by John F. Carr
The Paracops spread out, leapfrogging from building to building, covering one another until they’d reached the edge of the Foundry on all sides. Then they posted sentries, sent a miniature sky-eye to hover a thousand feet up and began the grisly task of recovering the bodies.
Verkan turned over the nearest civilian casualty with his sword. It was the Team’s expert on pre-mechanical sociology, Professor Lathor Karv. He had a gaping hole in his forehead and several stab wounds in his torso, but no signs of torture.
First good news all day.
No signs of torture meant that none of Archpriest Roxthar’s ‘Holy’ Investigators had ridden with the cavalry, or not enough to conduct one of the torture fests they called an Investigation. Hypno-mech conditioning or not, it was asking a lot of anyone to resist the kind of torture the Investigators handed out. Not that they were as efficient as the Second Level priests of Shpeegar or some Europo-American secret police agencies, but they would improve with time and practice. The Grand Host’s victory had bought them the time, and Roxthar’s fanatical determination to find and extirpate heresy everywhere would guarantee the practice.
“Chief--over here!”
Verkan walked back to the farmhouse. One of the men was dragging out a horribly mutilated body in what appeared to be the remains of a white robe.
“The scavengers didn’t like this one at all!”
“It looks like one of Roxthar’s Investigators. Can you find the killing wound?”
“No. The body’s all carved up. I guess word about the Investigation has spread throughout Hos-Hostigos.”
“Like a foul odor,” Kostran Garth added.
Of the sixty-odd bodies in the open, some were here-and-now Foundry workers, others house servants--the proverbial innocent bystanders. About thirty were mercenaries or undercover Paracops, the rest members of the University Team.
‘Fiasco’ is a mild term for this was Verkan’s thought. Nobody is going to be happy about it.
“Chief!” Kostran called. He ran up and lowered his voice. “We’ve found Inspector Kirv. Over here by the farmhouse.”
Nobody, starting with me.
Kirv’s dead mouth was twisted into the parody of a smile, but it looked as if he’d fought as well as he’d lived. Five troopers in yellow Harphaxi sashes and lead-splattered back and breasts lay dead and bloody around him.
Verkan cursed out loud. There went an old friend and one of the few Paracops he could still trust absolutely.
The lifter teams started loading bodies for shipment back to First Level, while the rest began the house-to-house (or ruin-to-ruin) search. In spite of the danger from smoldering embers and falling beams, they turned up twelve more Paratimer bodies, three of them Paracops. Seven skeletons too badly burned for field identification made the last load before the conveyer headed back to Fifth Level. Paratime Police Fifth Level HQ had a full-medtech team on standby, for DNA identification.
Verkan spent most of the time before the conveyer’s return wandering aimlessly among the ruins. Every Paracop on this team knew when to steer clear of the Chief, who knew he was being guarded, but so tactfully that he couldn’t complain.
One thought dominated Verkan’s mind. He’d thought he had a crisis, with an alliance of Opposition Party chiefs and outtime traders after his scalp over the anticipated closing of Fourth Level Europo-American. Still, he and Dalla would live through it even if he couldn’t persuade anyone else.
Kalvan and Rylla were running for their lives, which might not be very long if his castellans couldn’t hold Tarr-Hostigos for at least a few days.
As the day wore on, Verkan began to hope that the Grand Host’s scouts would reappear. It was out of the question to seek the main body and tear it apart with First Level weapons. A few hundred dead cavalry troopers, however, could be labeled ‘non-contaminating self-defense’ in an Incident Report. Their demise would make the Grand Host only a little less strong but a lot more cautious.
Or it might make people genuinely believe that demons fought for Kalvan, and create enthusiastic support for Roxthar’s fifty-times-cursed Investigation! That was the problem with contamination--you couldn’t control how people would interpret your intervention. Good Paracops always remembered that.
Verkan Vall gritted his teeth and decided to be a good Paracop again. He hoped his present set of teeth would survive the experience!
“Vall?”
He started to glare at the interruption, and then recognized Kostran. The conveyer must have returned with the lab test results--although from the look on Kostran’s face, he was not the bearer of good news.
