Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

by John F. Carr

  “We have heard that Kalvan has a secret technique for getting messages to the borders so quickly. Do you know how he does this?”

  “He uses his semaphores. Kalvan’s dotted the countryside with those wretched huts. I can’t begin to tell you all the things he’s done to Hostigos since he arrived from the gods only know where.”

  Phidestros rose to his feet and began to pace. “Do you know Kalvan uses these ‘huts’ to send messages?”

  “He’s put one of those huts right in my barony. He has troopers waving flags and flashing lights back and forth. I can see the ugly thing right out my window. I had to order that window special from Agrys City, and you wouldn’t believe how much it cost...”

  The chief Harphaxi Intelligencer had received reports that Kalvan was building a series of watchtowers, but no one had been able to discern their use since they weren’t placed at the usual watch points. Phidestros had wondered if they were to be used for sending smoke signals, but no one had seen trails or puffs of smoke. However, flags and light signals were faster and more reliable than smoke signals. This sounded important.

  “What about Kalvan’s guns?”

  “The Royal Foundry, yes, Kalvan makes all these noisy big guns there. He imported the most awful foreigners, from Greffa and Hos-Zygros, to tell by their accents--you know what hicks the Zygrosi are, don’t you?”

  Phidestros nodded, barely trusting himself to keep a straight face. Could the Baron be so ignorant--even being a Hostigi--not to know that he was a former Zygrosi? Killing was too good for the man. Fortunately, for the rest of his body--since it would not live long without the head--Sthentros was providing the most valuable intelligence of the war. Lysandros would be beside himself when he learned that the Baron was kin to Ptosphes and, by marriage, to Kalvan, himself!

  “The Foundry women are doubly strange, and take more liberties--of course, it helps that they’re Royal Wards--than any decent women I’ve known. I’ve heard tales about Grefftscharrer women, but these are strange fowl indeed. This one old bird--Lala, what kind of proper name is that, I ask you?--argues with everything she’s told, gabbling like an old goose.” Sthentros made a grabbing and jerking motion with his hands. “It took all my will power to keep from wringing her neck the one time we met.”

  “I understand, your feelings Your Lordship, I truly do. Did you get an opportunity to observe the brass-founders at their work?”

  “What, me stay in a smelly, noisy foundry to watch a gang of foreigners and artisans! I should say not. That’s another thing that’s wrong with Kalvan. He spends too much time at places like the Royal Foundry and that University of his talking to riffraff and giving them airs. One of them, Ermut is his name--the Usurper even named a new potable after him!-- was a former Temple-farm slave. Now he’s a Master and it’s rumored that Kalvan offered him the position of Rector at the University. Posts like that should only be held by those of noble blood!

  “The same with his Captain-General Harmakros--his parents were merchants, ran a vegetable stall in Hostigos Town, if you can believe it! The Captain-General even has a bastard that Kalvan’s made a Royal Page--the illegitimate get of vegetable merchants parading up and down the halls of Tarr-Hostigos and in the Royal Audience Chamber. I’d rather see Styphoni--I mean worshippers of the True God--in Tarr-Hostigos than lowlife townies and peasant scum.”

  Phidestros gritted his teeth so hard they ached. This was his penance for losing his temper with Count Sestembar. But when he’d talked about his mother as if she were some drab that had tainted his father’s saintly blood--well, enough was enough. This rattlehead would have to be coddled until his wits were poured out, then he could be tossed to Roxthar and Investigated.

  But first, there was much to be learned about Kalvan’s underlings and the political situation in Hostigos.

  “Now, tell me more about his University.”

  II

  No matter how hard he tried Count Sestembar couldn’t remove the smile of satisfaction from his face. He had just finished questioning the last of the brass-founders in the dungeon of Tarr-Zygros and the stink of the man’s fear still clung to his clothes like bad perfume. What he had learned from the founder was worth far more than all the whale ambergris in the kingdom.

  “What are you smiling about, Sestembar?” Prince Eudocles asked.

  “Here we went all the way to Hos-Harphax for a treasure that was resting in our own backyard,” he answered smugly.

