by Roland Green
A blast of thunder cleared his head of all thoughts. To his ears, it was as if his helm had been smacked by a mace.
All around him horses reared, Knights rocked in their saddles, some tumbled from their mounts. Fortunately, the Hostigi were having similar problems with their horses as well or they could have slaughtered his men like drunken sheep.
Already they were reforming to press their attack! Had they pre-knowledge of this catastrophe? Is Kalvan truly a Daemon, capable of summoning help from Regwarn or Hadron's Hall?
Then a great cloud rose up, turning the sky black. An arquebus barrel slammed into his breastplate, leaving a dent and a bruise underneath. He wouldn't have been surprised if Styphon's fireseed demons and devils had followed them.
Men and horses were milling all around him in confusion. Soton raised his war hammer and pointed to the Hostigi cavalry. Maybe this time they could break through Prince Ptosphes' desperate defense and come to the relief of the center.
IV
Harmakros' head reeled. Three thousand men and horses and a score of field pieces; all destroyed in the wink of an eye!
May Dralm forgive me, but maybe there is something to this fireseed-demon tale of Styphon's House's. Not that Great King Kalvan was any demon; he was human enough, as anyone who'd watched him suffer though one of Rylla's late-term furies knew. But this fireseed-that was another matter entirely! Enough of that in one place could destroy the whole world; if he'd doubted it before, he didn't now-after all, he'd just seen the proof with his own eyes.
Great King Kalvan's charge was now halfway across the meadow. Harmakros could make out the Styphoni mercenaries preparing the Hostigi charge. Most were having trouble calming their horses; they'd been a lot closer to the forward battery than Kalvan's forces. Plus, the Ktemnoi commander was dead along with several thousand Pistoleers and Royal Guard. There was little doubt about the outcome of that engagement. Kalvan's plan had worked out as well as anything, considering his words, "that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy."
If Kalvan wasn't going to need support, where should he commit his reserve? Harmakros had both Count Phrames in person and a messenger from Chartiphon appealing desperately for it. What he decided was likely to determine the outcome of the battle as much as anything that happened on this field today, including the fireseed surprise he'd just given the late Leonnestros.
"Harmakros, we need your help," Phrames said, as close to pleading as he would ever come. "When Soton hit us with his Knights, I thought we were finished. If it hadn't been for Prince Sarrask rallying the Saski horse, we would have broken. After Tenabra and today there won't be enough Old Hostigos cavalry to muster a full regiment. Yet, Prince Ptosphes is prepared to die with his last man rather than retreat; I'm afraid, without reinforcements, Galzar may grant him his wish."
Phrames would bend his knee and ask favors for the Prince that he would never ask for himself. Harmakros mentally re-shuffled his options. "Phrames, I can give you my two regiments of cavalry, but not one man more."
Phrames nodded.
"My dragoons are needed to reinforce the center. If the Great Battery falls, Soton will turn it on our army! We have to support the Battery until King Kalvan can cut his way through the Styphoni mercenaries and hit their center from the rear. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do. May Allfather Dralm and Galzar guard you and our Prince today."
V
Xykos was the first to reach the Styphoni line; their short-hafted glaives were no match for a double-handed sword wielded by a giant. Within a few breaths his men had joined him with their halberds and pikes and captured bills. The Temple Guardsmen still outnumbered Xykos' men by four to one, and would have given better than they got it they hadn't been in three ranks instead of one.
Xykos was wrestling Boarsbane out of an enemy corpse with one hand and strangling another with his left, when an explosion blew him off his feet like a lightning clap.
Swords and enemies were forgotten for a moment; his ears felt as if they'd been beaten by clubs. He rolled around on the ground, his hand cupping his ears. As he tossed and turned, he saw the barrel of a big field piece fly end over end above his head. He stared with disbelief as it fell among the Red Hand, turning the company into a mob of writhing red figures. He knew from their gaping mouths they had to be shouting and crying, but he heard nothing.
