by John F. Carr
Suddenly the Great King looked discomfited; Phidestros unconsciously put his hand over his purse.
“I do have a favor to ask.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” What now, do you want me to swamp the Royal Privy?
“We would like your healer, the Lady Sirna, to accompany my new wife, Queen Lavena, back to Harphax City. It would be unsafe for her to follow the Host in her condition.”
Was Lysandros a cuckold after only a moon quarter of marriage? Or had this seed been planted before he left Harphax City?
“Congratulations, Your Majesty. I will pray to Styphon that your child is a boy.”
“Thank you, Prince Phidestros.” Lysandros actually smiled. “I entrust you with the future of Our House.”
“I will ask the Lady Sirna to do as you ask. Her work with the Iron Band is just about done.” Of course, he would miss her company, but they would share many nights together upon his return to Besh Town.
“And, before you are dismissed, I would like to inform you that before leaving Harphax City I met with Prince Soligon of Argros.”
Phidestros nodded, wondering what this had to do with him. As he understood it, when he was last in Harphax City, Soligon was one of the few Princes of Hos-Harphax who was rumored to belong to the League of Dralm.
“Soligon is a cousin, on my mother’s side, and we decided that his daughter, Princess Arminta, might make you a good wife.”
Phidestros tried to keep his jaw from hitting the table. “M ... m ... m my wife?”
“Yes, it would not only fill your bedchamber, but bring us closer in blood.”
It was all he could do to keep from disgorging his last meal. Suddenly, he understood why Lysandros wanted Sirna to accompany Queen Lavena, and it wasn’t just for her company. He was the main course on the plate of matrimony. Politically, it would prove to be a good match for the both of them. He would soon be Lysandros’ kinsman and much less likely to misbehave while Lysandros was off haring after Kalvan. On the other hand, a princess for a wife would go a long way to legitimizing a commoner and a bastard. Maybe Lysandros was a lot deeper than he’d thought.
FIFTEEN
It was over a moon quarter since Rylla and the Army of the Trygath had left Port Ulthor. There hadn’t been a word about the Nythrosi fleet until this morning at sunrise, when Cleon had awakened Kalvan with the news of its arrival. He’d had to stop himself, in a total loss of royal dignity, from throwing on some rumpled breeches and a doublet and dashing down to the wharves to see for himself. He’d decided to wait until he was officially notified of their arrival.
Instead, he forced himself to work with Colonel Ralthos, another of his up-and-coming young officers, on the gunboat situation. With General Alkides off with the Army of the Trygath, Ralthos was the ranking artillery commander. So far they had twelve finished gunboats with half a dozen more in various stages of production.
“We have three more boats that are worth shipping to Thagnor, but the rest aren’t far enough along to bother taking them out of the work sheds. It would be easier to build them anew, with some of the improvements Your Majesty suggested.”
“Good, Colonel. I want them put aboard our own ships. I don’t want the Nythrosi to even hear a whisper about the gunboats. Make sure you burn and destroy everything, including the sheds, before we leave.”
“Yes, Sire. We wouldn’t want those Styphoni curs getting their paws on our work!”
“We’ve got outriders waiting to burn every farm and field around Ulthor Port. Once they’re finished, they’ll blow up all the buildings in town and torch whatever is left before we depart.”
Colonel Ralthos’ nodded grimly, as it would be his men who would be responsible for laying the charges.
His subjects were still learning the meaning of total war. Kalvan didn’t intend to leave anything behind except charcoal and stone. His Ulthori subjects had been warned; over half the town had left with Rylla’s baggage train. The rest had left for the hills, leaving Ulthor Port as empty as an Old West ghost town. Those who had the money to buy passage had left half a moon ago for Glarth Town or the Middle Kingdoms.
Kalvan knew he was not a popular figure in westernmost Hos-Hostigos. Still, refugees from the Investigation were arriving daily. Now that they had no more room for extra cargo, the DPs were being turned back at the outskirts of town. They were given as much food as the town’s quickly dwindling foodstocks--Rylla and the Army of the Trygath had taken the lion’s share--would allow, pointed in the direction of the Trygath and firmly told to depart.
