by John F. Carr
From behind Kalvan and Rylla the converted twelve-pounder went off with a sound like that of a bull running into a wooden fence. They watched the shell train sparks as it soared overhead, rising toward the peak of its trajectory and then dropping toward the walls of Tarr-Beshta.
With the previous two shells, the spark trail had died on the way down as the fuse went out, and the shells fell as harmlessly as stones. At least that was better than the shell bursting over the Hostigi trenches, which had only happened once—a damned good record for the gunners, considering that the fusing of shells was still very much a matter of by guess and by gods.
The trial of sparks lasted all the way down to the shell's bursting just above the breach in the curtain wall. The Beshtans working in the breach didn't panic; they'd learned by now that shells were not a demonic visitation but only a new use of fireseed. They still hadn't leaned one of the basic rules of night combat: when suddenly illuminated, don't move. Hardly surprising, either, since this was the first night bombardment with shells in here-and-now history.
In the glare of the bursting shell, Kalvan could see men with picks and sledges running for cover. He also saw the Hostigi in the forward trenches raising their rifles and arquebuses. Two volleys crashed out, the second fired into darkness, drawing a score of screams from the Beshtans. Two or three slow shooters let fly after the volleys; they drew the voice of a petty-captain describing explicitly where he would put their handguns the next time they fired without a target.
From the battered walls of Tarr-Beshta came only silence.
"They must be short of fireseed," Rylla said.
"That, or saving it for when we storm the walls."
"They still can't do much harm—seven hundred against six thousand."
"They can do enough," Kalvan answered. "Not to repel the attack, probably, but certainly enough to send our men out of control."
"Does that matter? The traitorous dogs have no right to quarter!"
Kalvan shook his head. "If it will save Our own men—"
"It won't, my husband. All it will do is make other rebels think that the Great King is too weak to punish them as they deserve. Then they will think that rebellion is perhaps not so foolish, and we will have more Balthars and more Tenabras. That is not saving Our men."
The hint was about as subtle as the chamber pot lid she's once thrown at him. Kalvan looked to his right and left along the earthworks. Count Phrames stood to the left, Captain Xykos, newly promoted and made a Royal Bodyguard for his work at Phyrax on Colonel Verkan's recommendation, stood to the right. They were keeping the guards out of earshot; Phrames would sooner be burned alive than embarrass Rylla, and Xykos had the intelligent peasant's common sense about ignoring the indiscretions of his betters. As long as he and Rylla didn't start shouting at each other, they would have it out right here.
"All right. I'll consider not giving them another chance to surrender."
It would be better not to do it at all."
"I'll think about it. Men who ignore three chances to surrender aren't likely to have the wits to recognize a fourth."
"That is certainly true."
"But I won't take Tarr-Beshta the way Styphon's Red Hand took that temple of Dralm in Sashta. I'll cut off my hand and cut out my tongue before I write or speak the orders to do that."
Rylla shook her head in exasperation. "What's more important to you, the Great King's tender conscience or the Great King's justice? And the Great King's head, and the Great Queen's and our daughter's? All of them will rest uneasy on their shoulders if you are weak toward traitors. This is a time for death warrants, not pardons!"
"Rylla—" Kalvan began, then stopped, shaking his head as he realized the futility of the argument. She was right, of course. He'd even said something like that himself, last fall when he considered how many kings had lost their thrones through signing too many pardons and too few death warrants.
That was before the Great Kings' War, though, with its hundred thousand or more dead or maimed between spring and autumn, not to mention only-the-gods-knew how many civilians. That was also before he faced the need to sign the death warrants himself.
"All right. I won't summon them to surrender again. Custom would require I give them a day to answer, and that means putting of the assault when we have a breach already. I still won't stand for a massacre off every living thing in the tarr, either. Let's figure out a way to prevent that, because I'm going to do so and Styphon fly away with anybody who argues the point."
He heard Rylla's hiss of indrawn breath and braced himself for anything from a curse to a slap. Instead he heard silence, then a small sigh.
"I'm sorry, Kalvan. I shouldn't have called you weak. You were just trying to do something new, or something old in a new way, as you always have. But if you'd seen my father's face the day he came home from Tenabra..."
