The Fireseed Wars

by John F. Carr

  Still, it wasn’t fair to blame all of the Temple’s problems upon Kalvan and Demistophon. Styphon’s House with its Investigation and persecutions of the Allfather’s followers deserved the panther’s share of the blame. To compound matters, the Primate still felt badly whenever he pondered the fate of his former parishioners and friends. Too many, such as Ptosphes, Harmakros, Thalmoth and Phosg had died during the Siege of Tarr-Hostigos. Those that had survived the military attack had then suffered the depredations of Styphon’s Investigation, the horrors of which he found hard to believe.

  There was a very small community of Hostigi exiles in Agrys City who had fled the Styphoni persecutions. He did his best to protect them, but lately that didn’t seem to be enough. Twice now Styphon’s bravos had attacked the pitiful band of Hostigi, leaving several dead and many badly beaten.

  The time had come to face up to the fact that the Temple of Dralm was under attack from all corners. It was time to marshal the Temple’s forces. But how? King Demistophon was an impious fool and the League of Dralm was more interested in internal squabbles than fighting Styphon’s House. Maybe a prayer to the Allfather was the Temple’s only hope.

  Allfather Dralm, forgive me because I have been blind to your enemies and their black hearts. I have failed you in Your greatest hour of need. Please provide me a sign!

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  Xentos felt his heart quicken, like that in a bird’s breast. Could this be the sign from Allfather Dralm that I just requested”?

  There was an explosion and the door blew open, knocking Xentos off his feet. The last thing he remembered was the smell of brimstone and an overpowering bright light.

  When Xentos awoke it was to find himself stretched out in a cot in the Inner Sanctum of the High Temple. His head hurt terribly and he had the taste of burnt fireseed upon his tongue. “What happened?” he croaked.

  “Praise Dralm, the Primate lives!” a voice cried out that he didn’t recognize.

  “Let me through,” Highpriest Davros ordered. “Can you move your limbs?”

  Xentos stretched his limbs one at a time, and except for a terrible pain in his left ankle all appeared well. “Yes, I’m all here. Dralm be praised!’

  “Primate, you are truly under Allfather Dralm’s protection,” the Highpriest declared. “A gang of ruffians forced the door of our back portal and two entered the Temple and fought their way to your bed chambers. If it were not for the two Brothers who fought them off, they would have killed you with their swords.”

  Davros held up two wickedly sharp short swords. “These were hidden under their cloaks, along with the petard they used on your door. We believe they are agents of Styphon’s House.”

  “Why?”

  “Both were circumcised, Primate.”

  Xentos nodded. It was true that in the Great Kingdoms only the Temple of Styphon practiced such a barbaric rite upon its priesthood. All initiates to Styphon’s House’s temples were circumcised as part of their initiation rites. Those young men who survived the rite were deemed worthy to serve their evil god and granted permission to wear the white robe of the outer circle. It was also not unknown for those who wished to curry favor with Styphon’s House to undergo the circumcision surgery; it was a dangerous stratagem as many who underwent the surgery died from the fester devils.

  Davros continued, “We have already sent a formal letter of complaint to Great King Demistophon. Their hair is cut short in the style of Hos-Ktemnos so we believe they were dispatched from Balph. Maybe this will awaken our Great King from his slumber.”

  Xentos shook his head. “No, Davros. Only the destruction of the High Temple and all our deaths might accomplish such a miracle. The Great King does not want to see the truth, but only what his heart desires. He wants territory and Styphon’s gold. He cares nothing about our struggle against the One-God fanatics. But it is my duty to speak to him anyway; it is always possible that the spirit of Dralm may enter his heart.”

  IV

  What is that, Aristocles thought, as he woke up and felt around for the hideaway pistol that he kept next to his bedding. His oath-brother, Shelawa, was already sparking a flint to light a beeswax candle. There were more knocking noises at the door of the room inside the large farmhouse he was using as a temporary billet and headquarters. When the pistol was safely in the his hand and cocked, he asked, “Who is it?”

  “Sergeant Machias, sir, I’ve got an urgent message for you.”

