Great Kings' War

by Roland Green

  "The three companies I offer, which allow you the rank of Grand-Captain, have voted to follow you if you are so willing. They have heard the tales of your ride from the Harph and of how under you the Iron Company won free of two lost battles—Fyk and Chothros Heights."

  Was there a note of irony in those last words of Soton's? Phidestros didn't particularly care, since he'd also been freely given a gift he would otherwise have had to ask or even beg for. The three companies were not composed of men who wanted a safe road out of the war, or at least to the other side, and would shoot their Captain the moment they found him barring it. They were instead merely free companions exercising their ancient privilege of choosing who would lead them into battle—a privilege only fools like Balthar's castellan denied them.

  II

  It was now light enough for Phidestros to pick out the few dark hairs in Snowdrift's mane and tail. Plenty of light to see by—and to see in the distance the banners and lance tips of the approaching Zarthani Knights. Phidestros swung himself onto Snowdrift's back and waved to Banner-Captain Geblon. The banner of the Iron Band rose against the dawn sky: a gold thunderbolt breaking a black iron chain on a green field.

  Some of the old Iron Company began to cheer. The orange sashes of the Hos-Ktemnos army made vivid splashes of color against their blackened three-quarter armor. Phidestros waved them to silence, then pointed to the banner.

  "My brothers—that is the banner of the Iron Band. Those of you who have followed it before know what it means." Two well-conducted and profitable retreats, mostly, but let's not be too particular about the truth at a time like this.

  "To our new comrades who are following the Iron Banner for the first time in this battle—rejoice in your opportunity. You have proven brothers on all sides and a chance to add to the honor of the banner you follow. Fight as I know you can, and before another moon we shall be drinking a toast from the skulls of our enemies. You are the Iron Band!"

  He let them cheer freely this time. When the sound began to ebb, he cried, "To victory! To gold! To Galzar!" As an after-thought, in case Soton or an Inner Circle intelligencer was listening, he added, "To Styphon!"

  His old troopers responded with a cheer of their own. "To Phidestros! To Phidestros! Phidestros! Phidestros!"

  That rang even more agreeably on his ears, but he also knew it was the last thing Soton should hear at this time. He quickly silenced his men. "The Iron Band will soon be the Iron Hand around the throat of Hostigos! Furthermore, no one who has faced us in battle will find that name a matter for jests."

  It had not escaped his attention that some among the free companions, jealous of his success and rapid advancement, had already taken to calling the Iron Band the Yellow Hand, "First to retreat, last to advance."

  "Galzar smite me if I do not speak truth!"

  The Wargod, Phidestros reflected, seemed to turn a deaf ear to anything a captain said to his men before a battle. He had heard of captains being smitten down on the morning of battle by apoplexies or attacks of bile—but never by Galzar's Mace.

  He could still wish most of them were better mounted, though. Even Snowdrift was showing a hint of rib under his creamy flanks. As a troop of Sastragath horse-archers cantered past, a thought struck Phidestros. Could he earn enough of Soton's goodwill to be allowed to buy some of the archers' light mounts, which could feed by grazing where a charger would starve?

  Such horses could hardly carry a man in armor, of course, or even press home a charge with lances. Was that so great a loss? he began to wonder. With the new way of war Kalvan seemed to know and Soton seemed ready to learn, speed appeared likely to prove as important as armor.

  It was something to think over if he survived today with both his head on shoulders and honor in Grand Master Soton's too-shrewd eyes.

  III

  Verkan Vall felt somewhat like an intruder as he climbed the last flight of stairs to the royal chamber at the top of the keep of Tarr-Hostigos. He also felt even more like a deserter from his post, which would normally have been at the head of the Mounted Rifles with the Army of Hostigos near the village of Phyrax to the southwest of Hostigos Town.

  However, the battle of Phyrax wasn't going to be a "normal" battle, assuming there was such a thing even on Aryan-Transpacific. By the Great King's orders, the Mounted Rifles weren't going to spend themselves scouting against the superior and well-trained light cavalry of the Zarthani Knights. They were going to remain in the rear, wait for the Holy Host to attack, then work around its flanks and snipe at its captains. This assignment had nearly provoked mutiny among some of the hotheads in the Mounted Rifles—the few that still thought of war as an exercise in gallantry—but it made good sense considering the force Hostigos was facing.

