damaging relations between the two kingdoms, and offering a deadly insult to Vanar Halgoth--probably the single most dangerous warrior Kalvan had ever met. As a berserker, Halgoth was somehow able to alter his mind and arrive at a state of complete fury and fearlessness. Kalvan had read about such warriors, among the Irish and Vikings, who fought without personal fear and without pain--able to withstand the loss of limbs and suffer grievous wounds, and still fight on--oblivious to even life-ending wounds.

  It wasn’t until the Battle of Spirit Grove that he saw the Urgothi berserkers in action. They were warriors who fought without fear, against all odds and didn’t die easily. Yet, like most primitive warriors, they were emotional, subject to whims and capriciousness. On first reflection they were not an ideal bodyguard for the Great King of an army numbering in the tens of thousands. However, they would die to a man for their King and with Halgoth in command he knew his orders would be obeyed to the letter.

  “Good,” Kalvan answered. “We have completed their barracks inside the outer bailey. You and twenty of your men who speak our tongue will live with Us inside the Citadel.”

  Kalvan wasn’t exactly sure how Rylla was going to take to this latest development, but Halgoth was certainly pleased.

  “Our bodyguard will be called the Tymannian Guard.” Kalvan had used the Byzantine’s Viking guard, the Varangian Guard, as his model. They had served the Eastern Empire well, far better than Rome’s Praetorians. “Your banner will be the Black Raven Hag of War on a white field. I will have Master Cathron, our armorer, design your uniforms.”

  Halgoth looked worried.

  “You will still wear your horned helms and mail hauberks, but we’ll add silvered back-and-breasts with my design, the keystone, on the breastplate. Each of you will be issued a regulation sword, two pistols, a powder horn and bullet molds. You can keep your own battleaxes--if you wish. Halgoth, you will be Grand-Captain of the Royal Bodyguard.”

  Halgoth smiled happily. Kalvan had tried to completely change here-and-now military ranks, but had found considerable resistance to his new order of command, especially among the ex-mercenaries in the Royal Army. So he’d done the next best thing, incorporated them into his own command structure.

  Instead of sergeants, he had petty-captains; “sergeants” were common only in the Order of Zarthani Knights and the Sacred Squares so they’d been rejected. “Captain” was the catchall designation for everything from company leader to regimental head. In the Royal Army of Hostigos, captains commanded companies, grand-captains (majors) commanded battalions, while colonels commanded regiments. Hostigi brigades were commanded by generals, while armies were commanded by captain-generals. He’d had to drop the designation “brigadier” as too confusing to the locals. The “Grand Captain-General” of the entire Royal Army was Chartiphon, although in fact it was an honorary post, since Kalvan was the commander-in-chief and Rylla his second.

  He poured them both another goblet of brandy and offered a toast to his new bodyguard.

  Vanar Halgoth responded with his own toast. “To easy women and good fighting!”

  Kalvan laughed. “I don’t know about the women of Hostigos, but I can guarantee you all the fighting you can handle--and that’s a promise.”

  Halgoth looked as if he’d just been invited to a feast of all his favorite foods. “My men will do their best to prove themselves worthy of the great honor you have bestowed upon them, Your Majesty.” The big Sastragathi warrior re-filled their goblets. “To sharp blades and straight arrows!”

  “All right down Styphon’s gullet!” Kalvan added, quaffing his drink.

  SEVENTEEN

  Kalvan moved closer to the hearth so he could get a better look at the polished lump of green glass presented to him by Rector Ermut. Outside he heard the whumph of a cannon shot in the outer courtyard as General Thalmoth proof-tested one of the new brass six-pounders. He could even hear the drill chants in the bailey where, despite the falling snow, the petty-captains were valiantly--and probably vainly--doing their best to combat the low morale of the long and idle winter months.

  He imagined his enemies were doing much the same thing in Tarr-Veblos where they made preparations for the largest invasion in here-and-now history. Talk about getting the ball rolling! This was going to be a long and bloody war no matter who won. He wished, for about the thousandth time, that the survival of Hostigos was not totally borne on his own not so wide shoulders!

  “Do you see the milkiness, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes. It’s better than the last lot, but still too cloudy for a lens.” Ermut and Kalvan were meeting in the royal bedchamber, since keeping Tarr-Hostigos warm was in the same category as heating a Wisconsin football stadium in the winter. Queen Rylla, wearing a blanket over her lap, w
as in the corner in her rocking chair--which Kalvan had designed himself as a Name Day present--with little Demia in her arms. It had taken a master wheelwright to cut the runners on the bottom of the chair.

