Kalvan Kingmaker k-3

by John F. Carr

  The spear whirled in Sargos' hand, then struck Alfgar's belly, which instantly sprouted a curious red bloom. The knowledge of what had just happened was just dawning in his eyes when Sargos' ax came down upon his head, crushing his left cheek and jawbone.

  "The gods have spoken," Sargos gasped. He hoped if more needed to be said, the gods would say it themselves. Neither his wits nor his wind seemed to be fit for the task, and, as for his legs, he prayed they would not tumble him into the mud beside his foe.

  Ranjar, son of Cedrak, you are too old for this and so you will learn the next time not to confuse the voice of the gods with the memories of your own youth.

  Egthrad and Old Daron, chiefs of his own Clan, ran forward to aid him, but were pushed aside by Althea. "Stop treating me as though this was my first wound!" he growled. "It's more like my tenth, and one of the least." In truth, it would need some care, and he would be riding more than walking for the next moon quarter. But only the flesh hurt.

  In his ear, Althea whispered, "You own them now. It was a magnificent victory."

  Meanwhile the crowd around him had grown and was beginning to chant, "Sargos! Sargos! Warlord Sargos!" He wasn't sure if his own Clansmen had started the chant or if it was a spontaneous outburst; regardless, he knew how to grasp the moment and squeeze it with both hands. He stepped back and raised his arms.

  Together, Headman Jardar Hyphos and his son stepped forward and lifted Alfgar's motionless body.

  Behind them came Chief Rostino. He knelt before Sargos and pressed his forehead against Sargos' hands. "The gods have truly spoken. What do they wish, Warlord Sargos? That we swear to you?"

  Had it been a Sastragathi chieftain making this pronouncement rather than a Plainsman, there might have been jeers and catcalls-as it was there was naught but silence.

  "The gods ask little," Sargos panted. He took several deep breaths until he found that he could hope to speak instead of gasp. At least I will ask little. The gods will not help a man who asks for more than those who follow him are willing to give.

  "Little indeed," Sargos repeated. "Only that you follow me in war and peace, save when I ask for war against blood-brothers or peace with blood-enemies. And that you yourselves are bound by this oath until I release you or Wind take you."

  "I swear-" Chief Rostino began, but Sargos stopped him, extending his hand to help him to his feet.

  "Rise. I will have no brave warriors swearing anything to me on their knees. That is more pride than the gods allow."

  There was a boisterous round of oath-taking as many of the assembled chiefs, who had not already done so, swore their allegiance to Ranjar Sargos as Warlord.

  After all the oaths had been given, Sargos said, "Let us take a visit to the bathhouse, while the women heat us some beer. Or there is wine if any of you wish it."

  Sargos could not tell what drew more enthusiasm, the gods'judgment, the baths, or the prospect of a good drinking party.

  THIRTY

  Present-aaarrrmmmmsss!"

  Fifty bayoneted muskets snapped into position across fifty Hostigi breastplates. A hundred sabers leaped to the vertical. Even in the watery spring sunlight, the reflection from all the steel made Kalvan blink.

  The herald of Nestros, King of Rathon and self-proclaimed High King of the Trygath, rode forward. His mounted escort rode forward on either side of him, fifty big men on beer-wagon sized-destriers. By the customs of the Trygath, heralds went guarded until they were actually in the presence of the men they were sent to parlay with. Also by custom, the horsemen rode with their visors up and their swords held upright by the blades, as proof of peaceful intent.

  Kalvan studied the guards as they rode up the slope toward him. They reminded him more than a little of the Royal Lancers of Hos-Harphax, swathed from head to foot in armor about as useful as cheesecloth in keeping out a musket bullet or a chunk of case shot.

  Except that this was the Trygath, where in nine years out of ten the only fireseed available was what neighboring Eastern Princes were willing to sell illegally, risking both shortages and Styphon's Ban. Against other armored knights or lightly armored nomads, riding around looking like a blacksmith's version of a lobster made a certain amount of sense.

  This had already started to change, with the emerging trade of Hostigos Unconsecrated (plus a little Styphon's Best on the side) for horses, mead, and furs. It was about to change more, but not quickly or easily. Military technology was generally about as slow to change as priestly ritual. So for now, the Trygathi fully armored men-at-arms had a few more days in the sun.