“What are the autopsy results?”
“No Police survivors.”
“Damn this bloody Styphon’s House crowd! This must have happened fast, or Kirv wouldn’t have been caught out in the open like this . . .”
“I’m sorry, if that helps any,” Kostran said.
“Some. Better security would have helped more. Dralm damnit, we could have had it!”
“By Xipph’s mandibles, Chief, you did all you could!” He added several more curses from a particularly vile Second Level timeline where spiders and beetles were sacred fetishes. “The damned Study Team sabotaged every security measure you and Kirv tried to establish. Ten good Paracops died trying to defend this cock-up!”
“The Study Team paid for it, too.” But keeping that from happening was ultimately the Chief’s responsibility. My responsibility. Verkan managed a wry grin. “Wasn’t it Kalvan’s own Great King Truman who said, ‘The buck stops here’?”
The grin faded, but Verkan managed not to sigh. “All right. Who else among the Study Team did the lab find?”
“Lathor Karv and SankarTrav; the Team medic.”
“We found Varnath Lala and Voldon Andar. That leaves Danar Sirna, Gorath Tran and Aranth Sain unaccounted for.” The two Paracops’ eyes met. If the missing people were prisoners, they were probably on their way into the hands of the Investigation. Then they’d soon wish they had burned to death instead.
Kostran whistled. “Gorath Tran, the nervous Assistant Director. Too slight for the slave auction block. Maybe he got lucky and bugged out with Kalvan’s refugees.”
“Danar Sirna. Doctoral candidate in outtime history?” Verkan asked.
Kostran nodded. “Right. Tall woman, good figure, auburn hair. The one Eldra identified as Tharn’s patsy.”
“Wish her better luck in her next incarnation,” Verkan stated. “The soldiers here-and-now have rough-and-ready notions about dealing with female enemy captives. What about Aranth Sain?”
“He’s ex-Strike Force, one of the few Team people with survival skills. He was their expert on pre-mechanical military science.” Kostran hesitated. “I wonder if he was forced to try putting some of his skills into practice?”
“You mean, take an unscheduled field sabbatical?”
“Exactly. His cover is an artillery officer from Hos-Agrys and you can bet he won’t break it by accident. If he catches Phidestros’ eye, he may even be safe from the Investigation.”
The possibility of owing anything to the man principally responsible for Kalvan’s defeat rubbed Verkan the wrong way. Still, if Aranth had survived and was masquerading as a native, Verkan could only wish him luck.
It was time to return to Fifth Level Kalvan’s Time-Line Depot to try and make sense out of this mess. No time for him to resume his cover as General Verkan; he’d have his Paratime HQ brain trust figure out a cover story that would convince Kalvan, if and when he had time to visit here again. With the political fallout this debacle threatened, it might be a while.
He suspected Kalvan would be so busy he wouldn’t have time to send out a search party for missing officers, even friends. He wondered how Tortha was doing. Well, the old dog was a survivor and if anyone could come out of this disaster smelling like a rose in a manure pile, it was ex-Paratime Police ChiefTortha Karf
THIRTY-TWO
Word of Great King Kalvan’s defeat and expul
sion from Hos-Hostigos reached Agrys City by Styphon’s relay riders two days after Kalvan’s army was defeated at Ardros Field. It was trumpeted at the High Temple of Styphon’s House in Agrys City as a great victory for Styphon and his followers. “The Daemon Kalvan is vanquished! Praise Styphon the True God!”
Crowds filled the streets, some in jubilation for the True God’s victory, but most in anger or fear that an army was already on its way to punish Hos-Agrys for not contributing to the Grand Host. Others passed on rumors about the Investigation, which so angered the crowds that two of Styphon’s House’s lowerpriests in white robes were beaten to death in the city streets and a stone and brick throwing mob attempted to break into Styphon’s House’s Great Temple. In response Styphon’s Own Guard had to post armed guards on the Great Temple both day and night.
