Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

by John F. Carr

  Unspoken was the fact that it would also reduce the power of the Iron Throne. Now, having actually seen first hand Lysandros work at power-brokering, Phidestros suspected the Great King might be just as formidable on the battlefield as he was in the upper chambers! As one of Lysandros’ Princes, it was now to his advantage to help weaken the Royal army in whatever way possible. This was a good start.

  Plus, he could see another advantage to Beshta from Lysandros’ plans: once word got out that the Investigation was not allowed in Beshta, Hostigi from all the other Princedoms would flock to Greater Beshta. Phidestros could see all manner of ways of taking advantage of this flood of skilled artisans, road builders, mapmakers and former Hostigi soldiers.

  “Now,” the Great King continued, “I have another reason for not wanting to have the Royal Army chase Kalvan hill over vale. As you are no doubt aware, some of our Agrysi Princes would like to march into Ulthor and add it to the Great Kingdom of Hos-Agrys; however, stuck in Hostigos they will be unable to realize that ambition. Just as our Ktemnoi allies would like to add the Princedom of Kyblos to Hos-Ktemnos. It is My will that all those lands that were once part of Hos-Harphax shall once again be brought to their rightful place in the order of things. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. You have my complete and unwavering support both as one of your Princely vassals and as the Grand Captain-General of the Grand Host.”

  Lysandros allowed himself a small cat-like smile. “You will do better as Prince than my courtiers and your fellow Princes expect. I have chosen well. Let us now put these plans into action.”

  III

  As Phidestros entered the audience chamber from the rear portal at the side of Great King Lysandros, he couldn’t help but notice the frowns and looks of disapproval on the faces of all the assembled dignitaries, except for that of Grand Master Soton. They probably think we were making a backroom deal before they could present their cases, or, even worse, that I’m now one of Lysandros’ favorites. He intentionally kept his face a blank mask; let them read upon it what they would.

  While the Chancellor went through the opening formalities and ritual, Phidestros studied Archpriest Roxthar. The Holy Investigator was seething underneath his rigid exterior, releasing enough steam to raise the audience chamber temperature. Roxthar, accustomed to Balph temple politics, where he always got his way, appeared not to be used to waiting on his ‘betters.’ According to the rumors Phidestros had heard, Great King Cleitharses of Hos-Ktemnos would sacrifice the life of his youngest granddaughter to appease the Investigator. Fortunately for the Great Kingdom of Hos-Harphax, as he had just learned, Lysandros was made of stronger metal.

  Archpriest Phyllos, the Highpriest of Harphax City, was trailing Roxthar like a puppy--it appeared he had a new master. Phidestros doubted Phyllos was making any points with Lysandros.

  The moment Lysandros gave his permission, the Investigator began to speak through clenched teeth, “Your Majesty, I have learned Captain-General Phidestros has requested your permission to take Styphon’s Own Grand Host and chase Daemon Kalvan and his false army into the frontier. While this work must be done, make no doubt of that--Styphon be Praised!--our first job must be to eliminate all heresy in the False Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos, beginning with the Daemon’s nest, Tarr-Hostigos.”

  Roxthar’s possessive use of ‘Styphon’s Own Grand Host’ told both Lysandros and Phidestros that, with or without Lysandros’ blessings, the Styphoni-paid portion--the majority--of the Grand Host would stay in Hostigos despite what they wanted, or ordered. If it were possible for the diminutive Grand Master to shrink, he appeared to be doing thusly.

  Phidestros spoke up. “Your Majesty, may I have permission to speak?”

  Lysandros nodded with perceptible relief.

  “Let it be said that I, Grand Captain-General Phidestros, believe that the Investigator is correct and that we must wrest control of Hostigos from its defenders before we send our main force to chase the Usurper Kalvan.” Everyone looked at him as if seeing him for the first time; his view of the Investigator was well known among the Grand Host. Even Roxthar, for once, appeared to be speechless!

  Grand Master Soton was shaking his head. Soton had to know that it was a huge military blunder not to follow the Usurper Kalvan and drive him and his forces into the ground until the army of the False Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos was defeated, or demolished in such a manner that it was no longer able to function as an army.

