by John F. Carr
“I see Rylla over there. It’s best that I tell her myself.”
“Of course.”
He heard the shouting and suddenly everyone within sight quickly drew a sword or pistol--or both. Kalvan relaxed when he saw it was Prince Sarrask of Sask, leading at pistol-point a reluctant and fully armored Prince Balthames into the clearing. Three of Sarrask’s Bodyguard with halberds at port arms followed behind.
Prince Balthames, who was dressed in silver plate more appropriate for a parade than a field of battle, was shaking badly. The visor to his armet helm was up and Balthames’ handsome face was beet red, although it was hard to tell if it was from being roughed-up, anger or embarrassment.
Sarrask spoke first, “I thought it was odd when I noticed Balthames was not at the meeting, since earlier I had seen this popinjay put on his fancy armor.”
Kalvan could remember a day when Sarrask’s Bodyguard wore more silver than Styphon’s Temple Guard. These days they dressed in good Arklos plate and their armor was rain-proofed with liberal smears of sheep tallow and pig fat.
“So I had one of my guardsmen follow him and he found this traitorous swine with his guardsmen trying to loot our paychests! He reported back to me and I took my Guard. We killed Balthames’ henchmen and brought him back for Your Majesty’s Justice.”
There was more to this than met the eye; Kalvan knew that for certain. Sarrask’s daughter Princess Amnita and Prince Balthames had been married in an arranged dynastic marriage; it was one of convenience, since she liked dashing cavalry captains while he preferred boys. Last spring she had become with child and Balthames had banished her from Sashta, after beheading her current lover. Now, the Princess was under-foot, pregnant, miserable and making Sarrask’s life “like being a manure shoveler in a bull’s pasture,” as Sarrask so colorfully put it.
“The uppity bugger has run through the Sashta treasury, giving patents to all his boyfriends. Now, he wants our gold and silver!” Sarrask’s last words came out in a snarl.
Balthames wore a petulant sneer. “It’s only your word against mine! You’re an even bigger liar than that harlot you call a daughter!”
It took Captain Vanar Halgoth to hold Sarrask back from tearing his son-in-law limb from limb. While he had lost a lot of weight, the Prince of Sarrask was still a big man, only now it was muscle, not fat, he was carrying.
Kalvan made a calming motion with his hands to Sarrask. He turned to the Prince’s Bodyguards. “What did you men see?”
“It’s like the Prince says,” the tallest Bodyguard answered. “We saw this character steal away from camp with a score of his men-at-arms to the baggage train and try to take the paychests! We didn’t have to hear ‘kill them’ twice before we ran ‘em down and cut ‘em to pieces. After all, that’s our silver they’re takin’!”
The other Bodyguards nodded their agreement. One of them stepped forward and said, “I was one of the paychest guards. Prince Balthames took us by surprise and had his men aim their pistols at us. Told us ‘we’ll kill you if you move.’ Then they used hammers to knock the locks off. They were stealing our gold and silver, all right.”
“I believe these men have given a brief but accurate account of what just transpired,” Kalvan stated. “What’s your story, Balthames?”
“You’d take the word of these, these . . . commoners?”
“Yes, now give me your account before I make my judgment.”
Prince Balthames looked wildly around him for a sympathetic eye or friendly face. He found neither. His face fell. “Look, King Kalvan, everyone knows that the Styphoni out-number us better than two to one--this war is hopeless. In another night or two they will be fighting in Sashta Town. I just wanted what was mine; I wouldn’t have taken it all. I wanted enough gold to go to Agrys City and live like a Prince, not some pauper-- is that so wrong?”
Kalvan nodded to Vanar, who released Sarrask from his hold. He turned to Captain Simodes, “Take my Bodyguard and round up all the nobles within a candle from the camp.”
“Yes, Sir.” Simodes mounted his horse and rode off to the temporary headquarters.
Kalvan knew what had to be done, but he wanted witnesses. It wouldn’t do to have rumors running about the camp about why Balthames was executed. It was bad enough he had to deal with this mess just before a major battle.
