Opening the coffer, he got out one of the copper-mesh globes, and from it drew a mouthpiece on a small wire, into which he spoke for a long time.
“So far,” he concluded “there seems to be no suspicion of anything paranormal about the man in anybody’s mind. I have been offered an opportunity to take service with his army as a scout. I intend doing this; assistance can be given me in performing this work. I will find a location for an antigrav conveyer to land, somewhere in the woods near Hostigos Town; when I do, I will send a message-ball through from there.”
Then he replaced the mouthpiece, set the timer for the transposition-field generator, and switched on the antigrav. Carrying the ball to an open window, he tossed it outside, and then looked up as it vanished in the night. After a few seconds, high above, there was an instant’s flash among the many visible stars. It looked like a meteor; a Hostigi, seeing it, would have made a wish.
KALVAN sat on a rock under a tree, wishing he could smoke, and knowing that he was getting scared again. He cursed mentally. It didn’t mean anything—as soon as things started happening held forget about it but it always happened, and he hated it. That sort of thing was all right for a buck private, or a platoon-sergeant, or a cop going to arrest some hillbilly killer, but, for Dralm’s sake, a five-star general, now!
And that made him think of what Churchill had called Hilter the lance corporal who had promoted himself to commander-in-chief at one jump. Corporal Morrison had done that, cut Hitler’s time by quite a few years, and gotten into the peerage, which Hitler hadn’t.
It was quiet on the mountain top, even though there were two hundred men squatting or lying around him, and another five hundred, under Chartiphon and Prince Ptosphes, five hundred yards behind. And, in front, at the edge of the woods, a skirmish line of thirty riflemen, commanded by Verkan, the Grefftscharr trader.
There had been some objections to giving so important a command to an outlander; he had informed the objectors rather stiffly that until recently he had been an outlander and a stranger himself. Verkan was the best man for it. Since joining Harmakros’s scouts, he had managed to get closer to Tarr-Dombra than anybody else, and knew the ground ahead better than any. He wished he could talk the Grefftscharrer into staying in Hostigos. He’d fought bandits all over, as any trader must, and Trygathi, and nomads on the western plains, and he was a natural rifle-shot and a born guerrilla. Officer type, too. But free-traders didn’t stay anywhere; they all had advanced cases of foot-itch and horizon-fever.
And out in front of Verkan and his twenty rifled calivers at the edge of the woods, the first on any battlefield in here-and-now history, were a dozen men with rifled 8-bore muskets, fitted with peep-sights and carefully zeroed in, in what was supposed to be cleared ground in front of the castle gate. The condition of that approach ground was the most promising thing about the whole operation.
It had been cleared, all right—at least, the trees had been felled and the stumps rooted out. But the Nostori thought Tarr-Dombra couldn’t be taken and they’d gone slack the ground hadn’t been brushed for a couple of years. There were bushes all over it as high as a man’s waist, and not a few that a man could hide behind standing up. And his men would have been hard enough to see even if it had been kept like a golf-course.
The helmets and body-armor had all been carefully rusted; there’d been anguished howls about that. So had every gun-barrel and spearhead. Nobody wore anything but green or brown, and most of them had bits of greenery fastened to helmets and clothing. The whole operation had been rehearsed four times back of Tarr-Hostigos, starting with twelve hundred men and eliminating down to the eight hundred best.
There was a noise, about what a wild-turkey would make feeding, and a soft voice called, “Lord Kalvan!” It was Verkan; he carried a rifle and wore a dirty gray-green smock with a hood; his sword and belt were covered with green and brown rags.
“I never saw you till you spoke,” Morrison commended him. “The wagons are coming up. They’re at the top switchback now.”
He nodded. “We start, then.” His mouth was dry. What was that thing in For Whom the Bell Tolls about spitting to show you weren’t afraid? He couldn’t have done that now. He nodded to the boy squatting beside him; the boy picked up his arquebus and started back to where Ptosphes and Chartiphon were waiting.
