Kalvan Kingmaker

by John F. Carr

  "My Queen," Prince Phrames said, after bowing. Rylla was displeased to see the hard fatigue lines that clawed his long face. His clothes were still travel stained, and it appeared he had not even bothered to shake the dust from his cloak.

  From his appearance alone, Rylla knew that this trip had nothing to do with the Lady Eutare. "Phrames, what's wrong? Have the Harphaxi threatened Our borders?"

  The Prince shook his head no.

  "Let me get you something to drink. She picked up a flask of Ermut's Best and filled a silver goblet.

  Prince Phrames took a small sip of the brandy. "Thank you, My Queen."

  Rylla waited while he sat down in a high-back chair. Phrames looked as uncomfortable as he appeared exhausted. She decided to wait him out; he would speak in his own time.

  "How is Princess Demia?"

  "Very well, although she is trying to stand. Walking will be next. There will be no peace in Tarr-Hostigos once the Princess has learned to walk. She does miss her father."

  "Of that, I am certain. How does our Great King fare in his war against the nomads?"

  "His last letter is over a moon half old, but at that time Kalvan formed an alliance with Nestros to join forces against the nomad horde. The price of that alliance was high; Nestros requested as his boon his recognition as Great King of Rathon. Kalvan believes this is a good thing, as it will both bind himself to Our interests and make him an immediate enemy of Styphon's House. I do not know if they have yet fought the nomad horde."

  Prince Phrames nodded, as if distracted.

  Rylla rubbed her hands briskly. "Phrames, please get to the point. You did not ride for a day and a half to discuss the state of the Royal nursery!"

  "No, Your Majesty, as usual you are right. I came as soon as I learned by courier of your decision to start a war against Phaxos. I believe you are making a grave error."

  Rylla felt her blood begin to boil and took into consideration both Phrames' fatigue and their long-standing friendship before she answered. "I am not starting a war, but answering an insult made to the Throne of Hos-Hostigos by Prince Araxes, when that son-of-a-she-wolf reneged on his pledge to join the Great Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. And, then added insult to injury, by attacking the Royal Foundry wagon train in Nostor territory almost a moon half ago!"

  "Yes, that was truly a despicable act, by a man who knows no honor. However, your attack upon Araxes is not just an attack upon the Princedom of Phaxos, but an attack on the sovereign territory of Hos-Harphax." Phrames voice raised in volume, "This act of war against Phaxos could lead to a declaration of war by Prince Lysandros and open warfare between our two Kingdoms; an event that your husband went to great lengths to ensure would not happen."

  For the first time in their long association, Rylla felt the sting of Phrames' temper. She did not like it. What had happened to her old friends and 'uncles?' First, her father had become lost in grief after his terrible beating at Grand Master Soton's hands on the battlefield at Tenabra. Prince Ptosphes was almost a stranger to her now; she had to take care with her every word or watch as he suffered from the demons set loose by that battle. Next it was 'Uncle' Xentos who had renounced his homeland to gain influence and leadership with the Council of Dralm. Now, her oldest girlhood friend was lecturing her like her husband did when he disapproved of her actions.

  "Phrames, I am not the young girl you used to scold when she entered the tilt yard. I am Great Queen and it is my decision—in my husband's absence—to punish the transgression of Prince Araxes. And punish them I will, with or without your blessing."

  She could see Phrames forcibly restrain his tongue. "Queen Rylla, you are entering deeper waters than you know. And I mean no disrespect! However, if you continue with these plans to invade Phaxos you will be doing Styphon's work—"

  "How dare you! Prince Sarrask has given me his undivided support. I had certainly expected more, if not the same, from my oldest friend."

  "Please, stay calm. This is not an issue of friendship, but statesmanship."

