Kalvan Kingmaker

by John F. Carr

  "This is no demonic visitation, unless you count the devil priests of the Mexicotal—who dress in human skin—as demons, which surely those who live in Xiphlon do," Soton said. To advance their siege at Xiphlon, the Mexicotal had pushed the fierce desert Ruthani tribes into the Sea of Grass, thereby shoving the Urgothi, Zarthani, and Ruthani tribesmen living there both north and east. Those tribes, in turn, had put pressure on the clans living near Xiphlon, Wulfula and Dorg, forcing many of them to cross the Great River and move into the Lower Sastragath. Now all the Sastragath was a boil, with only the Knights between them and the Lower Kingdoms.

  "Look, the Urgothi warriors draw closer!"

  The warband was now completely out of the forest and almost halfway across the valley floor. About a third of the tribesmen were on horseback, armed with lance and sword, while the rest were on foot with their great swords and buffalo-hide shields. The deep-toned Zarthani war horns sounded and the two end Lances began to move out, a movement that would only be complete when they had encircled the warband. The five hundred mounted auxiliaries, mostly armed with bow or arquebus, on each side would form the glue between the Lances as they pressed the encirclement home.

  In answer to the bellow of the Zarthani war horns, a loud roar went up from the Urgothi, who were screaming and beating their swords and spears against their shield hides. As individual warriors, thought Soton, the Urgothi were without peer: brave to a fault, fearless with the intoxication with their own battle prowess and anger, strong as bulls and able to fight without pause for hours. Fortunately, for the Knights—who were outnumbered in this battle at more than two to one—when the Urgothi fought as a unit, it was as a mindless rabble, each warrior fighting for his own glory and fame.

  This, century after century, had always been their undoing.

  The Urgothi were a handsome people, big, blond, and fair skinned, much like the Zarthani race, except taller and more bellicose. Their defeat here would be sorrowful, at least to Soton, who had grown up in a border village with its menials and field slaves. He had seen all the guises of slavery, and the Urgothi men, being too spirited and warlike for peaceful labor, would be sold as galley slaves or used as Styphon's House temple-farm slaves. The women would be sold, the fair ones as concubines, their uglier sisters as household servants or drabs to fill soldiers' brothels. A sad end for an honorable and warlike people.

  There was another bellow of the Zarthani war horns and the Fourteenth and Seventeenth Lances began to move forward, linked behind to the Thirteenth, Eighteenth and Ninth. The warband was still in one great mass and it looked to Soton like the encirclement might well succeed. A coup for Lestros if it was successful and almost certain promotion to Knight Commander.

  The Urgothi army was now within spear-throwing distance of the Knights now crescent-shaped line. There was a loud roar and the sky darkened with flying spears and arrows. A score or two of horses went down, toppling Knights out of their saddles, but most held the line protected by both the distance and their armor. As a rule the Knights were very heavily armored, with the leading hundred Brethren Knights of each Lance in full armor, the following two hundred Confrere Knights in three-quarter lobster-armor, and the next two hundred Sergeants in back-and-breast. Only the oath-brothers, the blood-sworn brother of each Knight, were lightly armored, with cotton-padded gambesons and chain mail shirts.

  Soton heard the first screams from the wounded horses and felt his stomach wrench. Even after thirty years of warfare and two score battles, it was the cries from the wounded horses that bothered him most.

  Blast and curse the Mexicotal priests who released these heathens upon his lands and domain like a plague of locusts. Let the Archpriests claim it was demons' work, a curse brought upon the land when the Daemon Kalvan gave the fireseed secret to all without Styphon's Blessing. Soton knew that for the poppycock it was; he didn't believe in demons of any sort, or gods, for that matter. Styphon himself was a fraud engineered by priests greedy for their own profit and comfort.

  It was not Soton's belief in any god that bound him to Styphon's House, but the undeniable fact that the Temple had raised him from a simple peasant boy to the most important military leader in the Five Kingdoms. The Temple was his family, and, because of this, they owned his loyalty and his life. He knew that in great part it was his innate ability that had lifted him so high; yet he could never forget that Styphon's House was the instrument of his elevation.

