Kalvan Kingmaker

by John F. Carr

  Tynos started to laugh, then looked around furtively.

  "No, Tynos, you'll find no priests of Styphon's House or their agents in this hot-bed of heresy."

  "You may be right, my Lady, but Styphon's agents multiply faster than bedbugs in the cots upstairs. In Hos-Harphax a man learns to grow ears at the back of his head if he wishes to keep it on his shoulders. But enough of this unpleasantness, how can I be of further service to you Ladies?"

  "Let me remind you, Tynos, you were to search out sources of lead ingots for us."

  "Oh, yes."

  "We make many molds for our casting masters and have a great need for lead. Like yourself, we too are foreigners here, come to make money. We see little to be gained by involving ourselves in local matters in these uncertain times, unless—of course—there is a profit to be made."

  "By Tranth's Teeth, you speak truly. Since the selling of war materials to any Hostigi is under Ban of Styphon we will have to break up your ingots into three or four shipments—this of course will be more costly."

  "Of course."

  "Since you are a citizen of Grefftscharr, you are not directly subject to the Ban. But as you are residing and working in Old Hostigos, the agents of Styphon's House may see it otherwise, so there will be bribes to be paid and additional men-at-arms to be hired. Does this meet with your approval?

  "Yes, as long as you understand that this is lead we are talking about and not silver or gold."

  "Speaking of silver and gold, Lady Eldra, I must make it clear that our return will be even more dangerous than our coming and we will wish to travel light."

  "Plain speaking, you wish to be paid in gold."

  "Now you are speaking my tongue, Lady Eldra!"

  Eldra brought up her purse and dropped a dozen gold Hostigos Crowns onto the table. The trader's eyes shined as brightly as the golden coins.

  "Truly, by all the True Gods, you read my innermost thoughts. Yet," he added, pointing to the coins with the crossed halberds on the obverse and Ptosphes' image on the face, "with all your skills at casting might it not serve us both better if these coins were transformed into some image—well, less offensive—in the eyes of Styphon's priestly agents. Men of commerce love gold in all its myriad forms, but priests are different that way."

  "Yes, that is agreeable, Trader. Now as to price. In the past, we have paid one piece of silver and ten coppers for each ingot—"

  "Impossible, my Ladies. With all this fighting, lead is becoming as scarce as your most precious of metals. Why in Harphax City I saw a lead ingot sell for ten pieces of silver. To cart it all the way here over mountains and past Styphon's plague of agents, well, I think two golden Rakmars for each ingot is only fair."

  "Two Rakmars—highway robbery!" Eldra shouted. "At those prices we could use silver to cast our molds and save money. We two are not Sastra-gathi bumpkins who have never seen a city before, Trader. We are Ladies of birth and breeding from a city of such antiquity that your forefathers were herding cattle in the Cold Lands while ours were trading iron for gold with the Ros-Zarthani in the far west."

  "Forgive me, if I inadvertently insulted a Lady of breeding, but my wife and four children would never forgive me were I to be picked up by Roxthar's Investigators—mistakenly, of course—and burned in boiling pitch for trading in Hos-Hostigos. Were I, however, to end this life, leaving behind a substantial sum, I could acquit myself in Dralm's Hall with honor. What do you say to one gold Rakmar and twelve pieces of silver?"

  "If I were to return to the Royal Foundry after making a deal such as this, my own father would strip me of my robes and cast me out into the streets, and, by Tranth's eyes, my own mother would not find fault with him."

  The haggling continued on in this vein for almost ten minutes until Tynos and Eldra had agreed upon a price of twelve silver pieces per lead ingot. Sirna herself was reeling from too much drink and mental fatigue. Eldra and Tynos, on the other hand, were covered with sweat, but other than that, could have continued this match for another hour or two. She almost welcomed the sounding of horns and the clatter of horses' hooves outside on the cobble stone streets.

  The tavern emptied, other than those few too far into their cups to rise. Sirna, Eldra and Tynos quickly followed the crowd out the door.

  On Old Tigos Road, a squadron of Kalvan's Royal Lifeguard crowded its way down the narrow cobblestone street. It was identifiable as the Royal Bodyguard by Kalvan's Royal Standard, a maroon keystone on a dark green field, as well as the maroon sashes and helmet plumes.