  Aristocles got up off the straw tick, laying his pistol down. In the Sastragath it wasn’t unusual for an enemy to slip into a Knight’s tent and slit this throat. Even though it wasn’t necessary here, keeping a pistol handy was a lifelong habit; one that had saved his life on two occasions.

  Shelawa had the candle lit by the time he had his cloak on and the Sergeant was in the room. The Sergeant used his tinderbox to start a fire in the hearth, as it was close to freezing. None of them were accustomed to this chill weather; in Hos-Ktemnos it was only this cold in the middle of winter.

  “One of Styphon’s Couriers just arrived, sir. He said it was urgent. Since his horse was half-dead and he was suffering from frostbite, I took him at his word.”

  Aristocles checked the seal in the flickering light; it was the Seal of Styphon’s Own Voice. He whistled. “Give me your knife.”

  He used the blade to open the seal, then removed the letter. It took him an eighth of a candle to decipher. “By Styphon’s Brass Balls!”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Go get Great King Lysandros! Tell him to meet me downstairs.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I wake the cooks?”

  “No, it’s too early.”

  Almost a half of a candle had passed by the time Aristocles heard King Lysandros’ party arrive. He’d had more than enough time to decipher the code again and write out a decipherment in runes, dress and put on his weapons. He was crunching the stale end of a loaf of bread when the Great King entered the Knights’ command quarters.

  Machias had on a hot cauldron of cider and offered the King’s party cups as they arrived.

  Lysandros looked unsettled and half-asleep. He started to say something, but thought better of it and instead took a cup of hot cider.

  “Lysandros, you’d better come with me.”

  The King raised his eyebrows. “Is it that important?”

  Aristocles nodded. Lysandros took him at his word and walked to the back briefing room by himself. He shut the thick plank door.

  Inside, the King asked, “What is it, man? I hadn’t gotten two candles of sleep when your messenger arrived!”

  “A secret message from Styphon’s Own Voice.”

  That silenced Lysandros.

  “Do you want to read it?” Aristocles asked.

  “Yes.”The King poured over the parchment, then read it twice again. He sputtered: “Are you sure this is real? I don’t see Anaxthenes’ seal.”

  He showed him the original message with Styphon’s Own Seal. “It was in code and I translated it for your eyes.”

  Lysandros nodded, “What are we going to do? I like the Prince. He and I shared a cask of beer last night.”

  “We don’t have any choice, Lysandros. If Anaxon leaves with the Ktemnoi contingent, we don’t have a Grand Host anymore; by Ormaz ... we’ll barely have an army.”

  Lysandros nodded. “By Galzar’s Mace, that’s the truth. We’ve already lost Soton’s Lances, Phidestros and the Iron Band and most of the former mercenaries, and most recently the Temple Bands of Styphon’s Own Guard that escorted Roxthar. Without the Sacred Squares and the Ktemnoi Army, all we’d have left are the Royal Harphaxi Army, six Temple Bands under Marshal Albides, ten Lances of Knights, your levy, some riffraff that call themselves Styphon’s Warriors and the Ros-Zarthani, who are trying to weasel out of their contract. We must be hard.”

  “I know, Your Majesty. We have to do this deed and do it quickly before word arrives from Hos-Ktemnos that the old King is dead.”
r />   “How?”

  “It’s too late to arrange an accident, not with Anaxon billeted with the Sacred Squares. He’ll have to die leading one of the attacks into Nythros. We’ll move up the final breakthrough.”

  “I hope you have men you can trust to do this job, because I don’t,” Lysandros said, shaking his head. “This is Phidestros’ kind of work.”

  “I have some old comrades who will do whatever I ask without any questions. It’s hard to keep your hands clean in the border wars.”

  “Good,” Lysandros said, pulling his pipe out of his tobacco pouch. “We’ll set a trap. First, we’ll give Anaxon the glory of being the first one of us through the breach. Meanwhile, you can have your ‘comrades’ enter the city by one of the underground tunnels we just finished. We need to get them into the palace before Anaxon arrives. It might be good if they changed uniforms inside the palace to match the Nythrosi. Inside they can set up an ambush.”