  The Urgothi nomads were now close enough to the Knights' line they were drawing stray pistol fire. Soton mentally cursed those fools who fired precious rounds before the enemy was within pistol range. Some of the shots were coming from the Urgothi ranks as well, since the ban on fireseed sales to the tribesmen was as much violated as honored—often by the Temple's own priests. Twice he had had to go to Balph in person to have the Inner Circle reprimand highpriests who were selling fireseed to the tribesmen. It was bad enough the Temple had sold fireseed in secret to the Mexicotal for many years, a secret—that if it got out—could do more harm than all of Kalvan's armies. The Inner Circle had finally stopped all fireseed sales to the Mexicotal, after the invasion of Xiphlon—even the most corrupt upperpriests realized that if Xiphlon fell, the Mexicotal would next move into the Sastragath and from there into the Five Kingdoms.

  The front ranks of the Fourteenth and Seventeenth Lances were almost to the rear of the Urgothi warband, when Soton saw the first of several dozen war chariots leaving the forest. "By Ormaz's beard!" he cursed, slamming his fist against the saddle pommel.

  "Aristocles, tell Lestros the nomads have forty to fifty war chariots coming his way. Order him to hold the line with the Eighteenth reserve—no matter what the Urgothi throw at him!"

  Aristocles nodded and quickly rode down the grassy embankment. The young Sergeant, who had brought the news of the invasion, was chomping at the bit as he waited beside Soton and his bodyguards. It would temper his mettle. Soton was not displeased by the younger man's desire to cross swords with the enemy. Sarmoth would see action soon enough. He had sent Knight Commander Aristocles, instead of the Sergeant, because he knew Lestros would have to listen to a superior officer, and thus not hare off in some wild glory charge.

  Soton had fought against chariots a few times in his career and that had been across the Great River, where the ground was more level and less forested. He could only guess at the price the Urgothi had paid ferrying those big war chariots across the river and the swamplands that bordered it.

  The Urgothi line was now so close to the Knights, that from where Soton sat, the two lines appeared to merge. Then the first salvo rang out. A ripple of falling men and horses suddenly ran along the front of the Urgothi warband like a wave. There were two more big salvos of pistol and musketoon shots before the two lines merged. With all the pre-loaded guns fired, it was now hand-to-hand combat; sabers against flesh and rawhide, spears against armor. In a static fight the Urgothi were doomed unless they could disorder the ranks of the armored horsemen holding firm against their front.

  Soton watched with mounting apprehension as the warband parted in the center to let the war chariots reach the front ranks. The Fourteenth and Seventeenth Lances had completed their encirclement of the warband, but that would mean little if the chariots punched a hole in the front ranks of the Thirteenth, Eighteenth and Ninth Lances.

  With King Commander Aristocles at the front with Commander Lestros, that left him in command of the Fifteenth Lance.

  "Dress ranks," he shouted. There was a creaking of leather and steel as the Fifteenth assembled into battle formation. "Move out!"

  "Sound the charge!" he ordered, moments later the great warhorns sounded. As the Fifteenth Lance, trotted down the ridge, Soton could see that the chariots were much larger than he had thought. Big four-horse drawn war chariots, with leather armor and steel bosses, each one holding four to five warriors and a driver. The first line of chariots hit the Knights' center at an angle in a tangle of flying chariots, horses and men. The Thi
rteenth held, but it was wavering. Lestros's Eighteenth, the reserve, was rushing to fill the gaps. The Ninth Lance, not having taken the full brunt of the charge was holding firm.

  Soton's Lance had now reached the bottom third of the ridge. "Charge!" he cried, as the second line of chariots broke through the Eighteenth's thin line of reserves, stretched to its limits to cover both the Thirteen and Sixteenth's rear. Soton was racing down the bottom of the incline at the head of the Fifteenth; a foolhardy place for a commander, he knew, but where his Knights needed him. Only his presence and the reinforcements behind him would stop the Thirteenth and Eighteenth Lances from routing, as well as give them the heart to reform ranks and charge again into the mad scythe of barbarian spears and swords.

  In less than a few heartbeats Soton had reached the furthermost chariot and he emptied both of his horse pistols into the face of a red-mustached chieftain, with blue tattoos all over his face. Then he was using his warhammer to ward off a long thrusting spear, when a Brethren lace-tip caught the barbarian under the armpit.

  The young Sergeant had his hands full with a nomad chieftain, with a golden tore encircling his neck.