And Rylla. He cursed vilely—in English, since he still couldn’t get much satisfaction out of taking the names of these local gods in vain. She’d announced that she was coming along. He’d told her she’d do nothing of the sort; so had her father and Chartiphon. She’d thrown a tantrum, and thrown other things as well. She had come along. He was going to have his hands full with that girl, after they were married.
“All right,” he said softly to the men around him. “Let’s start earning our pay.’
The men around and behind him rose quietly, two spears or halberds or long-handled scythe-blades to every caliver or arquebus, though some of the spearmen had pistols in their belts. He and Verkan advanced to the edge of the woods, where riflemen crouched in pairs behind trees. Across four hundred yards of clearing rose the limestone walls of Tarr-Dombra, the castle that couldn’t be taken, above the chasm that had been quarried straight across the mountain top. The drawbridge was down and the portcullis up, and a few soldiers with black and orange scarves and sashes—his old college colors; he ought to be ashamed to shoot them—loitered in the gateway or kept perfunctory watch from the battlements.
Ptosphes and Chartiphon—and Rylla, damn it!—came up with the rest of the force, with a frightful clatter and brush-crashing which nobody at the castle seemed to hear. There was one pike or spear or halberd or something—too often something—to every two arquebuses or calivers. Chartiphon wore a long brown sack with arm and neck holes over his armor. Ptosphes wore brown, and browned armor; so did Rylla. They nodded greetings, and peered through the bushes to where the road from Sevenhills Valley came up to the summit of the mountain.
Finally, four cavalrymen, with black and orange pennons and scarves, came into view. They were only fake Princeton men; he hoped they’d get rid of that stuff before some other Hostigi shot them by mistake. A long ox wagon, piled high with hay which covered eight Hostigi infantrymen, followed. Then a few false-color cavalry, another big hay wagon, more cavalry, two more wagons, and a dozen cavalry behind.
The first four clattered over the drawbridge, spoke to the guards, and rode through the gate. Two wagons followed vanishing through the gate. Great Galzar, if anybody noticed anything now! The third rumbled onto the drawbridge and stopped directly below the portcullis; that was the one with the log framework under the hay, and the log slung underneath; the driver must have cut the strap to let it drop, jamming the wagon. The fourth, the one loaded with rocks to the top of the bed, stopped on the end of the drawbridge, weighting it down.
Then a pistol banged inside, and another; there were shouts of “Hostigos!” and “Ptosphes!” He blew his State Police whistle, and six of the big elephant-size muskets went off in front, from places where he’d have sworn there’d been nobody at all. The rest of Verkan’s rifle-platoon began firing, sharp whipcrack reports entirely different from the smoothbores. He hoped they’d remember to patch their bullets when they reloaded; that was something new for them. He blew his whistle twice and started running forward.
The men who had been showing themselves on the walls were gone now, but a musket-shot or so showed that the snipers in front hadn’t gotten all of them. He ran past a man with fishnet over his helmet stuck full of twigs, ramming a ball into his musket; another, near him, who had been waiting till he was half through, fired. Gray powder smoke hung in the gateway; all the Hostigi were inside now, and there was an uproar of shouting——“Hostigos!”, “Nostor!”—and shots and blade-clashing. He broke step to look behind him; his two hundred were pouring in after him and Ptosphes’s spearmen; the arquebusiers and calivermen had advanced to two hundred yards and were plastering the battlements as fast
as they could load and fire, without bothering to aim. Aimed smoothbore fire at that range was useless; they were just trying to throw as much lead as they could.
A cannon went off above him when he was almost to the end of the drawbridge, and then, belatedly, the portcullis slammed down and stopped eight feet from the ground on the log framework hidden under the hay of the third wagon. They’d tested that a couple of times with the portcullis at Tarr-Hostigos, first. All six of the oxen on the last wagon were dead; the drivers and the infantrymen inside had been furnished short broadaxes to make sure of that. The oxen of the portcullis wagon had been cut loose and driven inside. There were a lot of ripped-off black and orange scarves on the ground, and more on corpses. The gate, and the two gate-towers, had been secured.