  Aristocles grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Verkan followed Kostran into the Chief’s Projection Room, just around the corner from his office, where his deputy had set up a three-dimensional view of the Northern Continent, Minor Land Mass. The focus was set just above the big inland seas that Kalvan called the Great Lakes. This view was provided by three camouflaged anti-grav cameras hovering over the Nythros City States. With their Second Level optics, these sky-eyes could count the freckles on a redhead’s face.

  “Before you tune this viewer, what do you have to report?” Verkan asked. “Last I heard, it was none too healthy in Greffa for ex-employees of the Verkan Fireseed Works.”

  “You’re right, Chief. Things went straight to Regwarn after we blew up the Fireseed Works, but what a fireworks show! They’re still talking about it in Greffa. Since we used timers, everyone on the Team had a good alibi. However, Theovacar doesn’t trust anything he hasn’t seen with his own eyes. He had us all grilled unmercifully.”

  Verkan’s chin was rigid, forcing his pipe to jut out. “Any torture?”

  “No, Theovacar wasn’t that sure of his suspicions. But things have been getting worse. He nationalized all of your property two ten-days later. Zinna and I got out with the rest of the Study Team in plenty of time. Right now we’re supposed to be on a galley on our way to Ragyath, which is the Yaddstrung Equivalent--right above Thagnor and Gytha. It’s centered around a town called Algonac on Europo-American. We figure from there we can keep an eye on things and maybe help Kalvan out with the Ragyathi, who are not overly fond of Greffa.”

  “Good choice, Kostran. The Ragyathi weren’t fond of Prince Varrack, either. I’ll make sure we get a conveyer-head setup going there within a ten-day.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Now, let me show you what’s going on south of Kalvan’s new base.”

  “Where’s Rylla’s Army of the Trygath?”

  “Only a few days away from Thagnor. They should be together again shortly. The locals are avoiding the Hostigi migration like the plague! Which it is, in a way. Kalvan’s innovations will change their lives more than an outbreak of the Great Pox.”

  “Is Rylla going to run into any problems going through Morthron?”

  “No, Prince Eythart knows a Khiftan berserker when he sees one. Queen Rylla sent an advance party to negotiate free transit rights over Morthroni territory. In return, Rylla’s envoy’s promised the Prince a wagon of Styphon’s Best and some older calivers. Eythart’s walking a tightrope since he’s allied with Grefftscharr; the last thing he wants is for King Theovacar to think Eythart’s getting cozy with Nos-Hostigos. On the other hand, Kalvan is his new neighbor and the Morthroni army couldn’t hold out against Rylla’s gang for half a ten-day!”

  Kostran manipulated the image from the Trygath sky-eye with his handheld controller, magnifying the area around Vathardt Equivalent--or Cleveland, Ohio as it was known on the Europo-American Subsector--to where Verkan could see individual soldiers scurrying over a large break in the city walls. It looked as if a whole section of the wall had come tumbling down all at once.

  “That’s Nythros City, Chief. This is one of six breach points in the city walls that Styphon’s Grand Host used to enter the city. It took them about two ten-days of intense bombardment, but they were implacable. The Nythrosi had no choice but to dig in and retreat into their fortifications.”

  “The Grand Host did all this with just those old iron-hooped cannon of theirs?”

  “Not quite, Chief. They brought some thirty-two and sixteen-pound guns with them into Hostigos and they scavenged several more off Ardros Field after the Hostigi were driven away.”

  “There doesn’t appear to be any resistance.”

  “There’s been heavy fighting from both sides for several days, but this was not where the Nythrosi chose to make their big stand.”

  Kostran punched in a request on his controller and the picture dissolved and was replaced by the main city gates, one of which was down on the ground; the other hanging to the right wall by its iron hinges. He upped the magnification: The area was swarming with soldiers in the blue and orange uniforms of Hos-Ktemnos. The Ktemnoi Sacred Squares were dressed in blue shirts and breeches, with orange sashes and plumes on their high-combed helmets. The musketeers wore brown boiled-leather jacks while the billmen had polished steel breastplates.

  Resistance was stiff from the red-coated defenders, but crumbling. It appeared that most of the Nythrosi were using spears, crossbows and winch-drawn arbalests. They might as well been firing rubber bands for all the good their missile weapons were doing against the attacking Sacred Squares.

