by John F. Carr
Xentos reared back and slipped his hand into his blue robe to pull out the blade he kept there.
“No, sheathe your blade. He is a Hostigi intelligencer. A Styphon’s House underpriest who was planted into the Temple of Balph by someone he calls Duke Skranga, or the Chief. Have you heard of this Skranga?”
Xentos nodded. He remembered Kalvan appointing the former horse trader as his Chief of Intelligence. He also remembered not liking, nor trusting, the balding redhead. “Duke Skranga was King Kalvan’s Chief Intelligencer.”
“Primate, I present Upperpriest Mathros.”
The young man in black robes entered the room, bowing deeply; Xentos sheathed his dagger.
“Your Eminence, I bring grave news from Balph.”
“Who sent you? Skranga?”
“No, Primate. Our cell was run by another, one who works under the Duke. This information I bring was urgent enough that I broke my cover and fled Balph. It’s taken me over a moon to sneak out of Balph and work my way through Hos-Harphax.”
“What news do you bring? Out with it, then,” Xentos said, barely containing his temper.
“Styphon’s House is planning to attack Agrys City as soon as spring arrives.”
“That is madness! I don’t believe it,” Davros cried.
Xentos felt his stomach drop. Is this Allfather Dralm’s punishment for my lack of support for his favorite, Kalvan? Could he truly be Dralm’s son? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It’s of no matter now, you old fool. It’s too late to redo the past. Kalvan is dead, or soon will be, as are Ptosphes and Harmakros and who knows how many others under the thrice-cursed Investigation of Styphon’s House!
“No, Davros, this is what King Kalvan predicted long ago in my presence would happen should Hostigos fall. Now that Styphon’s House has destroyed Hos-Hostigos, they are free to bring down any of the Great Kings who did not support their campaign against Kalvan. Next they will destroy the High Temple of Dralm.”
“That is truth, Your Eminence,” the young man stated.
“What else, Mathros?” Xentos demanded.
“Grand Master Soton has been ordered to Thebra City to gather the invasion force. Next spring, he will transport his army, the Host of Styphon’s Deliverance, by ship to Agrys City as soon as the weather permits.”
“Grand Master Soton! I thought he was with the Grand Host of Styphon, chasing Great King Kalvan into the Trygath.”
“No, Your Eminence. After Sesklos’ death, Soton left the Host to return to Balph for the Election of Anaxthenes as the new Styphon’s Own Voice. The Inner Circle directed Soton to raise an army and leave for Thebra City, where he was to prepare stores and arms for the attack upon your Great King.”
Xentos mind was awhirl. First, he would have to personally give this news to Great King Demistophon. With the Allfather’s help, the King might even believe his words. Then, he must contact the League of Dralm; it was time for them to support the Temple and their King with more than just words.
“What shall we do, Your Eminence?” Davros asked, wringing his hands. “How could they do this to us?”
“It’s Styphon’s House, you fool. They do as they wish, and they wish to destroy the Temple of Dralm. Prepare a carriage. I must leave for the palace at once! I’ll need you along, and Mathros, too. Say a few prayers, if you think they’ll help. Maybe, with Dralm’s aid, we can convince the Great King of Weather Vanes of the urgency of our words.”
III
Captain Jephros, whose upper lip was clean-shaven with a full brown beard covering the rest of his face, rode up from the plains with a dust-covered scout. Captain-General Hestophes raised his arm to signal the advance party to halt. There were about twenty men in the advance party, including guards and Captain-General Errock. Errock had been giving the Hostigi background on the northern plains nomads and which ones were allied with Grefftscharr, Ragnar, Lyros and Dorg.
King Kalvan had sent them from Thagnor to rescue the buffalo expedition; the King was counting on this meat to get his subjects through the winter. Hestophes meant to fulfill his King’s command if he had to kill every nomad between Grefftscharr and Dorg.
The scout, dressed in typical nomad leathers, drew up and had to pause to catch his breath while his horse made a noise like a bellows. It was lathered and quivering with exhaustion despite the cold.
