Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

by John F. Carr

  “Will keep you posted. Skordran Kirv, Inspector, signing off.”

  “That’s all there is, Chief. I’m putting a team together right now here on Fifth Level to return to the Foundry.”

  Verkan thought of the political fallout if something happened to the Kalvan Study Team. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’m going along and am personally taking charge. This is not only a major screw-up, but political dynamite!”

  II

  “Make Way! Make way, for Great King Kalvan!” Colonel Porthos shouted at the top of his lungs. The sky was dark and a light drizzle, the last of the morning rain, was falling. Porthos’ voice penetrated through the din of milling refugees and soldiers pushing their way toward the Gap. The slippery road was alive with people, wagons, carts, litters and wounded of every description on makeshift stretchers and travois. The din was that of a madhouse--mothers calling out for children, widows crying out in grief, soldiers cursing the crowds, draymen shouting at animals and above all the injured shrieking in pain.

  Rylla, her patience long exhausted, used the flat of her sword to make a path for her husband’s litter. A moment later, Captain Xykos joined her efforts with Boarsbane and suddenly the way to the gate was cleared.

  Kalvan, just coming out of the fog of unconsciousness, saw all of this as though it were happening long ago and far away. Then a peasant woman jostled the litter and a lightning bolt of pain brought his attention back to here-and-now. “Ahhh!”

  Rylla halted the procession and put a damp cloth on his forehead. It was as cool as if it had just left the Big Spring, which told him he was suffering from a fever as well as a concussion. He tried to sit up. “Rylla, we have to talk.”

  “Not now, my love. First we must get to the gate and into Tarr-Hostigos. Then we will have all the time we need.”

  “Did we lose . . . ?”

  “Yes, my husband. The Styphoni devils drove us from Ardros Field, but not without paying a stiff butcher’s bill.” There was a tiny lilt of pride in her voice, but her face was haggard and her blue eyes bloodshot. For the first time, Kalvan had a good idea of just how Rylla would look as an old woman. He hoped he would live long enough to see it.

  “The last I remember: I was surrounded by the enemy. How did I get away?”

  “Your Tymannian Guard, they fought like wolves against the Styphoni until your Lifeguard arrived and escorted you to safety.”

  Kalvan fell back on the litter and rested for a moment. Then he rose up again, his flushed face creased with lines. “Where is my army?”

  “Prince Phrames is in command. He has sent the wounded to Hostigos Town, while the rest of the Army is helping the refugees cross Tynn River. The rains have swelled the rivers and only a few fords are passable.”

  “Any sign of the Grand Host?”

  “Not yet. Hestophes is in command of the rearguard. From his most recent report, he has the Grand Host pinned at the Argos Gap. The rains have slowed them, too. Hestophes has promised to delay the Styphoni by at least a moon-quarter.”

  “Good. Hestophes always keeps his promises--usually with interest.”

  “Now lie down, my love,” Rylla said. “You need your rest.”

  “Yes, yes ...”

  The next time Kalvan came to he was in his own bedchamber, being attended to by Uncle Wolf Tharses. Tharses was busy putting some kind of mustard and cobweb pack on Kalvan’s right thigh. The wound itself was wide rather than deep, but he did not like the livid red color along its lips. If only he’d had the time and the means to re-invent penicillin . . .

  After Tharses finished packing the wound, Kalvan asked, “Can I get up now?”

  “I would advise against it, Your Majesty. If you move around too much, it will leave you open to an attack by the fester demons.”

  “That’s a chance I’m going to have to take. Where are Rylla and Prince Ptosphes?”

  “Down the hall in the audience chamber with Duke Harmakros.”

  Kalvan asked Tharses for help with pulling his breeches over the bandages and tying up his doublet. Thankfully the Uncle Wolf, a former military man himself, didn’t attempt to talk him out of his decision. Kalvan would have liked nothing better than to lie in bed for three or four days, but there were too many things that had to be done and most of them should have been done yesterday.

  Rylla and Ptosphes were studying the deerskin map of Hostigos, pointing to some place in the Lystra Valley when Kalvan entered the operations room on a chair carried by two of Rylla’s Beefeaters.

  Rylla turned in surprise. “Should you be leaving your bed already?”

