Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

by John F. Carr

  It had taken him almost five minutes to explain to the guards picketing the camp that he was searching for mushrooms for his breakfast omelet. There was a long wait while the sentry sent for his captain, who sleepily vouched for Tortha, having seen him in the King’s company. While Tortha mentally lauded Kalvan for his tight security, he also cursed him for making him have to wait out in the wet night air for the captain of the guard. Of course, had the captain not identified him he might have been forced to spend the night in a makeshift cell in protective custody--so things could be a lot worse.

  Who and where is my contact? I’m getting too old for this cloak and dagger stuff, Tortha thought.

  A few minutes later there was a gentle whoosh and an anti-gravity lifter dropped soundlessly into the clearing.

  Out of the cab stepped the familiar form of Verkan Vall, wearing a back-and-breast and his uniform.

  “Vall! I didn’t expect to see you. Last I heard you were shot dead.”

  “I took one point-blank in the chest; it was bad. Another couple of hours--” He thumped the chestplate opposite his heart “But I’m not that easy to kill.”

  “Don’t I know it, after all we’ve been through together. Still, if you ever needed a good excuse to take care of business back on First Level; a sucking chest wound qualifies as about the best excuse you can get here-and-now!

  Verkan winced. “It was the worst experience I’ve had since I joined the force. I wanted to talk with you first hand and let you know I was all right.”

  In actuality, the reports of Verkan’s death had upset Tortha more than he liked to admit, but he certainly wouldn’t let Vall know--he’d think he was turning into a silly old woman. “Thanks, I was wondering . . .”

  Now that the unpleasantness was over Verkan brightened up. “Tell me, Tortha, how are our friends Kalvan and Rylla taking all this?”

  “Rylla’s not doing so well. Her father’s back at Tarr-Hostigos on a suicide mission and she knows it. She also knows he’s unwell, but that isn’t helping. Ptosphes has always been both mother and father to Rylla and she is having a difficult time coming to terms with his impending death.”

  “You mean she’s blaming Kalvan.”

  “To a degree, probably less than if they hadn’t just patched things up after the Phaxos Incident. We had a talk yesterday--no it was her idea, Vall!”

  “I believe you. I’m just glad you’re here for her, with Xentos in Agrys City and her father back in Hostigos, she really doesn’t have anyone but Chartiphon.”

  “Chartiphon’s a mess. He thinks his place is at Prince Ptosphes’ side and he’s acting as though it’s his fault he’s not there. Kalvan’s really hoping he’ll snap out of it, because with Harmakros gone he’s short staff generals for that army of his.”

  “How is Kalvan taking the defeat?”

  “Kalvan’s like a cat, always lands with feet firmly on the ground--no matter what! He sees his biggest problem as the refugees that have followed the army into exile. A quarter of Beshta, likewise for Sashta, a third of Nostor, half of Sask, two-thirds of Hostigos: I’d estimate a quarter to half a million refugees stretched between Tarr-Hostigos and the Saltless Seas. The army of Hos-Hostigos is in better shape than Styphon’s House realizes; otherwise they wouldn’t let that butcher in the bedsheets stop the Great Host in its tracks to take Tarr-Hostigos. Kalvan still has about half of his original force--a more than respectable number of men. Enough that he should be able to topple any of the local despots in what he calls the ‘Great Lakes’ area.”

  Verkan shook his head. “Not unless he wants a war with Grefftscharr. Theovacar is no more anxious to have Kalvan in his neighborhood than Kalvan would have liked Theovacar to set up shop in Hos-Harphax!”

  “Isn’t Theovacar hamstrung by his nobles?”

  “In most cases, but a so-called invasion by Kalvan could tip the scale and have Theovacar’s nobles and merchant princes offering their support in a bid to stop Kalvan before he establishes a staging ground. Kalvan will have to be very careful before he commits himself.”

  “Enough of Kalvan’s problems. I understand we have a big one of our own. One of Kalvan’s scouts reported the massacre at the Foundry--did we lose any of the Study Team?”

  Verkan filled him in on all the details of arriving to find the Foundry a burnt-out hulk with bodies littering the courtyard. “We lost the whole Team except for those missing in action.”