Kalvan resisted rubbing in the fact that he'd seen Ptosphes even before that, and there wasn't much she could tell him about the price the First Prince had paid for Balthar's treachery.
A moment later she spoke as briskly as ever.
"There is a way. You can proclaim that the women and children are the Great King's personal charge, for his judgment. Anyone who rapes a woman or murders a child will be usurping the Great King's justice, and his own life will be forfeit. You can also have Uncle Wolf Tharses administer an oath to the storming parties."
Kalvan agreed. He would have liked to have Chancellor Xentos do the oath-binding as well, but Xentos was in Agrys City, involved in the interminable wrangling of the Council of Dralm. Xentos had provided useful information about Great King Demistophon's attack on Hos-Hostigos, but there hadn't been any formal denunciation of it the Council either: a fact that did not bode well for his future relationship with the Council—or even Highpriest Xentos.
He was beginning to think it had been a mistake to make the Highpriest of Dralm the kingdom's Chancellor—especially since it appeared Xentos had dual loyalties.
Chartiphon was with Prince Ptosphes, Verkan was on his way back to Greffa City, and in general too many of his best people seemed to be anywhere and everywhere except where he needed them! Oh well, at least he still had Rylla, and she was worth any two of the others, and he would have said that even if he hadn't been married to her in the bargain.
"I'll do that, Rylla. Then what will we do with the women and children?"
Rylla laughed. "The Sastragathi will probably be thinking you're planning to set up a harem. What I would suggest is that you turn them over to the new Prince of Beshta for his justice. That way you will assure the other Princes that you will not be taking away their right of high and low justice."
Kalvan had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but it was likely that some of them wouldn't believe that without tangible proof. After all, hadn't the new Great King taken away slaves, indentured servitude and private warfare? What might his fingers itch for next?
A moment's suspicion struck him. Of all the people who might have rights over the prisoners, Phrames was the one mostly likely to listen to Rylla. She was also the only person other than himself and Phrames who knew the Count was slated to be the next Beshtan Prince. What would she advise?
In the next moment Kalvan realized he was doing both Rylla and Phrames an injustice. Rylla might think that the only good traitor was one whose head was on a spike outside the Great King's gate, but she was hardly likely to order a cold-blooded massacre of women and children. If she did, Phrames would listen politely because of his regard for her, then refuse, because—well, because he was Phrames.
"Very well. Phrames is going to be leading one of the storming parties, though. It would be best if you took charge of the women and children until Phrames is free."
Rylla nodded. "My Lifeguard can protect them as well." She squinted her eyes. "This, of course, will also keep me off the scaling ladders on the day of the storming?"
Kalvan heard the strained laughter in Rylla's voice. "I couldn't help t
hinking of that, I admit."
"Don't worry Kalvan. I can ride and sit in council, but I can't wear armor yet, let alone climb a scaling ladder in it."
Kalvan kissed her and toyed with the idea of proclaiming a National Day of Thanksgiving in Hos-Hostigos: Queen Rylla, for the first time in her life, was careful of her own safety. Instead he changed the subject.
"What do you think of your father using the Agrysi mercenaries who've taken colors to reduce Nostor to order?"
"Something had to be done about all the bandits and brigands, but I've heard Harmakros complaining that he'd like about a thousand of the horse down here to reinforce the Army of Observation. I was surprised to hear he was short of cavalry. I thought the Beshtans ran rather than fought."
"After the Ban of Galzar stripped them of their last mercenaries, they were too weak to face us on the field of battle. They did run. But when they ran, we had to chase them, and chasing men running for their lives wears out horses faster than big guns use up fireseed. Harmakros informed me in yesterday's dispatch that half the Mounted Rifles were on mules, and he was going to have to dismount one regiment of dragoons completely.
"Some of the Beshta soldiers have already crossed the border into Hos-Harphax. If we allow much more of that, we'll be providing our enemies with a ready-made army."
"Then by all means let's give him a thousand Agrysi," Rylla said. "They'll have to bring their own supplies, because Sashta has been eaten bare and we have our own army to feed in Beshta."
