by John F. Carr
Verkan had been a student of military history since his first posting as a Paratime Police cadet over a hundred years ago when the War Between the States was raging on time-lines throughout Europo-American, Hispano Columbian Subsector. For a few decades he’d read everything he could find on warfare, until he met Dalla--then his life took a much more interesting and less predictable turn. Still, he was very aware of the challenge posed to Kalvan by this Grand Host, the largest army ever raised on Aryan-Transpacific, Styphon’s House Subsector.
The Hostigi were in an ordered retreat after rushing into eastern Beshta only to find the Grand Host deep inside Hos-Hostigos, less than twenty miles from the border of Sashta. Instead of fighting a pitched battle against an overwhelming force, Kalvan had chosen to fall back. Verkan was well aware of just how much that had rankled Kalvan and the Hostigi regulars who were used to setting the pace and forcing opposing armies to dance to their tune.
The Grand Host was even larger than the first estimates compiled by Hostigi intelligence; anywhere from one hundred thousand to one hundred and twenty-five thousand men were the numbers that had been bandied around at Kalvan’s War Council. Overhead surveillance and some groundwork by the Harphax City Study Team had given him an estimated figure of one hundred and forty thousand combatants. The army of sutlers and camp followers following the Grand Host was estimated to be twice that number!
One of his sergeants came by and offered him a canteen of winter wine. Verkan took a deep drink. All this waiting was thirsty work, not to mention time consuming. And time was something he didn’t have a lot of these days, especially with all the work he had left waiting back at Paratime Police HQ. This year’s Year-End Day riots had been the worst in a millennium. The radical wing of the Prole Liberation Movement was claiming credit, while the establishment center of the PLM was decrying the riots and blaming them on citizen anti-prole prejudice.
There was still no sign of Dallas brother, Hadron Tharn, on First Level or any of his other regular haunts. Tharn had, however, stripped several of his holding companies of their assets through intermediaries, causing turmoil in the Home Time Line stock market. He was now the Number One fugitive topping both the Dhergabar Metropolitan Police and Paratime Police’s most wanted lists.
Verkan’s thoughts flashed back to the here-and-now when he spotted a small cloud of dust and half a dozen Hostigi scouts rode over the ridge and down into the valley. The scouts reached friendly lines and were tucked out of sight before the twenty-five to thirty enemy cavalry, with red and yellow helmet-plumes, followed behind. Verkan signaled his men to hold their fire. Not only was the Harphaxi detachment out of rifle range, but also he didn’t want to warn the main body of the Mounted Rifles presence.
“Sergeant Ryff, bring these scouts to my tent at once!”
After Ryff left at a fast trot, Verkan gave a First Level hand signal to Captain Dalon, who was his Paratime Police assistant in this battle, now that Ranthar Jard was in Hos-Bletha with Kalvan’s Insurrection Group. Dalon Sath had fought with Colonel Ranthar in the Army of the Trygath and had distinguished himself enough to win the rank of captain--Kalvan was very generous at rewarding faithful and decisive subordinates. Dalon was a master tech and in charge of the Beshtan observation sky-eyes.
Even though they were out of voice range of the locals, Verkan spoke in First Level, assuming that anyone who overheard them would believe it to be his native Grefftscharrer tongue. “Sath, I want you to change the setting on the sky-eye; I want to know what’s coming over that ridge. Then contact Kirv at the Foundry and tell him to batten down the hatches.”
Dalon Sath shook his head. “That’s going to be tough, Chief. We’ve got the anti-gravity spotter almost within visual range now--”
“I don’t care anymore. Our need for information overrides any transtemporal violation. If any indigenes see the satellite they’ll just assume it’s a portent of the coming battle. We need to know what’s coming over those ridges. I’m not worried about some dirt farmer talking about Styphon’s Eye in the Sky! Do it!”
“Yes sir, Chief.”
When the Harphaxi scouting party reached the valley bottom they stopped to water their horses and fill their water flasks. Two of the enemy scouts threw off their buckskins and jumped into the creek, shouting and whooping it up. The Mobile Force sergeants ran up and down the line of riflemen making sure no one took a pot shot.
