Great Kings' War

by John F. Carr

  Phidestros backed his horse still farther into the field as Styphon's Red Hand marched by, and didn't return to the road until he could no longer hear their singing. He badly wanted to find out what might be going on toward the west, where he'd seen a good deal of smoke and heard more than a good deal firing, including artillery. He did not want it badly enough to call himself to the notice of a Temple Band whose grand-captain might have the ear of the Inner Circle.

  He snatched a quick meal of bread, cheese and sausage washed down with warm flat ale, while the baggage boy changed the wet cloths bound around his injured knee. He no longer had to stifle a gasp when he put his weight on the leg, but he knew he'd best plan on running no footraces for a while and spending that day either lying, sitting or riding.

  Several messengers rode by while he was eating. Two coming from the west stopped and accepted a few coins in return for their messages, but neither was able to tell him anything about the battle in the West Gap. They had not attacked, either. The second messenger added that the Royal troops of Hos-Harphax were coming up and seemed to regard this as good news, but then he spoke with a Harphax City accent.

  Phidestros realized that if the Iron Company were to be thrown into the battle at the West Gap, their approach to it would be over open ground; he could at least send more scouts ahead to find what was going on. He had a feeling that he would need that knowledge fairly soon. Of course, this might leave him short of trustworthy petty-captains... But knowing the whereabouts of the Hostigi positions might be the difference between the Iron Company being shot into ribbons by Kalvan's rifles, or acquitting the field with valor.

  He was just emptying his mug of ale when Geblon returned. His Banner-Captain's normally ruddy face looked pale with dust and something more that made Phidestros sit up and motion him to his side so that no one could overhear the Banner-Captain's message.

  "The Hostigi barely tried to hold the far end of the Gap, let alone the crest. Their—riflemen—did some damage, their Sastragathi irregulars a little more, but that was all. They're holding Mrathos with hardly more than a thousand men, but in trenches with artillery. Everybody believes there must be more Hostigi, and half of them are scattered all over Yirtta's potato patch trying to find them!"

  "Isn't Captain-General Aesthes trying to rein them in?"

  Geblon took two quick puffs on his pipe before answering, "He's determined to reduce Mrathos before he moves a yard further. He may do that before nightfall. I couldn't get close enough to the lines around the town to ask him or anybody else who might know."

  So if the Iron Company crossed the Middle Gap, it would find itself on a field where the enemy might or might not be present, and, if present, in unknown strength. Certainly a Captain-General who did not know his business would be present, and so would thousands of Styphon's finest troops. Not just on the field, but perhaps behind the Iron Company—and Styphon's Red Hand, at least, had a reputation for killing even allied troops, not just to keep them from retreating but to force them to stand and die to the last man.

  "Did anyone recognize you or name the Iron Company in your hearing?"

  Geblon shook his head. "Not that I remember."

  "You're sure?"

  "Almost sure."

  "Sure enough to swear an oath?"

  Geblon opened his mouth, obviously to ask what kind of oath, then shut it again. He knew of the reputation of Styphon's Red Hand, and he'd been a mercenary long enough to know that no one could be punished for not obeying an order he hadn't received. The less he knew about what was in his captain's mind, the less danger he'd be in if by chance Styphon's House or the Harphaxi wanted a convenient scapegoat.

  If the example was to come from the Iron Company, Phidestros was determined that it should be from him. He owed them that much—that, and not leading them into a battle on the ground of a lackwit's choosing. Not if he could avoid it, by Galzar!

  SIXTEEN

  I

  "Remember, at all costs keep five hundred paces between you and Baron Euklestes' column. If the cavalry can't fit into a gap that big, I'll have them all sent to one of Yirtta's temple-houses for the blind!"

  "It shall be done, Your Majesty," Baron Halmoth said with a grin. "That should also let both us and Euklestes shoot at any Harphaxi unwise enough to ride into the gap, without fear of hitting each other. Am I right?" Kalvan nodded. "Then—when do we march?"

