Kalvan Kingmaker

by John F. Carr

  "That means they will be up with us in their full strength before we reach Tryphlon, which is a day's hard ride from Tarr-Ceros."

  Aristocles nodded. "Unless they can be delayed."

  "By whom?"

  The two men looked at each other. They both knew the answer. The rearmost four Lances would have to stand, fight, and most probably die to the last man, like the three Lances had at Chothros Heights. "Who is senior Commander among the rearward?"

  "Drakmos, of the Sixteenth Lance," Aristocles answered.

  "May Kalvan's brother demons flay him alive!" Aristocles looked startled. Soton knew that some of the agony he felt must have shown in his voice. "No, it is just that I am growing weary of sending friends and faithful Knights to their death just to buy time."

  "We could send another—"

  "That would take time, which we do not have. His learning the land where he must stand would take more time. Besides, Lance Commander Drakmos would never abandon the Sixteenth."

  You are doomed, old friend. All I can do is let you die with honor, as you have lived.

  Soton looked at Aristocles, his best friend. The Knight Commander was a trusty right arm, a fine captain and more often than not a wise counselor. Yet he had not been among the company of youths to whose ranks had come one day a peasant boy, small of stature but with an ambition to be a Knight burning bright enough for six giants.

  Some of the boys had bullied Soton in the practice bouts, with wooden weapons or unarmed. Others had held back, out of pity for so small an opponent with such a large and clearly foredoomed ambition. Only Drakmos had done neither, giving Soton his best and taking Soton's best in return. Since Drakmos had been the best fighter among the youths, Soton learned more from the bouts with him than from all the others put together. It would not be too much to say that Soton's own prowess on the battlefield, which had saved his life a dozen times over, was in large measure Drakmos' gift.

  And now Soton was repaying the gift of a noble life with one of death. An honorable death, to be sure, but there was something to be said for an honorable life.

  "Summon a messenger," Soton growled, to hide his urge to scream curses at Kalvan, the gods and anyone else who had brought this about. "Drakmos is to attack Kalvan's main body and keep on attacking until he has drawn that main body on to himself. We need not fear barbarians or light-cavalry scouts sent on ahead."

  It hardly needed saying that the barbarians and scouts in advance of Kalvan's great host would cut off what little chance of retreat Drakmos and his Lances had. To balance the odds, Soton added, "We will leave a thousand of our Auxiliary light horse and all our Sastragathi irregulars."

  The Sastragathi would probably all desert before Kalvan was within a day's ride, but the Auxiliaries would keep Drakmos from being stung to death by the light nomad cavalry. It was the least he could do.

  "More orders," Soton snapped. "All the baggage, everything except a man's weapons and what he wears on his back is to be left for Drakmos."

  Aristocles asked, "Everything?"

  Soton shrugged. "Drakmos will need what supplies we have left. For the rest of us, it is as true as when I said it before and left most of our supplies. The gold of Balph can buy new armor, new tents, new fireseed, before the snow falls. If we lose the seasoned Knights, not all the gold of Balph will be able to rebuild the Order before Kalvan has crushed and cast down Styphon's House on Earth. If we do not think to the future, there will be none."

  But there will be a large debt to pay, Kalvan Servant of Demons. A very large debt indeed.

  THIRTY NINE

  I

  For once the incessant rains had halted and it was a beautiful summer day. As far as King Kalvan could tell, the host was still in Ohio. Kentucky and the famed Zarthani Knight's castle, Tarr-Ceros, were within a three or four days ride. His men had been on the move for over two and a half months, their rust splotched armor was testament to the hard trail and constant fighting. Without his own personal batman, Kalvan wouldn't have his armor polished and sparkling in the sunlight. Jaklon was a former bootmaker and member of the Hostigi militia who had refused to retire after taking a bad wound in the chest at the Battle of Chothros Heights. Still, marching attendance upon the Great King wasn't the safest job in the Royal Army, Kalvan's last orderly had taken a sword blow to the head that had left him with a crooked jaw and a slash from the corner of his mouth to his throat. Kalvan had stopped counting the number of bannerbearers who'd fallen in action two battles ago.