  Now that control of the war council had been decisively wrested from Roxthar and his supporters, Lysandros went on to inform the council of the Ban of Galzar; it was as if one of Kalvan’s ‘shells’ had dropped through the roof. Phidestros relaxed to watch a master politician at work; Roxthar didn’t stand a chance, not with this crowd!

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Three tiny clouds of white smoke rose from the Styphoni siege battery. Ptosphes started counting. At ‘five’ the three shots crashed into Tarr-Hostigos. One struck the face of the outer wall; the others hit the left side of the breach. Rock dust as white as the powder smoke whirled up, carried down toward Ptosphes on the morning breeze. He tasted the grit on his tongue and teeth; it was a familiar taste by now, with the siege into its tenth day.

  The Hostigi men working on the barricade rising inside the breach barely looked up from their work. The barricade was made of heavy timbers from the buildings of the outer courtyard, flagstones from the courtyard itself and dirt from the floor. The men at work were lacing the timbers together with ropes and strips of leather, while others stood by, ready to haul a cannon onto the top of the barricade.

  “The Harphaxi are beginning to master King Kalvan’s way of doing things,” Master Gunner Thalmoth said, who was standing beside Ptosphes. He pointed to the Styphoni siege battery. “Some of those Harphaxi guns have trunnions and many of the guns look like ours.”

  “Some are,” Ptosphes answered gruffly, “as are those slaves they’re using to haul them up.”

  Thalmoth was old enough to remember standing in the crowd with his father to see the newborn Ptosphes presented to the people of Hostigos as their future Prince. Too old to take the field, he’d taught at the University as well as lending a lifetime of artillery experience to testing the new Hostigi guns.

  Ptosphes wondered if Thalmoth had volunteered to remain behind entirely because of his age. (He’d been seen to lift powder barrels and wield handspikes on balky guns.) Did he perhaps hold himself responsible for the proof-testing explosion that killed four men and took off Captain-General Harmakros’ leg?

  Thalmoth owed an answer to that question only to Dralm or Galzar, not to an overcurious Prince.

  “It’s their first big siege,” Ptosphes said tolerantly. “No doubt they’ll do better next time.”

  This morning he felt almost benign even toward the besieging Styphoni. It was a beautiful day, and not too hot. He’d eaten a good breakfast. The garrison’s wounded were doing as well as could be expected. Best of all, the men of Tarr-Hostigos now knew they’d won the victory they had to win.

  Last night a party of picked men had slipped into the besiegers’ forward positions. Their score was twenty-eight taken prisoner, more than fifty killed, a magazine blown up, and three bombards wrecked, all for the price of one man dead and four wounded.

  All the prisoners said that Kalvan hadn’t been overtaken. Some added that the men chasing him had been ordered back to join the siege. One said he’d heard a whole band was wiped out in an ambush by Kalvan’s rearguard. (Ptosphes suspected that the last man was trying to please his captors, who had nothing to lose by blowing him from a gun.) The last stand at Tarr-Hostigos was not going to be a waste of lives. If that wasn’t worth celebrating, then nothing was.

  Of course, the odds against the besieged would rise still higher now that the Grand Host was bringing back their vanguard. Since those odds were already over a hundred to one, who cared? Ptosphes rather liked Harmakros’ way of putting it:

  “Aren’t we lucky
? We’ll never run out of targets now!”

  That might have been Harmakros’ fever speaking. In spite of his stump having been cleaned to drive out the fester-demons, Harmakros had been working far too hard for a man so badly hurt. However, most of the rest of the garrison seemed to feel the same way.

  Ptosphes continued his walk around the castle walls, Thalmoth following ten paces behind. The riflemen in the towers encouraged enemy musketeers to stay beyond accurate range, and the besiegers didn’t waste cannon shot on single men. Ptosphes suspected that they were short of fireseed and saving what they had for the storming. No trouble of that kind for his people, even without the reserve of twelve tons of Styphon’s Best in the cellar of the keep.

  He inspected the Styphoni gunners at the battery at the top of the draw leading up to the gate. The battery had been laid out by someone who knew his business, which was also why it had no guns in it as yet. They would be needed for the storming, to keep the Hostigi on the gates from having target practice on the men coming up the draw. Until then, they would simply be on the wrong end of plunging fire from the gate towers.