  Kalvan couldn't hope to fight a maneuver battle against the Holy Host. Soton was too good, and the Sacred Squares of Hos-Ktemnos and the Zarthani Knights were the best infantry and cavalry here-and-now. The Sacred Squares were twelve thousand men who would take a lot of killing, and the Zarthani Knights were six thousand of this world's best cavalry, not counting the four thousand Order Foot. The rest of the Holy Host included three thousand of Styphon's Own Temple Guard, two thousand of the King's Pistoleers and eight hundred Royal Guardsmen of Hos-Ktemnos, all well above average. There were about four thousand mercenaries, mostly horse, and, while the motley array of several thousand "Holy Warriors of Styphon" might lack training, they wouldn't lack enthusiasm.

  Kalvan would have a damned good chance to win this battle if he just sat still and let the Holy Host attack him. He nearly matched them man for man in numbers, and the best Hostigi infantry were as good as the Sacred Squares—although Kalvan would sorely miss the two thousand Hostigi infantry who perished at Tenabra. His cavalry horses were in better shape. He also would have a big edge in artillery fighting in his own backyard, where many of the old bombards, too heavy for campaigning, could be hauled out to the battlefield and dug in.

  It wouldn't hurt either that Kalvan would have plenty of Hostigos fireseed for all his artillery and firearms, while the Holy Host would still be firing the old fireseed formula. Styphon's House was beginning to use Kalvan's formula in making fireseed, but some ecclesiastical Arch-bureaucrat had decided that none of the new formula could be issued until all of the old had been used up or accounted for.

  However, even Styphon's new fireseed was inferior to the Hostigi formula by about a fifth of the explosive force. Kalvan's fireseed had a finer grain and more punch.

  This piece of bureaucracy-in-action was the only intelligence sent so far by Verkan's on-the-ground agent with the Holy Host, a Paratime Policeman posing as an underpriest of Styphon, who'd finally come north with the reinforcements and supplies as part of what could laughingly be called the medical corps. Verkan had hoped for more intelligence before the battle, but even getting this little bit proved his man was alive, on the job and might provide more later.

  It also wasn't going to hurt that many of Kalvan's men were fighting on ground they knew well, with their backs to the wall and no illusions about what would happen to their homes if they lost. The Holy Host had only committed the normal run of here-and-now atrocities on its way north. If Kalvan lost the Battle of Phyrax, this would change and probably very much for the worse.

  Ptosphes' men had a score to settle with the Holy Host. Kalvan's veterans of the Army of the Harph had a tradition of victory a whole moon long to maintain; they too would take a lot of killing.

  In fact, "a lot of killing" seemed to be the best description of the coming battle that Verkan could think of.

  Meanwhile, Kalvan's ordering him back to Tarr-Hostigos gave him a chance to pay a visit to the University people at the Foundry. They were dug in about as well as could be expected with the labor and leadership available; Ranthar Jard couldn't be in two places at once. Talgan Dreth was grumbling a lot, but at least the Outtime Studies Director was cooperating to the extent of keeping some of his people from openly obstructing the work of fortifica
tion and cooperation with Brother Mytron's University refugees. Verkan had Scholar Varnath Lala mentally tagged as the leader of that faction, who appeared to have the delusion that if they maintained some sort of "neutrality," they could continue their work under the new management that would take over Hostigos if Kalvan lost.

  Verkan seriously doubted that Archpriest Roxthar, who had accompanied the Holy Host but so far had been kept on a tight rein by Soton, would agree.

  At the top of the stairs Verkan stopped and cleared his throat. There was no one on duty outside the royal apartments; the last sentry post was at the foot of this flight of stairs. He could hear the low murmur of voices through the thick door, but he knew that etiquette allowed him to knock only in an emergency, like the Holy Host storming the gates of the castles.

  The door swung open so quietly that Kalvan was coming out before Verkan could step back to a proper place. For a moment he had a clear view into the chamber beyond, a view of something he was quite sure he hadn't been meant to see—Ptosphes kneeling on the floor in front of Rylla, with head on her lap as she stroked his tangled gray hair. Then Kalvan was past and swinging the door shut behind him, heading down the stairs without a word to Verkan.

