Great Kings' War

by John F. Carr

  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 Highness. 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."

  Then he returned to field headquarters, remembering the fate of Richard Lionheart, who'd ridden into crossbow range of a French castle he was besieging and paid for it with his life, leaving John Lackland as the next King of England. Nor did it make any sense to put his shield bearers at needless risk.

  Once he was settled, he began to read Ptosphes' dispatch where he'd left of:

  —on terms which you will see in the enclosed copy of the Truce Agreement. It is hard to believe that anyone not a minion of Styphon's House will consider them other than honorable, or even generous for a host so thoroughly defeated as that of Great King Demistophon's.

  Kalvan quickly looked over the other sheets of parchment with Ptosphes' letter. The Agrysi were to retain all their small arms and such fireseed and food as they could carry on their persons or mounts; those taken prisoner in the earlier battles were to be released on oath to pay token ransoms before next spring; petty-captains and above were to retain their armor.

  These terms cover the lawful subjects of Great King Demistophon and his Princes. The mercenaries have given their Oath to Galzar in the customary manner. It appears that not less than three thousand of them and perhaps more could be persuaded to take Hostigi colors. With the captured supplies and this addition to our strength, we are more than fit to stand against any treachery by Styphon's House, without eating Prince Pheblon's lands any barer than they are already.

  From the speed with which the Red Hand retreated, I much doubt that they were given orders to slay the Agrysi for yielding untimely. Such an act added to Prince Balthar's foll
y at Tarr-Catassa would drive many mercenaries into our service—or at least out of Styphon's House's—and hasten the end of the war. Grand Master Soton would have the wit to see this, if none of the Inner Circle did.

  Kalvan's mouth made an O and a soundless whistle. A casual, even complimentary mention of the man who'd defeated him demonstrated just how much Ptosphes had recovered his morale. He wondered if he should include in his reply the rumors that the Grand Master was in serious trouble with the Inner Circle for pulling his Knights off the field of Phyrax instead of keeping them there to die to the last man.

  Best not. Letters could be captured, and so far the rumor was just that, apart from also being something the Styphoni might not know had reached Hos-Hostigos. Right now Styphon's House appeared to be running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off, and any precaution that contributed to their confusion and ignorance was justified.

  And speaking of precautions—Kalvan rose to his feet and shouted at the gunners who were digging a pit out of the side of the trench toward Tarr-Beshta. "That's deep enough, you Ormaz-spawned idiots! Any deeper, the gun will be firing straight up. And the shells will land on the heads of the men in the forward trenches! If they landed on your heads it might not be so bad, because I don't think you keep anything important there! But that's not true of your comrades."

  "Your Majesty?" several bewildered artillerymen said at once.

  Kalvan sighed, cursing Styphon's House for discouraging the art of siegecraft, and stood up. He spent a long moment studying the scarred gray walls of Tarr-Beshta for any signs of unusual activity that might mean a sortie, then scrambled down into the trench without regard to his dignity or the ability of his guards to keep up with him.

  Five minutes with the artillerymen who were digging the pit was enough to give him some hope that they almost understood most of what he'd been trying to teach them. To be sure, the old twelve-pounder they were using as an improvised mortar would have a longer barrel and therefore more range than the mortars he had the Foundry working on, but why take chances? Only one or two shells on the heads of the infantrymen doing the dirtiest work of the siege, and the whole concept of indirect fire would be distrusted and despised so thoroughly that not even a Dralm-sent Great King could get it easily accepted.

  On the other hand, if those shells landed inside Tarr-Beshta—it would take more than one or two, but not many more before it would be safe to storm the castle, end the siege and let a Great King who was also acting as his own Chief of Engineers get more than three hours' sleep a night! Note: First thing, start a Dept. of Engineering at the new University of Hostigos.

  Kalvan finished Ptosphes' letter over lunch in his field headquarters. The letter concluded almost jauntily:

  Prince Aesklos' leg is being treated with your new healing wisdom about cleanliness by Brother Cyphrax, an underpriest of Galzar. There is some danger in this, because if the Prince dies or loses his leg, we shall be blamed for setting demons upon him. However, Brother Cyphrax says that the bone of his leg is not so badly broken. If the flesh wound does not bring the fester devils and the Prince need fear neither for life nor limb. We are more likely to heal than harm him, as he is much respected both as Prince and as war leader in Hos-Agrys, we will have in our debt a man whose voice will carry much weight in the councils of Demistophon the Short-Sighted.

  When the dangers from Styphon's Guardsmen is past, I intend to use such of the Army of Nostor as can be supported with our available supplies to rebuild and garrison some of Prince Pheblon's abandoned tarrs and strongholds, and after that root out the bandits who have become a veritable plague upon the countryside. Despite their wagon trains, the Agrysi soldiers fell upon Nostor like locusts, although most prudent men and women fled from their advance, abandoning their fields. However, what is more likely to prevent a proper harvest in Nostor this year, besides the number of farmers who died in the wars or protecting their holds, are the Agrysi deserters and the bandits, and it seems to me that the best work for me is seeing that they are destroyed.