  The herald signaled; the Rathoni guardsmen reined in, leaving him to mount the slope alone. At a nod from Captain-General Harmakros, Aspasthar rode out, his first sword reversed in his hand and the sun shining on his first suit of armor, emblazoned with the Great King's keystone.

  "Who comes to the host of Great King Kalvan of Hos-Hostigos?" Aspasthar's voice was high-pitched but steady.

  "Baron Thestros of Rathon, herald and envoy of High King Nestros." The herald took another look at the Royal Page. "Does the Great King lack men, that he has me greeted by a beardless boy?"

  "Had he thought you saw wisdom in a beard, my lord, the Great King would have sent you a he-goat!"

  In the ensuing silence, Kalvan and Harmakros exchanged eloquent looks. Kalvan's said, If the boy's tongue has run away with him and we have a fight, he is going to get the flat of my saber across his backside.

  Harmakros' reply was, Don't worry. The boy knows what he is doing.

  The herald was the first to break the silence, with a roar of laughter. Seeing themselves given permission, the Rathoni Royal Guard also broke into laughter. Then everyone was hooting and guffawing, and Harmakros was riding forward to clap Aspasthar on the shoulder so hard the boy nearly fell out of his saddle.

  At last silence returned, except for a distant rumble of thunder. Baron Thestros wiped his face with a yellow-gloved hand.

  "Well-spoken, lad. You do honor to your sire, your king and your realm. But I think there must be a person of more rank than you, in a host as large as this. Might I seek the honor of speech with he who holds the most rank among you? Captain-General Harmakros, I believe?"

  Harmakros nodded. "At your service. But I am not highest among those present." He turned in the saddle. "Your Majesty?"

  Kalvan urged his horse forward, letting his cloak flow back from his shoulders. Baron Thestros did a good imitation of a man whose eyes are about to pop from his head. Then he swung himself swiftly if not gracefully from the saddle and went down on one knee.

  "Your Majesty! In the name of High King Nestros, greetings!"

  "Surely you have more than greetings to bring, since you have four thousand cavalry at your summons. Your King has a name for wisdom, and would not send such a host with a message a beardless boy could bring."

  The imitation of eye-popping was even better this time; Kalvan let it go on until he was sure the herald needed reassurance.

  "No. I have no demonic arts, only good scouts. They saw your men yesterday and rode swiftly to bring word to me. I came up, that there might be no misunderstandings about why the men of Hos-Hostigos and its allies have come to the Trygath."

  "I believe Your Majesty. But then, pray tell what is the reason for such a host being upon the domain of King Nestros? He wishes peace with all who wish it with him, but those who wish peace seldom come with twenty thousand armed retainers!"

  "Your scouts are not inferior to mine," Kalvan said with a grin. That was a remarkable accurate count of the Hostigi who'd crossed into the Trygath. Another ten to twelve thousand were strung out all the way across Kyblos, ready to either join the main body or cover its withdrawal. Kalvan had hoped for a greater feudal levy from Kyblos, but many of the southern barons had not responded to Prince Tythanes' request for men-and probably wouldn't at anything less than sword point. He understood their hearts-along with their soldiers-were with their homes, but at some point Kalvan would have to find a fit pu
nishment for their willful neglect of feudal duty and custom. Or risk wholesale desertion by his barons' levy every time the Styphoni armies threatened, which would be disastrous.

  "I thank Your Majesty. But-forgive me for being inopportune, but I have only the cause of peace at heart. I ask once more, why are you in my King's realm?"

  That was a bit of exaggeration, thought Kalvan, since Nestros' sovereignty was only recognized by four of the Trygath's nine 'legitimate' kings and princes and, in fact, two of them, Ragnar andThul, were subjects of King Theovacar of Greffscharr. Diplomacy, however, was the order of the day. "We do not come in search of peace."

  Kalvan could have sworn he heard the thud of the baron's jaw hitting the ground. Quickly he added, "We come to wage war on the horde from the Sastragath and the Great Plains, enemies common to all of us."