  "Where are they going?" Eldra asked a soldier, with a brown beard and a lead-splashed burgonet helmet.

  "To Hostigos Town Square where Great King Kalvan is addressing the townspeople, my Lady. Would you like an escort?"

  Eldra gave the soldier such a dazzling smile in return he blushed down to his boot-tops. "Yes, we could use a proper escort. Tynos, will you come along, our business is not yet concluded."

  "Yes, my Lady." There was sweat beading on his forehead and she wondered if Tynos believed the stories spread by Styphon's agents that Kalvan was a demon in human form.

  After the squadron had passed, the soldier led the way using his halberd to force a comfortable passage.

  "As we discussed earlier, Tynos, we are planning to build a new Royal Foundry in Nostor Town where, despite the Great King's largess with food stuffs and victuals, there are still food shortages and some lingering starvation. We would like to contract with you to supply our party, some thirty persons in all, with proper fresh victuals from Dazour."

  "This should offer no great problems, my Lady. I have a friend who has established trade for victuals between several of the noble families of Nostor and himself. He should be able to satisfy all your wants and for a reasonable price."

  "Good. You can introduce us."

  "My pleasure, Your Ladyship." Tynos smile suggested he was contemplating a possible kickback.

  "We've almost reached the Square." Sirna said. "Look at all the people!"

  Hostigos Town Square was close to bursting with soldiers, towns' folk, visitors, and traders. Great King Kalvan himself was standing on the stairs of Prince Ptosphes' palace, addressing the assembled crowd. Kalvan, Sirna thought, had star presence; he held his audience in thrall. As they drew closer, Sirna began to make out his words.

  "The false-god Styphon's agents have stirred the tribesman with lust for Hostigi blood and treasure. But if the nomads think to grow fat and old in Hos-Hostigos, they had better learn to breathe fire rather than air. When the smoke clears, it'll be their bodies covering the ground."

  A great roar greeted these words and most of the assembled men looked as if they were ready to pick up arquebus and sword and march boldly with the King's Army into the Trygath right then and here.

  "Don't you just love that man," Eldra whispered into Sirna's ear.

  "For the moment," Sirna answered. "Just don't let Rylla catch you casting moon-struck eyes his way. I wouldn't put it past her to pluck them out with her own fingers! Or blame her, either!"

  "You're no fun."

  Kalvan continued with a speech that reminded Sirna of movies she had seen of outtime religious leaders as he damned the false god Styphon and praised the hosts of Father Dralm. Old Xentos would be in trouble if Kalvan ever decided to take up the religious game, she thought as she watched him work the crowd.

  The speech ended with chants of "Down Styphon!" and a chorus of "Death to the invaders!" When Kalvan walked down the stairs and mounted his horse, leaving with his bodyguard, the crowd quickly dispersed heading to the local taverns to quench thirsts and raise the rafters with hot air. It was obvious that this outtimer from Europo-America had made many new friends here and accurately felt the pulse of the land. This was going to be a tour of duty Sirna would remember all her life.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  I

  Ranjar Sargos heard the pounding of hooves coming from behind as he and his band of followers led the oath-brothers toward the divide. Af
ter a moon and a half of being chased and driven by the Black Knights, Sargos had decided it was time to turn the table on their attackers. It was one thing for a man only concerned with survival to flee like a woman, but another for a Warchief whose destiny was to lead clans and nations. Ranjar's horse, a big paint, was breathing so hard he could feel the lungs labor through his cloth saddle. "Soon," he whispered.

  Up ahead, his clansmen had built an abattis, in a deep valley, behind which was a wall of stones and tree trunks. If his party could lead the pursuers into the valley, the abattis would be released and the Black Knights and their oath-brothers would be buried alive.

  The trick was to get the oath-brothers and the Knights angry enough that they did not see the trap. Sargos had heard stories of the Knights and their oath-brothers, who were brought together and made as one in an initiation ceremony. It was a rude jest among the tribesmen that part of that ceremony was oath-brother and knight lying together as man and woman. Sargos did not believe that story, for it was very much what he wanted to hear and he'd learned to distrust easy answers. However, they did go through long years of training and fighting together so the bond between oath-brother and knight was often as strong as that of man and wife. He hoped this was true, because when the Knights saw their oath-brothers dishonored it would be an insult impossible for them to leave without vengeance.

