by John F. Carr
“You have echoed many of my concerns, Tymnos. Maybe they misuse us because they would rather spend our blood than their own. After all, we are bought and paid for. Or because they are too stupid to realize our value.”
“Truth. The men are wondering, sir, just how long we will let this continue. Arch-Stratego, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I thought you might want to know.”
“This is why I’m talking with you instead of my Stratagi. I’m thinking of leaving en masse as soon as spring arrives. But first I have a few questions.”
“Yes, Arch-Stratego. But we’d best leave soon while we have enough men to exercise our will on the Host.”
“I agree, Tymos. We have already lost half the soldiers who crossed the Sea of Grass with us. I promise you this, and you can tell the men, we will not fight for the godless Styphoni anymore. They are not worthy of our blood.”
Tymos saluted. “Praise the Lord Tyrant and the True Gods, All-Father Dralmnos and War Bringer Galthar. Your questions, Arch-Stratego?”
“How many of the arquebusiers have we managed to ‘find?’“
“We have taken as battlefield booty several hundred smoothbores and two secret captive gunsmiths. They will expedite the making of arquebuses when we arrive back in Antiphon. We also have stolen twenty-five barrels and kegs of fireseed. We also have the fireseed formula and one Hostigi captive who used to work at one of Kalvan’s fireseed works. Unfortunately, their guns are too well-protected to steal. But under the knife one of our captured gunsmiths admitted that he knew the secrets of their manufacture.”
“Excellent. You’ve done well, Tymos. I will see you are well-rewarded when we return to Antiphon, even if I have to reward you myself.” He left unspoken that the Lord Tyrant Dyzar was more inclined to punish than reward, regardless of the service done. Sometimes he appeared to heap more punishment upon those who succeeded than those who failed. The whims of Tyrants and Gods are answerable to no man, he decided.
“Let the men know that when the roads are passable again, we will depart this depraved land. If anyone attempts to stop us, let them taste our blades!”
Tymos laughed. “These Zarthani pretenders don’t have the guts to put it to the sword. But I hope they do. I’d like to see their faces when we open our wagon, like Kalvan does, and our firearms thunder. It’s too bad we couldn’t obtain one of their guns.”
III
Great King Demistophon wriggled uncomfortably as he struggled to seat himself upon the Throne of Lights. Underneath an iron frame, the throne was layered with the clearest of quartz crystals, while the outer surfaces were topped with a crust of cut diamonds. The seat had considerable padding, but the diamonds on the armrests cut into his gown often enough that he had to wear a special leather lining underneath his arms. Unfortunately, the throne had been designed at a time when men were demonstrably smaller so he was forced to wedge himself onto the throne.
For about the thousandth time, Demistophon reminded himself that it was time to have a new and more comfortable throne built, but every time he brought it up, his Chancellor and advisors recoiled in horror at the idea of such heresy. The Throne of Lights was an integral symbol of the kingship of Hos-Agrys and designed by the gods themselves, or so the legend went. “Tamper with it at your peril,” they advised.
Do they secretly enjoy seeing me struggle to seat myself? he wondered.
It was also unfortunate that he had no friends to advise him; kingship was a lonely position and everyone wanted something from him, no matter how much they dissembled. Now, he was about to meet with the ecclesiastical head of the High Temple of Dralm, Primate Xentos and two of his minions. Fortunately, this was a private audience and he would not have to suffer the presence of Highpriest Haltor; they opposed each other at every step and he had grown weary of refereeing their disputes.
He disliked the pushy Primate from Hostigos, but absolutely hated Highpriest Haltor, who treated him like some underling that Haltor could bark orders to. Now that the Usurper Kalvan was displaced, Styphon’s House acted as if they ruled the Great Kingdoms. If he’d had half the power his ancestors had held, both of the priests would be rotting in the palace dungeon. He neither believed in gods nor their temples. If there were truly gods, they would have made his life less vexing and more comfortable, as was his due. Since the so-called gods didn’t, they were a sham and a means of conniving gold from him and his subjects.