  Great King Nestros was riding along his right side, asking about how Kalvan had arrived in Hostigos. Kalvan had kept him off the subject, with a series of anecdotes about the mercenary who kept showing up in the oddest places and was now Captain-General of Hos-Harphax. Nestros was a good and staunch ally, but as a conversationalist, he was a complete bore.

  Up ahead of the pathway, through some trees, Kalvan heard shouting. It didn't sound like an attack, or there would have been a rising cloud of black and gray smoke and the crack of gunpowder. Captain-General Harmakros rode from the front of the main body toward the two kings, his red and blue plumes bouncing at the top of his high-combed morion helmet. "What's going on?" Kalvan asked as he drew within earshot.

  "Maybe an ambush. There were some shots up ahead, about half a mile up the road."

  The lightly armored nomads made up most of the van and Kalvan, not for the first time, wished he didn't have to play courtier to his fellow Great King and could join Warlord Sargos at the front—if Harmakros allowed! Prince Ptosphes, who had been riding behind and talking to Duke Nestros and Chartiphon, asked, "What's all the commotion?"

  Half a dozen nomads with brightly colored war paint came galloping through the trees. Kalvan recognized one of them as Sargos' son, Larkander. As the pair drew closer, he realized it was his page, wearing the same style buckskins as Larkander, riding beside him. The only thing stopping Aspasthar from looking like a true Sastragathi was the missing war paint—give him another few days! Both boys were wearing cast-off Order helms—of the medieval sort—with the visors up and the black plumes plucked. If these two hellions didn't know what the hubbub was, it was certain no one else did, either.

  "King Kalvan!" Aspasthar shouted, his voice breaking. "We bring greetings and news from Warlord Sargos. He has made contact with either the rearguard of the Zarthani Knights, or the van of their army. He thinks they're planning a counter-attack!"

  "What's all this about an ambush?" Kalvan asked.

  "The Black Knights attacked our van, Great King," Larkander replied, proving that both boys were learning new concepts as well as means of dress. "The first clansmen were halfway through the pass when the hills sprouted Knights and oath-brothers alike!"

  "How bad were the losses?"

  The young nomad grimaced. "Several hundred clansmen went to Wind."

  "Then the Knights must have left a sizeable force behind," Kalvan said. He signaled for King Rathon, Ptosphes, Chartiphon, Mnestros and the rest of the royal party to follow behind. To the boys, Kalvan said, "Lead the way to the ambush site."

  When they reached the head of the column, Warlord Sargos was there with his subchiefs. He motioned Kalvan over. "See those hills?"

  Kalvan nodded. Ahead was a series of big hills—not quite mountains—covered at the bottom with trees and grass. Up higher there was a series of rock faces, almost quarry-like, with tunnel mouths and switchback trails. "What is this?"

  "King Kalvan, this is Pythar." Sargos pointed to a tall, stringy Sastragathi with almost white blonde hair, a tanned leather face, a beaked nose and a feather headdress, illustrating the mixed up gene pool of the area. "His clan lives over there beyond these hills."

  Pythar nodded. "In my grandfather's time, the men of Hos-Ktemnos used to work the Drynos Mines on this range for iron. The local clansmen still get their ore here. Those mountains are honeycombed with tunnels and pits. The Black Knights are scattered all through them."

  Sargos dismissing Pythar with a nod, "Our scout
s were allowed through, but as soon as the front of the vanguard was halfway through that pass, the Knights came down from their positions, firing pistols and arrows."

  The nomads were still warily removing bodies from the pass, many pin cushioned with arrows, probably from the Knights' oath-brothers and Sastragathi allies. Occasionally, when a clansman would get too close to the hills, shots would ring out. After such a fusillade, a band or tribe of nomads would ride out from the main horde—bottled up in the valley before the hills—shooting arrows, darts, crossbow bolts and the occasional firearm into the hills with the predictable and lamentable negative result. The nomads seemed to enjoy the game and he was sure that somewhere Soton was smoking his pipe with a big smirk on his face.

