by John F. Carr
Davros was not happy with this settlement, but he had bought the Temple time. Time to survive until Kalvan's armies arrived? Time until Demistophon died? He didn't know, but—at least—for today the Temple was safe.
For now, he would do as Demistophon demanded, but if circumstances changed he would bend with them. After all, it would not glorify Allfather Dralm if his highpriests were forced to live in the streets as beggars. Allfather Dralm, damn all the Styphoni to Regwarn and Great King Demistophon, too.
III
Sargos heard the hand clap of one of his subchiefs seeking entrance to his quarters. Unlike the single men who lived in longhouses, Sargos had his own private hut. "Enter," he said.
Subchief Ikkos, the youngest of his advisors, came in followed by One-Eyed Red and Vanar Halgoth, who appeared to have someone trailing after him. Halgoth was the largest man in the Raven Tribe, for that matter, in the Tymannes Clan, or any other clan in the Lower Sastragath. The only men he'd seen larger had been in the Trygath, when he and Halgoth were young and foolish, fighting for now dead and forgotten Trygathi princes. The two of them were the last of the tribe's survivors of those freer and wilder days of his youth.
"Come in, all of you. Who is that behind you, Halgoth?" Halgoth grinned widely, showing two rows of nubbed and missing teeth. The other subchiefs scooted away from him, as if he were on the edge of a berserk. Out of the shadows stepped Althea. Sargos was surprised to hear his heart skip a beat, but this maiden had a most commanding presence. He disciplined himself by remembering the two wives he had lost in childbirth. After his last wife had gone to Wind, two years ago, he had promised himself there would be no more wives. He had grieved enough for two men, and had no desire to take that path again.
"It is against tradition to bring a woman to a War Council. You know that, Halgoth. Why have you brought Althea?"
"It's her fight, too, Sargos."
The long limbed maiden pushed her way past her massive uncle. "I made him, Warchief Sargos. Do I not have a right to vergelt—blood vengeance? It was my family who died at the hands of the Grassmen and my body they used. There are no kinsmen left in my Tribe to redeem my honor. I demand to be included in this party, as my Clan right."
Sargos shook his head. Technically, there was nothing in the Law that said a woman could not seek vergelt, but he could remember no other time when a Tymanni woman had claimed this right. The winter Clan Gathering was still a moon or more away, so he could not ask the Clan Elders.
He nodded to show that she was within her rights. Of course, by Law she was not a Tymanni, but he was not one who played the bagpipe of the Law until it squeaked his tune. He had met such men in the Trygath, but he had not enjoyed their company. Althea was of Tymanni blood and the Burgduns were Urgothi, too, a cousin clan to the Tymannes. It was also true that survivors of the Wolf Tribe were now joining his tribe. It would not show proper respect—even in their reduced state—to stop them from seeking vengeance, even at the hands of a woman. And, Althea was correct; there were no men left in her tribe to avenge her, or take vergelt upon the Grassmen invaders.
"This is not right—" Ikkos began, before Sargos cut him off.
"Be silent, pup! I am the Warchief and it is I who decides what is right in the eyes of the Law." Ikkos was of the new generation, only four winters older than Bargoth. Sargos knew full well the problems of depending upon untested youth, but the clan needed more war leaders and he and Halgoth already had passed fifty winters. Maybe this Time of Troubles would temper the best of the younger generation. It had to or this Time of Troubles would see the Tymannes go to Wind, like so many clans before them.
Ikkos stood stiffly with a sour expression, which Sargos ignored. Open defiance he would deal with swiftly, insolence—-just don't let it go on too long—
As though reading his mind, as was frequently the way among comrades who had fought many battles together, Halgoth put his huge hand on Ikkos shoulder, and played gently with the ball of his shoulder. Ikkos looked as if he'd just stuck his hand into a panther's mouth. Sargos had to resist the impulse to laugh.
"Althea, you may join the war party. I will loan you my knife."
The young maiden gave him a look that could have melted stone. "Thank you, Warchief Sargos, but I still have the knife that sent the Grassmen to the Undercaverns of the Dead. I will bring one of my Uncle's bows, as well."
