Kalvan Kingmaker

by John F. Carr

  Harmakros hooted. "Peace keeper Sarrask! I've heard everything now. Next you'll be telling me that men can fly."

  "If I could, I know where I'd be going instead of playing nursemaid to these two knuckleheads, while we teach Soton a lesson in exceeding your grasp."

  "Your Majesty, if you left Nestros and Sargos alone with their armies, they'd be at each other's throat in less than a moon quarter—the Zarthani Knights be damned."

  "I know, Harmakros. It's going to be a long, hot summer."

  II

  Scholar Danthor's hand tapped the screen control. The picture changed again. Now it showed Prince Araxes' palace in Phaxos City.

  Or rather, what had been the palace. Now it was a pile of blackened rubble, with charred beams and bits of furniture jutting up out of the tumbled stone. The gardens had been ploughed up, the ponds filled in with chopped down trees and corpses and the walls breached in a dozen places.

  "Prince Araxes—the late Prince Araxes—was fond of his comforts," the Scholar reported dryly. "So he made Tarr-Phaxos strictly a military post and moved his court into the town palace. He was one of the first Harphaxi princes to do so. One imagines that his fate will hardly encourage many more imitators. Fortunately, he chose to hide in the keep of Tarr-Phaxos and thus spared himself, for a while, the fate dealt out to his family and retainers."

  Sirna kept her eyes firmly on the screen. She didn't need to look at her neighbors to know what they thought of Rylla's disposal of the Phaxos problem. She could hear the gasps, hisses of indrawn breath and whispered denunciations.

  Were some of them looking away, or feeling queasy inside? Sirna wondered. They probably didn't include anyone who'd seen pictures of Hostigos Town on time-lines where the Styphoni had overran it. The only pictures she'd ever seen matching those were from Mongol sacks or Third Reich Hispano-Columbian victories.

  But those were the work of Styphon's House or people equally barbarous. This was the work of—

  The picture changed again. Now it showed the Great Square of Phaxos Town, another of the late Prince's expensive public improvements. Armored Hostigi soldiers with red and blue plumes held back a crowd on all four sides. In the middle was a stout block of wood. On one side of the block stood a bare-chested man with a two-handed ax slung across his back. On the other side lay a half dozen shrouded bodies. Four Hostigi soldiers were lifting another body on to a litter. One soldier was putting what looked to be a woman's head into a bag bulging with what Sirna was afraid were other heads.

  "The Great Queen," Danthor intoned, "gave orders that all immediate members of Araxes' family were to lose their heads. That is correct, that was a woman's head that soldier was carrying by the hair."

  There was a collective gasp from the assembled faculty.

  Sirna noticed most of the Hostigi were infantry, but a small mounted group occupied the middle of the west side of the square. One slim figure in silvered armor was bareheaded, long blonde hair tossed by the same breeze that whipped the pennons and standards.

  Rylla. She had ordered this slaughter of the Princely House of Phaxos and all those nobles who wouldn't swear allegiance to the Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. Forty men, at least—not counting the members of Araxes immediate family, their lives forfeit, their property already being divided among Hostigos supporters along with the gold looted from Styphon's temples.

  When Rylla spoke of the need to punish Prince Araxes for letting his indecisiveness go on too long, could anyone have imagined this?

  The screen now showed a close-up of a castle gateway, with men in Phaxosi colors filing out between two lines of Hostigi. The Phaxosi, Sirna noted, were disarmed, except for swords and daggers, but otherwise seemed to have all their gear and clothing. A few bandaged ones were being supported by their comrades.

  "After eight days of shelling, the garrison of Tarr-Phaxos surrendered on promise of life, limb and personal property for all those not on Rylla's purge list. Rylla sent in a sortie party to deliver both Prince Araxes and the Styphon's House Highpriest the Prince was holding captive. Five of the officers went to the block and a Hostigi garrison is now installed."

  "Was the agreement kept?" someone from behind Sirna asked.