He watched as the white-robed Primate with an eight-pointed blue star on the chest, Highpriest Davros and a younger man unfamiliar to him walked down the Path of Light of the Great Audience Chamber to the Throne of Light. Xentos’ countenance was grim, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Demistophon felt his stomach begin to clench and writhe. He barely listened as his Chancellor mouthed the usual pronouncements and titles proper for any public audience. Xentos, unlike any normal subject or lord, refused to bow down and stood as straight as a rake, with his mouth set in disapproval. It was no wonder, faced with this disrespect, that his gut churned as though it was working bits of broken glass.
It was of little consolation that Davros and the young man bowed repeatedly and followed the proper forms of etiquette due his office.
Finally, the Primate spoke, “Your Majesty, I have come to you with some grave news, both for the Great Kingdom of Hos-Agrys and your person.”
I grow weary of this nonsense, he thought. It always begins like this: What new antic has Highpriest Haltor worked upon the Temple of Dralm? “What now?” he asked.
“I have at my side Brother Mathros who has just returned from Balph. He has learned of an event that will shake the entire kingdom to its foundations.”
The old fool, he thought. Whatever it was that had the Primate outraged was most certainly of no interest to him. Most likely, some new atrocity of Styphon’s House upon the Temple of Dralm--pure piffle to his mind. Now, a priest of Dralm who survived in Balph; Demistophon had to study such a wonder. When had the Temple of Dralm begun sending out their own agents-inquisitory? What is the world coming to?
The Brother stepped forward, speaking briefly and concisely, which gave his words about Styphon’s House plot to bring down his House more weight. Was Grand Master Soton actually gathering an army in Thebra to lay siege to Agrys City and bring him down?
It did not sound outside the Temple’s reach; Styphon’s House’s arrogance and greed knew no bounds. However, the last he’d heard Soton was somewhere in the Trygath, chasing the Usurper Kalvan. Can I believe this temple rat, or should I send him packing?
Demistophon heard loud cries and shouts coming from the chamber anteroom. What now?
A moment later a red-faced Highpriest of Styphon’s House came striding down the Path of Light. “What are they doing here? Why was I not told that the False Priests of Dralm were in the Palace?”
Highpriest Haltor came right up to the Throne of Lights, pointing his finger in Demistophon’s face.
Are they all mad? he asked himself. “Guards!”
One of his bodyguards took the priest by the cowl of his robe and jerked him backwards, leaving him coughing and sputtering. Does Styphon’s House have agents inside the palace? he asked himself. If they do, I’ll have them all rooted out and boiled in hot oil. Damn these arrogant priests!
“How dare you lay hands on my person!” Highpriest Haltor sputtered.
Highpriest Davros was laughing into his sleeve, while Primate Xentos bit back a grin.
“ENOUGH!” Demistophon cried out. “I’ll have you all in irons, if this persists!”
“I want to know what these False Idolaters were saying about me behind my back!” Haltor demanded.
“Damning accusations against Styphon’s House, Highpriest, that I wasn’t taking seriously enough until your intemperate arrival.”
“The false priests of Dralm are behind any plots against Your Majesty’s realm--if there are any such designs.”
“Like Grand Master Soton’s army lying
in wait in Thebra City?” he asked.
Haltor turned as white as a bleached skull. “It . .. it’s ... a ... lie!” he sputtered.
“Ha! I don’t believe your words, you demon-spawn of Ormaz! Your face gives you away! Guards, put him in chains and take him to the dungeons. Call my chief torturer.”
Highpriest Haltor was panic-stricken, his head spastically turning one way and another, trying to see a way out of his predicament. He began to wail as the bodyguard pinned his arms in back and frog-marched him out of the Great Audience Chamber.
Now, at last, I can get my hands on the gold in all the Styphon’s House temples, Demistophon thought, rubbing his hands in anticipation. The only troubling aspect is this talk of an invasion. Would the dung-eating priests of Styphon actually dare to attack my realm? If so, what can I do to stymie them?
Demistophon turned to Xentos, saying, “It’s time we had a long talk.”