  The herald shook his head. "King Nestros has taken counsel with his princes and lords, and he has devised ways of meeting the nomad host. It insults him to think that he must wait upon Eastern realms for defense of his own."

  "I am sure that the true gods fight for King Nestros, and his Princes and people likewise," Kalvan said. "Yet is it not true that the nomad horde counts more fighting men than the Trygath and Hos-Hostigos combined?" Three times, Kalvan thought, if the estimate of a hundred and fifty thousand on the way northeast was correct.

  "Is it not also true, that during the last moon, riders of the horde reached the Lower Saltless Sea, sowing death with every step their horses took? They did not return, but would it not have been better that they not even start?"

  Kalvan wanted to meet the local magnate who'd caught the raiders on their way back from the shores of Lake Erie.

  King Crython of Ragnar had outthought as well as outfought the raiders, by all reports; that kind of man would make almost as good an ally as King Nestros. But first, King Nestros would have to refuse the alliance before Kalvan could safely seek allies among his princes and nobles.

  "Indeed," the herald said, "and no such raids will come again this season.

  "Is this certain? Certainly they will cease after the valiant men-at-arms and footmen of King Nestros have broken the strength of the horde. But Nestros will do this only if he gathers all his strength under his own hand. Who will be left to defend the lands of those who march against the horde, against handfuls of raiders and outlaws?"

  Kalvan had pitched his voice loud enough to be heard by the Royal Guardsmen. All of them would be nobles or sons of nobles; all must share the fear of what would happen to their lands at the hands of nomad outriders and bandits.

  "Your Majesty, do you swear you can prevent this if King Nestros and you become friends?"

  "We are not enemies even now, nor shall we be. What you mean is, if we become allies. I only say this. If we become allies, there will be twenty-five thousand Hostigi, perhaps more, to strengthen your King."

  "And if there is no alliance, will there be twenty-five thousand fewer?"

  "The host of the Great King will fight the horde wherever we find it," Kalvan answered. "But is it not better that we fight it together? Sticks separated are easily broken. Tied into a bundle, they defy the strength of a giant."

  "Your Majesty speaks eloquently. I think, perhaps, it would be wiser if you spoke thus to King Nestros."

  "Nothing would give me more pleasure, if I knew where to find your High King?"

  "Let Your Majesty ride to Rathon City, and I believe you will find no obstacles in your path."

  Rathon City was the here-and-now equivalent of Akron, Ohio: about fifty miles away-three days easy marching.

  "The High King will see me in Rathon City before the horde can wreak any more harm upon his realm. Now, I see that the sky promises rain. Would you and your guard commander care to accept the hospitality of my tent, which I think is closer than your own?"

  Baron Thestros and his guard commander exchanged looks; then the herald nodded. "We are honored by Your Majesty's hospitality."

  "Call it the first repayment of the hospitality we have received from King Nestros' subjects," Kalvan said. Baron Thestros frowned, and still looked puzzled as he led his guards off behind Aspasthar.

  When the Trygathi commanders were safely on their way, Harmakros rode his horse beside to Kalvan. "Your Majesty, far be it from me to tell you how to guide the realm-"

  "If you ever stop telling me, Harmakros, I'll find another Captain-General. Out with it. I don't want to get caught in the rain if I can help it. A fine spectacle for our allies, me leading a charge with sword in one hand and handkerchief in the other."

  Harmakros quickly ordered the First Royal Horse Guard into a wide circle, and then put them in movement toward the tent. Riding practically boot to boot with Kalvan, he grinned.

  "Your Majesty is as silver tongued as any bard, but is this the time to be so truthful about what we want?"

  "It is the best time. Any earlier would have given the Union of Styphon's Friends or the League of Dralm time to make noises. Not to mention, letting the Zarthani Knights send scouts on to our line of march, and maybe more than scouts. Ten thousand Trygathi could give us enough trouble. Think about ten thousand Knights."

  "I'd rather think about more pleasant things."

  "Like that blonde at Mnebros Town?"

  Harmakros flushed. "I didn't know Your Majesty noticed."

  "Just because I slept alone doesn't mean I don't know the officers who didn't." They were silent for a moment, guiding their horses over a rough patch of ground.