  Another hundred paces along the walls, and some of Ptosphes’ good mood evaporated. On this side Archpriest Roxthar had his prison--really more of a stock pen for the people he was Investigating. Like most of the besiegers’ works, it was walled in timber and stone carted by slave gangs from Hostigos Town, but lacked their roof of old tents. At the rate the besiegers’ works were swallowing the town, it soon wouldn’t matter if it burned or not.

  A long line of gallows rose by the gate of the prison pen, most of them dangling bodies, and continued on down the road all the way to Hostigos Town. Ptosphes could smell the bodies that’d been dangling more than a couple of days, even over the stable-and-powder-smoke reek of the siege.

  The gallows seemed to be more burdened now than even a few days ago. No doubt the Styphoni had finished with many of their Hostigi slaves after they’d sweated and bled to haul the captured sixteen-pounders up the slope to the siege battery. That whole affair had been as bloody in itself as some of the battles of the days before Kalvan.

  The Styphoni had even killed a fair number of their own men, hammering footholds and passageways in places where his grandfather had carved the slopes into vertical faces. Then Ptosphes’ men had also had to kill some of their own folk, weeping and cursing, as they raked at the gun teams with case shot and rifles.

  The end of it was what had to be, when one side could spend men like water. The guns were in place and hammering at the walls of Tarr-Hostigos in a way even those ancient stones could not endure forever. Many of the guns were ancient bombards, most likely dragged all the way from Tarr-Harphax and other Harphaxi forts; one huge bombard was even mounted on its own carriage! Hostigi guns, too, Alkides’ prize sixteen-pounders. No surprise that, considering that all of the big guns except Galzar’s Teeth had been lost at Ardros Field.

  No surprise, and therefore something Ptosphes should have been able to do more about. He’d forgotten Kalvan’s advice, given late one night when they’d all been emptying a jug of Ermut’s brandy.

  “Always plan against the worst thing your enemy can do. That way you’ll be safe, no matter what he does. If he doesn’t do his worst you’ll win more easily.”

  Wise words. Truly the army of the Great King Truman taught its captains well.

  Ptosphes shook his head and lit his pipe. There was no call to feel sorry for himself. He had done too much of that. Besides, while he might not be fit for service in the hosts of Great King Truman, he was no bad captain for Tarr-Hostigos when every day it held was another victory over the Styphoni.

  II

  The screeching ravens overhead darkened the sky and drowned the cries of the babies and wounded trailing the retreating army, as the Hostigi made their way along this Trail of Tears. Kalvan’s mount whickered as they passed another horse. He gouged its flanks with his boot heels to keep his horse’s head forward. He was riding, with a small escort of Lifeguards, back along the Hostigi train to get a better idea of just how many refugees and supplies accompanied the retreating army. Actually, they were no longer an army but a folk migration--like the Zarthani immigrants of half a millennium ago, only traveling west instead of east.

  They had just crossed the Ulthor border and were now following the Nyklos Trail across the Princedom of Ulthor. The Ulthori border guards had glared at them sullenly as the endless train of soldiers and refugees passed into their Princedom, probably thinking about the Grand Host following behind. Prince Kestophes, his head heavily bandaged from a sword blow, was leading the van with Rylla and Prince Sarrask. The border guards had joined the column reluctantly after Kalvan had reminded Kestophes of his duty.

  Only Sarrask was in good humor. Kestophes acted as if he’d already lost his Princedom and was only waiting for an audience with Investigator Roxthar. Rylla was stiff as a board, rejecting everyone’s sympathy and concern. Kalvan had wisely left her to herself and to Lady Eutare, worried sick over Prince Phrames who had taken a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Brother Mytron was hovering over all of them all like a mother hen with her chicks.

  As his party made its way around a tall stand of trees, mostly first stand walnuts and hemlock, they ran into another Hostigi party bearing Baron Hestophes’ banner, a black boar’s head on a yellow field. Kalvan gave orders to halt and waited for the Captain-General to appear. What was Hestophes doing here when he was supposed to be with the rearguard holding back the Grand Host’s pursuers?