  "As of our last report, it had been. Of course, Rylla was given everything she wanted and I'm sure she has plans for those paroled Phaxosi troops. But I think what we have here is evidence of just how little one man can do to re-direct, or 'change' if you must use it—history. If Kalvan can't even control his own wife, how can he control larger events?"

  "How do we know that she's not doing Kalvan's work while he's fighting Grand Master Soton?"

  "Good question," the leonine countenanced Danthor, gave this particularly adept student a promising smile. "The Kalvan Study Team members included that in their report, after the Nostor Foundry debacle." He directed a sardonic bow in Sirna's direction.

  Sirna tried to disappear into her chair. Dras had never been married; otherwise Sirna suspected he would have known the difference between marriages and historical events. Given a choice between trying to win a battle and try to change her ex-husband's mind on a matter where he'd made it up, Sirna would have pulled on armor at once! Although some marriages did resemble battlefields, even more than hers had—

  She was surprised when she heard a voice that sounded like Aranth Sain say, "It's obvious the distinguished Scholar has never shared the Nuptial Cup."

  Scattered laughter met this reply and Danthor Dras' face turned red. To regain control, he began speaking in a pontifical tone of voice. "The real damage done is in the minds of neutrals and would-be allies. We already have reports from our sources in the conclave of the League of Dralm. It is being asked out loud whether Kalvan is going to prove any different from Styphon's House? Must every worshipper of Dralm also march in Kalvan's train, wherever he may wish to take it? And so on."

  Sirna mentally drowned the whole conclave of Dralm in a bottomless pit of bison dung. If Rylla had slaughtered a thousand Phaxosi peasants, but left the Prince of Fencesitters sitting on his sitting-down place, they wouldn't have said half as much. But a general house-cleaning of nobles who had advised their Prince to folly even if they hadn't gone raiding themselves—oh, that was an abomination beyond belief.

  Which Rylla should have known, and if she didn't know it she should have listened to those who did. As much as you respect Rylla, you can't get around the fact that she has literally made a royal mess of things.

  I certainly wouldn't want to be in Rylla's boots when her husband gets home!

  The surrender of Tarr-Phaxos was the last picture. The seminar wound down as people drifted either out into the corridor or toward an improvised bar-buffet behind the display. Sirna headed in the latter direction. Missing lunch had given Sirna an appetite even worrying about Rylla couldn't take away. As Sirna came away with a loaded plate, she nearly bumped into Darlan Trov. She hadn't seen him come in, but she was instantly wary. It was a universal rumor that he was one of Hadron Tharn's advisers in some of the man's more questionable schemes. It was also a rumor that Darlan Trov had never bothered to deny.

  "What do you think of Rylla's latest antics?" Darlan asked.

  Sirna toyed with the idea of saying exactly what she thought and hoping Darlan would take the report back to Hadron Tharn. A pro-Kalvanist could hardly be trusted as a spy, and Sirna would be out of a job she no longer wanted to do. She was still filing her reports, but they were so mundane—mostly Study Team internecine warfare—they put even her to sleep.

  Except that Hadron Tharn had a long memory, a short fuse, and more influence than any other six Opposition politicians put together in University circles. If he pressed enough of the right buttons among his allies, he could probably find a majority on Sirna's thesis committee. Sirna wasn't quite ready to bring her outtime career with the University to an end, just for the pleasure of speaking her mind.

  "Well, I agree that it was taking too hard a line with Prince Araxes, at least with Kalvan absent. But I
don't agree that Kalvan hasn't made any difference. Did we hear or see of any atrocities against civilians?"

  "There was that rape in Lower Town—"

  "For which three Hostigi and two mercenaries were tried and hanged, as Danthor pointed out. If Rylla had wanted to, she could have gone through Phaxos like the Red Hand through Sask. She's learned something from her husband. I only wish she had learned more."

  "You want to see Styphon's House overthrown, then?"

  About as subtle as one of Roxthar's Investigators, and deserving the same sort of answer . "I think once the fireseed secret was out, Styphon's House was doomed. The only question now is how long it will take, and what will be left afterward. The faster Kalvan wins, the faster he or somebody else can rebuild afterward."