  “Enough of your riddles, old friend. I just returned from a lengthy visit with my brother’s latest charlatan, a self-proclaimed wizard dressed all in black, topped with a pointed hat, who claims the voice of the dead Prince speaks through his tongue. My brother had me sitting in a dark chamber for the entire afternoon while this man threw his voice about the room, an instrument that sounded to these ears no more like Prince Pariphon’s voice than my own!

  “His obsession with the deceased Prince grows so desperate that it’s bandied about all the wineshops on the waterfront! He will make us all a laughingstock!”

  Not all, thought Sestembar. No subject who valued his life would ever consider joking about Eudocles, who was notorious for both his quick temper and his lack of humor, especially about his own person.

  “Your brother will grow tired of his weeping, maybe sire another child. Your sister-in-law is still fertile, is she not?”

  “Who knows, she’s so ugly no other man will look at her. Now she cries both day and night with such emotion one would think the Daemon Kalvan was perched on the city gates!”

  “More evidence that the kingdom needs a new ruler.”

  Eudocles frowned. “Be careful where you speak such thoughts. Although I will admit there is a great deal of truth to your words. Now, what is this about a treasure?”

  “When I talked to the ungrateful one.”

  “Spit it out, Sestembar!” he growled. “I know the ungrateful whelp of whom you speak.”

  “During our meeting at the brothel he frequents, he asked me to have you send some of our brass-founders like those employed by the Usurper Kalvan in his Royal Foundry. The other day it struck me that if Kalvan is using our founders, he may have actually visited Zygros Town before or after his sudden appearance in Hostigos. Since so little is known about this Kalvan, I decided to visit all the foundries in the area and talk to the founders myself. It was a most enlightening visit.”

  Eudocles leaned forward. “Go on, old friend.”

  “I visited six different foundries, all of which are most busy. It was not always such before Kalvan’s arrival.”

  Eudocles spat a string of curses. “These Dralm-blasted dogs of Styphon never let us have enough of their fireseed.” He laughed maniacally. “Now their Fireseed Mystery is known to every woodcutter and charcoal burner in the Five Kingdoms!”

  “We do owe Kalvan a debt of thanks for removing Styphon’s chains,” Sestembar added, careful not to offend his lord. When the First Prince was in his dark place, his moods could spin like a coin! And one never knew what side would land face up.

  “I will thank him even more if he leaves us in peace.”

  “I may have uncovered the means to ensure that he does just that.”

  “Enough mystery, Count. Talk on!”

  Sestembar nodded. “Three of the founders remember a tall stranger, who may or may not prove to be Kalvan, who called himself Verkan the Grefftscharrer.”

  “I’ve not heard of any Verkan. But we get visits all the time from Grefftscharrer merchants.”

  “I talked to some former mercenaries who took wounds while fighting for Kalvan, and several of them recognized the name--one called him Colonel Verkan of the Mounted Rifles.”

  “Then there is such a man. How is this important to Us?”

  “I wanted to learn more about his visit and what he asked for. Memories differ on the facts--after all, this visit occurred over three winters ago--but two casters remember this Verkan well; he was quite generous with his purse and paid in gold. It
was said that he left town with five brass-founders and some patternmakers.”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Before leaving he taught two of these gunsmiths the secret of rifling!”

  “Rifles! Kalvan’s far-shooting muskets? The ones we’ve been searching high and low for?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why has this not come to our attention?”

  “Because, Your Highness, we were looking in all the wrong places, and certainly not right under our noses. Two gunsmiths have been selling these rifles as fowling pieces for hunters. One, a Master Ptoythos, showed me his rifling bench and explained that it takes considerable effort to carve the inside of the barrel with the right grooves. Far too expensive a piece to waste on the battlefield, he said! The other gunsmith was most reluctant to tell me of his secrets until I talked with him in our dungeon. He’s now anxious to cooperate and share his knowledge.”

  “You have taught him wisdom and saved his head. To keep secrets from the Throne is a capital offense. He can teach the rest of the Gunsmiths Guild the secrets of making rifles. Inform Master Ptoythos that We have found a new place for his talents. He will be elevated to Royal Gunsmith, and if he can makes us rifles we will elevate his station as well.”

