by Roland Green
Then he gave out a great whoop of laughter. Until now he'd only been told that Rylla was alive and healthy; in his exhaustion he'd had moments of believing that everyone was lying to him. Now he'd heard her voice, and more than her voice, her old familiar impatience with fools.
Amasphalya sighed and stepped out of Kalvan's path without opening the door any wider. Kalvan kicked it open all the way and ran to the bed. He kissed Rylla several times and ran his hands through her hair before he realized how fortunate he'd been to hear her voice before seeing her; she looked like a stranger, with dark circles under her eyes, pain-carved lines in her pale face and hair matted to the consistency of barbed wire.
No, not a stranger. Just a woman who'd been through a long hard labor, and he'd delivered numerous women in labor to the hospital in his squad car and seen what they looked like when they arrived-twice, even helping deliver babies. But he hadn't been married to any of them.
"Kalvan, look!"
He looked to where a too thin, too pale hand was pointing. At first he saw nothing but a pile of furs and linen, then "By Galzar's Mace! I didn't know babies came that big."
Rylla laughed and Amasphalya was bold enough to say, "Oh, she was a fine big lass, that's for certain. Almost three ingots. It's no great wonder that she was hard in coming, but all's well now. She's already eaten once and-"
Kalvan wasn't listening. In fact, as he stared down at his nine pounds of daughter, he wouldn't have heard Dralm himself coming to announce that Balph had burned to the ground and Styphon's House was surrendering unconditionally to the will of Great King Kalvan. All his attention was on the baby, red-faced and wrinkled as she was, with a snub nose that looked more like Rylla's than his Under her father's scrutiny, the Princess of Hostigos opened large blue eyes that were her mother's and nobody else's. Then she opened her mouth and let out an earsplitting howl.
"She wants another meal, the greedy thing," clucked Amasphalya. "I'd best summon the wet nurse."
She bustled off to do that, while Kalvan held out his thumb to the baby. Her fingers curled firmly around it, but she went on squalling. He grinned.
"I suppose it's going to be a while before she can be impressed by Great Kings or anybody else who can't provide nourishment."
Rylla smiled and silently gripped his free hand. "Kalvan, you don't believe the gods will mind if we name the baby now like they do in the Cold Lands where you came from?"
Kalvan shook his head. Due to the high infant mortality, most here-and-now babies were not given proper names until they reached their third year, which was when their families celebrated their first Name Day. This was because of the high infant mortality rate here-and-now; he'd heard that in the Trygath it ran as high as fifty percent. Often, their Name Day wasn't on their real birthday, not even the one supplied by the lunar and solar Zarthani calendars.
It also meant that when someone gave his or her age you had to mentally add another three years to get their real age-or close to it! Some families didn't even keep track of the moon or day-just the year. Hestophes liked to say he was born in the first false spring of the Year of the Big Moon. It always got a big laugh.
Kalvan had discussed naming the baby before he realized all the implications. Now, he was stuck with it. You'd better live a long time, little one, he admonished his newborn daughter. "No, I can't see Allfather Dralm being unhappy because we named our baby after your mother."
Rylla smiled. "Little Demia. I like that her name honors a mother I never knew."
Kalvan smiled too and squeezed her hand. Then the door opened again as Amasphalya led a hefty peasant woman into the chamber. Kalvan was looking her over to make sure she'd bathed properly, when he saw two men silhouetted in the doorway. Something about them looked familiar "Count Phrames. Colonel Verkan. Welcome. Come in."
The two soldiers followed the wet nurse. Amasphalya took a deep breath, then appeared to think better of whatever she'd been about to say. Instead she looked toward the ceiling with an expression that was clearly a silent prayer to the Goddess to guard Rylla and the baby, since her own best efforts to keep the birthing chamber free of fathers and other useless men had failed.
Kalvan straightened up, although he was so weak that for a moment he wondered if he would need to ask for help. Something seemed to have happened to his spine.
"How is the army?"
"Harmakros, Ptosphes and Sarrask have things well in hand," Verkan said.
"I don't know what that Sarrask is made of," Phrames added. "He fought all day, worked all night; now he and his guardsmen are having a drinking party with some camp followers and some captured beer!"