  "That sounds as if you care about what happens to a bunch of Fourth Level barbarians."

  For a moment Sirna knew exactly what had motivated Rylla, sympathized and would have done something equally drastic to Darlan Trov. Then she remembered that she was on the wrong time-line for that.

  "As people, no. But a time-line that wracks itself to pieces so that nothing really interesting happens for a century—what good is that to the University? Could we even investigate it safely? You've been outtime enough to know the answer to that."

  Darlan only nodded and turned away, his disappointment as naked as a tavern dancer. Sirna stabbed a meat roll with her fork, rejoicing in a subtle if small victory. Gods, if you exist, try to teach Rylla a little subtlety too. Nobody else can.

  III

  The sound of three cannon shots floated over the hill from the direction of Tarr-Ceros.

  "Some sentry must be nervous," Harmakros said. Great King Kalvan and the Captain-General reached the end of tüe path they'd worn in the hillside. As if chained together, they turned and began walking back toward the other end.

  We might as well sit down , came to Kalvan. Anybody sees us, they'll suspect we have bad news, and rumors like that we need like a sortie by the Knights. Besides, I'm not going to sleep tonight no matter how tired I make myself .

  At the far end of the path, Kalvan marked down a convenient stump and sat down. Both his feet and his head were aching, but there wasn't enough wine left in the whole army to do much about either. He had to make do with lighting his pipe. On the far side of the hill from Tarr-Ceros, there was no need for a blackout.

  Fingers of black smoke, from burning farmhouses poked up to the low clouds. While everything within five miles of Tarr-Ceros had been stripped and burned, the smell of fire still lay heavy in the air. Every once in a while a breeze blew the odor of black powder in their faces.

  "At least we've got a new fortress on one possible Styphoni line of advance into Hos-Hostigos," Harmakros said.

  "At the price of sending the whole Leak of Dralm into a tizzy. Besides, half the nobility of Phaxos will turn their coats right back the moment the Styphoni march. How useful is Tarr-Phaxos with them at its back?"

  "We'll have to make sure it's well-stocked for a siege—" the Captain-General began.

  "What with?" Kalvan exploded. "We left Rylla and Sarrask with just enough to stand on the defensive. Everything else went into this western campaign. We won, but now there's nothing left back home and we'll still have the Knights to deal with!"

  "Not this year."

  "Is that the best you can do, Harmakros? Hope that something will turn up in time for next year?"

  "Another harvest certainly will. Or has Your Majesty forgotten the passage of the seasons?" Harmakros stepped back at the look on Kalvan's face. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. That was—"

  "A salutary reminder that I badly needed." Kalvan sighed and pressed the heels of both hands to his aching head. His pipe dropped forgotten to the ground; Harmakros stamped out the coals just in time to prevent a grass fire.

  Kalvan ended the silence by retrieving and relighting his pipe. "Now I think I'm going to try a salutary reminder on Rylla. Harmakros, do you want to be a Prince, or—"

  "Stop, Your Majesty! Haven't we had this conversation several times—and isn't my answer always the same. I am already far above any station I dreamed myself in as a young man. But this is not the time, and Phaxos is certainly not the place for me—"

  "But more than anyone else you have earned such an honor."

  Harmakros shook his head. "Maybe, but running that Princedom is going to be a fulltime job. Araxes did more than ruin the Phaxosi economy; he elevated his barons beyond their place. They will have to be reminded of that place and—believe me—that will take time, patience and some blood. I cannot both manage Phaxos and be Captain-General of the Royal Army.

  "Who will then be Captain-General, Your Majesty? Certainly not Chartiphon, who is the best of men, but not fit for this new style warfare. Phrames? He is still occupied with Beshtan bandits and errant merchants. Hestophes? He would be my choice, but only with more seasoning. No, other than yourself, Your Majesty, I fear, there is no other candidate.

  Kalvan reluctantly nodded his head in agreement. "Thank you, Harmakros, for this wise council. Who would you suggest we place on the Phaxosi throne?"

  "A Phaxosi with some blood ties to the Princely house. A devout follower of Dralm and one who is respected both within Phaxos and without."