“Get this man a remount,” Hestophes ordered. Most of the scouts were Rathoni locals that had allied themselves with King Chartiphon after the conquest of Hos-Rathon. He had sent some of them along with Rylla. Kalvan had taken the best of the lot and mustered them into the Royal Army. As a recruitment bonus, he had given them each fifty pieces of silver and a small landholding outside Thagnor City.
“Sir, we ran into an ambush up ahead about three and a half marches.” The scout stopped to take a couple of deep breaths. Like many of the tribesmen who lived along the Trygath/Sea of Grass border, he knew how to speak both Zarthani and Urgothi fluently.
“Do the nomads know we’re coming?”
“No, it’s a trap they’ve set for Prince Phrames and the wagon train, sir. One large band of nomads is chasing Phrames, while another band lies in wait. There’s a stream up ahead, the locals call it the Varthon Creek, and they’ve set an ambush on the other side of the ford at the top of a small cliff. It appears their strategy is to lie in wait until Phrames and his men try to forge across the creek. Then strike from both sides of the stream while they’re crossing.”
“How large is the creek?” Hestophes asked.
“At the ford, it is about three hundred paces wide, sir.”The scout paused to place a hand on his hip. “The water is this high at the deepest spot.”
Just deep enough to give men on horseback a disadvantage if attacked during its passage, Hestophes decided. “Will the horses be able to cross the ford without running into a marsh or any other obstacle?”
“We crossed it ourselves earlier without any trouble,” the scout said. “The water is low and it should be solid enough for the wagons, as well.”
“How many tribesmen did you see?” Errock asked.
“On this side of the Varthon, about seven to ten thousand is our guess, sir. The band chasing Phrames and the wagon train is even larger. There were men from more clans and tribes than I’ve seen in many winters. A couple of our scouts acted as if they were laggards and made their way among the ambushers. There’s a lot of comings and goings with supplies and reinforcements constantly arriving. They had no trouble scouting them out. Their Warlord is Arthap, an ally of King Theovacar’s whose clan roams the no-man’s land between Grefftscharr and Dorg.
“Arthap has promised the tribesmen all the spoils they can carry and ten pieces of silver for every Hostigi scalp. He’s also promised them enough buffalo for a moon-quarter-long victory feast! There’s a much larger force behind Phrames that’s supposed to drive them into their arms. Arthap’s clansmen have been waiting there for almost a moon quarter and patience is running low, with some of the lesser tribes already leaving in clumps of tens and twenty.”
Hestophes stroked his beard. “How are they getting their victuals? This place looks played-out for hunting.”
“It is, Captain-General. They’ve been getting large wagons of dried-fish, beef and bread from Grefftscharr. Some of the wagon train guards are even wearing Grefftscharrer uniforms.”
“There it is, General Hestophes,” Errock said, nodding. “The proof we’ve been looking for. The Great King will need to know this.”
“Right. I’ll send a scout back to Thagnor before we engage the enemy.”
Hestophes turned to the Rathoni scout. “How many observers do they have?”
“We counted less than twenty watchmen and scouts. Give me twenty more men and we will send them all to Wind.”
“Good. First we need to coordinate this attack with Phrames. Can you reach him before nightfall?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. We encountered one of the Prince’s scouts. His camp is about ten marc
hes from the stream. He knows about the ambush and has been awaiting our arrival.”
One of Hestophes’ bodyguards rode up, trailing a remount. “Here’s a fresh horse. Take as many men as you need and tell Prince Phrames to have his men prepare to ford the stream at sun’s height. We’ll meet him on the other side.”
“Yes, sir.”
THIRTY
The Great Hall of Tarr-Beshta was decked out in all its finery, with all new tapestries and hangings. Princess Arminta had been to this tarr once before, during the reign of Balthar the Black, and the few hangings in the castle had been in tatters or black with mildew. Now, the Banner of the Iron Band hung proudly from the main beam. One wall displayed a large tapestry depicting the Battle of Ardros, showing Prince Phidestros bathed in light as if he were a demi-god from one of the Mystery Plays.