  "Ahhh. It's because I am a woman—"

  "No. You misjudge me. This is an event that is beyond you and me, and even the Great Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. It affects all Six Kingdoms and the balance between overlord and subject. Hos-Hostigos is under great scrutiny for many reasons. Still, many nobles in Hos-Agrys, Hos-Zygros and even Hos-Harphax support our position; they do not want to become subject states—even by proxy—of Styphon's House. However, neither do they want to become pawns or chattel of Hos-Hostigos. They want things to continue on as they always have. In this, they are sorely mistaken; for, sooner or later, all will either have to choose between Styphon or Dralm and suffer the consequences. But it will not help our cause to make them decide now. Let Styphon's House grow more bold or desperate and the lords will form lines to become allies of Hos-Hostigos."

  "You sound like my husband! You are both too soft. All honorable rulers will understand why I punish Araxes. I want them to learn that when they offer alliance to our Kingdom it is not a decision that can be lightly turned away from, as circumstances dictate. We are not Styphon's House, to offer false idols and temple slave farms. They know this and if they do not join in Our cause they will suffer the error of their ways. Araxes has humiliated Us and he will pay for his folly!"

  "You might consider that there are few honorable rulers in the Great Kingdoms."

  "Then let them fear Us! Are you with me, or against me, Prince Phrames?"

  Phrames stepped aback. "With you, of course, My Queen. I was only offering you the benefits of knowledge I gained from my close association to the border princedoms of Hos-Harphax. I am in no position to dictate Royal policy."

  "Good. Now, tell me how many men you can spare from your border castles. Sarrask and I have already raised eight thousand men, but we can use more in case Phidestros takes exception to our campaign."

  Phrames face paled. "Since Beshta is far closer to Harphax City than Phaxos, it would be more useful to have the Beshtan Army waiting in reserve should any punitive force be led out of Tarr-Harphax."

  "There is wisdom in your words. After the false-prince Araxes has been punished, maybe we will meet you outside the walls of Harphax City,

  Prince Phrames." Rylla pretended not to notice the shudder than ran down Phrames body. Why are the men I care most about so afraid of getting their hands dirty? Rylla wondered. This time, however, she had the upper hand. Kalvan, old Chartiphon and her father were hundreds of miles away, and Xentos was no longer Chancellor of Hostigos. She would get her way, and when the dust settled they would see how she had done the right thing—regardless of cost.

  II

  Warntha Swarn placed his palm over the portal plate and the door to the warehouse slid open. Inside the room was a large silver-mesh dome about fifty feet in diameter, large enough to hold the two score of level runners and smugglers moving around the storeroom. Most of them were dressed in homespun wool, leather and buckskin garments appropriate to Kalvan's Time-Line.

  Warntha wore the full-length, hooded orange robe of a Styphon's House highpriest. He couldn't help but notice how even the smugglers quickly moved out of his path, as though the trappings of a Styphoni priest had a sinister aura. Upon reflection, the big man decided it wasn't much different than the usual way Citizens usually acted around him—just more pronounced.

  As a counter-military specialist, Warntha had spent over a century on the Industrial Sector, Fifth Level worlds, where he had infiltrated and helped to neutralize prole resistance groups. Warntha had liked this work and had been very good at it. Unfortunately, he had single-handedly killed the top two leaders of a Prole Independence Movement cell unaware that there had been another active agent in the cell. Command had judged him as 'over-zealous' and given him the choice of Psycho-Rehab or retirement at half-pay. He had taken the latter. Had Hadron Tharn not seen some value in his services, he would be living on Home Time-Line at about the economic level of the proles he had once spied upon.

  In the far
thest corner of the warehouse, all by himself, Warntha spotted Jorand Rarth, wearing a battered back-and-breast—that hid most of his potbelly—a large floppy black hat and buckskin trousers with fringe. He approached Jorand from his blind side to gain the maximum advantage of surprise. Warntha hoped this fool proved as useful as Hadron Tharn anticipated. If not, his existence would come to an abrupt and permanent end.

  "By Dralm's white beard!" Jorand cried upon seeing Warntha in his Styphoni robes. He quickly reverted to First Level language when he recognized Warntha as Hadron Tharn's bodyguard. "What are you doing here?"