When enough nobles had gathered, including Prince Ptosphes, Prince Pheblon and Tythanes, Prince of Kyblos, Kalvan recounted Balthames’ treachery. Before he was finished, there were shouts of “behead him” and “shoot him out of a cannon!”
Balthames face turned as white as a sheepskin.
Prince Sarrask looked at Kalvan and said, “King’s Justice.”
Kalvan nodded.
Sarrask pulled a pistol out of his green and gold sash, while Balthames looked on in disbelief. “I’m a Prince ...”
Sarrask raised the pistol up, as a paralyzed Balthames watched it like a pigeon hypnotized by a snake. He quickly marched over to the Prince, slammed down his visor, put the gun barrel to the eye slit and fired.
There was a sound that reminded Kalvan of a car backfire. The suit of armor danced spasmodically a few times, then fell into a quivering heap. Blood dripped out of the airholes and visor slit.
Sarrask squatted down over Balthames and pulled a long, thin boning knife out of his right boot, which he stuck through the helmet’s eyehole. “Let no one say he did not die like a Prince.” He pulled out the bloody knife, with a sucking sound, and wiped the blood on his dun-colored breeches.
The Prince turned to his Bodyguards. “Take this piece of offal to the privy trench and bury him.”
“What about his armor?” the tall one asked.
“Strip him naked,” Sarrask said. “Anything you find is yours.”
The guards left with grins, telling all and sundry what a grand prince they served.
Kalvan’s stomach felt queasy, but military justice had to be quick, irrespective of rank, firm and cruel--or the result was anarchy. They had hanged three rapists the day before and Balthames hadn’t even blinked. Well, what’s fair was fair--equal justice under the law. And one less quisling--like his brother Balthar of Beshta who turned coats in the middle of the battle of Tenabra--to worry about.
Sarrask approached him with a pewter mug of brandy for him and one for Halgoth. “Let’s make a toast, Your Majesty.”
One of the Prince’s Bodyguards rushed up with another mug, which the guard proudly gave to his prince. “To thieves and cowards, may Hadron feast on their bones!”
“Hear, hear!” Kalvan answered.
TWENTY-THREE
Verkan walked along the Mounted Rifles’ files, patting shoulders, stepping over bodies, passing out tobacco and giving encouragement to the wounded. “We’ll send these godless Styphoni bastards right back to Balph!” he told one helmetless young man with alfalfa-like hair. His morion helmet was lying on the ground with a bullet hole in the comb. The boy had an awful belly wound that meant certain death on Aryan-Transpacific, considering the dismal state of the healing arts.
The man-boy’s feverish eyes lit up and he smiled. “You show ‘em, Colonel. I’m going to take a little nap and then I’ll be right back in the fray.” Then he dropped dead as a stone.
A tiny drop of moisture beaded up in one of Verkan’s eyes. He shook his head and mentally disciplined himself. He’d grieve for this boy and the other brave Hostigi of his command after this battle was over and he could afford to relax his First Level mental controls.
Verkan, as a drummer boy, had observed some of the bloodiest battles of what was known across most of Fourth Level Europo-American as the Civil War, but he had never been in a fracas where the combatants were so determined to fight to the last man--which he’d always thought was a cliché until now!
The hillside below him was littered with what had to be six or seven thousand downed horses and about twenty-five hundred killed and wounded Harphaxi regulars. And now they were gathering steam for another charge!<
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His Mounted Rifles had stood off eight determined attacks, exhausting both their powder kegs and ranks--at last count almost a third of the Rifles were dead or mortally wounded. Still the Harphaxi Army came on. Verkan wasn’t sure if it was courage or sheer block-headedness on the enemy’s part about being kept out of the war by such a small force as the Mounted Rifles.
He would have ordered retreat, but there was nowhere to go. He certainly didn’t want to bring the Harphaxi into the Foundry’s backyard. For the first time since arriving on Kalvan’s Time-Line, he was seriously considering asking for First Level back up! There was no way he could leave his Rifles on their own.
Sergeant Ryff came running over, favoring his right leg. He’d taken a flesh wound from a lance in the upper thigh. Verkan noted that the blue halberd of Hostigos and the Rifles own banner, two crossed rifles on a green field, were flying proudly. “At last!” the Sergeant puffed. “Reinforcements! The Second and Third Royal Dragoons. They just arrived.”