  The big question was: How many of the Knights were holed up in these hills? Kalvan couldn't imagine that Grand Master Soton would be anywhere within fifty miles of this death trap.

  The problem was convincing his allies, neither of them sophisticated in the art of war, that this was a ploy to salvage the larger part of Soton's army. Somehow Kalvan suspected that was not going to be easy. "This ambush is Soton's way of bottling up our armies."

  Sargos looked at Kalvan as though he were speaking English. Nestros, too, looked as though he'd rather be off in those hills searching out Knights, rather than discussing strategy.

  "Soton has left behind several of his Lances to halt our advance. There must be many passes through these hills. Our best move is to leave these Knights behind, with a suitable force to keep them pinned down, and continue to chase Soton. We must be close or he would not consider sacrificing his precious Knights."

  Sargos choked. "Retreat. We cannot allow them to escape their deaths; it is our sworn duty to kill every Black Knight in those hills. How do we know that the Grand Master himself is not hidden in those mines?

  Nestros shook his head in agreement. "My men would think it cowardly to leave such a large force at our back."

  Kalvan could have chewed the frizzen off his flintlock pistol! "We could leave behind more men than are in Soton's entire army to hold this position and still have ten times Soton's number when we catch up with him." This seemed to go over both their heads.

  "We are the superior force so we call the shots, not Soton. If we stay here to chase down these Knights, we will allow the larger part of Soton's army to reach Tarr-Ceros where we will never be able to root him out."

  The Warlord was beyond reason. "My warriors are here to fight the Knights. They will not leave until the Knights are all dead."

  Nestros nodded in agreement. "If I tried to leave without engaging the Knights, my own men would call me a coward. Many would break away and return home. I would have open rebellion upon my homecoming."

  Kalvan shook his head in frustration. "What if I sent an armed force to chase Soton while we are engaged in this battle? Would that be honorable?" His sarcasm was lost on the two leaders, who both gave his words serious consideration.

  "As long as it is not perceived that the larger part of the army is leaving, my warriors would not complain," Sargos said.

  "Nor mine," added Nestros.

  Kalvan turned to Harmakros. "Take the Mobile Force and two regiments of Royal Carbineers and give chase to Soton. You probably won't be able to engage him, but harass him and do as much damage as you can."

  Harmakros nodded happily, eager to get away from this botched allied operation. Kalvan couldn't blame him. "Warlord, can you supply a few hundred skirmishers for the Mobile Force?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  Realizing that the best way to teach his allies military tactics might be letting them learn through the errors of their way, Kalvan suggested that the Warlord demonstrate the most effective way to join the Knights upon the hill in battle. Sargos visibly swelled at the honor. "I will send a thousand infantry to draw them out."

  It took the rest of the morning for Sargos to gather the necessary troops and give them orders; his biggest problem was turning down volunteers who felt dishonored that they were not chosen for the attack. His warriors roamed the hillsides poking into holes and pits for almost an hour, finding only one oath-brother, who was instantly turned into a porcupine by hundreds of arrows. Just when they were starting to despair of ever finding the enemy, hundreds of fully armored Knights popped out of the hillside, like apparitions. With sword and pistols they tore into the nomads with fury. Bodies were hacked and dismembered before their eyes, while the nomads swords and spears were turned away or broken on the Knight's armor. It was a slaughter.

  "Send reinforcements!" Kalvan cried, but before the first cavalry were less than a quarter up the hill most of the force was dead or wounded, while the knights vanished almost as quickly as they had appeared. Sargos looked shaken and the nomads were spooked.

  King Nestros had a smug look upon his face.

  "What?" Kalvan asked.

  "If those had been Rathoni soldiers, the Black Knights would have never left their holes. Let me take a force up and we will show the nomads how this work is done."

  Kalvan threw up his hands. "Do your best." Sargos was blank faced, but unable to keep his left eye from twitching.