The Prince, who towered over his retainers, stood in one corner with a flagon of drink. He had strong features and a royal air; he was much more handsome than she had expected. He perked up when he saw her party; she was too far away to see if he was disappointed at her appearance, or surprised. This was the part she hated!
Arminta’s mother had died when she was only eight winters old. As the oldest daughter, it had been her responsibility to see that her three brothers and two sisters were raised properly. Her father did not remarry and grew dependent upon her to act as surrogate mother to her siblings. She hadn’t minded, having grown accustomed to the disinterest of most of the young men she met. She had resigned herself to being a spinster and, in fact, enjoyed advising her father on both political and dynastic matters.
Now her younger sisters were married and her father had, at Great King Lysandros’ demand, bargained her off to this mercenary. The problem for Arminta was that she was no starry-eyed young girl or naive daughter; she was twenty-four winters old. While men appeared to enjoy her company-- after all, she had raised two brothers--they had not shown much interest in her as a woman. So why should Prince Phidestros be an exception?
Arminta knew her flanks were too long, her bosom too small and her face too horsy. The burnished steel mirror in her chamber told her all that, as well as the disinterested glances by passing men. However, she had all her teeth and exceptionally good health, and that had to count for something. Also, she had the one thing her soon to be husband lacked--a pedigree. Her family had ruled Argros for over three centuries and her father was Prince of a large and prosperous Princedom. In addition, she was related by blood to Great King Lysandros. She wondered if that would be enough for her new husband.
Arminta didn’t mind that Phidestros kept a mistress--she’d heard all about the redheaded Gerfftscharrer, Lady Sirna, the moment she’d arrived in Besh Town--only that he didn’t make her an object of scorn or ridicule by parading his mistress in public. Or beat her in private as many husbands did, at least her sisters’ husbands.
When the Prince came to meet her, she approved of the way his eyes met her own. She also admired the way he moved her away from the pack of retainers that followed the two of them after their formal introduction.
“I know your father has scheduled a formal wedding for the spring, but I have scheduled a private wedding in three moon quarters, Princess. I hope that meets with your approval, as it does mine,” he said, with a wink and a smile.
Her heart melted. Maybe this will work out, after all.
It was not uncommon to have two weddings with arranged marriages as travel and weather conditions often made it difficult to bring the two families together for a formal ceremony. However, for marriages with dynastic implications, it was essential to have a public affair so that the marriage would be officially recognized. With the war against Kalvan still progressing, Phidestros had made it clear to her father that the sooner the ceremony took place, the greater the chance there would be an heir. There was no guarantee that Phidestros might not be recalled to the Middle Kingdoms. Her father had been more than happy to speed things up, immediately sending her and her dowry along with a small retinue, as soon as he had received Phidestros’ signed marriage contract.
“Please call me Arminta, Your Highness. And, yes, that does meet with my approval. I brought a wedding gown, the one my mother wore, and several Ladies to help with the wedding details. We will have a formal wedding for my family in Argros Town in the Moon of the First Grass.”
“I agree. And, there’s no need for titles between us.”
She curtsied. Her husband to be was even more imposing and handsome close-up. Arminta also liked what he’d done with Bestha, having seen all the workmen and improvements underway during her coach trip to Besh Town. “Is there a place we can talk in private?” she asked.
He was taken aback, as though she’d implied something improper.
“I would like to discuss the details of our future life together.”
He nodded while fumbling with his pipe. “Certainly, I’ll have Duke Kyblannos tell everyone we’re just retiring for a brief spell.”
He whispered something into a well-fed retainer’s ears, then motioned her toward the back of the chamber.