But shots were coming from the citadel, across the bailey, and a mob of Nostori was pouring out the gate from it. This, he thought, was the time to expend some .38-specials. Standing with his feet apart and his left hand on his hip, he drew the Colt and began shooting, timed-fire rate. He killed six men with six shots (he’d done that well on silhouette targets often enough), and they were the front six men. The rest stopped, just long enough for the men behind him to come up and sweep forward, arquebuses banging. Then he holstered the empty Colt—he had only eight rounds left for it—and drew his rapier and poignard. Another cannon thundered from the outside wall; he hoped Rylla and Chartiphon hadn’t been in front of it. Then he was fighting his way through the citadel gate, shoulder to shoulder with Prince Ptosphes.
Behind, in the bailey, something else besides “Ptosphes!” and “Gormoth!” and “Hostigos!” was being shouted. It was:
“Mercy, comrade! Mercy; I yield! Oath to Galzar!”
There was much more of that as the morning passed; before noon, all the garrison had either cried for mercy or hadn’t needed it. There had only been those two cannon-shots, though between them they had killed or wounded fifty men. Nobody would be crazy enough to attack Tarr-Dombra, so the cannon had been left empty, and they’d only had time to load and fire two.
The hardest fighting was inside the citadel. He ran into Rylla there, with Chartiphon hurrying to keep up with her. There was a bright sword-nick on her brown helmet, and blood on her light rapier; she was laughing happily. Then the melee swept them apart. He had expected that taking the keep would be even grimmer work, but as soon as they had the citadel, it surrendered. By that time, he had used the last of his irreplaceable cartridges. Muzzle-loaders for him, from now on.
They hauled down Gormoth’s black Rag with the orange lily and ran up the halberd-head of Hostigos. They found four huge bombards, throwing hundred-pound stone balls, loaded them, hand-spiked them around, and sent the huge gun-stones crashing into the roofs of the town of Dyssa, at the mouth of Gorge River, to announce that Tarr-Dombra was under new management. They set the castle cooks to work skinning and cutting up the dead wagon oxen for a barbecue. Then they turned their attention to the prisoners, herded into the inner bailey.
First, there were the mercenaries. They all agreed to enter Prince Ptosphes’s service. They couldn’t be used against Gormoth until the term of their contract with him expired; they would be sent to patrol the Sask border. Then there were Gormoth’s own subject troops. They couldn’t be made to bear arms at all, but they could be put to work, as long as they were given soldiers’ pay and soldierly treatment. Then there was the governor of the castle, a Count Phebion, cousin to Gormoth, and his officers. They would be released on oath to send their ransoms to Hostigos. The castle priest of Galzar, after administering the oaths, elected to go to Hostigos with his parishioners.
As for the priest of Styphon, Chartiphon wanted to question him under torture, and Ptosphes thought he should be beheaded out of hand.
“Send him to Nostor with Phebion,” Morrison said. “No, send him to Balph, in Hos-Ktemnos, with a letter to the Supreme Priest, Styphon’s Voice, telling him that we make our own fireseed, that we will teach everybody else to make it, and that we are the enemies of Styphon’s House until Styphon’s House is destroyed.”
Everybody, including those who had been suggesting novel and interesting ways of putting the priest to death, shouted approval.
“And a letter to Gormoth,” he continued, “offering him peace and friendship. Tell him we’ll put his soldiers to work in the fireseed mill and teach them the whole art, and when we release them, they can teach it in Nostor.”
Ptosphes was horrified. “Kalvan! What god has addled your wits, man? Gormoth’s our enemy by birth, and he’ll be our enemy as long as he lives.”
“Well, if he tries to make his own fireseed without joining us, that won’t be long. Styphon’s House will see to that.”
VERKAN the Grefftscharrer led the party that galloped back to Hostigos Town in the late afternoon with the good news—Tarr-Dombra taken, with over two hundred prisoners, a hundred and fifty horses, four tons of fireseed, twenty cannon, and rich booty of small arms, armor and treasure. And Sevenhills Valley was part of Hostigos again. Harmakros had defeated a large company of mercenary cavalry, killing over twenty of them and capturing the rest. And he had taken the Styphon temple-farm, a nitriary, freeing the slaves and putting the priests to death. And the long-despised priest of Dralm had gathered his peasant flock and was preaching to them that the Hostigi had come not as conquerors but as liberators.