"Maybe he wants to forget the battle," Verkan said softly. "The gods know I wish I could."
Phrames looked oddly at the Rifleman for a moment, the nodded slowly. "It could be." Obviously, the idea of Sarrask of Sask having some virtues was still novel, but no longer unthinkable.
The baby's howls had died to an occasional squeak or gurgle as she snuggled against the wet nurse's breast and went to work on her meal. Kalvan found himself swaying on his feet, even after Phrames put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
"Come with me, Your Majesty. We've arranged a bed for you in the shrine-house. Many of the wounded are under tents in the courtyard and Verkan has twenty of his Riflemen guarding the shrine-house. You'll be able to sleep in peace."
Sleep sounded like an excellent idea, but he wanted to say goodnight to Rylla. He shook off Phrames' hand, turned, swayed so violently that he nearly fell-and saw that Rylla was asleep again.
A very excellent idea, for everybody. Kalvan cautiously placed one foot in front of another, then felt Phrames gripping him by one arm and Verkan by the other as they led him toward the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I
"At the trot-forward!" Baron Halmoth shouted. With a great thudding of hooves on stony ground and the rattling of harness brass and armor, Prince Ptosphes' Bodyguards put themselves into motion. Baron Halmoth looked behind him to make sure that nobody was moving faster than a trot, then pulled down his visor.
Prince Ptosphes left his own visor up. He had this whole wing of the battle to observe and command, not just a single cavalry regiment with a single fairly simple mission. He was riding with his Bodyguards, newly reinforced after losing half their strength at the battles at Phyrax and Tenabra, because that seemed to the best way to move far enough forward to see what was going on without making himself easy prey to the Agrysi.
Of course, the Agrysi might have run out of either fireseed or the will to fight in the last two days, after the capture of their main wagon train. The loss of their train made three successive defeats for them in the moon-half since Ptosphes led the newly organized Army of Nostor into the Princedom to clear it of King Demistophon's 'gesture of friendship' toward Styphon's House-actually, a blatant land grab of some un-nailed down Harphaxi (now Hostigi) territory! The gods knew that Kaiphranos the Timid was hiding somewhere underneath his bed-cloths in his Royal Bedchamber and not about to dispute Demistophon's claims on the battlefield, the only place where they counted.
The Agrysi might be in full flight, but Ptosphes wasn't going to wager his life, or that of his men, on it. The Army of Nostor's sixteen thousand men had begun with no advantage in numbers, and those three victories had all been hard fought and fairly won; regiments that had been weak when he led them into Nostor were now mere skeletons. Yet, Allfather Dralm be praised!, winning those victories had made Ptosphes really want to go on living for the first time since that dreadful day at Tenabra.
Furthermore, it was too beautiful a day to die with work unfinished. There was so much more to be done, such as casting down Styphon's Foul House of Iniquities, watching his granddaughter grow up…
White puffs of smoke from the thicket of trees to the left were followed by the bee-hum of bullets passing close by. Three riders and two horses went down; Ptosphes heard Halmoth shouting, "Keep moving! Don't bunch up!" and saw the Bodyguards obeyi
ng. The mounted nobles and gentry of Hostigos still knew only one operation of war-how to charge-but they know several ways of making that charge more dangerous to the enemy. Teaching them more would have required the command of a god, not merely of a Great King.
Prince Ptosphes turned in his saddle and shouted to a messenger to bring up a squadron of the mercenary dragoons riding behind the Bodyguards and have them clean out the woods. If the Agrysi detachment there was more than a single squadron could handle, the rest of the mercenaries and the Bodyguards would be within what Kalvan called "supporting distance." Ptosphes hoped they wouldn't be needed in the woods; he wanted to push home this charge right into the Agrysi rear and that would surely need more than a single regiment.
By the time the messenger was gone, the Bodyguards were over the crest of the little rise and Ptosphes could see the entire Hostigi battle line-his own right-flank cavalry, seven to eight thousand infantry in the center and the mercenary, Saski and Ulthori horse on the right. The guns were barely visible at the rear of the infantry line, staying limbered up and well protected until they had good targets. Ptosphes would have given a couple of fingers for three sixteen-pounders to add to his mobile six and four-pounders, but Kalvan needed all the larger guns that had survived Phyrax to dispose of Balthar and the Beshtan tarrs.