She noticed that their withdrawal had brought them to the center of attention, including that of a tall, well-endowed redhead, whom she assumed was the Lady Sirna, as well as that of the woman at her side, who by her stunning appearance and the crown she was wearing had to be Great Queen Lavena. So this is Lysandros’ consort and the new Queen, the woman who was said to be the spitting image of Queen Rylla of the False Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. I’m glad I don’t have to compete with her for attention from Phidestros.
Alone in his private chamber, Phidestros asked, “Is anything wrong?”
“No,” she replied. “I just want to discuss some things with you while there is still time.”
He sighed with relief. “I thought maybe you wanted to leave. Return to Argros. Take a seat and we can discuss whatever matters you wish.”
She sat down and said, “I believe I will like it here.” She smiled when their eyes met. “I just wanted an opportunity to talk with you before we got caught in the marriage whirlwind.”
Phidestros nodded and took out his tobacco pouch. “I know it’s our first meeting, but I am fully behind our marriage, Arminta.”
She nodded. “I expected so. It will give your title some legitimacy, and no, I don’t mean that in a harsh way. It’s just there’s always talk.”
“There’s more to this marriage than just the joining of two Houses, Arminta. I want you to believe that. I need a strong woman to sire my children, as well as one who knows the nobility of Hos-Harphax and has their respect. After King Lysandros set forth our union, I put my own intelligencers to work and learned you’re the brains beneath your father’s crown.”
She felt herself blush. “I didn’t know it was that obvious.”
“It isn’t, Arminta. Few of the nobility suspect that your hand is behind your father’s good fortune, only those who know who polishes the crowns in this Kingdom’s princedoms. Most of our peers would never suspect any woman to have the intelligence and cunning to rule a realm. However, I believe differently. I’m certain you will make a good wife and a good partner in ruling our demesne.”
“You surprise me, Phidestros. You have both excellent intelligence of Argros’ affairs and a good understanding of governing for a military man.”
“Being a mercenary captain-general is only a step in my career, not an end.”
“Tell me more of your plans.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry I revealed even this much. More will be revealed after the passing of a few winters.”
Arminta stood up. “Maybe I ought to reconsider this marriage. I do not want to walk down an unfamiliar hallway blindfolded.”
Phidestros looked pained. “I’m not dishonoring you, Arminta, but I’ve lived with my own private thoughts for a long time. Sharing them is new for me.”
“I, too, am used to not sharing my innermost words; however, if we are to be joined as one, I need to know your p
lans. Otherwise, how can I trust my own future, much less the future of any children I might give you?”
“I had not expected to open my muster book so early, but, by Galzar, this might just be the right time. It is my wish to become a Great King.”
Her mouth dropped. “Here?”
“No. In my homeland, Hos-Zygros. Here we are too close to Styphon’s House and my own liege lord. I do not want to be known as an usurper or oath-breaker. My birth father is Grand Duke Eudocles of Hos-Zygros; I am his bastard.”
She had always kept up with the latest gossip, but this was news to her. “Is this known in Hos-Zygros?”
Phidestros shook his head. “He has never recognized me officially, but under the table he has done so. There is little love between us. I suspect, like Lysandros before him, he has designs on his brother’s throne.”
“The Ivory Throne!”
“Yes, furthermore, I suspect him of complicity in my cousin Prince Pariphons death.”
“Wasn’t Pariphon Great King Sopharar’s only son?”
“Yes. Now my father is next in line for the Ivory Throne.”
“Are you saying he will be a regicide?”
“If the opportunity arises, yes. As Lysandros did with King Kaiphranos.”
She nodded. Every prince in Hos-Harphax, including her father, worried where Lysandros’ next arrow might fall. She doubted her father would have gone along with this marriage, if it hadn’t been for Lysandros’ implied threats. Prince Soligon had been one of the few Harphaxi princes to join the League of Dralm; he had just as quickly resigned when Lysandros was raised to the Iron Throne. However, there were still doubts about Soligon’s fidelity; her marriage to Phidestros was demonstrable proof of her father’s loyalty.
“When the right time comes,” he said, “I plan to be in a position to take full advantage of whatever opportunities the Goddess Lytris provides.”