That sounded familiar to Verkan Vall; he’d heard the like on quite a few time-lines, including Morrison/Kalvan’s own. Come to think of it, in the war in which Morrison had fought, both sides had made that claim.
He also brought copies of the letters Prince Ptosphes had written—more likely, that Kalvan had written and Ptosphes had signed—to Gormoth and to Sesklos, Styphon’s Voice. The man was clever; those letters would do a lot of harm, where harm would do the most good.
Dropping a couple of troopers to spread the news in the town, he rode up to the castle; as he approached the gate, the great bell of the town hall began pealing. It took some time to tell the whole story to Xentos, counting interruptions while the old priest-chancellor told Dralm about it. When he got away from Xentos, he was dragged bodily into the officers’ mess, where a barrel of wine had already been broached. Fortunately, he had some First Level alcodote-vitamin pills with him. By the time he got down to Hostigos Town it was dark, everybody was roaring drunk, the bell was still ringing, and somebody was wasting fireseed in the square with a little two-pounder.
He was mobbed there, too; the troopers who had come in with him betrayed him as one of the heroes of Tarr-Dombra. Finally he managed to get into the inn and up to his room. Getting another message-ball and a small radioactive beacon from his coffer, he hid them under his cloak, got his horse, and managed to get out of town, riding to a little clearing two miles away.
Pulling out the mouthpiece, he recorded a message, concluding: “I wish especially to thank Skordran Kirv and the people with him for the reconnaissance work at Tarr-Dombra, on this and adjoining time-lines. The information so secured, and the success this morning resulting from it, places me in an excellent position to carry out my mission.
“I will need the assistants, and the equipment, at once. The people should come in immediately; there is a big victory celebration in the town, everybody’s drunk, and they could easily slip in unnoticed. There will be a formal thanksgiving ceremony in the temple of Dralm, followed by a great feast, three days from now. At this time the betrothal of Lord Kalvan to the Princess Rylla will be announced.”
Then he set the transposition timer, put the ball on antigrav, and tossed it up with a gesture like a falconer releasing his hawk. There was a slight overcast, and it flashed just below the ceiling, but that didn’t matter. On this night, nobody would be surprised at portents in the sky over Hostigos. Then, after stripping the shielding from the beacon and planting it to guide the conveyer in, he sat down with his back to a tree and lit his pipe. Half an hour transposition time to Police Terminal, maybe an hour to get the men and equi
pment together, and another half hour to transpose in.
He wouldn’t be bored waiting. First Level people never were. He had too many interesting things in his memory, all of which were available to total recall.
INVITED to sit, the Agrysi horse-trader took the chair facing the desk in the room that had been fitted up as Lord Kalvan’s private office. He was partly bald, with a sparse red beard; about fifty, five-eight, a hundred and forty-five. The sort of character Corporal Calvin Morrison would have taken a professional interest in: he’d have a record, was probably wanted somewhere, for horse-theft at a guess. Shave off that beard and he’d double for a stolen-car fence he had arrested a year ago. A year before he’d gone elsewhen, anyhow. The horse-trader, Skranga, sat silently, wondering why he’d been brought in, and trying to think of something they might have on him. Another universal constant, he thought.
“Those were excellent horses we got from you,” he began. “The officers snapped most of them up before they could get to the remount corrals.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Lord Kalvan,” Skranga said cautiously. “I try to deal only in the best.”
“You’ve been working in the fireseed mill since. I’m told you’ve learned all about making fireseed.”
“Well, Lord, I try to learn what I’m doing, when I’m supposed to do some thing.”
“Most commendable. Now, we’re going to open the frontiers. There’s no point in keeping them closed since we took Tarr-Dombra. Where had you thought of going?”
Skranga shrugged. “Back to the Trygath country for more horses, I suppose.”
“If I were you, I’d go to Nostor, before Gormoth closes his frontiers. Speak to Prince Gormoth privately, and be sure the priests of Styphon don’t find out about it. Tell him you can make fireseed, and offer to make it for him. You’ll be making your fortune if you do.”
Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen Page 7