  Verkan saw in Kalvan's set face and slightly sagging shoulders a man who was suddenly feeling the full weight of being monarch and commander and husband who might lose his wife within a few days all at once. Verkan had planned to ask Kalvan how much palace duty he'd planned for him; royal aide was an honorable post but obviously an impossible one for him, and he'd rehearsed a set of arguments against the honor that sounded good—even to him.

  Rather, they had sounded good. Now, if Kalvan needed a friend—make that when Kalvan needed a friend—at his back for a few days, Verkan wouldn't make any arguments against taking the job for at least that long. It didn't seem very likely that anyone would have the time to be jealous of an outlander's friendship with the Great King.

  Verkan hurried down the dark stone stairs. He reached the bottom close enough to Kalvan to hear him talking with young Aspasthar, the new page who'd come into royal service from Count Harmakros.

  "—says the horses are ready, Your Majesty. And a messenger came who requests word with the Great King."

  "A messenger from whom, Aspasthar? You should always tell me who sent a messenger if he tells you himself. Also tell me if he doesn't."

  "Yes, my—Your Majesty. It's a messenger from General Chartiphon at Phyrax Field."

  Verkan saw Kalvan's grim smile. "I can guess what it says. Soton's scouts must be in sight. Thank you Aspasthar. Tell the scout to wait for me at the stables."

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Aspasthar appeared to be waiting for a word of dismissal, until Kalvan gently took him by the shoulder and turned him around. "When the Great King says gives you an order, you are dismissed."

  Aspasthar was too flustered to reply, and scurried off so fast he nearly stumbled. Kalvan laughed softly. "Harmakros was a little too kind with the boy's training, but he's bright. He'll learn."

  "Now, Colonel. I only called you back to Tarr-Hostigos because I wanted somebody to ride up with me who'll make better conversation than Major Nicomoth. He's not stupid, but today he'll have half his mind on whether he'll get to ride in another cavalry charge. However, if you think the Mounted Rifles will need you at once..."

  "If I'd thought that, Your Majesty, I would have sent a messenger. I'll gladly ride with you. I won't insult your army by expecting it to fall apart before we can get there or indeed at—"

  The change on Kalvan's face warned Verkan to silence as Ptosphes stepped out of the doorway, buckling on his sword. He wore all his armor except his helmet and his gauntlets; the latter hung from his belt, and on his hands were new riding gloves with his device of crossed halberds on the back. Ptosphes' face was red from the exertion of chasing down the stairs and he appeared to be having trouble catching his breath.

  Ptosphes took a couple of deep breaths, then snarled, "Your Majesty, Colonel Verkan. Shall we go and kill some of Styphon's whelps?"

  From the look on Ptosphes' face, Verkan only hoped it was Styphon's dogs that the First Prince of Hos-Hostigos intended to kill. Ptosphes commanded the left wing of horse, a choice forced upon Kalvan. There was no telling what Ptosphes might have done in his present condition if he hadn't been given a rank and post in the coming battle appropriate to his rank and title, as First Prince of Hos-Hostigos. Verkan was sure that Kalvan would rather have had someone else holding the crucial left wing—Harmakros, commanding the reserves, or Count Phrames, second in command of the right wing under Kalvan.

  Ptosphes' mental state was going to be almost as much a factor in this battle as the morale of Kalvan's troops.

  IV

  Sirna saw another horse-drawn cart with big wooden wheels pull up and cursed to herself at the need to organize another work party to unload it. Then she saw Brother Mytron himself sitting beside the driver. She leaped down the embankment in front of the trench, hiked her skirts above her boots, and ran over to the cart.

  "Brother Mytron! Are matters well?"

  "I think we lack the necessary time for discussing the basic nature of the universe," Mytron said with a grin. "On a more material plane, I was the last man out of the University. It seemed to me that something important must have been overlooked and sure enough it had." He pointed to the canvas-wrapped bundles in the back of the cart, and Sirna saw the glint of metal mesh in the corner of one. Her heart skipped a few beats until she realized that this mesh was much cruder than the mesh of a Paratime transposition conveyor dome.