  Hestophes, riding a huge black destrier and wearing armor that appeared to have been beaten by baseball bats, pulled up short when he saw the Great King’s banner. “Your Majesty!”

  “Captain-General, where is my army?”

  Hestophes turned and looked over his shoulder. “Behind the rearguard. The Styphoni have broken off, but not without heavy casualties. But I fear it was not our stout defense that caused them to turn back. A captured mercenary captain told us that the Great Host is preparing for the final attack on Tarr-Hostigos and have recalled their advance army to join the attack.”

  Kalvan shook his head and pulled out his pipe. Ptosphes had bought them breathing room; he just hoped he could capitalize on his father-in-law’s dearly purchased gift. His biggest problem was where to go. He knew that as soon as Tarr-Hostigos fell the entire Grand Host would be on his trail, and without an endless stream of refugees to slow them down. It was fortunate for all involved on the Hostigi side that the Grand Host had taken the bait of Tarr-Hostigos and stubbed their toes on it. He suspected the siege was more a priestly decision than a military one, which meant Archpriest Roxthar was running the show and not just the Investigation.

  “The Agrysi captain brought us more news. The High Temple of Galzar in Agrys City has proclaimed a Ban on the Grand Host because of their mistreatment of Hostigi prisoners. Great King Lysandros, who is now in Hostigos Town, has tried to circumvent their Ban by enlisting most of the Host’s mercenaries into his Princely armies. Some of the more devout followers among the mercenaries, like our Agrysi captain, have deserted their posts in protest.”

  Kalvan snorted. “Or, not wanting to be regulars, are bugging out. There must be a way we can use the Ban to our advantage.” Kalvan suspected Roxthar was more interested in killing heretics than in winning battles. What he needed was a good diversion to buy him more time. Then it hit him in the face. It was time the League did something useful, even if it were only acting as a ruse.

  “Hestophes, what do you think Captain-General Phidestros would do if word arrived that an invasion force from Hos-Agrys was imminent?”

  “Hos-Agrys!” Hestophes grinned, and shook off his fatigue like a dog ridding itself of fleas. “Has the League of Dralm finally moved off its rump and come to our aid?”

  Kalvan paused to light his pipe with his tinderbox. “No. But rumors know no boundaries. And, with the Grand Host now under the Ban of Galzar, anything is possible. What if Phidestros and Soton learned of a large
Agrysi force coming south through Thebra and into Nyklos?”

  “They would have to answer it, of course, Your Majesty.” Hestophes smiled. “Are you thinking of what I’m thinking?”

  Kalvan exhaled a small cloud of smoke and smiled. “Yes. We’ll dress up our own League Army and send them against the Great Host. Maybe that will buy us some time.” It was unfortunate that Duke Mnestros had lost the better part of his army at Ardros Field; the Duke’s force had taken over fifty percent casualties when the left wing had collapsed. At that point, he had agreed there was little more the Duke could do and had sent him back to Hos-Agrys. He hadn’t missed the extra mouths during the retreat, but the Duke would have been the perfect foil for this gambit.

  “Your Majesty, I would like the honor of leading the League forces of Dralm against the Unholy Host.”

  “The honor is all yours, Captain-General Hestophes.” All the other commanders Kalvan might trust for such a perilous and important mission were wounded, dead or missing in action. “Now, round up General Klestreus--you should be able to find him at the nearest chuck wagon. Tell him I want a list of every Agrysi prince, duke and baron he can think of that’s in sympathy with the League of Dralm. I will also need a list of all their colors, devices and banners. If we’re going to make this invasion real, we are going to need the right window dressing.”

  III

  To impress his guest, Captain-General Kyblannos fired off the entire big siege battery, six giant bombards lugged all the way from Tarr-Harphax and four of Kalvan’s thirty-two pound brass guns from Ardros Field and Tarr-Sashta. The resulting whumph shook the valley like one of Endrath’s earthquakes. Even the Holy Investigator was impressed by the cloud of gray smoke and noise, although not so impressed with the results. The smaller iron cannonballs just bounced off the stone outerworks of the castle, and slammed back down into the defensive breastworks.