  With good fortune and the aid of the True Gods, I may return to Hostigos within a moon. Amasphalya should be warned that at that time I shall pick up my granddaughter and hold her, and Hadron take anyone who stands in my path!

  Perhaps Amasphalya dares to stand against a mere Prince, but if she stands against a grandfather she shall suffer for it.

  With best wishes for Your Majesty's continued health and success and for that of our well-beloved Queen Rylla and Princess Demia, I remain,

  Your obedient humble servant

  Ptosphes

  First Prince of Hos-Hostigos

  This time Kalvan whistled out loud. It was hard to believe this letter was written by the same man he'd seen off to Nostor a moon ago, who'd looked as if he were going to his execution. Kalvan had been torn between sending someone to keep an eye on his father-in-law and prevent him from getting killed unnecessarily, and fearing that doing this would be an insult that would make Ptosphes certain he was incompetent and dishonored even in the eyes of his son-in-law. After listening to Rylla, he'd decided to let Ptosphes go without a watchdog and keep his fingers crossed—a gesture that the here-and-now gods or Somebody seemed to have rewarded.

  It was a pity that after so many men wound up being killed in the process of restoring Ptosphes' morale. Not that the war with Hos-Agrys was Ptosphes' fault—or Kalvan's, or anybody's but Styphon's House and to some extend King Demistophon, who had fallen upon Hostigos like a wolf on a wounded bear only to learn to his cost that the bear was still full of fight.

  Kalvan saw no reason to quarrel with Harmakros' epitaph on Demistophon's campaign in Nostor:

  "The stupid son of a she-ass should have known better."

  Not to mention that some of his nobles apparently had known better, or at least were having second thoughts, and if antisepsis saved Prince Aesklos' life and his leg as well... Kalvan decided not to uncross his fingers until he heard how Aesklos was doing.

  III

  Later, back at the manor house he was using as the Army of Beshta HQ, Kalvan was reading Ptosphes' second enclosure, a list of booty collected and honors he wanted awarded, when he became aware of someone standing in his light. He looked up and stifled a groan when he saw Major-General Klestreus looming over the whale-oil lamp. The Chief of Intelligence could hardly have ridden down from Hostigos Town without neglecting his duties, so he'd better have a damn good excuse for the trip.

  "Yes, Klestreus?"

  "Your Majesty, the convoy with the shells for the—the mortar—has arrived. Great Queen Rylla rides with it, as well as Princess Demia, so it seemed to me that a man of more rank that the captain of the convoy should accompany—"

  "Rylla? The baby! Here?"

  "I just told Your Majesty—"

  "Yes, you did. Now tell me—are they well?"

  "I am no judge of such matters, having always believed that saddles were made for horses, not men, and that if the True Gods—"

  "Get on with it, man!"

  "Yes. Yes. The Queen rode all the way, and Her Royal Highness cries most lustily and keeps the wet nurses awake much of the night—and the drovers and guards as well. I suspect a trace of the croup."

  "Kalvan thought of tell the life-long bachelor that he was not a lot of other things besides a judge of the health of babies, then decided to save his breath for the inevitable fight with Rylla. This time he was going to lay down the law, and if she threw tantrums or anything else, he'd just duck and go on until he'd spoken his piece.

  He practically leaped down the stairs from his War Room and reached the door of the manor just in time to see Rylla dismounting from the big roan gelding that had the easiest gait of any horse in the royal stables. Rylla looked pale, but she was still so damn beautiful that before he could think of royal dignity he was running toward her.

  She ran to meet him, and a moment later he was glad he was wearing a back-and-breast, because otherwise he would have felt his ribs crack
ing. He was hugging her back with one arm and stroking her hair with the other, saying things he hoped nobody else was hearing until he ran out of breath.

  At last, Kalvan held her out at arm's length and saw beyond her grinning face most of his guards trying very hard not to grin. Farther out was a trio of horse litters and a long string of pack animals surrounded by at least two hundred mounted men all armed to the teeth. A fat, gray-haired woman was dismounting from one of the litter, carrying a wailing bundle as delicately as if it had been a basket of spiderwebs.

  Rylla hadn't just ridden off on a whim; she had come with a proper escort and a regular traveling nursery and generally done things the way he would have told her to do them—assuming that he hadn't been able to keep her from coming at all, which knowing Rylla was a pretty safe assumption.

  Besides, a second look told him that Rylla wasn't pale because she was sick. She'd been inside so long that she'd lost her usual tan. In fact, she looked even better close up than she had from a distance.

  Not to mention that after he'd made this kind of spectacle of himself, she'd never believe a single harsh word he said. She'd break into giggles, and in the face of that, Kalvan doubted he could keep either the last shreds of his royal dignity or even much of a straight face.

  IV

  Tarr-Beshta was the oldest castle Kalvan had seen here-and-now; it reminded him of some of the Norman castles he'd seen after his discharge from the Army. He'd taken a month off to tour Europe, though he'd spent most of his time in England and France. Balthar might have been as miserly as Scrooge, but he still had spent enough to keep the old stone walls in good repair. With traditional here-and-now siege craft, it might have taken two moons to invest Tarr-Beshta; Kalvan hoped to do it in a quarter of that time.