by John F. Carr
“No, Captain. We need to find a safe place for the Princess. I may need your rifle.” The artificers and fabricators were still arguing over how to duplicate Kalvan’s rifles, based on several that had been picked up at the Ardros battlefield. They were worth ten-times their weight in gold, but Phidestros had entrusted one to Lythrax.
Lythrax nodded. He knew his own worth in a street fight or ambush.
Kyblannos turned back to the scout. “Meanwhile, we’ll need someplace to bed down and an inn for the Princess.”
Her coach had just about reached them and he knew that he would soon face a round of questioning.
“Sir, there’s a small border town four marches ahead,” the scout said, pointing to the north with his good arm. “We reconnoitered Kothos on our way to the border and saw two small inns and a tavern. We could hole up there for a quarter moon or so until the baby is born.”
Kyblannos nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go tell the Princess about the delay.” The Princess had been as brave as any soldier during their overland journey and he didn’t feel good about giving her more bad news. This delay would certainly mean that the Prince’s child would be born on hostile territory. As a father of eight, six of which were still living, he knew quite well that where the baby was born was of little matter. Now, all he needed to do was convince Princess Arminta of that.
II
King Hyrum of Dorg had been perplexed by the news of the Grefftscharri Ambassador’s visit from the first moment it was announced by one of the King Theovacar’s heralds. I hope Theovacar doesn’t expect me to pull his fat out of the fire, he thought. The two rulers were not enemies, but were far from being friends or even allies. As a courtesy, he had attended the younger King’s enthronement and alliances had been discussed, but as usual the Princedom of Lyros had come up and Theovacar had refused to cede it to his possession. Lyros had been a bone of contention between Dorg and Grefftscharr since his great-great-grandfather’s time.
For centuries Dorg had policed the Great River and held her lands against countless barbarian intrusions with little help from Grefftscharr. The only time Grefftscharri got involved was when the nomads bypassed Dorg and entered Lyros or Greffa. In the past, the two kingdoms had cooperated in combined attacks on large hordes of barbarians, but only in mutual defense.
His intelligencers had kept Hyrum informed about Great King Kalvan’s invasion and military successes, which were impressive, as well as Theovacar’s intervention on the side of Styphon’s House. To his way of thinking, King Theovacar had made a bad toss of the bones which had cost him the crown of his Kingdom. If he expected Hyrum’s help in restoring his lost Princedoms of Greffa and Thagnor, he was treeing the wrong raccoon. If anything, Hyrum was enjoying the younger ruler’s discomfort, thinking it was a good antidote to Theovacar’s overweening arrogance.
Still, it might not be to his advantage to have the Hostigi so close to his Kingdom, especially since this Kalvan was in league with Ran-jar Sargos, the nomad warlord who was causing the Zarthani Knights so much trouble. Sargos was one of those charismatic warlords, who were natural born leaders and had the ability to win men’s hearts, that popped up on Sea of Grass every generation or two. He would have already been tamed were it not for King Kalvan supplying him with weapons and fireseed.
Styphon’s House, for all its faults—and they were legion—had never sold large quantities of muskets or fireseed to the nomads. Now this outsider had come in and upset the precarious balance between the Sea of Grass clansmen and the Middle Kingdoms. And, if this was just the beginning of the Usurper’s interference, he had to be stopped before they were all destroyed.
Already, several of the important Order fortresses had fallen to Warlord Sargos and his tribesmen. If the Knights’ fortresses were ever swept away, the nomads would spread their reign of terror from the Sastragath deep into Hos-Bletha and Hos-Ktemnos, then north into Wulfula and Dorg. With most of the Order Knights and the Sacred Squares of Hos-Ktemnos fighting in Hos-Agrys and elsewhere, Dorg might well find itself an island in the midst of a sea of barbarians—a most frightening possibility.