THIRTY-TWO
The biting night cold reminded Kalvan of when he was a boy and occasionally spent the Christmas holidays with his aunt and uncle in Michigan. While not poor, his Uncle Al had worked as a meter-reader for the electric company; they lived a meager existence. As a money-saving practice, his uncle would turn off the furnace at bedtime and not put it on again until morning. He remembered curling up in his long Johns under as many blankets and quilts as he could pile on his bed, and still feeling the winter chill penetrate all the way to the marrow of his bones.
The royal bedchamber was drafty with walls of stone, overlaid with tapestries and wall hangings, which provided a modicum of protection. While the cold in Tarr-Thagnor was even chillier than in his uncle and aunt’s house, he had the advantage of a bearskin comforter and Rylla snuggled up beside him. He was about to drop off to sleep when there was a gentle knock at the chamber door.
Kalvan carefully got out of the blankets and comforter and rubbed his hands together briskly. Hostigos had never been this cold, not even during the Winter of the Wolves! He slipped into his silver fox slippers and put on his sable robe, tiptoeing to the door. He didn’t want to wake Rylla unless absolutely necessary. Due to her new pregnancy, she was as hot-tempered as crackling bacon.
He opened the door a crack, asking, “Who is it?”
“Cleon, Your Majesty. Word has come that a boat bearing the standard of Duke Mnestros of Eubros has docked at the City Wharves. Captain-General Hestophes ordered me to wake you and inform you of the Duke’s arrival.”
“Excellent, you are dismissed. Go back to sleep. You look bushed.”
“As do you, sire.”
“Yes, but I’m not allowed to be.” Not when a potential ally arrives by boat this late in the season. Has Mnestros also been exiled, driven from Hos-Agrys by Styphon’s House?
“Neither am I, sire. I will clear the table and see that some fresh tea and Ermut’s Best is brought from the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Cleon.”
“What is it, my husband?”
“A friend has arrived.”
Rylla, her black bearskin comforter dropping to her waist, used her tinderbox to light an oil lamp in a sconce next to the bed. “I will join you, then.”
Kalvan looked at his wife and took a deep breath. Sometimes this kingship thing is harder than it looks, he thought, wanting nothing more than to take his wife in his arms. As she dressed, he could see the swelling in her belly. From how she was showing, he put the date of conception to about the time she left Ulthor Port last summer. It was too early to tell the Court or his subjects, but in the long run a boy child would weld his new Kingdom together better than anything else but a triumphant victory over Styphon’s Grand Host. If it’s another daughter, well, Praise Dralm anyway; if nothing else, this will keep Rylla out of the path of any stray bullets this coming spring.
As soon as they were both informally dressed, they went into the antechamber where they found Captain-General Hestophes pacing back and forth.
“Any word yet?” Kalvan asked, as he sat down in a royal-red padded chair.
Hestophes shook his head. “I only know that the Duke would not make a trip this time of year unless it was bad news.”
Duke Mnestros was one of their few trusted allies in Kingdom of Hos-Agrys; he had even joined them with his household troops for several campaigns. Mnestros was bright, not afraid of innovation and he soaked up information like a sponge. Kalvan could have used a hundred allies just like him.
Cleon arrived with three mugs of ginseng tea and a small cask of Ermut’s Best. He poured tea for Kalvan and Rylla and filled Hestophes’ goblet with brandy.
The three of them discussed next year’s campaign, which included an attack on Greffa--now that the Grefftscharri were known allies of Styphons House--down across the lower Michigan peninsula, then up to Greffa City.
He had considered using the Maumee River (called the Erkfryn River here-and-now), which was navigable to shallow draft boats and provided an easy invasion route directly to Greffa City, but that might start a war with his neighbors, the Morthroni, who had an alliance with Grefftscharr. Plus, the Maumee corridor was heavily guarded with watchtowers and a series of forts, or varts as the Urgothi called them. Hopefully, a strike at Greffa would force King Theovacar to abandon his planned attack on Thagnor, or at the very least recall some of his troops to protect his capital.
Kalvan was on his second mug of tea when Cleon arrived with Duke Mnestros in tow. The young Duke looked exhausted, with deep weather lines in his face. If you took away the hair on top, he would have been the spitting image of his father, or at least the portrait of Prince Thykarses that Kalvan had seen.