  Sargos watched with his heart in his mouth, as his youngest son, turned in his saddle, drew his horn bow and released an arrow. The boy moved with the grace of a panther bringing down a buffalo. Sargos' eyes followed the arrow's flight, which ended in the throat of one of the bare-chested oath-brothers. The Ruthani warrior gasped, grabbed the shaft with both hands and pulled the arrow out, releasing a torrent of red blood. He toppled off his saddle and the oath-brother following behind in anger shot one of his pistols. Sargos' heart jumped, but the shot went wide and Larkander dug his heels into his mount, jumping ahead.

  Sargos was beginning to regret not only this mornings hastily arranged surprise, but bringing his only son along on what might well prove to be the last trail for father, son and tribe. They were almost to the ravine now, cut by the heavy spring rains. The Black Knights were visible and now came the most difficult part of the trap. He had to bring the oath-brothers, who were the Knights' scouts and advance war party, past the abattis, and let them lead the armored Knight into the death trap.

  At the peak of the valley were the rest of his clansmen, some seven hundred warriors; they would dispatch the Ruthani oath-brothers while the boulder and tree limbs took care of the Knights. Of course, it would all be for naught if they balked and did not enter the valley. He had to give them an offering they could not refuse—a score of his clansmen dressed in captured armor and wearing the King Kalvan's colors! The false soldiers of Hostigos were a sight he did not believe the Black Knights could resist. Every tribesman in the Sastragath had heard of Kalvan's great victories over the Black Knights and the soldiers of the false god, Styphon. As Sargos had hovered over the ravine, in his dream vision, he had watched as the tree trunks and giant stones had crushed the ironmen, like crayfish fresh from the pot and about to be devoured.

  To make the false soldiers of Hostigos even more convincing, Sargos had given them his own pistol and every firestick the Tymannes had collected in the past fifty winters. If this ruse failed and the clansmen lost their precious firesticks, he wouldn't have long to worry about asking the gods why they had misled him—his clansmen would see to that, if the Knights didn't dispatch him first!

  Except for a few suicidal changes, most of the tribesmen and clans had allowed themselves to be driven father and farther north by the armies of the Black Knights. Those who had resisted or fought to avenge their burnt homes had been ruthlessly destroyed. Unless the clans banded together and united, Sargos knew the heavier armor and fire tubes of the Knights would give them a great victory. Sargos knew it was his destiny to lead this great host, but first he would have to distinguish himself from the scores of competing headmen, chiefs, sachems and warchiefs. Last night he had prayed to the Raven Hag for their guidance this dream had been the result. The false soldiers of King Kalvan had been his own idea; it had better work.

  The valley was up ahead, around a copse of willow trees. Sargos' horse was starting to falter and he raised his voice in a war cry to embolden the stallion's heart. Suddenly he was in the valley, a huge gash torn from the earth by torrential rains. He was near the end of the war party, bait for the following oath-brothers. It was time to speed up before he got caught in his own trap.

  He heard the shouts from the oath-brothers as they saw the false troop of Kalvan's soldiers at the head of the valley. "Kill the Daemon!" they cried.

  Into the valley they thundered. His old friend and tribesman, Kagdar, who rode behind him, cried out as an oath-brothers tomahawk was thrown into his back. Sargos made a quick prayer and promised Kagdar's spirit he would come back and release it to Wind. He smacked his horses' haunches with his calloused palms. He could hear the false soldiers cry, "Down Styphon!" The oath-brothers behind him were riding like water over a cliff, if he weren't careful, they'd ride him into the ground in their haste to reach the Hostigi soldiers.