Maybe by combining forces we can humble this arrogant invader who calls himself “Great King Kalvan. “
His musings were stilled by the arrival of his Chancellor with Ambassador Gythrid in tow. Gythrid, he noted, was growing older; his goatee was streaked with silver and most of his hair was gone. He remembered meeting Gythrid some twenty winters ago, when they were both young. They’d had much in common, drinking ale, singing until dawn and hunting. He suspected their friendship was why Theovacar had made the Duke Ambassador to Dorg.
He nodded and got off the Emerald Throne, leaving his presence room for his private audience chamber. Whatever they would speak of today would remain between the two of them and the chamber’s stone walls.
Gythrid entered warily as if expecting an attempted assassination. Maybe it was thus in Grefftscharr, but not in Dorg. Hyrum rose and they clasped hands.
“It is good to see you, my friend,” Gythrid said.
Hyrum nodded. “It’s been too many winters. Have they been good to you?”
Gythrid shrugged. “My eldest son died in the war last fall and my wife has shut herself up in the bedchamber and refuses to leave. So, life’s been both bad and good.”
They both chuckled. Gythrid, due to dynastic concerns, had been convinced to marry an overweight cousin with unsightly black hairs that sprouted out of her chin no matter how many times removed. The marriage had produced little but two sons, and certainly no happiness on either side.
“And you? How are your pretties?”
Hyrum gave him a mischievous grin. The Ambassador was one of only a handful of people who knew about the King’s “hobby” of collecting young girls and preserving them at the peak of their beauty. Those of limited vision would be horrified because they didn’t understand his motives; he did it out of love and the desire to preserve unsullied beauty. “Very well, in fact. I just added a new beauty, a raven-haired lass of some thirteen winters, whose loveliness will now outlive us all.”
“You’re lucky to have your own harem of beautiful women who do not argue or act contrary. As I grow older, I find my greatest desire is for more peace and quiet in my life.”
Hyrum nodded. “Sadly, this is not a time of peace for our world.”
“No, the Usurper Kalvan and Var-Wannax Sargos have upset the balance of power in the Middle Kingdoms that has prevailed for the past thousand winters. King Theovacar fears that this discord may only be the first rain of the growing storm that Kalvan is unleashing. His most recent conquest of Nythros being a beginning and not an end.”
“I suspect you’re correct, old friend. Kalvan has placed one of his henchmen as King of Rathon and there are rumors his army will be moving into Lyros next spring.”
“This is what we suspect as well,” Ambassador Gythrid said. “Maybe both our Kingdoms can work together to stop this expansionism at our collective expense. If we fail to stop Kalvan now, we may be too weak in the future.”
III
The shrill screams coming from the tavern keeper’s rooms were loud enough that they echoed to the rafters in the tavern’s common room. Kyblannos put his hands over his ears. With all his adventuring, he’d only been at home with his wife for one birth. At that time, after five births, his wife passed the baby like a big burp. Or at least it had appeared that way to him, although Myrissa always spent the next six moons complaining about all the pain she’d suffered on his behalf….
The Princess had started going into labor just as they reached the village of Kothos. They had quickly made for the nearest inn where the tavern keeper, once he’d learned who his noble visitor was, had offered his own quarters for the birthing. Once inside the tavern, Arminta had quickly disappeared into the back room with her midwives and a priestess of Yirtta Allmother. He had purposely stayed out of their way, since he recognized there were certain places men were not supposed to go—a birthing room being p
rimary among them.
Captain Lythrax had driven off the bandits by shooting them from about a march away, which had completely unnerved them. He killed three of them and the rest had bolted like scalded dogs. But now there was another threat: Prince Necolestros was waiting on the other side of the border with Hos-Ktemnos with a small army. Necolestros was an enigma to Kyblannos; he was a member of the Union of Styphon’s Friends, yet he had not joined the attack on Hos-Hostigos as most of the Union princes had done. He was also related by blood to both the Princess and her father, Prince Soligon, which meant he was a possible claimant for the Iron Throne.
The big question was: Was Necolestros here to help his cousin, or to capture her and her newborn to use as bargaining levers for the Iron Throne? Kyblannos knew that Phidestros would not hesitate to throw his support behind Prince Necolestros’ election if his family was kidnapped again and it meant the release of his wife and child.