  While the shock of impact was great upon a stationary line, the chariots did not fare so well against charging Knights armed with lances and pistols. But, unfortunately, when the last chariot was halted and its crew butchered, the chariots had done their job. The break in the Order's line was now a flood as thousands of barbarians escaped the encircling ranks. By the time Soton was able to re-form the tattered Thirteenth and Eighteenth Lances over half of the warband had already escaped. Soon the majority of the encircled Urgothi, realizing they were trapped, threw down their weapons and shields in surrender. The rest were spitted like ducks in a net and provided about as much sport.

  It was a victory of sorts, but not the total victory he preferred. To Soton the fun of war was the strategic pitting of his men and will against that of his opponents. The slaughter and butchery afterwards was the business side he didn't like, although, he realized its necessity. Kindness and mercy were always viewed by the barbarian mind as a sign of weakness and resulted in more warfare. Only strength and ruthless power were understood and properly feared. Soton had spent a lifetime teaching both respect and fear to the various tribes and clans of the Lower and Upper Sastragath and, until now, there had been more peace under his reign in the Sastragath than there had been in the previous century.

  Now it appeared he was going to have to tame them all over again, if the war with Kalvan allowed him time and the men to do the job. Why couldn't the gods have released this plague of barbarians on Kalvan and Hos-Hostigos? Why not? Why not indeed!

  Soton sat on his horse as if he were a statue, his mind awhirl, until Knight Commander Aristocles rode up and broke the spell. "Grand Master, are you all right?"

  Soton shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Yes, I'm fine."

  He saw fresh blood all over the Knight Commanders' black tunic, and asked. "What about yourself?"

  Aristocles looked down in surprise. "Not mine! Only a few bruises and minor cuts, nothing serious. From the way you sat, Grand Master, I thought you'd taken a blow to the head."

  "More of a bolt, than a blow, Aristocles. I think I may have found a way to stop this slaughter and maybe stop Kalvan as well."

  "You would win Galzar's Blessing, were you to accomplish such a wondrous thing. Also, my Lord, another messenger from Balph is here to see you.

  "Bring him here," Soton said, with exasperation. Where else can a man find peace, if not in the middle of a battlefield, from meddling priests'?

  The messenger was dressed in a travel-stained gray tunic trimmed in orange, indicating he was an Archpriest. It must be a powerful message indeed, thought Soton, to bring an Archpriest this far from his lair. Since Roxthar's ascension, the Temple seemed to be breeding a tougher line of priests. It was too bad that Roxthar was crazier than a sun-struck Sastragathi rattlesnake priest with a viper in each hand.

  "Master Soton, I am Archpriest Prysos. I have a message for you from the First Speaker, Archpriest Anaxthenes."

  "It is Grand Master Soton, you are speaking with priest," he said, marking each syllable with a swing of his gory warhammer.

  The Archpriests face paled, draining the hauteur and arrogance, as each swing of the warhammer ended only a finger-joint away from his hooded face.

  "Yes, Grand Master, I… I… I have good news. Good news for all of Styphon's House. The traitor Kaiphranos of Hos-Harphax has died in his bed."

  "Great King Kaiphranos dead!" Soton said, feeling as if one of the pillars of the earth had fallen. Kaiphranos had been King of Hos-Haraphax since he'd been a child, longer than Supreme Priest Sesklos had been Styphon's Voice.

  His warhammer was stilled and the Archpriests' color was returning. "The First Speaker wants you to return to Balph at once for a private audience."

  Soton's warhammer rose.

  "At your convenience, of course, Grand Master Soton. But it is most urgent. With the traitor Kaiphranos gone to Hadron's realm, Styphon's work can go on unhampered and with the help of his servant Lysandros."

  "Kaiphranos was a doddering old fool, but never a traitor. His eldest son died fighting for Styphon! Remember that, priest."

  The Archpriests eyes were riveted to Soton's warhammer. "Yes, Grand Master."

  A year ago Great King Kaiphranos had been Styphon's friend and ally, until he lost his beloved son in the war against Kalvan and went into seclusion in his bedchamber. Now he was a traitor and fool. Soton wondered how his own epitaph would read. The Inner Circle of Styphon's House had all but branded him a traitor, for having the bad fortune to lose the Battle of Phyrax against Kalvan. Since that experience, he had much more sympathy—even be they fools—for the Kaiphranoses of this world.