  “I can’t understand it,” Ermut said, tugging at his blonde beard. “I’m at my wit’s end. I know how badly you want the farseers for this coming spring.”

  “It’s not your fault, Ermut. There must be something wrong with the sand we’re using. We’ve taken all the lime out of the formula so it has to do with the purity of the sand itself. Let me see the sand you’re using again.”

  Ermut passed over a small leather pouch. Kalvan poured a spoonful into his palm. “It looks like clean quartz river sand to me.” He moved his hand closer to the log fire. “Ah ha! Look at this!”

  Ermut pointed to the small chalk pebble. “Limestone!”

  “Yes, limestone must be the problem. We’ll have to carefully clean the sand we’ve already collected. Unfortunately, this is no time of the year to go looking for a new source. I should have spent more time on this during the summer.”

  “But when, Your Majesty? You spent most of the summer fighting in the Trygath.”

  “I know . . . Maybe next year I can spend some time at the University.”

  “Didn’t I hear just those words last year?” Rylla asked.

  “I’m afraid so. At least our winters are peaceful. Now back to our glass.”

  “Shall I use the water method to separate out the limestone?”

  “No, Ermut. That will take too long and still might not do the job. Limestone dissolves in acid . . . We have so little sulfuric acid--”

  “What about vinegar, Your Majesty. I have a storeroom full of bad wine we couldn’t use for the brandy still.”

  “Good thinking, Ermut. Vinegar will work just fine. But first, you need to distill it the same way you distill wine to make brandy. Vinegar is a dilute form of acetic acid: it won’t work as well as sulfuric acid, but it will do the job.

  “Once you have concentrated acetic acid, here is what you do: Wrap the sand in cloth and wash it with the strong vinegar solution. Do it three or four times until the acetic acid has dissolved the limestone. What’s left will be mostly quartz sand--”

  WHUUMP!

  A loud explosion shook the keep to its foundation.

  “What the Styphon was that?” Kalvan cried.

  Rylla pulled out a horsepistol from underneath her blankets and said, “It’s the Harphaxi! They’re attacking Tarr-Hostigos in the dead of winter!”

  But how? Kalvan asked himself, as Rylla gave Demia to a nursemaid and proceeded to prime and load her pistol. Even if by some miracle the Harphaxi were able to move a small detachment over a hundred and fifty miles of snow, what could they do to a castle like this? Surely they couldn’t bring guns over these roads, not without my getting a message from the Beshtan semaphore.

  Cleon rushed through the door. “King Kalvan, there has been an explosion! One of the guns! Men are hurt.”

  Kalvan ran to the door only to be met by Captain Xykos and a score of the Queen’s Bodyguard. “Follow me, Your Majesty. Make way for the King!”

  Xykos led the way down the narrow keep stairway, while Kalvan fought his initial irritation at being nursemaided once again. He was the critical man in a bad situation and nothing was going to change that until either his University started turning out graduates by the hundreds, or Styphon’s House fell.

  In the Great Hall half a dozen blood-soaked bodies were stretched out, one or two still moving. Just let Thalmoth be alive and I’ll wrestle Styphon himself.

  In the bailey he met a powder-blackened and bloodstained, but apparently unhurt, General Thalmoth being helped by two soldiers. “Are you all right?”

  “Curse and blast it! Oh, Your Majesty! I’m fine, but my gun isn’t. Must have been an air pocket in the barrel. To Styphon with whoever poured that gun! Where’s Captain-General Harmakros?”

  “Harmakros?” Kalvan asked.

  “Yes, he was with me a minute ago. Then the gun blew and threw me like a bit of wadding cloth. Allos, where are you?”

  A thin man with a powder-darkened face ran up to the General. “What is it, General Thalmoth?”

  “Find Harmakros for me.”

  “I saw him back at the courtyard. He was badly hurt and they were carrying him to the Infirmary next to the stables.”

  “Follow me, Your Majesty. To the stables.”

  Kalvan felt his insides drop. Not Harmakros! His friend, confidant, and finest general. He pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers to the gate leading to the outer courtyard. Xykos and the Queen’s Beefeaters followed close behind.