  Nestros' much larger party of several thousand soldiers moved warily up the hillside, considerably sobered by the slaughter of their allies. Each party contained spearmen who used their spears to poke into anything suspicious. Occasionally a Knight or one of his oath-brothers would be flushed out and emerge fighting, only to be quickly cut down in a flurry of slashing swords and pistol shots. It was a good thing Kalvan still had five wagons loaded with Hostigos fireseed with all this shooting. Meanwhile, the rest of the host stood around making comments and calling out advice. Already their camp followers had caught up with the main body, and there were brightly dressed women, wearing flowing dresses and colorful scarves, with small children running in between horses' legs.

  Meanwhile, Kalvan beat his brains against his skull trying to come up with a strategy, which would allow them to root the Knights out of the hills. He didn't have much faith in Nestros' plan. The obvious solution was to starve the Knight out of the hills, but he had no idea of how much food they had, but suspected it was the greater share of Soton's fleeing army. It could take a moon or more before hunger brought them down. As he stood there, a young nomad boy ran up to Kalvan, touched his breastplate for luck and ran away again. I feel like I'm at the circus, not a battlefield!

  Kalvan watched with interest as several parties of armored men entered the tunnels. All was quiet for a few minutes, and then a battered and bloody Rathoni soldier ran out of a tunnel no one had entered. By the outcry his words raised, Kalvan didn't hold out much hope for his comrades. The soldiers continued poking around for another hour or two, but the results were pitiful—five captured tame Sastragathi and two dead Knights, who took several men with them to Regwarn.

  Finally, King Nestros gave up and recalled his soldiers. He shrugged at Kalvan and gave him a 'what now?' look. Shadows were already growing long, so Kalvan sat with Sargos and Nestros, devising a picket of the five hills the Knights held. The scouts had found no evidence of any other nearby party.

  By the time equal numbers of Sastragathi and Trygathi soldiers had been dispatched for picket duty, it was time for dinner. Kalvan invited both leaders to the farmhouse that had become his temporary (he hoped!) quarters. For the evening meal they had mystery-meat stew and succotash. When the plates were cleared, Kalvan broke out a jug of Ermut's Best and served both allies' generous cups. Nestros and Sargos got into an argument over the advantages and disadvantages of mounted archers and Kalvan listened to this experienced discourse with a grin on his face. A transcript of this conversation would have served as a doctoral dissertation at any major university with a good history department back in otherwhen. He also smiled because a few years from now, both men might well be making the same arguments in regards to mounted and dismounted arquebusiers. Many drinks later Kalvan excused himself and fell into bed. He was beginning to get used to stra
w ticks, especially after a few months of sleeping on the ground.

  II

  Kalvan was awakened by a loud banging noise that at first he feared was coming from inside his head until Jaklon opened the door and told him he had a visitor. He dressed quickly in the same jerkin and slops as yesterday and exited his sleeping quarters. It was Warlord Sargos looking disgustingly wide awake for a man—if Kalvan's memory served him right—who had drank the lion's share of three jugs of Ermut's brandy. "What?" Kalvan asked.

  "Great King, I had a vision last night!"

  Kalvan stifled a groan. What demons had the brandy conjured forth in Sargos' drunken wits? And why was he so determined to share this hallucination with him? "Yes?"

  "I dreamt that I was flying again, in the guise of a raven."

  Ahh, the spirit of Edgar Allen Poe returns , Kalvan mused. He kept his thoughts to himself, knowing how superstitious the tribesmen were about visions, omens and portents.

  "As I flew closer to the earth, I saw this, our own encampment, with the hills that lay before us. Only the hills were on fire, belching clouds of smoke and ash. As I flew closer, I saw that the hills were alive with soldiers running out of the tunnels and pits, like termites fleeing a burning mound. Then I woke up!" Sargos looked expectantly at Kalvan as though he expected him to give him a Freudian dream analysis of this nightmare.

  Kalvan shrugged his shoulders, experiencing another round of pounding headache. He felt as though the Hostigi drum corps had taken permanent residence in his head. "Go on."

  "Then I thought back to my youth, when my mother used to bake whole boars for the First Day Feast. She would wrap the whole pig in leaves and then bury it in a clay mound beneath hot rocks. When we dug it up that evening, the cooked flesh would fall from the bones." Sargos smacked his lips, as if reliving the memory.