  Kalvan hesitated a moment over his answer. Great Kings weren't supposed to admit to being at the mercy of their subordinates, even when the subordinates were as good as Harmakros. On the other hand Euklestes seemed intelligent enough to benefit from a short lesson in generalship.

  "As soon as I receive the next message from Count Harmakros on how the battle around Mrathos is going." They both looked at the eastern sky above the treetops and at the towering plume of black smoke trailing across the blue like a scarf.

  It bothered Kalvan that Harmakros had troops that had arrived too late to hold the Middle Gap; it had been his plan to hold the Heights and pick the Harphaxi to pieces as they went against both gravity and the tide of battle. Instead of retreating Harmakros had stood his ground at the town of Mrathos, turning that insignificant piece of real estate into a critical defensive point.

  Mrathos Town was the here-and-now site of Strasburg, where two years before he was picked up by the cross-time flying saucer he'd lost a good friend, Sergeant Joe Bonnetti. The Sergeant, Calvin Morrison's mentor during his first two years as a Pennsylvania State Trooper, had been run off a wet road and killed by a drunken driver, a drunk with so many political connections that he'd got off with a slap on the wrist. There was no way to talk about this memory, either; even if there'd been anyone around cleared for the "secret" of his origins, they might call it an evil omen.

  What was more annoying, Kalvan wasn't entirely sure they'd be completely wrong. Was living among people who took gods and demons and sorcery for granted making him superstitious?

  Wasn't this a hell of a thing to be worry over as the biggest battle of his life approached its climax?

  Kalvan turned his mind to a more practical question. What should he do about Harmakros, who'd shown initiative—Dram-damnit, nearly disobedience!—by holding Mrathos instead of retreating and contacting his commander-and-chief, then holding back four fifths of his men while the garrison of Mrathos drew most of the Harphaxi right on to itself? Certainly Harmakros had infected Captain-General Aesthes with an obsessive desire to reduce the town—to rubble and ashes, if nothing more—before moving on, or even bothering to control the rest of his troops. Some French general whose name Kalvan couldn't recall had the same bee in his bonnet at Waterloo and spent the whole battle attacking the Chateau of Hougoumont, leaving the rest of Wellington's right flank completely alone. The garrison at Mrathos didn't need to do nearly as much, and it looked as if they might have already done it.

  More of Kalvan's friends might die today at Mrathos, but so would a lot of his enemies. He spurred his horse back toward the rear of the units lined up for the counterattack. He'd be riding back there, along with the artillery and the counterattack's own private cavalry reserve, the Royal Lifeguards and the First Dragoons. Kalvan might be commanding, but the counterattack would actually be led by Phrames.

  This was unorthodox but made sense for several reasons, one of which was that Phrames knew his business. Another was the superior quality of the cavalry, mostly royal regulars and several squadrons of the Ulthori Household Guard. They were better able to take or deliver the first shock as long as they could be kept from charging massed infantry. The infantry of the counterattack included too many small mercenary units (it was being kind to call them companies) plus Halmoth's column of two—call them "regiments" to avoid being insulting—of Hostigi foot militia. The militia were the survivors of last year's battles who could be spared for field service. While the militia had smelled powder and this year carried handguns instead of crossbows, they'd hardly done a week's training between last fall and th
e day the Army of the Harph marched east.

  In the rear, Kalvan would have the infantry under his eye. He'd also be clear of the scrimmage up ahead, able to move his reserves where they were most needed—or even move them to another part of the battlefield entirely. He might have to do that if Captain-General Aesthes pushed past Harmakros' Mobile Force and Armanes needed help—and where the Styphon was Harmakros' messenger, and what should he do to the Harmakros that would persuade him not to do this sort of thing again, without making him afraid to blow his nose without an order?

  Another universal commander's problem: how to encourage initiative without losing control of your subordinates. Kalvan reflected morosely that the problem had probably first presented itself to some Neanderthal chieftain leading a raid on a neighbor's cave.