He doubted many of the late arrivals would survive the coming winter, but their survival was out of his hands for now. Someday, he promised himself, Styphon’s House would pay for every single death.
He heard Prince Phrames’ voice in the hallway.
“Come in, Phrames.”
“Your Majesty, the Nythrosi fleet has arrived. Boarding has already commenced.”
“Excellent.”
Phrames came in wearing a heavy cloak. “Dress warmly, Your Majesty. There’s a chill wind blowing off the sea.” Trader Tortha and Uncle Wolf Tharses trailed behind, followed by a large dog that looked like a Roman wolfhound.
“Trader Tortha, how long will it take to load all our men and supplies aboard the ships?”
Tortha looked upward, as though asking help from the gods, then said, “Two or three days at most, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Colonel Ralthos, I want you to see that the palace is completely destroyed. We’ve got almost ten tons of Styphon’s fireseed that’s not worth transporting, not even for trading. Put it where it will do the most good.”
Ralthos looked appalled, but nodded his accord. “There’s not going to be a lot to return to, Sire.”
“I don’t intend to leave anything to aid and comfort the enemy!” Kalvan snapped back, no longer able to restrain his temper. He didn’t relish torching Ulthor Port the way General Sherman had fired Atlanta, but it had to be done.
Ralthos looked as if he’d been struck. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”
Phrames looked at him with hurt eyes.
Kalvan shook his head. “I’m not angry with any of you, so don’t take my bad mood personally. I can’t tell you how much I hate having to pull our own house down just to discomfort the enemy, but there is no other path. We’ve lost our home--maybe for good.”
They all looked abashed at his bald statement of the facts.
“We must believe, and our subjects must believe, that we will return,” Phrames pronounced. “If we lose our identity as Hostigi, we are lost. Both as a kingdom and as a people.”
“You are absolutely right. However, among ourselves we’d better be prepared for any eventuality, even if it means permanent exile.”
No one had anything to say about this declaration. They all left for the docks a somber, but united, group.
II
Prince Phidestros emptied the last of the dregs of wine from his goblet, then opened his tobacco pouch. It had been a long day and he was beat. He had just finished an exhaustive survey of Sashta, the former Hostigi Princedom, now the westernmost portion of his new Princedom of Greater Beshta. Unlike Beshta, which had missed most of the troop movements, Sashta had been both the crossroads and the gathering point for the Grand Host’s invasion of Hos-Hostigos, and had suffered accordingly. These days Sashta was closer to a graveyard than a thriving princedom.
He had taken over the border town of Lemnos as his temporary headquarters while his men completed their survey and census. He was staying in the former Great Hall of the local castle, Tarr-Lemnos, which had taken a severe beating during the invasion. Most of the tapestries and hangings had been stripped and part of the ceiling and one of the walls were shored up with timbers, but Kyblannos had assured him it was safe enough for short-term habitation.
Mynos, his man servant, came into the chamber, asking, “Your Highness, can I offer you some more wine?”
“Bring in more goblets and one of the casks of Ermu
t’s Best I was saving for my entry to Beshta Town. Kyblannos, Geblon and some of my advisors will be arriving soon. Show them in immediately.”
By the time he had his pipe bowl filled and lit, his advisors were filling the hall. They were the former captains and petty-captains of the old Iron Company as well as the new companies that made up the Iron Band. All of them had fought at his side and could be trusted to guard his back against any knife thrusts, literal or verbal.
These men would be the new barons and lords of Greater Beshta; he’d use only those courtiers and servitors from Harphax City he absolutely had to use to please the King. Already, scores of lackeys and sycophants from all over Harphax were gathering at Beshta Town, according to his latest dispatch from Captain Cythros, to divide the spoils--or so they thought.