  "An excellent suggestion. I will leave his selection in your capable hands. I suspect you have a candidate in mind?"

  Harmakros smiled. "Yes, but I need to check out some particulars and speak with him before I mention any names."

  "Good. Now to the business at hand. I've thought about what needs doing back in Hostigos and what needs doing here. Harmakros, you can't do what needs doing at home, so that leaves you in charge here. Can I make it a friendly request, or do I have to make it a royal command?"

  "With all due respect, I don't think Your Majesty is feeling particularly friendly toward anybody."

  "I'm not." And you know exactly why, but you're too damn tactful to say it out loud.

  "I don't want to be disrespectful, but I don't think you can leave without offending one or both of our allies. Warlord Sargos treats you like his magic touchstone and is afraid the entire horde will fall apart the moment you leave—and likely enough, I suspect he's right. King Nestros wants you by his side so that he can 'soak' up your wisdom, as he puts it. If you leave, it won't be a moon quarter before the entire Rathoni army leaves pack, baggage and camp followers. That is, if the two of them don't manage to start a blood feud before Nestros' can dodge out of his obligations. Maybe you don't see it, but it's only the worry that you might think less of either of them that has kept them working together. Remember the split between Sastragath and Trygath is more than geographical, it's a line bathed in blood. Only time and working together will erase it."

  "Right again, Harmakros. Still, this campaign draws to a close. Prince Ptosphes left a moon quarter ago with the wounded and sick. We've burned fields, farms, barns, silos and driven all the farmers out of the area. There's not much more to do."

  "You're right, but I'll let you explain it to our allies. I don't think they want to leave just yet."

  "Then let them stay, as you said Nestros has already grown bored with this campaign. Sargos still has to figure out what to do as Warlord once this campaign is over. I wish him luck!"

  "If you want to leave, I can stay and keep the Knights busy for another moon-quarter."

  "Good," Kalvan clapped Harmakros on both armored shoulders, with a clang. Outside the fortified camps, armor was a wise precaution; oath-brothers had been swimming the river and slitting throats the last three nights. "I knew I could rely on you."

  IV

  Grand Master Soton sat in his private audience chamber at the heart of the great fortress of Tarr-Ceros and stared blankly at the stonewalls. Too many good men dead, he thought, and four more banners to hang in the Hall of Heroes. During his term of Grand Master he had now hung a total of seven banners, representing seven decommissioned Lances; more than any other Grand Master in the past two
hundred years. The Order will not soon forget me! Those seven Lances together accounted for almost a quarter of the Order's strength…

  Am I destroying the Order to salvage my own pride?

  No, Dralm damnit! I am trying to save the Temple of Styphon's House, and part of the Temple is the Order of Zarthani Knights—my part. Kalvan means to destroy the Temple and to do this he must destroy the Order and me. Kalvan is the enemy and must be stopped at any cost!

  A gentle knocking at the plank door took his mind off Kalvan and these all too familiar thoughts. "Come in."

  Knight Commander Aristocles entered the chamber. "Good news, Soton. The nomads are finally leaving—at last!"

  "Finally, they leave! I hadn't expected the barbarians to stay even a day after Kalvan's departure. It's been almost a moon-half. They must be growing short of rations. Either that, or they have run out of farms and barns to burn."

  "True. Sadly, with their passing they are now burning all the forests and stands of wood for three days ride in all directions!"

  "There will be little produce to harvest, but we can bring in victuals by boat. The real cost has been to Kalvan in the one coin he cannot afford—time. There we have defeated the Usurper. Fall approaches and by the time Kalvan's tired army marches back to his not-so-grand kingdom, it will be too late in the year to mount a successful attack on Hos-Harphax, or any of our other allies."

  Aristocles pulled a flask of wine from behind his back. "Let us share a drink. A drink to the real victory—the salvation of Hos-Harphax, and the war against the Usurper!"

  Soton gave Aristocles a goblet up from his desk and watched his old friend fill it to the top. Aristocles then poured another cup for himself. "To victory!"