  Tortha whistled. “What about Kirv?” Skordran Kirv was one of the top Paratime Police Inspectors as well as one of Verkan’s right hand men. He’d liked him a lot and even had him over for half a ten-day at his villa on Fifth Level.

  “Kirv was killed, along with five good patrol officers and four undercover operatives.” Verkan shook his head. “I’m losing friends faster than I can replace them. He could have left--should have bugged out, as Kalvan would put it. But the Study Team refused to budge. He was afraid if he left it would discredit the force--I’ve got it all on a recording. Kirv recorded everything, Praise Dralm!”

  “What do you mean? The Commissioner isn’t blaming you, is he? If he is, it’s time I got back to First Level and kicked some--”

  “No, the Commissioner backed me all the way. It was the University Director--”

  “Old Zyldor himself--I’m not surprised.”

  “The Commissioner suggested that Director Zyldor and his team meet with me and listen to Kirv’s recordings before they did anything stupid.”

  Tortha laughed. “Zyldor must have loved that!”

  “No, he came in looking for a fight and left like a paratemporally displaced outtimer. Especially after he listened to half an hour of Varnath Lala’s ravings about negotiating with the heathen Styphoni, who would need good brass-casters to ensure that Kalvan never returned to Hos-Hostigos. Talgan Dreth actually flat out refused evacuation when Kirv pressed him on leaving. He’d been made to look the fool in Dhergabar after the last evacuation, and he wasn’t going to travel that road twice-- regardless of what Kirv said. No, if those recordings were to surface, it’d be the University that would take a black eye, not the Paratime Police.

  “The missing Study Team members are another problem--one that’s not going away. Three of them: Aranth Sain, Danar Sirna and Gorath Tran. Our agents haven’t been able to find a trace of Aranth or of Danar, who’s striking enough to leave a trail. It’s like they’ve fallen off the face of the earth.”

  “What about Roxthar’s Investigation?”

  “I don’t think so. We have a Paracop that’s infiltrated Roxthar’s gang-- there are so many Investigators now not even Roxthar knows them all! I suspect more than a few are former highpriests who are using the white robe of the lower priesthood as camouflage. Anyway, our imposter hasn’t found any trace of Aranth or Danar, but he has found Gorath Tran. He ended up in one of Roxthar’s slave pens, telling tales of transtemporal conveyers and Paratime Police--to Investigator Roxthar, of all people! Fortunately, Roxthar put his own spin on it; now he’s convinced that Kalvan is leading an invasion of demons from Regwarn into the Five Kingdoms! He’s keeping Gorath the Demon as his personal pet.”

  “That’s the Paratemporal Secret he’s running off at the mouth about! What if Kalvan gets word of this?”

  “Our agent managed to talk with Gorath--he’s completely unbalanced! Doesn’t even remember his name; a ten-day with Roxthar has pushed him completely over the edge. No one, other than Roxthar, would take anything he says seriously.”

  “What does the University say?”

  “They’re embarrassed. They want him back for a visit to the Bureau of Psy-Hygiene before some newsie catches word about all this. We’ll pick him up when Roxthar tires of him and dumps him at one of his slave depots. If we took him now, it might convince Roxthar that there was some truth to his words--the poor bastard.”

  “His troubles make Kalvan’s look small. It looks like the political fallout from Kalvan’s disaster has been minimal. So, Vall, why do you look so miserable?”
<
br />   “There’s some dust-up on the Europo-American, Islamic Caliphate Subsector, Hartley Belt; it appears that India has just fallen to the Communists and the entire Subsector is on red alert. The Commissioner wants me to visit personally and decide whether to quarantine the Hartley Belt.”

  “Isn’t that the Belt where this Hartley kid, now President Hartley, claims to have visited the future and witnessed World War III?”

  “That’s the one, it divaricated from Europo-American about ten years ago. It seems like most of Hartley’s fixes have created more problems than they solved! His Belt is closer to nuclear meltdown than any other sector or subsector on Europo-American.”

  “It’s a pretty open and shut case; if they’re about to go nuclear, you shut down the Belt. Vall, you’re a realist and a historian as well as a Paracop. What’s really bothering you?”