After threats of retaliation against the High Temple of Dralm, Lord Vythos, who was the town’s richest merchant and a follower of Dralm, put his personal guardsmen to watch the Temple portals. Inside the High Temple the priests were virtual prisoners as the city seethed with anger and fear. Riots and fights in the taverns and streets of Agrys City were a common occurrence; the followers of Styphon wore red armbands of Primacy, while the Dralm and Kalvan sympathizers wore blue. The underpaid and undersized City Watch was unable to control the crowds or stop the looting.
News from Hos-Hostigos was sporadic and often conflicting--at first, the Daemon was dead, next he had escaped the Great Host, then was said to be in exile. Other stories had him in Greffa assembling an army with the aid of King Theovacar, or returning to the Cold Lands for divine assistance.
Great King Demistophon was said to be hiding in the palace basement, for fear of Styphon’s House’s retribution. When the rioting got serious and spread to King’s Island, Demistophon moved into Tarr-Agrys and called out the army, ordering a sunset to dawn curfew.
Xentos was praying in the rear chapel when he received word that a delegate from the League of Dralm had come for a conference with the Council of Dralm. Ever since Styphon’s House had bandied the account of Kalvan’s defeat, he’d been heartsick. In his mind he could already envision the tortured bodies of Kalvan, Rylla and their tiny daughter, Demia, named after Rylla’s beautiful mother, who had been the love of his life. Had he been prince, she would have been his wife, not Prince Ptosphes’. Rylla was the very image of her mother, which was why they had all spoiled and protected her.
Xentos had his first spiritual crisis when Demia and her unborn son died in childbirth. Prayer and fasting had cured him of his soul sickness and given his faith a real strength, a resiliency he prayed would sustain him through this latest crisis and the doubts that assailed him. Was it possible all this would have been averted if he d supported Kalvan instead of putting the Temple ahead of his friends and home’? He would never know the answer to that question, but he was sure that he would think about it many times before he arrived at Dralm’s Meadow.
There was a hesitant knock at the door. “There’s a visitor to see you, Primate.”
“Bid him enter.”
A young and very big man, wearing his dusty riding cloak and riding boots, came stomping into his private chamber. His eyes blazed and his huge frame shook with controlled fury.
“Who are you?” Xentos demanded, with all the authority of his office. He asked knowing full well no enemy of the Temple would ever be granted entrance to the High Temple unless things were so bad that the Styphoni had breached the temple gates.
“Duke Mnestros of Eubros, Your Sanctity.”
Xentos’ memory identified the heir of Eubros at once. The son of Prince Thykarses, Mnestros was a young hothead who loved to fight and wench, and showed little reverence to the Temple of Dralm. “You’re the one who accompanied Kalvan’s Army to the Trygath in violation of the Covenant of Dralm!”
Mnestros sneered. “I was there as a volunteer. If you have a complaint to make, tell it to the League Council, I don’t expect they’ll be very interested at the moment.”
Xentos looked away; the boy was right. After Kalvan’s defeat, there was little stomach for the Covenant in Hos-Agrys and some were saying the strictures of it had aided Styphon’s House’s conquest of Hos-Hostigos.
“What you don’t know is that I have just returned from Hostigos where I was fighting alongside your friends and overlord against the godless Styphoni.”
“This is news to me! How are Ptosphes and Rylla?”
“Ptosphes is well, organizing the defense of Tarr-Hostigos against the Grand Host; I would imagine the Grand Host’s siege guns will be at the walls within a few days.”
Xentos winced. “How are Rylla and Kalvan?”
“They are fleeing Hos-Hostigos with the remnants of the Hostigos Army. Hostigos is a wasteland. Archpriest Roxthar and his Investigators are tilling the soil of Hostigos with the blood and bodies of its people. None are exempt--from the youngest child to the oldest crone. The Arch-Fiend Roxthar is determined to root out every trace of Kalvan and Dralm from every Princedom in the former Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. And from all I saw, he is achieving his heart’s desire.”
Xentos looked down at the stone floor. “Why have you come to see me?”