  "Yes, as soon as this business is done," Soton stopped, to direct his hand at the slaughter of the encircled and bottled Urgothi in Yargos' Pasture.

  "A great victory for Styphon!" cried Archpriest Prysos.

  If he was Anaxthenes tool, Soton was certain this was no true believer he was dealing with. "I have business of my own to discuss with Archpriest Anaxthenes. The timing is good." Yes, he would need additional men and gold if his plan to drive the barbarians up the Sastragath and into Hostigos, and Kalvan's lands, were to work. By the Mace of Galzar, this would be one job he would thoroughly enjoy. Let Kalvan dull his swords on the barbarian's thick hides, while Soton and the Knights sharpened theirs for the battles to come.

  II

  "It's beginning to appear, Vail," Paratime Commissioner Tortha Karf said, "that you're more interested in playing Colonel Verkan of the Hos-Hostigos Mounted Rifles than you are in being Chief of the Paratime Police."

  "That's hitting below the belt, Tortha," Verkan said, running his fingers through his blonde beard. "I know I haven't been back on Home Time-Line for more than two ten-days, but it's imperative that I establish my cover in Greffa as Verkan the trader. If I don't, one of these days some Grefftscharrer merchant is going to arrive in Hostigos Town and someone's going to ask him about the merchant prince Verkan, and he's going to answer, 'Verkan who?' Then, not only will two years of hard work be plunged down the drain, but also the Paratime Secret itself will be endangered, along with Great King Kalvan and his family. You know how those Dhergabar University Professors would like to get their hands on a 'noble savage' like Kalvan and pick him apart in one of their Mentalist labs."

  Tortha nodded his head in agreement.

  The Paratime Secret was the keystone of First Level civilization. The only inflexible law concerning outtime activities was that the secret of Paratemporal Transposition must be kept inviolate. Life had been grim on Home Time Line twelve thousand years ago, when his ancestors had just about worn the planet out. Then the Ghaldron-Hesthor Transtemporal Field was discovered and First Level civilization was allowed access to an uncountable number of parallel time-lines. Before Paratime Transposition, First Level had a world population of hal
f a billion and it was all they could do to sustain that small number. Now the population had stabilized at ten billion and most Home Time-Line Citizens lived a life of ease and luxury, with both mechanical and outtime human servants to answer every need and desire.

  It was the ultimate parasite culture, secretly drawing off the resources and population of millions of other time-lines. A little here, a little there, but not enough to really hurt anyone. But unfortunately, maybe even tragically, that secret would be discovered on another time-line someday, just as Kalvan had brought an end to Styphon's House fireseed secret and monopoly by re-inventing gunpowder and then telling everyone about it—even his enemies! Which made him many friends and the nemesis of Styphon's House. When the Paratemporal Transposition secret—a thousand times more complex than the fireseed mystery—was broken; well, it wasn't an exaggeration to say that the fate and welfare of ten billion Home Timeliners would depend upon the reflexes and ruthlessness of the Paratime Police.

  "Verkan, it appears to me you've got a bad case of Outtime Identification Syndrome. As you yourself know, it happens to the best of Paratimers. First Level civilization depends on being able to secretly draw upon the resources of millions of alternate time-lines and we can't afford to let any one man—not even the Paratime Chief of Police!—put our way of life in jeopardy. One of these days you're going to have to make a choice between loyalty to a friend and your natural loyalty to the Home Time-Line.

  "If it ever comes to the point where King Kalvan or his people comes between you and your job as Paratime Chief of Police, then I'll be the first to recommend the Paratime Commission that you be cashiered from your job."Tortha removed a cigarette from its pack and had to will his fingers to keep them from trembling as he lit up.

  "Tortha, you know me better than that. You're the one who talked me into taking over as your replacement! My duty to the force comes first, before everything. Yes, I admire Kalvan; he's taken the tiny Princedom of Hostigos and turned it into a first class outfit. Without any real help from me, I might add. And, as much as I admire and like Kalvan, Rylla, Ptosphes, Harmakros, and the rest; I have no desire to go native and throw away three hundred years of longevity just to live a simpler, more honest way of life."