Kyblannos sent Uncle Wolf Dyron, under a flag of truce, to the Syriphlon Army to see if there was any way they could bargain their way out of Hos-Ktemnos. He was not looking forward to spending an entire winter cooped up with five females, a squalling baby and the pitiful excuse for victuals available in Kothos. Besides, Phidestros would be waiting in Besh Town with a bellyful of worms. Sometimes not knowing was even worse than bad news.
He was sitting at the table knocking out a pipeful of ashes onto the rushes that covered the plank floor when Petty-Captain Vernath came through the door.
“Captain-General, sir.”
“Have a seat.” He signaled the tavern keeper to bring him another ale. “What news do you bring?”
The Petty-Captain remained at attention. “It’s Uncle Wolf Dyron, sir. He’s returning with a small party of Syriphloni, bearing Prince Necolestros’ banner.”
Outside on the dirt road he saw the flag of Syriphlon, which displayed white waves on a blue field with a yellow border, along with Necolestros’ personal banner, a tan field displaying a red and white target pierced by a black arrow. He remembered that from his years as a free companion in Syriphlon many years back. Unlike in the northern great kingdoms, the southern princes used their own emblems as well as the princedom’s.
“Do they look peaceful?”
Vernath shrugged. “Their pistols are holstered and their swords are in their sheaths. And they don’t outnumber us.”
Kyblannos nodded. That was a good sign, if they’d wanted to capture the Princess they’d have come across the border in force. What they couldn’t know was that Captain Lythrax was hidden across the street, with his rifle, in the upper story of the village general store.
He quickly downed the last of his ale, saying, “Let’s go out and parley with them.”
The Petty-Captain followed him out the door like a shadow. The snow flurries had stopped, but the bright sunlight reflecting off the town’s snow-laden roofs hurt his eyes. He shielded them with his left hand while searching out the Syriphlon party. The remaining Iron Band soldiers gathered around, standing at the ready. Most had their swords ready and hands on their pistols. The arquebusiers had their smooth-bores loaded and at port.
Uncle Wolf Dyron broke off from the party and trotted up to the hitching posts in front of the tavern. “Prince Necolestros and his party come in peace, sir. Under the Hand of Galzar”
The Hand of Galzar, a white flag showing a green outstretched palm, meant a truce with no fighting. An offender would be put under the Ban of Galzar and would remain an outlaw to all fighting men in the Five Great Kingdoms. Only the temple of the godless Styphoni had the audacity to ignore Galzar’s Ban.
Kyblannos nodded, that was good enough for him. “Bring them to the tavern. The Prince can seat himself at my table.”
A little while later, the Prince, his Chancellor and the Captain-General of his Army entered the tavern common room. Necolestros was a tall man with a dour face which looked as if it had little familiarity with smiles. He was some forty to fifty winters of age with worry lines furrowing his forehead and little hair on top, except for some gray wisps around the ears.
Kyblannos bowed, then offered them seats.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Captain-General,” the Prince said. “I came with my Army as soon as I learned that the Styphoni Devils had taken my cousin hostage and that she was about to be released.”
Kyblannos had to hold back a sigh of relief. Maybe I will get back to Besh Town in one piece, after all. In the Fireseed Wars, one never knew if blood triumphed over the gods and Styphon’s gold, or the other way around. With all the border problems they’d had with Syriphlon over the past winter, it was best to be wary of their intentions.
“Your Highness, the Princess is safe. We removed her from Balph a moon quarter ago and we are now delayed in Kothos Town until she has given birth.”
“She is well! I was certain the Styphoni Infidels would not release her except on pain of death. I was about to take my army to Balph to demand her freedom. Upon my return to Syriphlon Town I shall declare a day of celebration in her honor!”
Kyblannos broke out with a big smile. “I must say, Your Highness, I welcome your entreaties. We were not certain if your presence here meant us ill or good.”