A little further, and Ptosphes could see the Agrysi force-a thick but rather ragged line of mercenary infantry drawn up behind a farm and a stone wall, with old-fashioned guns, small bombards, and demicannon in the gaps and the cavalry behind either flank. Black-streaked white smoke rising from the farm told him of a concealed battery opening fire; a moment later whirrings and thumpings told him that its target was his cavalry. Then a solid mass of horsemen was shaking itself loose from the Agrysi right and coming toward the Hostigi.
The Agrysi cavalry weren't quite stupid enough to ride down their own gunners, but they did manage to mask the farm battery's fire completely. The hedges and outbuildings around the farm also broke up their formation, so that it was half a dozen separate squadrons rather than a solid mass that reached Ptosphes' wing. Skirmishers to either side rose up and fired arquebuses to keep the enemy horse bunched up as much as possible.
By Ptosphes' order, the Hostigos Bodyguards were a solid but flexible wall of steel and horseflesh, and another messenger was riding back to bring up the Hostigi Lancers.
The two cavalry forces collided with a sound like a cartload of anvils falling into a stone quarry. Ptosphes saw men hurled from their saddles by the impact of the collision, to die under the slashing hooves of their comrades' horses. He shot one of those horses, used up his other pistol on the horse's rider, saw a knot of men growing behind the fallen horse and lifted his battleaxe.
"For Hostigos! Down Styphon's House! Down the Agrysi dogs!"
"Prince Ptosphes!" the shout came from all around, as his Bodyguards dug in their own spurs and drew steel. Now it was just a matter of straightforward fighting, and Ptosphes had no doubts as to who would win such a contest. Few of his Hostigi veterans did not owe Styphon's House a debt for dead kin or burned homes or both, and no one was disposed to be merciful to the Agrysi and their hired soldiers merely because Great King Demistophon had been stupid rather than evil.
How long the hewing and hacking lasted, Ptosphes never knew precisely. He did know that a moment came when he saw there were no enemies within reach who weren't shouting "Oath to Galzar!" and holding up helmets on sword points or snatching off green sashes. Beyond the surrendering cavalry Ptosphes could see the Agrysi infantry doing the same. Colonel Democriphon, recognizable by his unhelmeted head and flowing blond hair, was riding through the farm battery as if on parade. On either side and to his rear the Hostigi Lancers rode as if invisible ropes tied them to their Colonel.
Ptosphes hoped they wouldn't ride into more than they could handle, but that would be quite a lot. Democriphon loved to make a show of his swordsmanship and riding, but Kalvan said he was probably the best Colonel in the Great King's regulars.
Ptosphes dismounted to spare his horse and made sure that none of the blood that splattered his armor was his. Except for a nick beside his left knee, he turned out to be intact. He was drinking water laced with vinegar and refusing a bandage when he saw General Hestophes riding back around the farm. With him rode a handful of Agrysi horsemen in rich three-quarter armor and etched and gold-filigreed morion helmets, under the red-falcon banner of Prince Aesklos of Zcynos.
By the time the riders reached him, he was in the saddle again.
"Hail, Prince Ptosphes," the leading horseman stated. "I am Count Artemanes, Captain-General to Prince Aesklos of the Princedom of Zcynos. In his name, I yield all the men sworn to Great King Demistophon of Hos-Agrys on this field."
"Where is Prince Aesklos?"
The Count swallowed, letting Colonel Democriphon speak first. "He's about to have his leg taken off, back there around the hill, he said, pointing with his sword. "There's another whole wagon train back there, four guns and a lot of wounded. Five hundred at least."
"I'll send our Uncle Wolfs to help take care of them as soon as they're through with our own wounded," Ptosphes said. "They may be able to save the Prince's leg."
"With some demon-taught trick-?" the Count began, then quickly broke off as he saw faces harden against him. "Very well. I don't suppose a priest of Galzar can really be bought to harm a wounded man."
"Of course not," Ptosphes snapped. The last thing he wanted was to do was waste time discussing the drivel Styphon's House had been spouting about Kalvan's demonic wisdom. "Now. Is there anything else you need other than aid for your wounded?"