  "Councilor Tharn decided I should accompany you on this mission as a Highpriest of Styphon's House. I'm responsible for overseeing the narco-hypnosis memory overlays for the trading team's cover. Then we will stay at Mythrene, the seaport where we're meeting Arch-Stratego Zarphu and his army, until the expedition leaves for the Sea of Grass."

  "I thought my cover had already been prepared."

  "It's getting more difficult to make unscheduled drops. There will be no stop at Balph, which is why I'm joining the party as an archpriest. The Paratime Police are paying more attention to the University's use of Transtemporal conveyers. The University doesn't like it, and neither do we. But, it's the way things are now."

  Jorand nodded wryly, as though he understood, but didn't like it much. Warntha suspected Jorand enjoyed his company about as much as he enjoyed spending time with the former Dhergabar crime boss.

  "I've got some additional instructions for you as well. Instead of guiding the Arch-Stratego to the Marias River, and going by keelboat to Dorg and disembarking there like a 'normal' trading mission; we're going to lead the Ros-Zarthani over the Old Iron Trail into Grefftscharr."

  "But why?" Jorand asked. "It'll not only add at least a full moon to the trip, but it might draw us into a fight with the Grefftscharrer. They're not going to look kindly at what they could easily perceive as a nomad invasion."

  Maybe Jorand wasn't so stupid after all. "That's what the Councilor wants. The Ros-Zarthani haven't fought against gunpowder weapons before. It's important they have the opportunity to test their mettle before fighting Kalvan. If they break, then we abort the mission—"

  The fat man turned pale. "Yeah, but where does that leave me? In Greffa as a prisoner of war or a galley slave on the Great Seas?"

  "Then I guess it's important to see they don't break, Jorand—since it is our necks that are on the block." Warntha wasn't the least bit worried, either he'd get killed—in which case all his problems were over, or he'd find a 'job'—probably as a bodyguard, since they were always in fashion—in Greffa. "If the Ros-Zarthani prove their worth, maybe King Kalvan will have a big surprise next year."

  "I guess it wouldn't help Chief Verkan's position in Greffa either, if his patron, King Theovacar, loses a major battle to a bunch of barbarian spear chuckers. Nor would he be in a position, the following year, to help Kalvan with men and supplies."

  "Very good. You're beginning to pick up the lay of the land. Just look at these kings as syndicate bosses and you'll get along just fine."

  "When can I come home?"

  "After we get the army safely into Dorg City, or when it has ceased being an effective fighting force; then our job is over. We'll make our way to Balph where Highpriest Prysos will take us to the Balph conveyer-head and back home again. That should give our friends all the time they need to establish a new cover and you'll be able to go back to leading a civilized life on First Level."

  Jorand appeared so pleased by this news that Warntha had to choke back a laugh. If Jorand really believed that anyone on Home Time-Line would go to that much expense and trouble for a drone like himself, then he deserved his fate. The fat, smarmy prole. Warntha stroked the hilt of the dirk hidden in his gold and leather girdle and repeated to himself, Your time will come, my fat little friend. Yes, it will come—I promise that.

  III

  "How many men does Kalvan now lead?" Grand Master Soton asked. He knew his voice was as high-pitched as the squeak of a newly hatched quail chick. He did not care. The number he thought he had heard could not be what Knight Commander Aristocles had actually said.

  "More than a hundred thousand men," Aristocles replied. He sounded like a messenger bringing news so bad that he hardly cared if he was punished for bringing it.

  Any gods worthy of the name know that the news is that bad. There is no fault in Aristocles for being unmanned by it. Forgive me old friend.

  "A hundred thousand," Soton repeated meditatively. "Is that the grand sum, or only those bound by oath to one of the three supreme leaders?"

  "The second, Grand Master. The number of those who will march against us without being oath-bound is not small. It may exceed thirty-five thousand."

  "That is very nearly all the rest of the great horde," Soton said. "Also, if the subjects of"—he could not shape his tongue to Nestros' presumptuous new title—"the Pretender Nestros need not fear the nomads, all their garrisons will march south, so add another fifteen thousand men. Everyone will wish to be in at the death of the Zarthani Knights."

  "In that, they shall be disappointed, Grand Master. The audience may gather, but the players in the pageant are going to slip out the backdoor."