The reports his men gave were disquieting, to say the least. Captain Rydos of the Thirteen Moons Company finished his census report with this broadside: “There aren’t enough able-bodied men left in Sashta to field a single company of shot! The only civilians who remain are either those who were too ill or too old to be Investigated; there’s not enough of those to fill a town square. Most of the farms were burned or used for gun practice. The towns and villages are in ruins and the miserable skin-and-bone wretches who inhabit them are like wraiths from Regwarn! It’s so bad here that it would take Appalon himself to convince the Harphaxi street rabble to move here.”
“Well, Gentlemen, this is not acceptable,” Phidestros replied. He had expected grim news, but nothing this bad. Still, he had several ideas of how to remedy the problem. “First, I refuse to fill Greater Beshta with the gaol droppings and deadbeats of the Five Kingdoms! Secondly, I have an army fit for a Great King, not a prince.”
“By Galzar!” someone shouted.
The rest nodded. Currently under his colors, Phidestros had some twenty-eight thousand cavalry and infantry. When they’d left the Grand Host, they’d taken almost a quarter of its strength along with over half of the baggage train, most of whom had been happy to leave. Not even the most hardened camp follower saw much profit in wandering the wilderness in search of Kalvan and the Army of Hostigos.
“I suggest we follow one of King Kalvan’s innovations. We muster out all those soldiers who would like to be farmers and shopkeepers. I’ll give each man ten gold rakmars and twenty acres of farmland. Petty-captains will be given fifty ounces of gold and captains one hundred ounces of gold and a small fiefdom.
“You’re talking about several hundred thousand ounces of gold, Captain General!” Captain Tyblon, the Iron Band’s paymaster, objected. “That’ll empty the Band’s paychests.”
Phidestros smiled. “I’ve got a promissory note from Grand Master Soton which will more than cover our expenses for the campaign. Furthermore, former Prince Phrames didn’t have time to remove more than half his Treasury, so we have that to build upon.”
“If it’s still there!” one of the captains interjected.
“It’s there,” Phidestros said, with a wolfish grin. “After our victory at Ardros Field, I sent five hundred men, under Captain Cythros of the Blue Company, to secure Tarr-Beshta and govern the Princedom in my absence. Phrames was so eager to help his Great King that he left behind only a skeleton garrison; Cythros was able to take the old tarr in less than a quarter moon. He was lucky, too, in that most of the Hostigi loyalists were more interested in fleeing the Holy Investigation of Styphon than fighting their new overlord. Cythros’ first act, after taking Tarr-Beshta, was to secure the treasury. He assured me that it contains more than fifty thousand ounces of gold and ten times that weight in silver ingots.
“Now, Geblon, approach my chair.” Phidestros paused to stand up and remove his presentation sword from its scabbard. Geblon bowed and he touched the top of his head with the blade. “I now pronounce you before all the True Gods and your peers Duke of Sashta.”
Geblon looked as if he’d taken a mace blow to the side of his head. Finally, he stammered, “Th--thank you, Your Highness.”
“You can dispense with the formality for now, Geblon.
“I need a strong hand to deal with my new subjects. You know mercenaries and how to command them. I also need someone of impeccable loyalty and who has my absolute trust. You have proven all these qualities many times over.”
“How many of the mercenaries do we want to muster out?” Kyblannos asked.
“About five thousand.”
“I don’t think that many of them want to be farmers--” Geblon said.
Phidestros laughed. “Oh, they will. You’ll have to beat off the recruits with your sword!”
“What do you mean?”
“Give me a moment. I’ll get back to it. As you all know, we ‘inherited’ most of the Grand Host’s camp followers.”
Captain Redyr hooted. “Most of those lazy buggers didn’t see much future in fighting in the Trygath! We had to fight them off or we’d have inherited the entire lot. Must be four times our number, too.”
“Exactly,” Phidestros replied in a voice of steel. When he had everyone’s complete attention, he continued, “I certainly don’t see much future for them in Greater Beshta, truth tell. Is that agreed, Gentlemen?”
The chamber filled with laughter. At best, camp followers supplied drink, women and entertainment for the soldiers; at worst, they robbed them of their hard-earned coin and gave them cankers and diseases of the flesh.