Kalvan laughed. "I wish it were that simple—I give the order and fishes jump into baskets and loaves multiply... If Nostor is a desert and Sask has been 'eaten bare,' then Beshta has been devoured by locusts! If I order the Agrysi mercenaries into Beshta, where are they going to get the victuals to ride all the way to Beshta, through Nostor and Hostigos? No, they're better off where they are foraging off the bandits and robbers they find in Nostor and getting supplies from Hostigos. The line of supply from Hostigos which, Praise Dralm!, was spared most of the spoilage and damage of this war, is already stretched to the breaking point, feeding the Army of Beshta and the Army of Nostor. Harmakros will have to make do with mules and ponies, if need be."
"And what will we do when winter comes, my husband?"
"Now, you're thinking. Verkan will be shipping several convoys of dried fish and corn and barley from Greffa, paid for with Styphon's gold. I've already made a deal with some Agrysi merchants to sell us potatoes and grain. Hostigos had a better harvest than expected and so did Kyblos and Nyklos. With a little luck, we'll get by..."
"You formulate our food stocks as if it were a battle plan!"
"It is. As one of the greats once said, 'An army marches on its stomach.' I plan to see the Army of Hos-Hostigos is as well-fed as it is well-trained."
TWENTY-NINE
I
"THE TIME HAS COME TO PUNISH THE FALSE GOD DRALM AND KILL HIS TOOL, WHO GOES BY THE NAME OF KALVAN, HERE AFTER TO BE KNOWN THROUGHOUT THE FIVE KINGDOMS AS THE 'DAEMON KALVAN.'
"ALL OF DRALM'S TEMPLES MUST BE PULLED DOWN, BURNED AND SOWN WITH SALT. HIS PRIESTS MUST BE BLINDED, CASTRATED AND STRANGLED. KALVAN, HIS WIFE AND SEED, MUST BE DRAWN AND QUARTERED, THEN SLAKED WITH LIME AND BURNED UNTIL ONLY ASHES REMAIN! THESE ASHES ARE THEN TO BE CAST INTO THE GREAT SEA. ALL THOSE IN HOS-HOSTIGOS WHO DO NOT FORSAKE THEIR FALSE GOD MUST BE HANGED AND THEIR BODIES THROWN TO THE WOLVES AND RAVENS. THOSE WHO ADMIT TO THEIR ERRORS AND FALSE WAYS WILL BE SETTLED IN THE SASTRAGATH TO LIVE AS BARBARIANS.
"THIS WILL BE DONE. I HAVE SPOKEN."
The great idol of Styphon, which had been moved on a wheeled cart into Temple Plaza, fell silent. From ten thousand voices in the Great Temple of Styphon's House on Earth came the reply:
"Kill the Daemon Kalvan! Kill the Daemon Kalvan! Kill Kalvan! Kill Kalvan! Kill Kalvan!"
Anaxthenes, who had once worked the mechanism that moved the mouth and talked into the speaker tubes that amplified the idol's voice, still felt a chill as the giant iron jaws, with teeth carved from Mammoth tusks, snapped shut. More than fifteen winters had passed since the last public Proclamation from Styphon's Great Image, and that had been nothing more than a short blessing to the underpriests and deacons for their good works in collecting Styphon's offerings. Never in his lifetime had the Great Image spoken to a lay crowd in Temple Plaza. It had to be wheeled on a cart from the Great Temple of Styphon, something done only in times of grave crisis. Times like now, with the Fireseed Mystery revealed and the armies of Styphon in tatters.
All of the Inner Circle's plans for the destruction of Hos-Hostigos gone to ashes because of their great defeats in the field of battle. Even Styphon's greatest champion, Grand Master Soton, had been humbled by the Usurper's sword. The entire world was trembling; Styphon's House Itself was on the edge of a precipice—unimaginable before the sudden appearance of this foreign prince, or renegade priest as some called him.
Some saw him as the avatar of Dralm—sheer nonsense, superstitious babble, as he ought to know. It was his specialty!
No, Kalvan, for all his battle savvy and leadership, was as mortal as himself. Yet, wise enough to use priestly prattle to advance his cause... Kalvan is no more Dralm-sent than one of Thessamona's little vials is Styphon-sent! It was unfortunate he couldn't have a little talk with this Kalvan and discuss a rapprochement with Styphon's House. After all, he'd proven himself a great leader; why not work for the Temple that could afford to make him—and itself—even greater.