When Ryff returned with the scouts, Verkan debriefed them.
“Sir, there’s a couple thousand Styphoni--even a band of Red Hand-- coming our way.”
After squeezing the scouts dry of what little information they had, he returned to the ridge to wait for the Harphaxi. The wait seemed interminable, but Verkan knew only ten or fifteen minutes had passed when the main body topped the rise and rode over the crest. As the Harphaxi cavalry moved into the valley the horsemen kept coming and coming and Verkan realized they were facing ten or twelve thousand horse. Many of the forward horsemen were light cavalry, with breastplates or leather jerkins, javelins and swords; but the majority wore the three-quarter-lobster armor of the cuirassier. Verkan wished he had a small battery of the heavy sixteen-pounders with explosive shells; they could have harvested a bloody crop on the much larger Harphaxi force.
Verkan had organized his Mobile Riflemen into three battalions, each containing three one-hundred man companies. The battalions were to fire in rotating volleys while the remaining HQ Company of sharpshooters fired at targets of opportunity--mainly officers and pockets of resistance.
He shouted, “ONE!” A single boom rolled through the valley, ripping through the Harphaxi men and horses alike. Taken by complete surprise, the Harphaxi detachment boiled, musketoons and pistols firing in every direction. Horses dropped and men spilled to the ground. “TWO!” Another volley, followed by a third, fourth and fifth, tore through the mass of enemy horsemen. His riflemen were using the new Minié balls and paper cartridges, which gave them the fastest rate of fire this time-line had ever seen.
The Harphaxi horsemen, with their red and yellow plumes, began to reform--even under the withering fire of the Mounted Rifles--and began to ride up the ridge. Still more riders came over the far ridge. Now Verkan could make out their shouting, “Down Kalvan! Down Kalvan!”
Verkan signaled his sergeants to stop firing and prepare for a single volley. The volley tore through the Harphaxi lines like a reaper through a fresh field. Suddenly, the wind changed and everything was obscured by swirling smoke. When the air cleared, the Harphaxi were half again as far up the ridge. The Mounted Rifles fired another volley and the leading riders went down in mass, the survivors jumping off their horses and scrambling close to the ground. Then the wind changed direction again and all he could see was roiling gray gunpowder smoke.
By the time the air had cleared again, a trooper had scrambled up the ridge and was pointing a bell-mouthed musketoon in his face. Captain Dalon shot him point-blank in the face with his horsepistol--even before Verkan could flinch.
“FIRE!” shouted Sergeant Ryff. The falling trooper and his companions, who’d lost their mounts and fought on foot, disappeared in a wash of red blood and swirling gray smoke. Verkan ran his sword point past the nasal guard and into the eye of one trooper trying to liberate a rifle from a fallen officer. The next volley fired through a scrum of patchy smoke and attacking cavalrymen. It took three more ragged volleys to clear the ridge and force the dismounted Harphaxi troopers into a retreat, signaled by the bellow of Harphaxi war horns.
Verkan had the healers and Uncle Wolfs brought to the front lines to remove the wounded and dead Hostigi on litters made of poles and blankets. Friendly casualties were surprisingly light. The enemy dead and wounded lay strewn over the hillside by the hundreds. The screams of wounded men and horses split the air.
The retreating Harphaxi reformed out of rifle range on the opposing hillside. Enemy reinforcements continued to join the main battle in small and large groupings, many of them dragoons. This was going t
o turn into a real rough-and-tumble if some Hostigi reinforcements didn’t show up soon.
He walked down the line talking to his troopers giving them encouragement and making jokes at Styphon’s expense. “How many Styphoni does it take to fire a musket?” he asked. “You don’t know, do you? Five: one lower-priest to fill the pan with fireseed, one temple highpriest to push down the striker, one Archpriest to put fireseed and drop the bullet down the barrel and use the rammer, one Red Hand to fire it, and one Holy Investigator to hold the target!” It hadn’t been half so funny back in camp, but here it drew gales of laughter.
He had time to smoke and refill his pipe twice before the Harphaxi cavalry formed up for their second attack.