  II

  A shift in the breeze suddenly thinned the smoke pouring up from the burning farmhouse. It hadn't been much smoke, compared to what was pouring up from Mrathos two miles to the east, but it had been enough to screen Verkan's patrol of the Mounted Rifles from what lay beyond the hedges bordering the farmyard. Now the screen was gone, and Verkan was staring at more than a hundred of Styphon's Red Hand, and particularly at a mounted officer who was staring back as though one of Styphon's fireseed devils had suddenly materialized out of the haze.

  Verkan was the first to break away. His pistol shot missed the officer but nicked his horse, which kept the Guard Captain busy enough for Verkan to shout, "No dismounting! We had orders to find the Styphoni and we've done it! Pull back!"

  By the time the Captain of Styphon's Own Guard had his mount under control and was sending his men through the gate in the hedge, Verkan's twenty-five Riflemen were trotting away across the farmer's now well-trodden barley. They were on the far side of the field and approaching the boundary with the next farm before the Red Hand opened fire, at long range for musketoons.

  Long range, but not impossible, with fifty men volleying at a single target. Verkan had just enough time to realize that he was the single target, when his horse screamed and reared violently, something went wheeet past his ear, and something else went whnnnnngggg off his breastplate. Verkan flung himself to the left to avoid falling under his horse, smashed into something solid and hard enough to knock the wind out of him, then found himself suspended clear of the ground with what seemed to be blunt knives digging into his ribs.

  He gulped in air, shook his head and discovered he was caught in the half-rotted framework of an overturned farm wagon. He must have been right on top of it when the Styphoni killed his horse, then smashed most of the way through when he leaped clear. For a long moment he wriggled like a child in the arms of a determined mother, then the rest of the framework gave way and he dropped through to the ground.

  The timbers of the bed of the wagon were less rotted, a piece of good luck for Verkan. Bullets thunked into the wood as the Guardsmen blazed away with more enthusiasm than accuracy. The sound of incoming fire didn't drown out Ranthar's orders to dismount and return fire. The Mounted Rifles were falling into fours with the ease of long practice—three to open fire and one to hold the horses. Ranthar himself was staying mounted, his rifle still slung across his back.

  Verkan couldn't see all his men, but from the sudden burst of rifle fire he knew everyone but the horse-holders must have let fly. Two more volleys were punctuated by a cry of pain and several gleefully triumphant shouts, then the massed fire gave way to individual fire. The thunking of bullets into the wagon bed became less frequent as the Styphoni found it prudent to keep their heads out of the sights of rifles, even rifles in the hands of despised heretics and demon-worshippers.

  Then Ranthar Jard was riding toward Verkan and extending a hand down from the saddle. "This is a lousy place for a vacation, Colonel. The roof leaks, the plumbing's blocked up and the neighborhood is too noisy." A Styphoni bullet kicked up dust between his horse's hind legs, and another drove splinters into Verkan's left hand hard enough to draw blood.

  "That's what comes of taking advice from tavern friends," Verkan said. He took the hand, gripped the saddlebow with the other and swung himself up onto the neck of Ranthar's bay. A few more bullets whistled by, then they were out of range and behind the team of Riflemen who took their Colonel's rescue as the signal to start mounting up.

  They'd only lost one man, and from the back of the dead man's horse Verkan looked toward the Styphoni position. It was now decorated with a score of red-clad corpses and the body of the Guard Captain's horse. A few of the Red Hand were keeping up a sporadic fire, while the rest seemed to be either lying low or holding their glaives, ready to stand off the Mounted Rifle's charge.

  Verkan hoped they'd have a long, hot, thirsty wait, and a royal reaming-out from the next Hostigi detachment to come along. He glanced back at his dead mount. It was a pity he couldn't retrieve the saddlebags, but everything compromising in it was in one simulated-leather pouch equipped with a dead-man timer and a charge nobody on Fourth Level, Aryan Transpacific could find, let alone disarm. When the timer ran out, the charge would give a remarkably good impression of a demonic visitation to anyone far enough away to survive.