  “Ptoythos will be most pleased, Prince. He is a master artisan and has the arrogance of the best of that breed. He will be a suitable tool to provide us with our own rifles?

  “Sestembar, I must say I am most pleased about your part in this discovery. It is time you received a proper reward.”

  Sestembar felt his heart hammer, as he contemplated how many ounces of gold he would be gifted.

  “I need more faithful retainers and you are a good example for them. I will raise you to duke--yes, that would be a proper payment for all your services.”

  Sestembar felt light on his feet and had to sit down, or risk stumbling. This wonderful a reward he had never expected.

  “You are a little rough in the graces, but too many of the Zygrosi nobility are too fine for the kind of work that may lie ahead. There are no suitable positions for your rank at present; however, Duke Phremnos has no heirs and is approaching sixty winters. Sadly, he and his wife are both in good health. A stout fire might not only cleanse that ruin of a tarr they inhabit, but solve your problem as well.”

  “It will be done,” Sestembar said with a big smile. “But isn’t Phremnos close to Great King Sopharar?”

  “True, one of his biggest supporters. Unfortunately, my brother’s grief is such that this will be as little noticed a passing as one of the palace pigeons caught in a stableboy’s trap.”

  Sestembar nodded eagerly. Arson was an art he’d perfected during his days as a mercenary captain.

  Eudocles rose up and put his hand on Sestembar’s shoulder. “Once the King has finished grieving for his friend I will place your patent before him. Then the Throne will build you a new castle, one worthy of your station. You will need an emblem.”

  “A rifle, Your Highness.”

  The Prince laughed. “A most appropriate choice! With our own riflemen the Zygrosi Royal Army will be a force to be reckoned with.”

  SPRING

  TWENTY-ONE

  Kalvan gave Rylla a reassuring hug as thunder battered the walls of the keep like a battery of Styphoni guns. Rain was falling from the sky in sheets and he wondered how long a reprieve the rains would give Hos-Hostigos from the coming campaign. This year he needed more time, since some ten thousand men were strung out over the Nyklos Trail between Ulthor and Hostigos Town. His army was badly out-numbered by the Styphoni Grand Host so Kalvan needed every allied troop he could find. Yet, even as he sat, more enemy soldiers were pouring into the staging areas for the Grand Host of Styphon. So far, even if each Hostigi trooper was worth two Styphoni, it was a Mexican standoff.

  The real question was: should he attempt a battle of maneuver, or spit into the breach? The terrain was in his favor, mostly mountainous with cornrows of high ridges that could break an army’s back. Easy to defend if you didn’t have to worry about the homes and the lives of the people who lived there. Kalvan much preferred to take the war to the enemy.

  The Russians had made a defensive weapon out of their own country, but the Appalachians were not wide enough to break Phidestros’ heart like the steppes of Russia broke Napoleon’s. Maybe it would be smarter to pick a spot to defend, bunch up the Grand Host, and make them come to him? Maybe, maybe not. He did know that sitting in Tarr-Hostigos mulling over alternative strategies with Harmakros and Rylla for another moon wasn’t going to leave him fit for much more than a straitjacket.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes!”

  Cleon stuck his gray head into their private chambers. “General Hestophes here to see Your Majesties.”

  “Tell him to come in.”

  Captain-General Hestophes was still dressed in soaking wet traveling leathers and smelled like horse. Kalvan and Rylla let him sit by the hearth, while they returned to their chairs.

  Kalvan held aloft the first glass bottle of Ermut’s Best. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes! But only if Your Majesties drink with me.” Cleon brought fresh goblets and topped them.

  “How was your journey?”

  “Slow, wet, and miserable, Your Majesties. A raft would have been faster than my horse.”

  After more pleasantries, Kalvan asked, “What is the situation at Tarr-Locra?”

  “Prince Phrames arrived to relieve me of my command, as ordered. Morale was high considering that the Grand Host has started its advance from Tarr-Veblos.”

  “Tarr-Veblos! What did you say?” Kalvan rose to his feet without a thought, while Rylla appeared to be searching her gown for a sword. That Hestophes was known for understatement only made his announcement that much more astounding. “When did this happen? Why wasn’t I notified by semaphore?”