Sargos knew that Halgoth was a master archer; he spent most of the winter teaching the younger warriors how to improve their shooting. He suspected that Althea might share her uncle's gods given gift; if so, she would be a welcome addition to the war band. The Tymannes would be heavily out-numbered in this attack and the Tribe would need any, and every, advantage it could get.
"When do we blood these Grassmen, Warchief?" One-Eyed Red asked. His flame-red hair came out of his cone helmet in two thick braids.
"Tomorrow night. We will avenge our clansmen and fill the Undercaverns of the Dead, with these Grassmen."
"At night!" One-Eyed Red, scrunched his remaining eye. "It's not honorable to attack foes at night time."
If there was one thing a lifetime of warfare had taught Ranjar Sargos, it was, there was no such thing as an honorable war. It was always the victors who pronounced what was honorable, after the war was over.
He addressed One-Eyed Red as though he were addressing a multitude, and in effect he was, since every word said here would be repeated many times this evening over the tribe's campfires. "Honorable war is only for those who would fight with honor. These Grassmen know no honor."
He heard a growl of fury escaping Althea's lips, as she expressed her agreement.
"These grasseaters, who are less than men, are despoilers of our clanswomen and the butchers of children. Would you accord them honor?"
One-Eyed Red drew back in alarm. "No, Warchief! Let us butcher them as we do the wolf packs that cross our lands."
An expression that Ranjar would hesitate to call a smile played upon Althea's lips. He would not want to be one of the Grassmen, if she and her knife were within an arm's reach. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for the enemy.
THREE
The chill night air cut through Grand-Captain Phidestros' Grefftscharrer buffjacket like a knife blade. He hadn't been back to Zygros City for four years and had forgotten how bitter cold these narrow streets became after sundown. He watched as half a dozen drunken fur trappers staggered out of a nearby tavern, the stench rising off them like steam. One trapper, with a mouth full of broken teeth, eyed him and his mount. Phidestros slowly slipped one of the big horse pistols out of its saddle holster and—by the light coming from the torches framing the tavern door—carefully checked the priming pan.
One of the trappers, with a tilted coonskin cap, saluted him with a flask and shouted, "To Galzar!"
"To the Wargod," Phidestros echoed. On this frozen night he could use all the help the Galzar could provide. Any sane man would have taken Captain Kyblannos' advice and brought a squad of troopers or, at least, Petty-Captain Geblon, his huge banner-bearer with him. In Hos-Zygros, the northern-most of the Five Kingdoms, a man by himself was not safe on streets of Zygros City after dark—winter, spring, summer or fall. Yet, this night's business was private, between only him and his past. So Geblon was waiting with Captain Kyblannos and the rest of the squad, with a tankard of winter wine back at the inn. And none too happily, at that.
A battle-scarred tomcat screamed and his mount whinnied. Phidestros kneed his horse sharply and pulled back on the reins. He had purchased Grayhawk from a horse trader in Harphax City several moons ago to replace Snowdrift, the faithful destrier he'd left behind—with about half his command at the Dralm-damned battlefield of Phyrax. The horse trader had sworn on his mother's life and Styphon's Wheel that the stallion was battle trained—raised on vinegar and fireseed.
Phidestros swore a promise to Galzar that if Grayhawk shied away from war cries, as he did from cat yowls, he'd fillet that horse trader, from scalp to sole, with his
hunting knife.
From farther down the twisted streets, Grand-Captain Phidestros heard the clamor of horse hooves on cobbled stones and rested his long-muzzled flintlock on the saddle pommel. The silver-chased horse pistol, taken from the corpse of one of the Hostigi Royal Pistoleers, had been the sum total of the Iron Band's spoils from the cursed Battle of Phyrax. Phidestros hoped that the more than ten score of soldiers he'd left behind fared better in Galzar's Great Hall.
When the horsemen emerged from the alleyway, he recognized them as members of the watch, rather than some baron's hired bullyboys. They wore cloaks of black wool, with red trim; the city colors. "And what be your business this eventide, your nobleship?" the watch's petty-captain asked, covering himself with the honorific because of Grayhawk's rich trappings.
"An overlong dalliance with a comely tavern wench, my good, sir," Phidestros answered.