Kalvan rose and the two men hugged and clasped each other’s shoulders.
“Your Majesty, it is good to see you again. And you Great Queen Rylla, as well as my friend. Captain-General, is it now?”
Hestophes smiled.
“How was your journey?” Kalvan asked.
The Duke shook his head. “Rough, very rough. I’d rather face a Wedge of Zarthani Knights than another attack of those northern storm waves.”
“Then whatever brought you here must be important, Duke.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. The Five Kingdoms are abuzz with the news of your conquest of Thagnor. When do you plan to return to Hostigos?”
Kalvan shrugged. “We still have the Grand Host of Styphon waiting in the wings for spring. They field twice the manpower our new Kingdom of Nos-Hostigos can mobilize. We may be here for awhile.”
Rylla nodded in agreement, with a scowl on her face. She was still unhappy about Kalvan’s lack of enthusiasm for returning to Hostigos.
Duke Mnestros slumped into a chair. “I was hoping otherwise, Your Majesty. This time around it is we who need your help.”
“By ‘we,’ do you mean the League of Dralm, who ignored our pleas of help, the Kingdom of Hos-Agrys, which attacked us without provocation in the Year of the Wolf, or the Princedom of Eubros and you yourself who has faithfully worked on our behalf?”
“All of them, Your Majesty. We just got word from the High Temple of Dralm that Grand Master Soton will be invading Hos-Agrys this campaign season.”
“That’s very interesting news!” Kalvan interjected.
“And why is that important to us?” Rylla asked, frowning.
Mnestros held out his hands. “We need your help. I have observed the Hostigi art of war, but I am still a student. My reputation and age are such that it is unlikely that I will be put in command of the League’s army. I volunteered to seek out Your Majesties and plead for a Hostigi Captain-General to return with me to co-command the League’s Army.”
Rylla looked as if she were about to explode until Kalvan shot her a look. He knew that she was still smarting from Xentos’ refusal to help Hos-Hostigos in their hour of need. However, she was forgetting one of his favorite dictums: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. If the League of Dralm could defeat Soton in Hos-Agrys, the Styphoni would be forced to remove more troops from the Grand Host, or even abandon their
efforts in the Upper Middle Kingdoms all together.
“It is an idea worthy of our consideration, Duke,” Kalvan said.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I asked Allfather Dralm for your aid.”
Rylla fumed and all but had smoke shooting out of her ears.
Kalvan said, “We will need time to ponder your request. You will have our answer either tomorrow or the day after.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Mnestros said, as he all but scraped the floor with his bowing while making an exit.
Kalvan made a sigh of relief when the Duke left the chamber.
“Are you mad, Kalvan?”
“No. If the League attacks Soton while he is besieging Hos-Agrys it will hold up his conquest, and that is good for Hostigos.”
“How, my husband?”
“If Styphon’s House is forced to fight a war on two flanks, it will take pressure off their war upon Nos-Hostigos. They will have to supply two big armies, and that will tax even Styphon’s Houses’s reserves. It may even mean they will be forced to abandon their efforts here in the Upper Middle Kingdoms; there are those among the Inner Circle who see our pursuit as Roxthar’s Vengeance and would love to end it. This war is costing Styphon’s House a fortune in gold and materiel.
“Furthermore, supporting the League of Dralm will buy us good will with our friends in the Five Kingdoms and thereby leave the door wedged open for our eventual return to Old-Hostigos, or Uld-Hostigos as our subjects are calling it.”
“Well, those words are music to my ears, even though I loathe supporting that nest of traitors and backstabbers in Agrys City, including Primate Xentos.”
“I know how you feel, but put this under the heading of realpolitik.”
“Machiavelli again?”
“No, Bismarck. But you’re in the right neighborhood. Machiavelli came from a time in my lands’ history very similar to this age. Instead of Styphon’s House, there was the Church of Rome and not-so-Holy Roman Empire. Treachery, duplicity and assassination were the watchwords during his time.”