  “Tharses brought me this chair. He thinks I should stay in bed, but Styphon’s House isn’t going to permit me that luxury.”

  “He is right, my daughter,” Prince Ptosphes said. “The enemy draws near.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Since yesterday,” Rylla answered.

  Kalvan moaned. “How far away is the Grand Host?”

  Harmakros pulled out his pipe and said, “Two, maybe three, days. Hestophes is still holding them at the Argos Gap; we can count on Hestophes to make them pay in blood for every march of Hostigos they cross.”

  “Good. How many men has Phrames moved across the Tynn River?”

  “About half the army, or what’s left of it. The rest are with General Hestophes.”

  “Good.”

  “I have a question,” Ptosphes said, looking a little sheepish. “What happened to the children?”

  Kalvan looked questioningly at him for a moment, then it hit him. “The cadets!”

  “Yes. The Ruthani children.”

  “I vaguely remember sending Vanar Halgoth to escort them to safety, as soon as we quit the Ardros Field.” There he said it, quit the field. It didn’t hurt that much did it? Yes it did, but you II get over it.

  “Kalvan, I was wrong,” Ptosphes said. “I admit it now. You did a wise and good thing by permitting those children to come into Hostigos. I am proud to have you as my son.”

  Kalvan didn’t know what to say; he felt his face flush. He just nodded his head.

  “I went to the Academy just before we left to fight the Grand Host to see them for myself.” Ptosphes smiled. “They were so proud to have their Prince visit! Someday they will be good subjects. They marched on their parade ground and did drills in their tiny uniforms! They made me feel good about the future. You were right, they are tomorrow’s hope; someday they will be a big part of the legacy of Hostigos.”

  “What time is it now?” Kalvan asked. To himself, he added, there won’t be much of a legacy unless we get out of here soon.

  “Noon.”

  “Then we don’t have much time left. I expect that Phrames has emptied Hostigos Town of supplies and wagons.”

  “Yes. He sent Chartiphon to organize the supply train. We’ve given him all the food, weapons and fireseed we can spare from the castle’s storerooms,” Ptosphes said. “The defenders will need the remainder.”

  Tarr-Hostigos was the key to the entire range of the Bald Eagles or the Tyrgros Mountains as they were called here-and-now. There were other passes, like Esdreth Gap, Tynath Gap, Vryllos Gap and Dombra Gap, but only a fool would leave a stronghold as powerful as Tarr-Hostigos at his rear; and neither Soton nor Phidestros would be considered fools in any army Kalvan had ever fought in.

  Kalvan’s biggest problem would be in transporting as many of the survivors of his army and refugees as he could over the Great King’s Highway to the Nyklos Road and into the Middle Kingdoms. Once he was there he’d worry about the little things such as where they were going to winter, what they were going to eat, and most of all how they were going to re-take Hos-Hostigos. Nothing like being a king without a kingdom--and he’d thought he’d had problems before!

  But first things first. “Prince Ptosphes, who are we going to put in charge of Tarr-Hostigos?”

  Kalvan saw Rylla’s eyes film, then she turned away. Obviously, this was not the first time the subjec
t had been broached.

  Prince Ptosphes crossed his arms over his tarnished breastplate and said, “I do not intend to leave Tarr-Hostigos at Arch-Pimp Roxthar’s insistence. I myself will defend Tarr-Hostigos against the Styphoni, or anyone else who wants to take it.”

  “Father, as strong as these walls are, they will not hold forever against so many,” Rylla answered, doing her best not to cry. “Nor will Tarr-Hostigos hold all our army, nor feed and water it.”

  “I am not asking you or anyone else to stay, kitten. In fact, I order you and your husband to leave these walls before nightfall.”

  Kalvan rose from the chair he’d been sitting in. “Prince Ptosphes, it is I as your Great King who order you to leave. There is no need for you to die protecting this castle; there are many who would volunteer to stay and see that these gates never open to Styphon’s soldiers.”

  “I for one,” Harmakros said from his chair. He pointed to his stump. “Tharses says that if I ride before another moon this leg will never heal and he will have to remove it at the hip. Let me stay and barter this useless hulk for some of Soton’s teeth.”

  Prince Ptosphes gripped the pommel of his sword so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “He who comes for my Hall, first must take it.”