  “Tortha, you really know how to get to the heart of things. Maybe I will too after I’ve sat at the big desk another century or so.”

  Not much chance of that if he keeps taking every friend’s bad luck so personally, thought Tortha. A shame, really, because apart from this Kalvan problem Verkan showed every sign of being an above-average Chief for the Paracops.

  “Now, once again. What’s eating you this way?”

  “This Hartley assignment is going to keep me away from Kalvan’s Time-Line and up to my elbows in work for the next four or five ten-days. I need to be here, helping Kalvan find a place to winter his people. I have all this power and I can’t do a Dralm-damned thing to help my friends without upsetting some bureaucrat or breaking some Paratime reg.”

  “Vall, let me give you some good advice. Take care of your First Level problems first, then worry about your outtime hobby--if that’s what it still is. If it isn’t, then maybe it’s time to change jobs.”

  Verkan winced as if he’d been slapped, then laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not cut out for Chief.”

  “I didn’t say that. You have the potential to be a good Chief, but you’ve got to learn to put your priorities in the proper order. I suggest you think about that all the way to the Hartley Belt.”

  II

  Phidestros awoke the instant a hand pressed hard over his lips. Instinctively his right hand snaked underneath the bedroll on which his head rested to grasp the handle of the poniard.

  Now another hand gripped his right wrist. Phidestros used his left hand to reach for the single-shot widow-maker he kept in a pouch next to his heart.

  “For Galzar’s sake, sir! It’s me, Kyblannos!”

  Phidestros stopped struggling when he recognized the voice, but didn’t let go of the still un-drawn widow-maker.

  “What in Regwarn’s Hideyhole is up now?”

  “A parley, sir. Some of the mercenary captains would like a private word with you before the storming--out of Arch-Torturer Roxthar’s hearing.”

  “By the Wargod’s Mace, couldn’t they pick a more civilized hour?” Phidestros groaned.

  At least the captains had picked the right place. The tent Phidestros used when he spent the night in the siege lines was a thousand paces from the nearest other camp. Men like Geblon guarded it, men who had been with Phidestros in the days of the Iron Company, men who had no fear of priests or torturers. Men who had guarded him with their lives and would go on doing so.

  Phidestros cursed again and sat up. “Who wants to talk with me?”

  “Grand-Captains Brakkos, Demmos and Thymestros; Captain Phidammes; Highpriest Olmnestes and three other captains I did not recognize.”

  Included were some of the best freelances in the Grand Host, leading about a sixteenth of its strength. Now that he was awake enough to think clearly, Phidestros found himself not altogether surprised.

  The first attempt to storm Tarr-Hostigos had been a disaster. The attack up the mountainside at the breach and up the draw toward the gate had been bloodily repulsed. The Hostigi had thrown everything from explosive shells to ordinary rocks at the storming parties, reducing them to bloody rags fifty paces from the walls.

  In the northern works, a handful of Hostigi had slaughtered twenty besiegers for every man they lost before the scaling ladders finally reached the walls. The Hostigi might have held as firmly as they had in the main castle, if it hadn’t been for the newly arrived rifle companies back from the vanguard under Captain-General Anaphon.

  Once in action, they pinned even a Hostigi rifleman perched on a tower. Two companies of them had given the Grand Host the northern work of Tarr-Hostigos. Five might have given them the main castle.

  At least they now had a place where heavy guns might play against the keep, once they were hauled up there. Given time, those guns would finish the work with no need for another attack.

  Time, though, is exactly what I won’t have. If the freelance captains don’t take it away, Roxthar will. He knows only one way of solving this problem, and it’s always the bloodiest. Does he plan to bleed the Grand Host to a shell, so it cannot turn against him after Kalvan is overthrown?

  Phidestros began pulling on his clothes. “Kyblannos, what do they want? More gold?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Truly.”

  “Help me get my breastplate on, then let them in.”

  The captains slunk into the tent like foxes into a turkey yard. Uncle Wolf Olmnestes was in the lead, chief among the Host’s Uncle Wolfs and formerly a freelance Captain-General of some note in his own right. His hair was almost white and his beard iron gray, but his face was still ruddy and his back straight as a musket barrel.