  II

  Prince Eudocles, newly elevated to First Prince of Zygros since his nephew had died, was angry--very angry--far angrier than Count Sestembar could remember for a very long time. The Prince was pacing back and forth before the flames shooting out of the large hearth, slamming his big fist into the palm of his left hand again and again. “Tell me again what this canker from my privy parts said about me!”

  “He said you had Prince Pariphon murdered so you could steal your brother’s throne. And other words about how his blood was sick with the fester devils of your ambition.” Sestembar had invented a number of vile insults, the better to part father and son. Someday he wanted the personal pleasure of ending Phidestros’ life.

  “You have been ill used, my friend. Are you sure it was Phidestros who broke your arm?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. He grabbed it and snapped it like a twig. He is preternaturally strong. Said he would do even worse should your person ever visit Harphax City.”

  “Now this happens, just when everything was going so well. It is good that no one but yourself knows he is the sport of my loins. Were he to be making such accusations in Zygros City it would be worth his life!”

  “He threw the saddlebag of gold to his men as if it were clothes off a beggar’s back.”

  “I’m sure his chests are filled with Styphon’s gold ingots. Now we know it’s the highest bidder who owns his loyalty. Phidestros’ temper will cost him, and his liege lord, more than they know. Had he received you with grace it had been my intention to send him ten companies of horse and twice that of foot for the war against King Kalvan upon your return. Now, he shall receive nothing of his patrimony except my fist in his face when next we meet!”

  “I can hardly believe Great King Sopharar would have committed so many soldiers to the Styphoni Army.” Ambition, pride and anger were Eudocles’ weaknesses, and Sestembar knew better than anyone how to fire these charges. It took all the Count’s will power to keep a smile from breaking his lips. Kalvan’s agents would pay well for this night’s work!

  “At this moment, my grief-addled brother would sign any parchment brought before his hand, just to quickly free his hand so that it is able to wipe the tears that continue to flow from his eyes.” Eudocles snorted as if he couldn’t believe what he had seen. “Maybe some night he will drown in all his tears--it would be a boon for Hos-Zygros!

  “As for my false son, I renounce him for all time and any claim he shall make upon my person or the Ivory Throne of Hos-Zygros! So I swear to the Twelve True Gods.”

  III

  Lysandros exerted his iron will to quench the anger that burned in his veins, while his hands clenched and unclenched at the side of his chair-- out of sight. Archpriest Phyllos continued blathering, blissfully unaware of how close he was to having his neck snapped. When Phyllos finally paused to take a breath, Lysandros interjected, “Am I to understand that the Inner Circle is now telling me who is in command of my army?”

  The Archpriest shrugged. “I apologize for contradicting you, Your Majesty, but this army is Styphon’s Grand Host. It is our gold which is financing this crusade, and it is the Union of Styphon’s Friends which comprises the majority of its forces. Thus, it was decided by the Speaker that it would be in everyone’s best interest to have a unified command under one general. Captain-General Phi
destros was selected by both Grand Master Soton and Speaker Anaxthenes as the best candidate.”

  As if that should settle the question for once and for all, but what about me, you arrogant imbecile? he shouted silently. It had been his plan from the beginning to command the Grand Host himself; after all, while Kalvan had Captain-Generals at his beck and call, it was the Usurper who commanded his force--not some jumped-up mercenary captain. To Styphon with the lot of them!

  It was his late brother’s fault he was in this mess, having to feign humility and piety toward a false god and clutch of priests who weren’t worth the fireseed it would take to blow them to Regwarn and back! Kaiphranos the Timid had been everything a king should not be: weak, vacillating, fearful, and worst of all cheap. The only good to come of Kaiphranos’ reign was the opportunity it had allowed a younger brother to emerge and take charge of the Royal Army, turning it into a force to be reckoned with despite the constant lack of funding.

  Unfortunately, he’d been forced to cut deals with Styphon’s House to pay his troops and provide them with arms and fireseed. The Harphaxi Army hadn’t been a great army, but it had been a good army. Until his brother had granted command to that Dralm-damned addlebrained Captain-General Aesthes and his brother’s idiot son, Prince Philesteus, who’d at least had the grace to die on the battlefield with the flower of Harphaxi nobility!

  With Lysandros in command, the Grand Host would not only have defeated the Usurper Kalvan and restored the lost lands to Hos-Harphax, but would have had an opportunity to annex new lands in Hos-Agrys. Under the guise of punishing King Demistophon for not supporting the Grand Host and for permitting the League of Dralm to continue to meet, he would have annexed large chunks of Agrysi territory.