  Tears streamed down Rylla’s face as she walked over to her father and tugged on his sword arm. He remained as immobile as a statue. “Kalvan, order him to change his mind!”

  Kalvan stared into Ptosphes’ eyes and realized he’d have a better chance single-handedly moving the solid limestone mountains on which Tarr-Hostigos rested than changing Ptosphes’ mind. “I’m sorry, Rylla. It is your father’s decision and I’m in no position to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

  “Father, if you stay you will never see your granddaughter say her first words, lose her teeth, wear her first bonnet--” Rylla stopped when she saw the look of pain on Ptosphes’ face.

  “I do this so that my granddaughter may live to do all those things.”

  “Darling, he’s right.” Kalvan knew the people of Hostigos would do anything to please their beloved prince, even die with him. Not Kalvan, not Chartiphon, not even Harmakros owned the people’s hearts as Ptosphes did. Only Rylla--and that was unthinkable. “No, your father is right.”

  “Then may Hadron take you both!”

  “Hush, my daughter. You don’t mean that. These are things that must be done. It will give me no pleasure to stall Styphon’s Host, if you and Kalvan do not use my gift wisely. You, Kalvan, and Princess Demia are my future. Now, let us get back to work and plan your leave-taking so my death will not be spent in vain.”

  Tears coursed down Rylla’s cheeks. “Father, do not speak as if your death is already ordained! These walls are thick and rest high above where Styphon’s soldiers will have to fight. Maybe they will not have the heart to pay the price for their taking.”

  “Yes, all things are possible,” Ptosphes said with a gravity that belied his words. “Take the Old Stone Bridge over the Athan River, then blow it up after you cross. That will slow the Styphoni devils for a few days.”

  Harmakros added, “I will send engineers to blow all the bridges along the Harph for two hundred marches in either direction. The Harph is still swelled by runoff, enough that the Grand Host will have to use Syrax Ford. That will cost them days in doubling back and forth along the river.”

  Kalvan watched as everyone got into the discussion of how to delay the Grand Host. Everyone but Rylla; she stood frozen, her face a tragic mask. Neither of them would ever forget this terrible day.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Paratime Police Chief Verkan Vall watched as Fourth Level farms, airports, cities and battles flickered overhead through the paratemporal silver mesh as the conveyer approached Fourth Level Aryan-Transpacific, Kalvan’s Time-Line. Maybe Kalvan’s Time-Line was a misnomer after the events of the past ten-day. Styphon’s House’s Grand Host, at the Battle of Ardros Field, had broken the outnumbered army of Hos-Hostigos and possibly killed Kalvan along with his friends and dreams. Dalla had wanted to accompany him, but the ominous silence from the Foundry paratemporal depot convinced him it was too dangerous, probabilities too fluid, to risk her life.

  Verkan had been by Kalvan’s side just a few days ago, before he’d lost the Mounted Rifles, and almost his life, to an overwhelming force of Styphon’s cavalry. Dalla was calling it Verkan’s Greatest Folly; it had almost been his last. His chest ached every time he thought of the gaping wound he’d taken from a point-blank pistol shot by some enraged Harphaxi trooper. Thanks to the miracle of First Level medicine he was feeling as well as ever, with only an occasional nagging chest pain to remind him of his lung wound and the six-hour wait for the med team.

  Unfortunately, he had more to worry about than the fate of his friends and the dismemberment of Hos-Hostigos and Hostigos Town. The biggest of those headaches was the Dhergabar University Kalvan Study Team caught in the rout of the Hostigi army. Like all outtime researchers, they worked under the Paratime Police umbrella. That might not be enough to protect them on the kind of Fourth Level time-line where civilians were likely to end up a part of the body count when a victorious army swept through hostile territory. The entire University Team was unaccounted for; every casualty among them would be a gift to the Opposition Party.

  Kalvan would have to fight his own battles for a while, against much longer odds than before. It would take all Kalvan’s skill, as well as luck, to save his life and Queen Rylla’s, never mind re-founding his empire.

  Already the Grand Host’s cavalry scouts had raided almost to the outskirts of Hostigos Town. Its main body could hardly be more than a day or two behind. One of Kalvan castellans might be able to hold Tarr-Hostigos for a few days. If the Grand Host had to stop and lay siege to the castle, Kalvan still might escape. While he would never rule a kingdom again, he and Rylla could flee westward to sell the services of their army in the Middle Kingdoms.