When he stumbled back to his feet, one ear was bleeding and both were numb-almost deaf…
Xykos looked around him to see friends and enemies alike littering the ground like leaves shaken from a tree. Some had been struck by flying iron, others knocked down and stunned by the unholy blast. The ground was littered with body parts, twisted armor and splashes of blood. The banner-bearer was still gripping the Veterans' banner and Xykos trudged over and helped him to his feet, then started rallying the survivors.
Among themselves they were able to bring three hands of men to their feet. All around were stunned or wounded Styphoni, most unable to rise to their feet. Those still standing were lurching about as if they were drunk on winter wine.
"ATTACK!" Xykos shouted. Or at least that was what his mouth was doing. No one including himself appeared to hear his words.
Then it struck him that for this business no words were necessary.
"Down Styphon!" he cried, grabbing the hair of one of the Red Hand whose helmet had been blown off his head. As the man dangled, feet kicking above the ground, Xykos drew his dagger with his free hand and let his men see what needed doing.
VI
Prince Sarrask laughed until his sides ached, when his charger reared and fell upon the haunches of a Zarthani Knight's black horse, as though attempting to mount it for an entirely different kind of sport than war. How they would laugh when he told this story at the Silver Stag! The Knight was knocked off his saddle by the sudden display of equine affection, falling to certain death by trampling-if nothing else-on the gore soaked earth. One less of Styphon's spawn to fight, but-Praise Galzar!-there appears to be no end to them today.
The Knights were tough crayfish to pry open, especially the ones in full armor. His trusty sword and mace were all that had kept him from entering Galzar's Great Hall this day. He'd fired both pistols until he'd run out of bullets and fireseed, then used them as clubs until they broke.
This was the fiercest fight he'd ever been in, as glorious a battle as man or gods might dream of. He'd have to thank Kalvan over some winter wine this eve for giving him such a gift. By Galzar's Mace, the Great King-now there was a man!
No wonder the Harphaxi had been trounced so badly at Chothros; their Great King was a musician, not a warrior!
Suddenly a roaring explosion swallowed the screaming of horses and men, the steady hammering of muskets and guns, even the clang of steel on steel. Through his saddle Sarrask felt a rumble as though Endrath, God of Earth, had shaken the ground itself!
Every horse in sight, including his own, tried to rear and bolt. Without room to run, pressed up together like cattle in the slaughterhouse chute, they dashed mindlessly against each other and their riders. Sarrask used his sword freely to keep the battle-maddened horses from crushing his legs; not even armor could withstand the press of a big destrier.
Sarrask knew in his mind that both men and horses must be screaming even louder than before the explosion, but he could hear nothing except a shrill ring in both ears.
The Knights' ranks suddenly opened and Sarrask was certain he saw Grand Master Soton, his helm raised, staring about in utter disbelief. Sarrask slapped his horse with the flat edge of his sword to get his attention, then charged toward the opening. He was pleased to note that a dozen of his Bodyguard were following close behind. Then the file closed and Soton vanished so completely that Sarrask wondered if he'd imagined it.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Soton might have escaped today, but there were still plenty of Knights within easy reach to be killed. He whirled his sword over his head.
"Down Styphon!"
; TWENTY-FIVE
I
For as long as he lived, Phidestros knew he would never forget the explosion of the Hostigi redoubt. More than a third of the left wing gone in one earth-shattering moment-men, horses, armor, weapons, everything! If intuition hadn't told him to withdraw his own command, ignoring Leonnestros' orders, the casualties would have been doubled, including himself and the Iron Band. As it was he'd lost almost a hundred of the men and horses, killed or panicked by the blast and flying debris, under this banner. It was going to be Hadron's own job getting them ready to receive Kalvan's charge.
Nor was everybody's temporary deafness-Galzar make it be so!-making his job any easier. Phidestros wasted a hundred heartbeats making hand motions to send a courier off to Grand Master Soton requesting reinforcements. It took him even longer to position the Iron Band in the middle of his command so that he could rally the shaken mercenary troops. The sight of their commander and his Banner-Captain stiffened the ranks up and down lines.