“Praise the Allfather!” Verkan said, and meant it. “First, tell them, we need more fireseed.”
Ryff nodded. “I’ve already got the petty captains gathering the rifles we no longer need.” He didn’t need to expound on the fact that their owners were soon to be a part of Sashta’s soil.
“Good thinking!” He was so busy berating himself for not thinking of the rifles he barely noticed the smile that lit up the sergeant’s face. “Put the dragoons in the first rank where their smoothbores will do some good. It looks like our friends are buying courage for another charge.”
“For Styphoni, they are right brave. Almost as good as Hostigi.”
Verkan found himself in reluctant agreement. “For Styphoni without the Red Hand to stiffen their courage, they fight and die well.” That was as much as he would give them.
It wasn’t long before the Dragoons’ horns were sounding the ‘take formation’ tune that Kalvan had taught them. Verkan noticed that the Harphaxi were still reordering their lines. The Mounted Rifles were back to full strength, but with significantly less firepower as the smoothbores were inaccurate at distances over a hundred paces.
Verkan felt a vibration against his chest, where his communicator hung from a chain--disguised as a golden image of Galzar. He looked down at the ground and brought the small emblem of Galzar Wolfhead to his lips. He wasn’t worried about attracting attention since it was quite common to see soldiers talking to Galzar’s image on a battlefield just before an engagement.
It was Kirv’s voice from the foundry. “Big trouble coming your way, Chief. We just got the first peeks at your area from the sky-eye: it looks like an entire army is headed to your little dust up. Actually, a really big detachment. Our estimate is twenty to twenty-five thousand effectives tops. Half cavalry and half infantry. It appears Phidestros is trying to out-flank Kalvan. He takes your boy most seriously.”
Verkan sucked wind through his cheeks. “Sweet Styphon!”
“We’d like to pull you out of there now, Chief. Let the locals think Allfather Dralm’s Chariot came to take you away! By the time this fracas is over, there aren’t going to be many witnesses.”
“No. I’m not leaving my Rifles.”
“Chief be reasonable--they’re just outtimers!”
Verkan held back from releasing a string of Second Level curses that would have left Kirv’s ears flaming red.
“I’m staying, and that’s final.”
“But it’s hopeless, Chief. I could have a small anti-gravity personnel lifter over there in twenty minutes--Here’s Dalla, she wants to speak to you.”
“Kirv, you Styphoni sucking--”
“Hi, Fall. I see you’ve picked up some more colorful Aryan Transpacific idioms. It’s not Kirv’s fault I’m here; I was tired of all the Study Team bickering and came down here to watch my husband’s last stand.”
“Hi, Dalla. Don’t try and talk me out--”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Verkan. I know you too well to demand that you do something you’d never forgive yourself or me for. I just wish I was there.”
“I’ll be back, love.”
“I hope so,” Dalla answered, with a muffled sob. “I’ll miss you--my only love.”
“Love you too!” Then he flicked the com off--before he agreed to a lift back to the Foundry.
It took the Styphoni infantry another twenty minutes to reach the opposite slope. Even Verkan had to admit they arrived with panache, flags and banners of every color and stripe flying, dominated by Styphon’s black sun-wheel on yellow, white and even red, which meant there was at least one band of Styphon’s Own Guard--so either Phidestros or Soton took them seriously indeed.
Verkan stood up and used a disguised Kalvan farseer, which was augmented by First Level tech into a very high quality imager. Yes, he could see several Harphaxi squadrons dressed in silvered armor at the fore with their musketoons and flowing red and yellow capes. No, those weren’t musketoons they were aiming--they were rifles! And they were about to fire a salvo.
“GET DOWN!” he shouted, as a hail of lead flew across their lines. Twenty or thirty troopers took shots, but they were mostly dragoons who hadn’t reacted fast enough. The Mounted Rifles had learned to expect and prepare for anything. He was so proud of them his chest swelled.