  "It's Mnebros Town that made me think the time was ripe to tell the truth," Kalvan went on. "Those people were so Dralm-damned glad to see us, it was pathetic. We could have had anything we asked for, not just wine, women, and banquets. They were truly frightened of that horde.

  "What the Styphon! A horde that size scares me! But our lands are farther than they're likely to reach. Around here, nobody knows if they'll have a roof over their heads and all their family alive come winter."

  Kalvan stopped speaking while his horse trotted around a bush that separated the two men. "Nestros will do his best, but if that isn't going to be good enough…"

  "If that isn't good enough," Harmakros replied, "his Princes and barons will start looking around for someone whose best might be good enough?"

  "Exactly." The gray sky was overhead now, and to the northwest was turning black. The royal pavilion was in sight ahead; the herald's party was just turning in to it. "The Trygathi nobles have always had more independence than the ones in the East, at least since fireseed came along. Things aren't as settled here and a good castle gives you more bargaining power when the only way to take it is starving it out. King Nestros will be down to lord mayor of Rathon City if he lets too many of his nobles' lands be overrun."

  Harmakros shook his head. "And you learned all this from those old parchments?"

  Kalvan nodded. He knew that Harmakros had risen from a commoner's family and had never learned to read or write, which was typical of here-and-now, where-for the most part-only the nobility, and priesthood, had any education. "An alliance with us is really a gift from the Gods; now, all we have to do is convince Nestros of that. All the second-line troops he probably couldn't feed anyway can go back and defend their homes. We will put our men into line with his, and he'll have twice as big an army as he would otherwise. And a better one to boot! He'll keep the loyalty of his barons, defeat the horde and have his title recognized all at once. How could any man resist-?"

  At the word "resist," the skies split apart in a thunderclap that made the horses jump. As the thunder rumbled into silence, the hiss of rain took its place. A few drops spattered across Kalvan's hands, a few more across his face, then the deluge struck.

  He reined his horse to a walk and sneezed as drops found their way up his nose-so much for royal dignity.

  THIRTY ONE

  I

  Knight Commander Aristocles took a moment to light his pipe. "I talked to the messenger myself, Soton. The Usurper's troops have alre
ady reached the Trygath. Soon we shall cross swords with our true enemy, not these miserable curs that we have been driving into Kalvan's lands."

  Grand Master Soton drank deep from his tankard. "We must not only harass Kalvan, but defeat him as well if we are to keep his armies from the gates of Harphax City."

  "Better yet, let the nomads bleed him dry. Every day their forces grow and so does their battle prowess. This new Warlord of theirs may prove to be our problem someday. For now, let him be Kalvan's thorn."

  "Well said, old friend. Although it sickens me to despoil any Zarthani lands with the nomads we are sworn to keep at bay."

  "This Trygathi gaggle of pretend princedoms and petty kings are only a few generations removed from their cowhide wagons and tents! They are not true Zarthani, but mostly decadent tribes, remnants of the Urgothi migrations. I will shed no more tears over their passing than I would that of a herd of buffalo."

  "That may be true of the Sastragathi peoples, Aristocles, but some of these Trygathi princedoms go back a century or two. You forget my own village was on the Trygath/Ktemnos border. True, their ways are crude, but their hearts are strong and they do know how to fight. I'm glad it's Kalvan and the nomads who will be ground against their spears and swords."

  Knight Commander Aristocles reached over and poured another cup of the bitter chocolate into his tankard. At Tarr-Ceros he preferred his chocolate laced with honey to sweeten the taste, but the Grand Master kept his table as spare as those of his lowliest troopers. He raised his tankard up and toasted, "To the mighty walls of Xiphlon and long may they keep the Mexicotal at bay."

  "A good toast, Aristocles." The Grand Master took a long draught from his own silver tankard. "It would be a tragedy if those flesh-eaters brought down the walls of the noblest city of our age."

  In a lightning-swift change of mood, Soton slammed his tankard down on the table, spilling the dark brown fluid over the deerskin maps and parchment letters. "We should be marching toward the Mexicotal's rear instead of herding nomads!"