The Count looked around as if he wished he could speak to Ptosphes in private, then shrugged. "Just somebody to keep the Red Hand off our back. Three temple bands of Styphon's Own Guard from the Great Temple at Hos-Agrys came with us. They're not more than half a march's ride north along the High Road to ensure we don't fall back. If they think we've surrendered without cause, they may try to retake the camp and kill any of our men, as well as yours, they find."
Ptosphes nodded to indicate he understood. Styphon's House's Red Hand hadn't done this sort of thing to friendly soldiers thus far during the Great Kings' War, but their reputation more than justified expecting or fearing it. "Is that why you fought us?"
"That, and not knowing how many you were. We thought we'd done enough damage in the last two attacks that you'd be licking your wounds. Has the Dae-Has Kalvan taught you how to make armies invisible?"
"Great King Kalvan, to you. And, to answer your questions, no he hasn't. Just how to move them so far and so fast that they're hard to see unless one is looking in the right place. You could learn those arts too, if you gave the Great King cause to see you as friend rather than enemy."
The Count's frozen face told Ptosphes he was in no mood to listen to that kind of suggestion. Why, those words smacked of treason!, it seemed to say. If the Count had any sense he'd desert that hunk of whale blubber that overflowed the Golden Throne of Hos-Agrys and cast his bones with the Fireseed Throne of Hos-Hostigos. Learn what it was like to fight with a real captain. Maybe a few more defeats like this might bang some sense into that stump of wood he carried on his shoulders? Ptosphes' wouldn't bet a half phenig on it happening, though…
"Colonel Democriphon," he ordered. "Take your Lancers, two companies of dragoons, two bands of mercenary cavalry and four guns up the High Road. Find the Red Hand and block the road against them, but don't engage them unless they advance. If they do, signal by rocket. Then I'll bring up the whole army and we'll see about collecting their heads as my Name-Day gift to Princess Demia!"
"My Prince!"
Ptosphes turned to General Hestophes and said, "Prepare your Mobile Force just in case the Colonel needs support." Hestophes smiled in a way that showed he'd very much enjoy mixing it up with the Red Hand.
Democriphon wheeled his horse and trotted off. The Count sighed and appeared to sit easier in his saddle. "Thank you, Your Hig
hness. I wish-well, it seemed better to have my men die at your hands than at Styphon's bloody hands."
"Better still if they had not died at all," Ptosphes added. "Now, if you would care to sit down with me over some winter wine, I do believe we can put an end to this war in Nostor…"
II
Kalvan studied the distant walls of Tarr-Beshta as he strode back and forth in front of the Army of Beshta HQ, a former mansion of one of Balthar's favorites. From a distance the castle reminded him of a medieval painting of a siege he'd seen at The Louvre, except that the smell ruined the illusion. The siege had been going on for several weeks and the air was tainted with the smoke of burning campfires, unwashed bodies and rotting food. Fortunately, he only had to stay there as long as it took to breach the walls of Tarr-Beshta and take the possession.
Harmakros' Army of Observation had cleared the passes and the roads of Beshtan opposition, what little there was of it! Now Harmakros was laying siege to the border forts and castles with Hos-Harphax before they could surrender to the Harphaxi-which except for a loyal few would be as soon as they learned Tarr-Beshta had fallen. Many of the castles surrendered outright; a few welcoming the Hostigi as liberators.
The majority of Balthar's subjects appeared to have little enthusiasm for their Prince and the resistance on the road to Beshta City had been minimal. Still, the old miser hadn't been a complete fool; he'd always paid his army-if not well-on time. Although now, that he was stitched up in his castle, the Beshtan Army was on short rations. According to Harmakros' latest dispatch, most of the border tarrs haven't received pay or provisions in over a moon-half. It appeared that Balthar's Princely authority was shrinking to the length of his sword arm.
"How much deeper, Your Majesty?" the Captain of Artillery asked.
Kalvan put Ptosphes' dispatch into his saddlebag, mounted his horse and trotted over to the mortar pit, which was about a hundred feet from the walls of Tarr-Beshta. After he dismounted, his shield bearers, four of them carrying a reinforced gun guard about the size of a one-car garage door, walked in front of him, shielding him from enemy fire. "About a third of a rod," he told the Captain. To the men digging he said, "Ankle high."