Verkan didn’t need to repeat himself as the Hostigi lay in their trenches, loading rifles and priming pans. He noticed that many of the dragoons in the forward line had several flintlock pistols and arquebuses, taken from the dead troopers, lined up so they could use them at clash of arms. They were learning. Sergeant Ryff and his petty-captains were passing out pouches of fireseed and Minié balls to the Mounted Rifles. He called Ryff over to make certain there was lead shot and fireseed for the dragoons, who wouldn’t know what to do with the Minié balls.
Kalvan didn’t have enough Minié balls for everyone, but he made sure his Mounted Rifles had them. He wished his friend were here by his side to take his place in Verkan’s Last Stand, because that’s what this was shaping up as. Not a bad way to end a long life. It could have been longer, and Dalla would miss him--but there were a lot worse ways to leave this fleshly shell.
This time when the Styphoni charged up the slope it looked as if a multi-hued carpet had come to life and was creeping up the hillside. “Fire!”
The first salvo shook the front line, but only for a moment. On the opposing slope he could see the Harphaxi riflemen aiming their rifles, looking for targets of opportunity. “Stay down! Fire Two!”
They got off four salvos before the wave of soldiers and slashing hand weapons reached their line. In that tightly bunched up mass of humanity, he guessed the casualties were at least one to two thousand. Gunshots were crackling like firecrackers and the screams of dying and wounded horses ripped the air. With the lines this blurred, Verkan dropped two or three Harphaxi. Then his rifle jammed; he bent the barrel over a helmet and smashed the stock into a big mercenary’s face. Then he pulled out his needier and began to open up a pocket. Then his charge was on empty and he was using his sword to fend off three slashing sabers.
Verkan took one trooper out with a slash to the eye, another with the heel of his left hand and the third with point of his blade into the armpit, where there was only thin chainmail. Before he could disengage, he saw the barrel of the biggest pistol barrel he’d ever seen, and then an explosion. He fell to the ground with a thud. I’m fine, he told himself, as a searing, tearing pain ripped apart his chest. Someone’s booted heel gouged his cheek and then the wave of troops passed over him. He heard shouts of “Down Styphon!” and screaming cries of “Kill Kalvan” and then it all faded into oblivion . . .
Verkan awoke to someone slapping his face. “Chief, can you hear me?”
He groaned, which was answered by a sigh of relief that he recognized as coming from Dalon Sath. As Kalvan would have said, it looked as if the Marines had landed after all...
“Don’t pass out on me, again, Chief. This is going to hurt.” Verkan c
ould feel him struggling at the straps on his back-and-breast. He couldn’t catch his breath and his chest hurt worse than the infected tooth he’d gotten back on Alexandrian-Roman when he’d been stranded there for three years . . .
“How are my Rifles?”
Sath shook his head. “We can talk when you’re feeling better.”
That was not the answer he’d wanted to hear. Verkan felt his head swim and moaned. Then a pain, like that of a tomahawk striking his chest, jerked him back to reality as Sath tried to un-hook his breastplate. Looking down, he noticed a strange rip in the metal of his chestplate, with pieces of steel bent every which way. He saw a red bubble and almost fainted. No time to pass out, old boy, Verkan told himself.
He exerted his First Level mental controls to pinch off the flow of blood to his left pectorals. Unfortunately, while he could also dampen the stabbing pain of ripped lung and broken ribs, he could not make the wound go away. “Medpack!” he stammered.
“Quiet, Chief! I have it right here, disguised as a lead bullet mold box. Every trooper should carry one ...”
“Now, who’s panicking?”
“Sorry, Chief--I’m not used to this. And if I screw up, I get to tell Dalla! Besides, this damn breastplate doesn’t want to come off, not without taking two of your ribs with it.”
Verkan winced. He felt a stinging hypospray shot in the arm. Moments later the pain disappeared and his head began to clear.
Finally Sath ripped the breastplate off; it had been caught on the flak jacket underneath, which was supposed to protect him from this kind of wound.
“I don’t know what kind of big game gun you were shot with, Chief, but it tore the Styphon out of this plastisteel!
“I saw it, just before it went off--the biggest pistol I’ve ever seen, twelve-bore, maybe bigger.”
“You’re lucky that breastplate was reinforced with plastisteel, or he would have put your breastplate through your spine.”