II
A loud scream was the first indication of the attack on Crynn. Moments later the stableboy heard the bark of small arms, more screams, then the sound of horses galloping down the small town’s main street. He peeked out of the stable to see a dozen horses with Styphon’s Own Guard, their red capes whipping in the wind, riding down the street. He hadn’t seen any of Styphon’s Red Hand since the death of Balthar of Beshta, before Prince Phrames the Good took the chain of office. Styphon’s Red Hand were firing indiscriminately at anyone on the street, including women and children. He saw one ginger-haired boy dodge a Guard’s saber slash, only to be ridden into the dust by his mount.
The sight of six of the white-robed priests, with Styphon’s black sun-wheel on their chests, following behind the Temple Guard and a squad of soldiers in the red and yellow colors of Hos-Harphax, holding a banner with a green hawk, sent him scurrying back into the stable and hunting for cover. Styphon’s Investigators! Rumors had filled the streets of Crynn for days about Styphon’s Holy Investigation and the terrible tortures undergone by those Hostigi unfortunate enough to be taken prisoner and Investigated. As he exited the back of the stable, the boy saw the town’s highpriest of Dralm dragged behind a horse with a rope around his chest, his blue robes slashed and blood running down his blonde beard.
He’d been a lot younger when the Hostigi army had advanced through Beshta over two winters ago, but it had been a far different invasion. Great King Kalvan’s soldiers had left the townspeople alone, only killing soldiers of the old regime and Styphon’s false priests. The rumors said the Grand Host had come to scour the subjects of Hos-Hostigos from the very earth.
He hid under some hay behind a broken windmill blade at the northernmost corner of the stable. Outside he heard more shots and screams.
After about a candle’s wait, he heard the screech of hinges and a big bang, as the front doors were forced open. “I saw one of the Daemon’s mice run in here,” said a voice.
Through the blade Gryos saw a big soldier in leather armor, wearing a yellow and red sash and a green helmet, pick up a pitchfork and begin to punch half-heartedly through the piles of hay. “This is a waste of time. I’m a soldier, not a child murderer.”
A tall beardless priest in white robes was laughing. “You’re just pissed because you got the short straw for the maidens. These Hostigi are well fed, but not for long. Your commander has given you first rights, but when you’re through they will all belong to the Investigation--Styphon help the lot of them!”
The big trooper turned around and spat a wad of tobacco on the floor. “Shut your gab-hole priest, before I shut it for you!”
“You are here to aid Styphon’s Work, not give orders! The Investigation did not begin in Hostigos, nor will it end there.”
“It will end here for you!” The soldier slammed the pitchfork into the priest’s stomach, staining his white bedsheet red. The Styphoni fell to the ground twitching and writhing, with the pitchfork standing upright. The Harphaxi soldier yanked the tines out and stuck it into the hard packed earth floor, as easy as sticking it into a block of butter. Then he pulled out a knife and slit the priest’s throat.
Next the soldier removed a long pistol from the yellow and red sash around his middle and in about five strides stood over the stableboy’s hiding place, aiming the pistol at his head.
“Boy, come out now--and with your hands open.”
The stableboy slowly pushed the hay aside and moved from behind the windmill blade. He was shaking like a leaf in a stiff wind.
The soldier stuck the pistol back into his sash. “Don’t be afraid of me, boy, I’m saving your life. I’m a Green Hawk and our company still obeys Galzar’s laws. It’s these dung worshippers of Styphon that you need to be scared of. I’ve been watching them torture women and children for days now and I’ve had it up to here.” He held his hand way over his head.
“I don’t think the Grand Captain-General knows what’s happening in these small towns and villages. But, you and me, we’re going to tell him.”
The boy nodded.
“Now, help me hide this miserable piece of crow bait in the back of the barn.”
III
The rain had finally let up and beams of golden sunlight were lancing through the trees of their makeshift council site. For an army on the move, it was not an unusual place to hold a Council of War--the nearest hall was five miles away and in ruins. The arching trees overhead gave it the interior spaciousness of a cathedral. Instead of a Catholic bishop or priest giving the sermon, it was Uncle Wolf Tharses, who was wearing his official uniform, a wolf’s head hood and wolfskin cape over a mail hauberk.