  "What is it?" Mytron asked, pulling back his cowl. "Lady Sirna, you look as if you'd just spotted one of Styphon's demons!"

  "No. Just worried about the real Styphoni devils in human guise only a few marches away."

  "Verily," Mytron said, making a circle around the blue star over his chest.

  Sirna pointed to the canvas bundles and asked, "What are they?"

  "Two of the wire screens for the papermaking. I don't know how anyone came to overlook them. But there they were in one corner, all ready to be carted away and melted down by the Holy Host as demonical. We loaded them in the cart and were just turning around when we saw Nostori cavalry coming back in a rush. I decided they must know something we didn't and had the driver whip up the horses."

  "Dralm and Tranth bless you for that, Brother." Sirna cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. "Urig! Bring three men out here. Another cart to unload."

  While Urig was rounding up his work gang, Sirna told Mytron that the other refugees from the University were safely bedded down in an empty storeroom. Then she asked about the battle.

  "It hadn't started yet when I passed through our army. They were all drawn up, with King Kalvan and Count Phrames on the right, Prince Ptosphes on the left and more guns than I've ever seen in the center. I heard that Kalvan has plans for those guns and that Captain-General Chartiphon, with help from General Alkides, will command the center. I'm afraid I have no idea what the Great King's plans are—the gods didn't make me a man of war. I'm honest enough to be grateful that I'll be spending the next few days watching over Queen Rylla."

  "Is her time near?"

  "The chief midwife says so, and who am I to argue with a woman of fifty winters at that art? She also says the baby is coming early, which is not so good."

  Sirna whistled. That could be a real problem with no crèche wombs or even an incubator. No wonder that contraceptive implants for women were a necessity for outtime University work.

  "Will the baby be all right?"

  "The chief midwife appears to believe so."

  "But would she dare say otherwise about the Great Queen and her child?"

  Brother Mytron looked perplexed. Shrugged his shoulders and said, "Amasphalya would not have it otherwise! She would speak her mind to the Red Hand if they were to accost her."

  Sirna laughed; this Amasphalya sounded like a real harridan—maybe Rylla had finally met her match. She
hoped the old dragon was as good as Mytron believed. She couldn't even imagine the pain of having a child die in childbirth; maybe that was why Sirna had never considered a live birth even when her husband pressed for it—they were all the rage ten years ago among the University elite.

  "Hey!" a voice shouted from beyond the cart. "Either move that Dralm-blasted cart on or bring it over here and join the circle."

  A mounted man was riding across the field toward the wagon, waving a cattle whip. "The Great King gave orders to—oh, your pardon, Brother Mytron!" he finished in an entirely different voice.

  Sirna swallowed a laugh. Brother Mytron grinned. "In fact, after I get a horse from the stable, I'm on my way to Tarr-Hostigos to see the Queen."

  "May the true gods give Her Majesty a safe birthing and an heir for the Great Kingdom," the trooper said. Then he turned his horse and rode back toward the huge circle of wagons, carts and baggage that penned in all the refugees' cattle. They were no longer bellowing as loudly as they had at dawn, but as it grew hotter an unmistakable smell was creeping across to the Foundry. Next year some Hostigi farmer was going to have at least one field very well fertilized.

  "Add your prayers to his," Mytron said softly. "Much of the luck of Hostigos rides with our Rylla, may the Allfather keep her safe."

  Sirna swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, then nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She cleared her throat and turned to meet Urig and his men. "Take these bundles from the cart into the driest corner of the new storehouse and wrap them well."

  Urig looked dubiously at the wire mesh. "Is it—that a weapon?"

  "It is something that the Great King thinks may become a weapon in time, but only against his enemies and the enemies of the True Gods."

  Urig nodded, with an if-you-say-so-Mistress expression on his face, then started shouting to his work party.

  That was only partly true, Sirna realized, or at least only partly true in the short run. If Kalvan succeeded in inventing paper and following it up with printing, the processes wouldn't remain secrets for long. Styphon's House could print its propaganda just as enthusiastically as its enemies. In the long run, though, Kalvan was working toward mass literacy and mass education, which were the most potent enemies of superstition and ignorance—and they were his worst enemies.