"'Tis a frosty night and a good time for a warm fire and willing wench, me thinks." The other watchmen, wearing mismatched bison cloaks around their blackened back-and-breast armor, nodded their agreement. "But, be on your way. There lurks more serious game than sewer rats on these streets."
Phidestros nodded his agreement and urged Grayhawk into a faster pace. The house wasn't but a few doors down, just past the venires, which he knew from past visits—six in the past twelve years. The first had been when he was fourteen, apprenticed to a cabinet master, two moons after his mother's death of the flux. She had been a handsome woman, the daughter of a merchant, who had never married and ran a respectable boarding house. It was there Phidestros had gotten his first yen for soldiering from a retired petty-captain, who'd filled him with tall tales about past campaigns and battles—that is, whenever his mother was out of earshot.
His mother, a woman of unusually stern will, had determined Phidestros' course until her death had set him free. The other children had mocked him as a bastard until his face began to sprout and his limbs hardened like oak. Then he'd paid long-standing debts with broken teeth and blackened eyes.
His father, nor his absence, was ever mentioned. Not by his mother. The earliest inkling that his father was even alive came after his fourteenth winter, when he received an invitation to this same house, here on the Street of Furriers. He'd learned little then about his father, and not much since. Only that his father was a man of wealth and social prominence who was unable to acknowledge his bastard son, but did want to see that said son was provided for. Phidestros had asked more questions, of course, but they'd been met with silence and a purse of gold—even at fourteen winters he'd had the good sense to know when to keep his mouth shut. He had little curiosity left now that he knew the ways of the world and he, himself, had sired two of his own get—un-recognized, but modestly provided for.
In his youth, Phidestros had plotted with his friends to have his father's go-between followed and identified, but finally had concluded that a purse in hand was worth more than a kick in the hindparts. Besides, his life as a mercenary captain was not one to make most fathers puff with pride.
Phidestros saw the familiar portal, a wooden plank door with a boar's head emblem carved into the top brace, and dismounted. He was careful to tie Grayhawk's reins to the thick metal loop in the doorpost. Any thief fool enough to try and steal a war horse would deserve the not so gentle surprise he would receive from his destrier's steel-shod hooves.
He felt his pulse race as he anticipated tonight's purse. His pay chest had been depleted by the Daemon's War and what remained had been quickly emptied re-fitting his troopers, reimbursing their pay chits and mustering them out for the winter. He'd had little enough gold left to do anything more than see after his own lodging. To return the Iron Band to its former strength would take more than one purse of gold, but it was a start. Harphax City was filled to the bursting with returning soldiers and captain-less mercenaries.
The parchment telling him to meet with Count Sestembar had been welcome indeed, despite the half-moon long journey with a merchants' caravan through inhospitable weather. At least the squad had received a small purse of silver as payment, earning it twice over when highwaymen sprung an ambush. Phidestros still grinned at their dismay when they learned it was the Iron Band, not some gaggle of unemployed mercenaries, they were crossing swords with. The roads were no longer safe since the war, with too many soldiers without captains, and peasants without farms or hope.
He hoped there would be enough gold so he could re-outfit the Iron Band for next spring's campaigns. War with Hos-Hostigos was as certain now as the morning sun. With Hos-Harphax in the middle of a succession crisis and the army demoralized, there was little to keep Great King Kalvan from storming Harphax City itself.
While Styphon's Own Paymasters had indeed paid off the survivor's of Grand Master Soton's army, contrary to rumor, they had not been generous with their gold. With no battlefield loot or ransom, there was little left for any captain's pay chest. Many companies, even those with long serving captains, had been forced to disperse. If Phidestros could obtain a good purse, there would be no problem next year in raising a full muster. He was sure Styphon's pay chests would be overflowing gold this spring now that Kalvan had defeated the Holy Host and was calling himself a Great King. Having been within spear throwing distance of Kalvan, Phidestros was certain the man was no demon, just a good soldier and a great captain; a man, had circumstances been different, that Phidestros would be proud to serve under. If the truth were to be known, he had little love for the flinty-eyed priests of the fireseed god, Styphon. But their gold was pure and there was plenty of it.