  Meanwhile, in spite of his own embarrassingly minor role in the skirmish, the patrol had done its job. It had found Styphoni so far west of Mrathos that it was obvious they'd be able to meet Harmakros' attack in force if he delayed it much longer. The advantage Harmakros had won from the stand at Mrathos and Captain-General Aesthes' lack of control over his wing of the Harphaxi could be lost—if not completely, enough to make the next stage of the battle on the Hostigi left a lot bloodier than it would be otherwise.

  Then Harmakros might lose some of his reputation, and either try something foolish to restore it and get killed, or be shoved aside by rivals who also had a claim on Great King Kalvan. Either way, Kalvan would be losing one of his best field commanders, which would be the equivalent of losing a fair-sized battle.

  To prevent that, Verkan Vall would have steered much closer to the line between contamination and noncontamination than he would have to now. After all, he was a trusted field officer reporting to the general who'd ordered him out on a scouting mission; he would be expected to offer advice. The rest could almost certainly be left to Harmakros' wits.

  Nobody who knew anything about war could call that contamination. Of course, not everybody knew anything about war, a fact that Verkan Vall would have been resigned to as long as the ignorant didn't rise to high rank in the Paratime Police, Paratime Commission, Executive Council or the Outtime Trade Board. As things really were...

  The thought of how things really were made him dig his spurs into his horses flanks, pushing it from a trot into a canter.

  SEVENTEEN

  I

  When Captain Phidestros heard the sudden increase in firing from the far side of the Heights, he ordered the Iron Company to make ready to mount up. The most likely explanation for the new uproar was a Hostigi attack, and he wanted to be able to move out as quickly as possible through the Middle Gap to reinforce Captain-General Aesthes. Surely Aesthes, having through no gift of his own found the long sought Hostigi flank, would not hesitate to call up every man jack within reach of his messengers to attack it.

  Instead the battle roar continued to mount, and white powder smoke climbed the sky above the Heights to join the black murk from burning Mrathos. Still no orders came from the Captain-General or anybody else, and no more messengers came along the road from the west. The battle there was still going on, which suggested that the Hostigi at the West Gap must have either been much stronger than anyone had suspected or else been reinforced since the fighting had opened some several candles ago. There could be no other natural explanation for their holding so long; Phidestros would believe other kinds of explanations when he saw evidence for them.

  Without his injured knee, Phidestros would have dismounted and walked off his growing ill temper, striding up and down in front of the Iron Company, until either orders came or he felt better. With
his knee still sore, all he could do was sit on his horse until Snowdrift sensed his rider's uneasiness enough to grow jittery, then dismount and sit on a stump high enough to be clear of the rank grass and horse droppings.

  It didn't help that the muck from the creek now reeked like a midden, and what had found its way through the chinks in his armor to creep next to his skin itched like all the fleas in Harphax City amusing themselves at once. Men who had business with him carefully stayed upwind, Phidestros noticed. He also realized he could do nothing about this until he could strip off his armor, boil his clothes and have a thorough bath—preferably in a proper Zygrosi bathhouse, with clouds of steam rising around him and a comely wench to ply him with soap, scraper, cloths, oil, sweetcakes, winter wine, a massage...

  Phidestros ruthlessly kept his imagination from going any farther; instead he decided to light his pipe, only to discover he had no more tobacco. He sent his baggage boy to find some, and also to summon Geblon and Kyblannos. If the Iron Company was to sit around until it perished from boredom it might at least sit somewhere there was water and shade.

  The nearest place to provide both turned out to be a chestnut grove already occupied by a gaggle of stragglers, deserters, servants and camp followers—as well as a few genuine sufferers from fever, flux or the heat. The Iron Company routed the able-bodied out of the grove at point of sword and pistol, took the casualties under its protection and settled down to wait with as much patience as they could muster.

  His baggage boy finally returned with some tobacco and he was getting his pipe drawing nicely when a shout came from the lookout he'd posted in the upper branches of the tall sycamore at the west end of the grove.

  "Captain! There's fighting south of the West Gap. I can see a lot of dust and some cavalry at the gallop!"