He noticed that old Sesklos was getting impatient and stepped down from the dais, holding out his arm to support his elderly patron. Followed by six Temple Guardsmen, the two of them left through the secret trap door into the catacombs. From there it was a short walk to the tunnel that led to the lift tended by ten slaves.
As soon as they were alone in the carriage, Sesklos turned to Anaxthenes. "What are we going to do about Grand Master Soton? Archpriest Dracar and his followers want him stripped of his offices and expelled from the Inner Circle."
"Lickspittles, salivating morons, every one of them," Anaxthenes spat. "As if that temporary setback in Hostigos was all Soton's fault!"
"He lost didn't he?" Sesklos asked.
"Father, Soton almost won, if you read the reports. Which no one in the Inner Circle appears to have done!"
"Soton's propaganda."
"Father, you have lived too long in Balph among duplicitous priests. If you'd taken time to read—really read—Soton's final dispatch, you will see that he was much harder on himself than any of his critics. Only an honest man would impugn himself so. It's not his fault this Hostigos bumpkin—Kalvan as he calls himself—is some sort of military genius. Soton is the best military man we have and if he couldn't defeat Kalvan on almost equal terms, then no one in the Five Kingdoms can—as was proven in Hos-Harphax. Kalvan destroyed the Harphaxi! Next time, we'll have to guarantee that he has enough troops to squash Kalvan for all time."
"Maybe we can get Styphon's Own Image to proclaim Soton innocent of these charges of cowardice and treason."
Anaxthenes laughed. "The people that count know that trick; only peasants and naïve fools believe in gods who talk. Soton's only crime is that he cares too much about his soldiers. And even Ormaz turns a blind eye to that vice."
"You believe he is innocent?"
"Innocence has nothing to do with it. Certainly the charge of cowardice is absurd. The only thing Soton is guilty of is being a realist; he knows when it's time to pack up his lances and go home. All reports agree that at the battle's outset Leonnestros acted rashly and fell right into Kalvan's trap. That misstep put Soton on the defensive and the Hostigi gradually wore him down until Soton was forced to retreat to save the entire Host from being destroyed. He saved himself, too, which is a good thing since he's the only commander we have capable of defeating Kalvan and his men on the field of battle. In truth, Styphon's House owes Soton a great deal for proving to the world at Tenabra that Kalvan's men can be defeated."
"I tell you, old s
on, Dracar is like a wolf on the scent of a blooded lamb. He will not stop until Soton is cast out of office, defrocked and put in chains."
"Then he and his bootlickers are even bigger fools than I'd thought! Excuse me, Father, but with Grand Master Soton they're not dealing with some backwoods Trygathi underpriest. The Grand Master rules more territory than two Great Kings, and with more unquestioned authority! If he gives up his offices, it will only be willingly and for the Temple he just might do it. We can't allow it. It's not in the Temple's—or our own best interest, that he leave in disgrace."
"There is much wisdom in your words. However, I doubt words alone will sway Dracar and his faction. They thirst for a sacrificial victim to slake their fear of Kalvan. Only Soton's blood will do. Even your allies among the Inner Circle blame the defeat on Soton for retiring from the battle. It would not be so had you accepted my Blessing. You alone are the son I never had."
Anaxthenes turned and looked at the old man, his slender fingers trembling with palsy, who had more than once offered him the highest and most exalted office within Styphon's House on Earth. He felt a trace of affection stir and promptly dismissed it. Sesklos' wits were declining, or he would have fallen into apoplexy before admitting such sentimental drivel.
"I declined because there are too many unpleasant things that need to be done and no one else to do them, because I have earned too many enemies, because there is too little time to do all that must be done if the House of Styphon is to triumph over Kalvan and its many enemies now that the Fireseed Mystery has been revealed. As Styphon's Voice there is too much ritual, too many meetings, too many audiences...Why go on? You know the burden much better than I."
Sesklos nodded wearily. "Yes, my son, there is a great weight upon the shoulders of He who is Elected Styphon's Voice. There are times when it seems only death itself will lift the great weight from my shoulders..."