  The view shifted to another sky-camera to show more invaders, some already at the heart of the city in an area dominated by monolithic structures that looked like something plucked out of Fourth Level, Roman Imperial. The wide city streets were vacant except for occasional clots of red defenders and the inexorable flow of Styphoni soldiers. Many of them near the center of town were wearing the black cloaks of the Zarthani Knights.

  “There’s more news,” Kostran said. “I’m not sure whether or not it counts as good news for our friend Kalvan, or bad news.”

  “Shoot.” Verkan said.

  “Prince Anaxon was killed in the initial attack. For some reason the idiot wanted to lead his troops, like some Fourth-Level Alexander!”

  Verkan frowned. “He did this before at the Battle of Phyrax Field and got a bop on the head as a result. Anaxon’s memory was affected and he went missing for a couple of days. You think he might have learned better. Prince Anaphon--not Lysandros’ general, but Anaxon’s twin brother-- accompanied him in his folly. The Prince was hit in the leg by a mace blow that fractured most of his upper thigh, and as a result of his wound the leg was amputated. He died after two ten-days of severe pain, when gangrene set in. At the time, it was hard to tell if his death was a result of Aryan-Transpacific’s barbaric medical practices or whether he was a tragic ‘casualty’ of convenience orchestrated by Styphon’s House.

  “Now Anaxon is dead, too. Leaving the throne of Hos-Ktemnos open for grabs, which is awfully convenient for Styphon’s House. Danthor Dras mentioned that Prince Anaxon was breaking free of Styphon’s reins and that Anaxthenes himself had targeted the Prince for discorporation.”

  “I’ll have our agents on the ground look into that, Chief. If we could roundup some evidence that the Inner Circle ordered Anaxon’s death, it would go a long way to stirring animosity to Styphon’s House in their home base. Maybe even enough trouble they’d have to bring the Royal Ktemnoi Army back home, as well as Styphon’s Own Guard to protect the Inner Circle. That would effectively castrate the Grand Host!”

  Verkan grinned. “Yes, but what you’re suggesting is Paratemporal Contamination. We’ve got enough problems now with the Paratime Commission and the Executive Council. Besides, it might implicate Archpriest Danthor. Dras is our only window into the Inner Circle. But, getting back to Nythros, aren’t they the same people who helped ferry Kalvan into T
hagnor? If so, why isn’t Kalvan coming to their aid?”

  “It was purely a mercantile transaction on both sides,” Kostran said. “Kalvan, according to Tortha, was able to pass them some of his Styphon’s House bearer bonds in exchange for his passage to Thagnor.”

  “That’s a neat trick.”They both laughed. “I wouldn’t want to be the city controller who tried to collect on those bonds!”

  “Boss, they don’t have very good record keeping on Aryan-Transpacific. Those runes are fine for letters, but their numerical system takes up a lot of characters. Kalvan’s been trying to introduce the Europo-American numeric system to the Hostigi and they’ve taken to it pretty well. In another twenty years, even Styphon’s House will be using it. But right now the banking houses mostly work on trust. Anyone who’s caught committing forgery loses his right hand for the first offense. As a result, they don’t get many repeat offenders.”

  “I should say not. Didn’t Danthor tell us now that he was in the business of forging documents?”

  “Yes, but that’s with official sanction from Styphon’s Own Voice. It’s only a criminal offense if it’s committed by someone who’s not among the power elite.”

  “Moral relativism in its basest form. The Opposition Party could take pointers from this bunch.”

  Kostran laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they made Danthor Dras’ Gunpowder Theocracy mandatory reading for new Party members.”

  “Like they did with that Europo-American text, The Discourses, four to five centuries ago,” Verkan said. “I hope not. We might get a better class of opponent. As it is we have our hands full with the dupes we’re facing now.”

  “They’re still giving you gas about the Kalvan Study Team?”

  “Yes, I’ve spent more time this year before the Paratime Commission and the Executive Committee than I have in my own office. It doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to transpose to Kalvan’s Time-Line any time soon.”