  When everyone was inside, Phidestros rose. “I won’t apologize for poor hospitality. It’s too late for that. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Olmnestes spoke first. “In the name of Galzar, can you bring this mad siege to an end?”

  “Not without putting my jewels between the blades of Roxthar’s clipping shears.”

  Nervous laughter skittered around the tent.

  Grand-Captain Brakkos spoke up next. “I thought you led this army, Grand Captain-General, not Roxthar’s regiment of bedgowns.”

  “I command, but only so long as I do nothing to offend Styphon’s House or Great King Lysandros. Where do you think I would be now if we had lost at Ardros Field? In chains, I tell you! Even now, I have Grand Master Soton, Roxthar, and would-be successors all tugging at my sword arm--especially Captain-General Anaphon! He is Lysandros’ pet lapdog.

  “The real commander of this Host is the one who fills your paychests with gold and you damn-well know it!”

  “Isn’t there some way you can stop this senseless assault on Tarr-Hostigos?” Olmnestes asked.

  “No, Uncle Wolf. Were it up to me I’d leave a blockading force with our heavy guns, to starve the Hostigi out of their fortress or knock it down upon their thick heads. I would take the rest of the Host after Kalvan until I caught him, and then pickle his head as a gift for Lysandros.

  “But our Holy Investigator decrees otherwise. As I would like to survive this siege, I am not going to disobey.”

  “May Thanor strike that blasphemer of Galzar dead with a lightning bolt!” Brakkos shouted.

  “Hush, man! Here even the trees have ears,” a captain urged.

  “Curse and blast Styphon and all his Archpriests!” Brakkos raved. “This isn’t the only gap in the mountains, for Galzar’s sake! None of the others are half so stoutly defended. Let us push through one of them and fight Kalvan’s fugitives, not sit here like owls in a thunderstorm!”

  “Silence, Brakkos,” Olmnestes snapped. “Your flapping tongue is a danger to us all.” His steely gaze finally reduced Brakkos to muttering.

  The Uncle Wolf turned to Phidestros, “Grand Captain-General, you are the leader of this Host, and that is a sacred trust given by Galzar. It is your duty to stop this madness.”

  “If I had Galzar’s hand to guide mine, I would, Uncle Wolf, but I do not. Only Styphon’s branding iron and the headsman’s ax rule here. I say again, and I hope for the last time, if I order the
Grand Host to do anything whatsoever that displeases Roxthar, my life will be forfeit and the Host will be under the command of Soton.”

  “Then stay and be Roxthar’s slave if you will,” Grand-Captain Thymestros snapped. “We shall do otherwise.”

  “Do anything else and your life won’t be worth a bent phenig.” Phidestros answered. “Roxthar has a memory like Galzar’s Muster Book.”

  “Styphon’s tentacles do not cover the earth,” Demmos replied. “King Theovacar is always ready to hire freelances, and I’ve word of a revolt in Wulfula and a king taking oaths. There are no Investigators in the Middle Kingdoms, nor in Hos-Zygros or Hos-Agrys.”

  “Not yet, my friends,” Phidestros said, wearier than even the hour and a moon of killing could account for. “I have known you, Demmos, for six winters have I not?”

  Grand-Captain Demmos nodded.

  “We have fought side by side in four wars. I consider all of you my friends, as well as companions at arms. I fear for your lives. If you leave, it is at your own risk. The day is Styphon’s and his sun burns hot and scorches everywhere. If you must leave, do so at night, without a word to anyone. If Roxthar hears of your plans, the Red Hand will drown you in your own blood. Marshal Xenophes has bands of Red Hand watching all the roads out of Hostigos Town--so beware.

  “Also let it be said that this is oath breaking and I speak against it. Uncle Wolf, what say you?”

  Uncle Wolf Olmnestes sighed. “There are reports of a Ban of Galzar against the Holy Host, specifically Styphon’s Own Guard and the Investigators who have murdered and tortured Hostigi prisoners of war. But until I receive the Ban itself from the Council of Galzar, I am unable to put it into force and can do nothing to stop Roxthar or the Grand Host. If any of you freelancers break your oaths, you will also be under the ban and no reputable lord will be able to hire your services. This is the Law.”