His sword-hardened fist pounded on the door. Count Sestembar, little changed except for his baldpate, gestured for him to enter the furnished room, pointing out a high-backed chair for him to sit in. Phidestros could remember when that chair had loomed so much larger. The room had changed in some subtle fashion and his eye quickly added up the contents: the maple desk at which the Count was now sitting, a large cupboard and two chests. All stoutly made of quality walnut, he had worked similar wood as a boy. Everything was the same as always except for the wine-red curtain at the back corner of the room. Had his father finally decided Phidestros' reputation was too tarnished to bear, and planted an assassin to see he was removed from the family's list?
Phidestros casually splayed out his right leg and gently rested his hand on his sword's basket hilt. Should the pistol misfire, with Galzar's help, he would give no man time for a second shot.
Count Sestembar opened, "Even here in Zygros City we have heard of the battlefield exploits of Grand-Captain Phidestros."
Phidestros watched Sestembar's eyes to see if they matched his words. The Count appeared to be speaking sincerely. He swallowed and attempted to relax. "Thank you, my lord. I hope what you have heard has been pleasing to your ears."
"We have long waited for such success for our Grace's son, and it appears our patience has been rewarded. You have done no worse, and far better, than most in the Holy Host."
Phidestros slowly began to uncoil. "I was fortunate to have good soldiers in my employ."
"To survive three battles with the man called The Daemon by the Temple of Styphon takes more than good soldiers or even good fortune. It takes a good commander. One, who having fought the new King of Hos-Hostigos more than any commander yet alive, is now in position to have learned more about his military leadership and strategy than any man in the Five Kingdoms."
Phidestros relaxed a little more, feeling kindly disposed towards Sestembar for failing to mention that the three battles against Great King Kalvan had been losses not victories.
"Now," Count Sestembar announced, "I've got someone who wants to meet you and share your knowledge of the man who has appointed himself the first new Great King in over two hundred years."
The velvet curtains parted and out stepped a tall, long-boned aristocrat, who looked vaguely familiar. The gunmetal blue beard was well trimmed and shot with silver; the aquiline nose looked like the twin to his. Of course, you idiot!
It's the same nose you see every morning in your metal looking-piece when you trim your beard.
Count Sestembar bowed, saying, "Grand-Captain Phidestros, I would like you to meet your father, the Grand Duke Eudocles of the First House of Hos-Zygros."
Phidestros attempted to rise too quickly and almost tripped over his scabbard.
The Grand Duke motioned with his hand that he should remain seated. "Let me look at you, son. Sestembar, you've been telling me the truth; he does look to be my spitting image—when I was younger, of course. But broader in the shoulders and thicker in limb. Much as I might have been had I lived by the sword rather than by the throne."
"I… I… I'm pleased to meet you, Your Grace," Phidestros mumbled. His father was the Grand Duke of all Hos-Zygros, the only living brother to Great King Sopharar. Never in his wildest imaginings—even as a child—had he dared dream of a father sitting so high!
"I must apologize, my son, for the delay at our meeting. But, as you can guess, there are certain political realities that have precluded me from claiming you as my son, or even sharing my knowledge with you. There are men here in Zygros City and elsewhere that might well have profited greatly from that knowledge, or even have tried to harm me through you. The burdens of office and kinship weigh heavily upon our family."
"Of course, Your Grace, and I thank you for your kindness all these years," Phidestros answered, his wits and tongue finally untied. Yes, you old fox, you had plenty of reasons for not letting the world know your by-blow was waiting in the wings. Until the right moment, of course, when said bastard can repay some of his long-standing debt.
"Since the miraculous arrival a few years ago of the Dralm-sent, or Ormaz-spawned Kalvan—depending upon who you listen to—our kingdoms have seen more warfare than at any time in the previous fifty years. With both Styphon's House and the new League of Dralm clamoring for Zygrosi support, we must know more about this man who claims for himself the title of Great King of Hos-Hostigos. Is he a demon, a demi-god-or just a mere mortal? Is he a friend to our House, or an enemy? Will he attempt to raise himself up to be King of Great Kings, as some princes fear, or will he be content with his present crown and lands in Hos-Hostigos? These are just some of the questions that need answering, my son."