  The conveyer dome shimmered into material existence inside the Foundry basement. The sensors read that it was empty of life and everything was in its place. Nevertheless, Verkan checked his personal equipment, pulled his pistol out of his sash and headed for the hatch. Somehow four Paracops reached it before him, all with drawn pistols and palmed First Level sigma-ray needlers.

  “Sorry, Chief,” Kostran Garth said. He didn’t sound sorry. Garth was his brother-in-law, and one of a handful of good friends and completely reliable Paracops. Like Skordran Kirv, Andron Veral and Ranthar Jard. Verkan looked behind and sighed. The other eight men of his personal guard had closed tightly around him from the rear. Swaddled in bodyguards like a baby in cloth, Verkan stepped out into a large basement, where there was a large wall screen at one end showing an overhead of Hostigos Town. The streets were uncharacteristically empty and Verkan could see no sign of either the Hostigi army or Styphon’s Grand Host. The rest of the conveyer-load of Paracops followed, lugging sensor gear or pushing anti-grav lifter pallets to ferry the dead.

  The room before them held a desk, some First Level monitoring equipment, racks of muskets, barrels of unopened fireseed and hundreds of baskets of barley and corn. No sign of the small Hostigos Paratime Police garrison, five men--including his friend, Inspector Skordran Kirv.

  No good to anybody except maybe the Grand Host was Verkan’s thought as he strode across the room. Like the other Paracops, he held a flintlock pistol nearly two feet long, loaded and cocked. On his head he wore a high-combed morion helmet; his clothes were a sleeveless buff jack, dark blue breeches, a bright blue sash, and thigh-high boots. Nobody from Kalvan’s Time-Line would have thought him anything but a Hostigi light cavalry officer--”General Verkan of the Hostigos Mounted Rifles, at your service, sir.”

  He opened the keyed magnetic lock to the door that led to the Royal Foundry of Hos-Hostigos, stepped back, let the four point men go first, then followed at their hand signals of “All clear.”

  The door was intact, as he had expected. Under local oak pl
anking, it had a collapsed-nickel core. Nothing local could dent that, not even a two-hundred-pound iron ball from a big bombard. The door at the other end of the short stone stairway was similarly protected. It opened to the inside to show a shifting pile of stones, timber and metal rubble. While Paracops skipped out of the way, stones and timbers tumbled down the stairwell. Suddenly patches of sunshine were breaking through the up-ended timbers. Outside was the chirping of birds, but no human noise.

  The rubble was a nuisance, but nothing that could stop five determined Paracops: so where were they?

  “Step back, Chief,” one of his protectors ordered.

  The debris was quickly shifted aside and a passage was made through the wreckage into the badly damaged Foundry. Forges were overturned and big anvils squatted like toadstools amongst the rubble. Two walls were gone and the roof was mostly on the floor. The Paratime Police, with guns drawn, carefully navigated their way out of the Foundry into the courtyard.

  Nothing else in sight had been as lucky. The main storerooms had all been demolished, as if someone had set charges--maybe Kirv. Had things gotten that bad? Some had collapsed. Most of the outer buildings also showed battle scars, and bodies lay everywhere. A flock of birds, mostly ravens and vultures, and one eagle, squawked angrily and glided into the air, only to hover over their heads.

  The farmhouse had fallen in on itself, the upper floor and roof gone. Not even a slight wisp of smoke rose from the Team’s quarters. That confirmed Verkan’s guess that the attack had come at least two days before. There didn’t appear to be any survivors. The dead had already been stripped, not only of valuables and weapons, but their armor as well. The birds had removed eyes and other soft tissue.

  Several of the dead still wore the red cloaks of Styphon’s Own Guard; no one wanted those telling garments, although their silvered armor was fair game.

  “Too many tourists,” a Paracop said.

  Verkan nodded. The University had insisted on doing its own study of Kalvan’s Time-Line. Short of imposing quarantine, there’d been no way to stop them. For a moment Verkan wished himself back as Chief’s Special Assistant, where he could do the sensible thing without having a dozen political potentates baying at his door.