When the Hostigi horse had covered two-thirds of the distance to the Holy Host, Phidestros knew he'd done everything he could and signaled for his men to receive the enemy. His flank was organized by companies, ten wide and three deep, with the lancers in front. He had no illusions about turning the Hostigi wing, but he believed he could hold them long enough for Soton and his Knights to come to his relief. Even a thousand fresh reinforcements-if there were such after Styphon's Own Explosion-could make the difference between victory and defeat.
He could see with his own eyes how the Sacred Squares were chewing up the Hostigi Center. Only the field guns held them at bay. Galzar grant him the chance to do the same to the Hostigi right!
The crash of arms and armor as the two cavalry lines met reminded Phidestros uncomfortably of the Slaughter at Ryklos Farm and the unseemly end of the ancient order of Harphaxi Royal Lancers. Let Ormaz, Lord of the Caverns of the Dead, condemn Leonnestros to eternal damnation in his lowliest Cavern for deserting his post and leading his troopers into Kalvan's deathtrap!
For a moment it appeared as if Kalvan's charge might be broken; there were few lancers in the Hostigi first ranks and too many of the Hostigi pistoleers had fired before the two lines met with clash of arms. Then from the Hostigi second and third ranks came point-blank pistol fire, tearing through his own front ranks.
Phidestros' pressed his knees into Snowdrift's flanks, raised his sword and led the Iron Band directly into the Hostigi lines. The Iron Band's first volley emptied fifty or more Hostigi saddles, including some of King Kalvan's bodyguards. For a moment, no longer than the blink of an eye, the two commanders were within sword distance, then the currents of battle tore them apart before either had a chance to break eye contact.
Phidestros looked down at his still loaded pistol and cursed. What had stopped him from firing, or even thinking of it? The entire battle could have been won in an instant. Maybe it had been the dawning of recognition on Kalvan's face of meeting an equal and his own confirming nod. Maybe the gods weren't finished with either of them-Kalvan could have shot him dead just as easily…
There was something between the two men-no doubt about that-but it was not 'something' to be settled in the heat and confusion of battle.
For not the first time, Phidestros wondered if he had picked the wrong side in this war to the death-and to the death it was, because Styphon's House would not rest until Great King Kalvan and Hos-Hostigos were no more.
There were worse ways to die than at the side of good and brave men in a noble cause. He was no Styphoni; the upper priesthood reeked of corruption and worshipped gold, not god. But there would not be-could not be-a parley with Kalvan until Prince Sarrask was dead. And, from all reports, the Prince led a charmed life-much like Kalvan himself. Maybe there was something to this notion of a War of the Gods?
Phidestros had no time or energy to do more than ask himself the question before a Hostigi captain with long blonde hair and no helmet was trying to skewer him with the longest and most pointed blade Phidestros had ever seen. His breastplate turned away several thrusts, then he found himself out of reach of the blond captain. He looked around and suddenly saw himself adrift in a sea of red sashes and red and blue plumes of Hostigos. He shot a Hostigi trooper aiming a musketoon at him and saw a red blossom appear where the man's face had been. Turning his head over his shoulder, he was very relieved to see a score of green and black plumes and orange sashes of Iron Band troopers fighting their way to his side.
Suddenly Snowdrift screamed loud enough that it pieced even Phidestros numb ears, then he reared, coming down hard on all four hooves. Snowdrift tried to rear again, then his hind legs collapsed and tumbled backward. Phidestros leaped from the saddle, landing hard enough to make his bad knee complain loudly.
Blood was pouring out of Snowdrift's mouth and from his flanks; he was dying but not fast enough for Phidestros just to leave him. He pressed his pocket pistol to the gelding's head, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
That gesture almost cost him his life. Phidestros opened his eyes to see Snowdrift relaxing in death, but neither un-wounded horses nor friendly riders close enough to help him remount. Geblon was the closest, about forty paces away, trying desperately to control a wounded horse without dropping the Iron Band's banner.