  He passed the abattis and jumped off his horse to land hard on the embankment. Hard hands grabbed him and raised him to his feet. The oath-brothers ran by, oblivious to anything, but the insult of the red and blue colors of Hostigos. From the distance, the blue axhead on the red field looked real even to Sargos. Then he heard the rumble of the Black Knights as their iron-shod chargers entered the valley in pursuit. Up ahead, the false Hostigi were firing into the massed oath-brothers. The Knights began to shout, "Kill the Daemon! Kill the Daemon!" There was an even louder roar when the rest of the Tymannes rose from behind the crest, as if they were supporting Kalvan's soldiers.

  The Black Knights rushed into the valley heedless of any dangers. Sargos raised his right arm, made a fist and pumped it twice. Swords cut the leather and twine ropes holding the abattis and all of a sudden there was a rumble that sounded like thunder. The Black Knights looked to their side in dismay. Moments later they were buried in an avalanche of tree trunks, boulders and dirt. The oath-brothers turned their horses, too late, and were set upon by the false Hostigi and the clansmen. With surprise and numbers on their side, the Tymannes made quick work of the oath-brothers, who were trapped by the sudden wall from behind and the clansmen's spears and swords from the front.

  Sargos led his party to the still quaking death mound, searching for any Knights who might have survived. He came upon a full-helmed Knight who was buried up to his waist and bleeding profusely from his visor. A quick sharp jab with his poniard through the visor slit stilled the thrashing arms and he took the Knight's pistol, still cached in his white sash, to replace the one he had given away. He could hear the screams of dying men and horses all around. Sargos lifted the pistol and fired into the sky—today's slaughter was another sign of favor from the gods.

  While the force he, Sargos, had destroyed today wasn't a Lance; there were enough dead Knights for three points—not counting oath-brothers, almost two hundred of the Black Brethren gone to Wind. The Tymannes would gain many pistols and much armor from this battle. For the rest of the day, his clansmen would be moving boulders and tree limbs until they had picked up every pistol, cask of fireseed, weapon and piece of useful armor this great victory had won them. Then they would cut the heads off of all the Knights and their oath-brothers, pluck out their eyes, cut off their noses and mount the heads on a forest of poles for the Order to find. For once, let the Black Knights choke back their tears!

  II

  Jorand Rarth felt weight return as the wheels of the air-car struck the landing stage and shut down the pseudo-grav. His driver opened the rear door and asked, "What should I do with the car, boss?"

  Jorand looked around as though expecting a blue Metro or green Para-cop police car to materialize on the landing stage. Yesterday afternoon he had been forced to flee
his own tower just minutes before a squad of Para-time Police raided the place. Now there was a warrant for his arrest and the cover he had so elaborately devised a century ago was gone.

  "The police should be able to ID it before long, so drop it off at a public tower and meet me at Constellation House in two hours. We can steal a new air-car out of the parking lot if we need one."

  The driver nodded and took off. Jorand stepped into the lifthead of Hadron Tharn's penthouse; he keyed in his password and pressed his thumb on the thumblock. The lift door rose behind him to cut off the view of Dhergabar City under a winter sky as bright and blue, and as coldly unsympathetic, as Paratime Police Chief Verkan Vall's eyes.

  One level down, the lift door dropped again, letting Jorand out into the maroon-carpeted entry hall of Hadron Tharn's private quarters. A robot rolled forward to take Jorand's coat. Behind it rolled another robot, holding a tray with hot spiked simmer root in a silver cup. Jorand took the cup triggering the robot's vocal circuits.

  "Citizen Hadron Tharn is waiting to see you in the lounge."

  Jorand mumbled an automatic thank you in return, which told more about his prole origins than he liked known. He had spent decades setting up his First Level Citizen identity and had lived it for close to a century. Maybe he'd gotten too fat and lazy. Jorand would need all his old skills and moxie to survive this fracas.

  A century ago he had been the head of an underground gambling syndicate in Novilan City. While all the First Level Citizens' children become Citizens, proles had to qualify by passing an intelligence and general psych test. Proles could be adopted and made Citizens, but even so they must pass the tests. The problem was that few Proles received a First Level education.

  Jorand had tried with tutors, but hadn't liked the hard work. Instead he had searched for a decade to find a compulsive gambler within the Bureau of Identification. It hadn't been easy because the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene made periodic sweeps of the Records Division of the Bureau of Identification to keep fraud to a minimum.