“I do not want them robbing our men. Grand-Captain Ptolynnos, I want you to eliminate all the sharpers, profiteers, bone tossers, skullrakers, shell men and all the other chance players and gamblers and the like. Strip them of all their money and finery, and put them into the fields as serfs. We won’t make them slaves, even if they deserve it, but instead will give them a hefty indenture to pay off.”
“What for? You know they’ll all ask.”
“Enjoying our hospitality!”
They all laughed.
Phidestros continued, “We’ll give them a choice. Either they work as serfs, or we will send them to Roxthar for Investigating. Tell them we have to pay a purse of gold for each man jack of them we don’t send to Roxthar. This will give our soldiers someone to work their fields. Kyblannos, you’re good at rune forming. Write up a phony parchment from Roxthar requesting all the gamblers, brothel owners, murderers, strongarms, muggers and other degenerates in the baggage train to be sent back to Hostigos Town. Tell them we’ll sell them their freedom for five hundred gold rakmars or ten years hard labor. Otherwise, it’s off to the Investigation.”
“Some of them can pay,” Geblon said.
“Good, the gold will go into the Iron Band paychests. The rest will hew and toil. Any who try to escape, bind them up and we’ll ship them off to Roxthar as Hostigi sympathizers. Those that do pay, tell them to leave Greater Beshta as fast they can and never return. Tell them we’ll keep a warrant for their arrest, if they do!”
“A good lesson to the others,” one of the captains said.
“Now, as to the rest. Offer the honest sutlers and merchants and tinkers shops or stores. Most importantly, Geblon, I want you to round up all the gang leaders and their minions.”
“What if they resist?”
“Shoot them like mad dogs. Go with pistols primed and cocked. When you’ve gathered them all up, hang the lot of them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now that’s settled. Now, for the women. Our men will need wives if they’re to take up farming. Since there are few women in Sashta, we’ll have to recruit some volunteers. Tell the whores that they’re closing shop in Sashta--for good.”
“Do you think they’ll go for that?”
“I don’t care whether they do or don’t. Here’s the deal: Tell the slatterns they have a moon quarter to find a soldier among those who are mustering out who will marry them.”
“By the Wargod’s Mace! We’ll have so many men mustering out we won’t have an army left!” Kyblannos cried.
“Then draw lots! I don’t want more than f
ive thousand planting their feet in Sashta. We’re going to need soldiers in Beshta, as well.”
“But there are more women in the train than there are in the entire army!”
“Exactly, the rest can form unions with the baggage train leavings ...”
“Most will want to be with soldiers.”
“That’s the idea. The soldiers get first pick. Those that are left will go with anyone who wants them. Let them be the wives of serfs. If they don’t like that, send them to Roxthar!”
“But what happens later?” Redyr asked. “Won’t most of them just slip away the moment the Army’s gone?”
Phidestros nodded. “Good point. However, I’ve got a solution. Kyblannos, have your armorers and blacksmiths work up a branding iron. Make it in the sign of a lightning bolt--my device. Brand the cheeks of all the trollops. And, while you’re at it, brand my device on the foreheads of all the ‘new’ serfs--that’ll keep them from running away. We’ll offer a big purse throughout the Five Kingdoms for any man or women caught outside Sashta with the lightning bolt brand. That’ll keep the women on the farms and the serfs in the fields.”
Kyblannos shook his head. “Aye, you’ve thought this one out, Captain. I see what you mean about beating off the volunteers from the Army with a mace. But what about the pimps, madams, flesh peddlers and whoremasters? They might have some strong objections to your plan.”
“I suspect they will. Round them all up before the announcement--and hang them all.”
Geblon gasped. “We don’t have enough trees!”
“We’ve got lots of tree stumps. Chop off their heads, then.”
“We only have a handful of executioners, My Lord,” offered one of the captains.
“Do we have many halberdiers?”
Geblon nodded.
“Then offer them five silver pieces for every head they remove.”
“At that price, every other man jack in the Army will volunteer and find himself a halberd,” Kyblannos said dryly.