  “You don’t know? Why I’ve sent a dozen messages. Your orders were that I was relieved of command and should return to Tarr-Hostigos.”

  “No such message was ever sent from Us, or from Tarr-Hostigos. I know nothing about the invasion of Beshta.”

  Hestophes lowered himself into a chair and dropped his head into his hands.

  Rylla shook her head along with Kalvan’s. They’d been snookered. Somehow Phidestros had learned about the semaphore stations--where or how he’d have to learn quickly.

  “Hestophes, it’s worse than you think. For the past week all the semaphore messages received at Tarr-Hostigos have been phonies, saying that the Styphoni forces were gathering to besiege Tarr-Locra.” The reason Kalvan had spent so much of his precious Beshtan resources building the massive fortifications at Tarr-Locra was that the fort blocked the eastern entrance, from Hos-Harphax, into the west bank of the Harph to the Besh and then up the Besh Valley. The Styphoni had to take Tarr-Locra to reach the Harph River, or else they would have to enter Hos-Hostigos the rough way, through the mountains of Beshta and Sashta, the route Soton had taken to the Phyrax battlefield two years ago.

  Tarr-Locra was a tough nut to crack and could hold out for moons; if Phidestros had realized that and just put a token force there, he could have easily hit Beshta unaware from Tarr-Veblos, with only Prince Phrames and his Besthan Army to block him. Meanwhile, the Army of Observation was sitting on its thumbs guarding Tarr-Locra from a detached force, while Phidestros was advancing through Sashta and Sask toward Hostigos. It was a brilliant plan, Kalvan marveled, worthy of the man who made the legendary mad ride to join the Holy Host after Chothros Heights.

  “Your Majesties, I thought you knew. A large portion of the Grand Host entered Beshtan territory about a quarter-moon ago. I thought this was why I had been recalled to Hostigos Town. I was about to tender my resignation.”

  “No. You were recalled because Harmakros’ wounds have not improved. His leg is still infected with fester devils so he will not be able to ride or lead the army. I needed you here to take over as Grand Captain-General of the Royal A
rmy.”

  Hestophes’ eyes grew wide. “Me! Why not Prince Phrames or someone of noble blood?”

  “Because you are the best man for the job. Phrames has his own duties as Prince of Beshta. Ptosphes is needed as First Prince of Hos-Hostigos. There are no others but my wife. And she is needed to care for our child.”

  Kalvan was just glad he was out of elbow distance when he made that last statement. As it was, he got the grandmother of all dirty looks.

  “We have agreed that you are the best man for the job,” Rylla added. “You have Our faith.”

  Hestophes bowed his head and when he looked up again there was a steely look of determination on his face. “I will not fail Your Majesties. This is a post to which I never dreamed to ascend. I give you my life.”

  “That will not be necessary, Hestophes. Just fight to the best of your ability. No one expects miracles. Although if Father Dralm should strike the entire Styphoni Grand Host with the pox We would build him the greatest Temple ever seen!”

  Rylla let forth an exaggerated sigh. “Allfather Dralm, he does not mean these words.”

  “Now, tell us more about the invasion of Beshta.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. The weather along the border has been unseasonably good and at first, when the Styphoni advanced, we thought it was another feint by the Grand Host to test our resolve. Our light cavalry have been attacking their scouts and supply trains all winter.

  “When they easily repulsed our first attacks, I began to realize the entire host was on the move. That is when I sent the first message to warn Your Majesty. Despite the mud and rain of the past three days, the Grand Host has advanced quickly and has taken most of our border forts and two tarrs. They have many large siege guns with huge crews to man them and captured Beshtans to move them into position.”

  “Already, they take revenge upon Our people,” Kalvan said through pursed lips, as he saw hundreds of captives using ropes and pulleys to manhandle the massive two hundred pound bombards up and down hills. While this tactic might save a few teams of horses for other chores, it wasn’t really cost-effective--more a terror tactic. It forced the Hostigi defenders to fire upon their own people, or take fire from these huge guns.