While he was trying to attract Geblon's attention, a bullet sang past his helmet. He dropped to hands and knees behind Snowdrift and shot a Hostigi cuirassier off his horse with his last loaded horsepistol. He looked back to see an Iron Band lancer riding up, leading a blood-smeared but seemingly fit remount. Too small to carry him far, but better than standing in the midst of this carnage.
As Phidestros rode back to the Styphoni lines, he saw large groups of mercenaries-some entire companies!-raising helmets on sword points or holding out reversed pistols. His stomach sank. What will Grand Master Soton say? The only consolation was that none of them wore the green and black plumes of the Iron Band.
II
Brother Mytron clenched his hands tighter together each time he heard another scream from the Royal Bedchamber, now the royal birthing room. He knew Rylla well enough to know that only terrible pain could wrench such cries from her lips. It was just as well that King Kalvan had other matters of great importance to keep him occupied. It was obvious that all was not well in the birthing room.
If only he could see for himself! However, Amasphalya, the chief midwife, had refused him entrance, nor would she answer his questions the few times she'd come out into the antechamber. The next time he saw the old witch he'd have his answers if he had to shake her by the neck!
A moment later the door flew open and Amasphalya lumbered out, followed by one of her ladies. She would have made three of even Mytron's fairly considerable figure; suddenly, the thought of shaking her by the neck seemed as ridiculous as him leading the Royal Bodyguard!
She used her hip to shove him aside, then stopped and looked him up and down like a butcher deciding whether or not to condemn a side of beef as fit only for dogs.
"What is it?" he demanded, pleased to hear how steady his voice sounded despite the quaking in his knees.
"I need more help. Come. You'll have to do."
Mytron put a hand on her broad shoulder to stop her, but she brushed it off like a bothersome fly. She half pushed him into the birthing chamber, where Rylla lay sprawled on the royal bed. She was alive, praise Dralm! But Mytron could not look at her pale, pain-lined face long enough to tell more than that.
Amasphalya and the other midwife each grasped one of Rylla's arms, while the one who'd remained in the chamber stood back.
"Take her feet, priest!" Amasphalya snapped.
"Why?"
"No time for questions, priest! Do it-NOW!"
Mytron found himself obeying, even thought he still questioned why. Rylla screamed, a terrible cry, as he gripped her feet. He felt his head grow light. "What do I do now?"
"Shake!" Amasphalya cried.
Without thinking, Mytron began to jer
k on Rylla's feet in time with the two midwives holding her arms. Rylla's screams rose higher until he thought his ears would break. He fought an urge to faint.
I must stop them. They're killing her! What will I tell Kalvan-?
"Turn her! Turn her!" Amasphalya was shouting, apparently not to him. Then: "Don't stop now, priest! We've almost done it!"
Done what? Mytron asked himself, but like a puppet he kept his arms moving, shaking Rylla who was now lying on her side, right or left he didn't know.
"There, the Allmother be thanked!" Amasphalya said. She sounded almost as if she were praying.
"Is the baby coming?" Brother Mytron had to lick his lips three times before he could get the words out.
"Not yet, but now it's to where it can," the chief midwife answered. The next moment her face set as if she regretted having said even so much to a man about her profession, and she growled, "Be off with you now, priest! We've enough to do without picking you up off the floor, too."
Mytron started to snap off a reply, then took a step and realized his knees had turned to syrup. He had to hold onto the bedpost for a moment before he could weave his way to the door.
Looking back, the smirk on Amasphalya's face gave away all her thoughts about the male half of humanity. He looked away and at Rylla, her face no longer twisted in agony. The Great Queen was breathing more strongly; when the contractions came she groaned rather than screamed. Whatever had been done, it appeared to be a good thing. For the moment, at least, he need not fear the burden of having to tell Kalvan that his wife and child were dead.
One thing that he would always wonder for the rest of his life: why he'd been fool enough to want to know what went on in the birthing chamber!
III