The Prince looked down into the tankard of ale the tavern keeper had just set before him. “It’s the times. This war between the True Gods and the Demon, who calls himself the God Styphon, have set brother upon brother and father upon son. I fear that I have too long courted the godless priests of Styphon’s House because my lands are so close to Balph. I had thought that an alliance with them would protect me from their wolves, like the madman Roxthar.
“However, since they besieged Agrys City, I have come to realize that no man is safe from their treachery. Great King Demistophon was no enemy of Styphon, nor was there provocation for the Temple’s needless attack upon Agrys City except for their own aggrandizement.”
“Well put, Your Highness. The wolves of Styphon’s House will not rest until all of the Five Kingdoms are under their claws.”
Necolestros nodded. “It is my duty to see that my cousin Princess Arminta and her child are escorted safely through Syriphlon and back home to Beshta. There I will meet with Prince Phidestros and proclaim our unity and apologize for the behavior of some of my border barons. They shall be punished.”
His voice sounded sincere. Kyblannos decided that he would not want to be in those barons’ boots come spring. “Prince Phidestros will welcome your hand in friendship, Your Highness. An alliance with Greater Beshta will keep the Styphoni dogs in their kennels as they have no fire to fight the Hero of Ardros Field.”
“Well said, Captain-General”
A chorus of happy cries from the birthing room cut off the Prince’s words.
The Chief Midwife, a wide woman with a big smile, strode into the common room. “General, the baby is a boy. A healthy baby boy, Praise Yirtta!”
“Praise Allfather Dralm!” Prince Necolestros’ shouted.
The Chief Midwife curtsied and said, “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I did not know you were here.”
“You’re excused. May the gods be praised! This is wonderful news. I’m certain that Prince Phidestros will be pleased to know that he now has an heir. A fine baby boy.”
“Yes, he will,” Kyblannos said. “I must get word to him at once.” Yes, and I need to get it there quickly before he fears the worst. There’s no telling what the Prince might do if he doesn’t learn that his wife and child are safe.
THIRTY-TW⊕
Almoner Ruphlo sat behind a table overloaded with scrolls and parchments that detailed the Temple’s accounts for the past winter. The Treasury office was filled with priests in black robes, fidgeting nervously around the table as Highpriest Ruphlo, the new Temple Almoner, attempted to explain to Styphon’s Voice the decrease in the Temple’s annual tithes and collections from the Five Great Kingdoms. The previous Temple Almoner had lost his head over accounting irregularities and Ruphlo was twitching nervously as
Anaxthenes demanded answers for Styphon’s House’s declining revenues.
In the early days of the Temple, when Styphon was a minor healer god, the almoners had been the priests who distributed phenigs to the poor in an attempt to build acceptance and followers. Following that tradition, even now the high priests among the almoners wore the black robes of under-priests. When the Temple’s fortunes rose, after the discovery of fireseed, the almoners went from distributors of coins to collectors. If things keep going the way they are, Anaxthenes mused, we may soon be forced to purchase our followers again.
“You’re telling me the Temple has suffered losses amounting to around two-thirds of its previous annual revenues from the Five Great Kingdoms!” Anaxthenes exclaimed. “How do you explain this?”
The Almoner rose to his feet displaying his black robe, which was too short and allowed his skinny legs to stick out, giving Ruphlo the appearance of a giant black crow. “Collections and offerings from all Five Great Kingdoms have declined significantly, Your Divinity. The uprisings and turmoil in Hos-Bletha have decreased our revenues there by over three-fourths. Hos-Zygros temple revenues are the same as always, but they’ve never been large since our follower base in Hos-Zygros is the smallest of any of the Five Kingdoms. Due to the war in Hos-Agrys and the sacking and burning of Agrysi Temples our earnings there have declined to less than a tenth of their previous annual amount. Revenues in Hos-Ktemnos are down because of the nomad invasions, especially in the west. Some of the faithful are blaming the invasions on the Temple’s war against the Infidel Kalvan.”
“Tell me who these peasants are and I’ll send the Holy Investigator and his minions to Investigate them!” Anaxthenes snapped.
Ruphlo held out his hands, splaying his fingers in supplication. “I do not know the individuals; these are from reports gathered by my town almoners.”