His usually open and placid face was a mask of fury. “It is wrong, what the Styphoni are doing in Beshta, wrong in the eyes of Galzar Wolfhead, the God of War, and wrong in the name of all the other true gods. War is to be fought among men, not helpless women and children.” There was a chorus of agreement from the assembled princes and commanders of the Army of Hos-Hostigos.
This is all true, thought Kalvan, but where were Galzar’s priests from Hos-Ktemnos and Hos-Bletha? On the other side, saying most of the same things about Kalvan and Hos-Hostigos, he answered himself cynically.
“Galzar is Judge of Princes and the Wargod will judge both the devil-worshipping Styphoni and the bootlicking Harphaxi, who use Styphon’s gold to wage this unjust war against the subjects and people of Hos-Hostigos. It is the field of battle, not the nursery, that is the courtroom of Galzar. Styphon’s House has not only declared war against Hos-Hostigos, but also the Palace of the Gods. I have sent Rynnos, Highpriest of Xyphos Town, to Galzar’s High Temple in Agrys City to seek a Ban of Galzar on all the armies of Styphon’s House!”
That, here-and-now, was an unprecedented declaration of war upon Styphon’s House by the only other temple in the Six Kingdoms that had any teeth. Under the Ban of Galzar, any mercenaries fighting for Styphon’s House would have to renounce their colors and retire from the field of battle. Kalvan wasn’t sure just how many mercenaries were included in the Grand Host, but it had to be a quarter to a third of their force. The only problem was no single highpriest of Galzar could declare the Ban; it had to be decided upon by the Temple Highpriests. It might be a month or two before Rynnos traveled to Agrys City, presented their case against Styphon’s House, the case was adjudicated and word sent to all the Six Kingdoms.
Of course, Styphon’s House would renounce it and say it was a vicious smear campaign against Styphon’s House by the Daemon Kalvan and Tharses himself would have to appear before the High Temple, with his witnesses, and the whole thing would drag on until the war was over, or until no one cared anymore. No one was more concerned about their virtue than the schoolyard bully, and Styphon’s House was the Great King of all bullies!
“This is a war against all the gods, by the foul brood of the false god Styphon. When we destroy the army of Styphon, we shall not only kill his evil spawn, but also save our lands from this vile plague that threatens all of the Six Kingdoms. Kill the False Styphoni!”
There was a chorus of “Down Styphon!” and the meeting began to break up. Kalvan motioned Prince Ptosphes over.
“Prince, I have a favor to ask.”
Ptosphes’ face looked drawn and his color was ba
d. Camping out in the night air after riding eight to ten hours, day after day, was taking its toll. “Anything you ask that is mine to give is yours, Your Majesty.”
Kalvan prepared himself for an explosion. “I want you to return to Tarr-Hostigos. Wait, let me explain, before you speak! It’s been over a day now and we still haven’t heard back from Colonel Verkan or any of the other Mobile Force. We have too much territory to protect and not enough men to cover it all. I believe we can still beat the Styphoni, but it could be close, very close.”
Ptosphes nodded tiredly, not even trying to interrupt.
Kalvan wasn’t sure whether if that was a good, or bad, sign. “In case-- and I’m only trying to prepare for the worst possible outcome--should we lose the upcoming battle I want someone back at Tarr-Hostigos that I can not only trust but depend on. Harmakros is still at the castle, but he’s in no condition to act as the commander of our rearguard. And I need someone to keep an eye on the Princess.”
The First Prince nodded. “With his leg gone, Harmakros can no longer sit on a horse. I will do as you ask, Kalvan. I am a stubborn old fool--no, don’t protest. But I am not blind or addled. My body has slowed down and it needs more time to rest. Some days my breath is so short, it is hard to breathe. Yes, I will return to Tarr-Hostigos and prepare for the Grand Victory celebration for when the Army of Hos-Hostigos comes home with the head of Roxthar mounted on a pole!”
Surprising himself, Kalvan gave his father in law a big bear hug. “Thank you, Ptosphes. I will miss your wise counsel.”