Mnestros held up a huge hand showing all his fingers. “First, I want you to declare a Ban on Styphon. Next,” he ticked off, “I want you to put the full weight of the Temple behind your friend, Kalvan. Then I want you to call a crusade to drive Styphon’s wolves from Hostigos. Then, I want you to empower the League of Dralm--”
“Enough! You speak like one of the City’s rabble-rousers. If I were to do as you ask, Great King Demistophon would have the High Temple walls pulled down around my ears!”
“Primate, listen to me! Right now if we act quickly we can hit the Styphoni while they are at their weakest, attacking Kalvan. We could separate the serpent’s body from its head, and with its body gone--Balph is ours!”
Such is the rashness of youth, thought Xentos, act now, think later. It would take a moon or two, at least, to raise a sizable army and meanwhile the Grand Host would have Kalvan in its grasp, and his army wiped out. Then this victorious army would destroy the unblooded troops of Hos-Agrys. They would scatter then, with Styphon’s House’s blessing, and seize Agrys City and the High Temple of Dralm.
“It is too late, young Duke. The Styphoni are already victorious. Now, we must prepare for the defense of the true faith of Allfather Dralm, the God of Peace. In the words of King Kalvan, ‘The best offense is a good defense.’“
Duke Mnestros shook his head. “You have a fine way of twisting words, priest. But you know little of warfare, or of Styphon’s House. They plan to make slaves of all of us and you and your kind only help prepare their siege train.”
Xentos felt the old pressure inside his head grow. “I suggest you leave this temple, boy, before I have to call the guards and have you pitched out by your ears!”
Mnestros laughed. “Those old men you call guards would have Hadron’s own time pitching me anywhere, priest! I will leave now before I say things that may cause my father pain upon the re-telling. But mark my words, the Temple of Dralm will rue the day it turned its back on Kalvan, whose only sin was that he was the Temple’s greatest champion!”
Mnestros spat on the floor, spun around and stalked out of the chamber.
The moment the door closed half a dozen lower priests scurried into the chamber asking if Xentos was all right. “I don’t know. We have either done what was wise, or we have committed the gravest error in the history of the Temple. Only time will tell.”
The priests looked at him in confusion.
Highpriest Davros, who must have been waiting outside the door, entered saying, “We have only done what we must to preserve the Allfather’s High Temple.”
Xentos nodded, but could not still the voice asking in the back of his head: But have we done what we must to preserve Dralm’s people? He had no answer to that question, most especially for the faithful of Hos-Hostigos.
I
I
The climb to the gun platform on top of the north tower of Tarr-Hostigos left Prince Ptosphes unpleasantly short of breath. Old age had been pursuing him for a long time. Now it had finally caught him. Under other circumstances he would have been angry at the prospect of not seeing his grandchildren grow up, but that matter had been taken care of a moon-quarter ago at Ardros Field.
“Should we summon an Uncle Wolf for you, my Prince?” the gun captain asked.
Ptosphes shook his head. “No. Just let me sit down and catch my wind.”
He lowered himself onto an upended fireseed barrel and was about to light his pipe when he remembered what he was sitting on. The gunners and sentries, he noticed, had returned to their work as soon as they knew he didn’t need their help.
Good men, and more than ever a pity that they had to stand here and face certain death even if most of them were, like him, a bit long in the tooth. At least they were the last good men he’d be leading to their doom. No more battles like Tenabra, to haunt him during the long winter nights. Kalvan and Rylla wouldn’t be so lucky, and Kalvan at least liked such work even less than Ptosphes. Kalvan would just have to endure Rylla’s tongue on the subject, as Ptosphes had endured Demia’s.
Ptosphes chuckled, as he thought of Rylla’s mother for the first time in nearly a moon. Rylla had much of her mother in her; the great beauty, the strengths, the tongue and temper. Ptosphes remembered Demia asking (at the top of her lungs) whether he was afraid of war too much to hold even the little Princedom of Hostigos. He hadn’t been afraid of a war with Nostor, Sask or Beshta; only afraid for his vassals, outnumbered and outgunned by ambitious neighbors on every border.
Well, Demia had been right in a way. He would have lost even that to Gormoth of Nostor if the gods hadn’t sent Kalvan. Why, then, had those same gods turned their faces away when he needed their help most? What had he or Kalvan done to earn their wrath?