  "Leaving all their tavern bills unpaid, of course," Soton added. "Are you thinking as I am?"

  "What else makes any sense? At best, we face odds of perhaps five to one, two of those five are civilized soldiers under captains not to be despised, with more guns than have been seen west of the Pyromannes since fireseed was sent by Styphon! Half our strength are light troops, or half-trained or both."

  This bald statement of the truth made it neither less nor more endurable. In the end, that did not matter, if one was the Grand Master and sworn to bear any burden in the name of the Order.

  Soton mentally ran over his mental army table of organization: fifteen Lances, comprised of nine thousand Order Brethren and two thousand auxiliaries; seven thousand levy, mostly Sastragathi mounted archers and lancers; and three to four thousand unreliable nomad light cavalry—who in a pinch might change sides or run off the battlefield.

  To stand and fight the great horde would be suicide. Yet, it still seemed to Soton that his own death by Kalvan's hand would be easier to face than the orders he knew he would have to give before this campaign was done. Nor could he hope to find peace by seeking that or any other death.

  To do that would be to cast the Order into the hands of Roxthar, who in the name of Styphon would surely finish the work Kalvan had begun.

  "We must be across the Lydistros within five days. Organize messengers and escorts, to ride with word to Tarr-Ceros. The bridge of boats is to be ready within a moon quarter, or I will decorate the battlements of Tarr-Ceros with the heads of those who have delayed it."

  "At once, Grand Master," Aristocles said. No one hearing him could have imagined this was one friend carrying out the wishes of another. He called for his oath-brother, "Ho, Heron! Summon Knight Commander Cyblon to the Grand Master's tent, at once."

  When he had heard the order repeated by his messenger, Aristocles turned back to Soton, hand on his sword hilt. Soton wondered if the tales of wizardry in Aristocles' sword had any truth to them. Certainly the sword was the better part of two centuries old. By grasping it in times of trouble Aristocles seemed to soothe himself and sharpen his wits. Also, he had never suffered a sword wound on the battlefield. A half-score of other weapons had left scars, but never a sword…

  "Grand Master, what about sending some of our boats up the Lydistros to strike at Kalvan's barges?"

  "With the river running as it must, after this rain? They would never be able to reach Kalvan's fleet and return in time."

  Aristocles wished shameful and wasting diseases upon those who had sent the rains, finishing with some choice comments on the uselessness of Styphon's Archpriests and priests in general.

  Soton shook his head. "Again, old friend, guard your tongue, for even I cannot save you
from Archpriest Roxthar."

  "Roxthar—" Aristocles began, in the same tone he would have used to speak of a pile of dung on his tent floor. Then he took a deep breath. "Roxthar serves Styphon with holy zeal. Doubtless he has done all that mortal man could do even with Styphon's favor.

  "Yet I could still wish the rains had not come."

  "The gods give with one hand, and take away with the other," Soton replied, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject from priestly politics to other less dangerous topics—such as war. "The wet ground and flooding will slow pursuit.

  "Also, we know the Lydistros. Kalvan does not. It will take much luck and more boats than he is likely to have to even cross the river. While he is trying to cross, we can attack his fleet."

  "If we are lucky," Soton replied. "Warlord Ranjar Sargos has more knowledge than we would like."

  Conversation died for a moment while the messengers rode up to receive their orders. Soton's servants took the opportunity to light the lamps in the tent, sweep the latest coat of dried mud from the floor and ask the Grand Master what he wished for dinner.

  "Kalvan's heart," Soton said sharply. "If you cannot produce that, whatever is ready at hand."

  The servants departed; Aristocles poured the last wine from a jug into the two least dirty cups in the tent.

  "Another message, I think," Soton said, after the first swallow. "To the Commander of Tarr-Ceros, to prepare it in all respects for a siege."

  "Holding our whole host?"

  "Hardly. We will send within the walls as many Knights as Knight Commander Demelles thinks he can feed for a moon or two. The rest will fall back on Tarr-Lydra and Tarr-Tyros.