by John F. Carr
Kalvan led his men straight into a clot of several hundred Ros-Zarthani cavalry, who had circled around the center, and were about to launch an attack on the Hostigi rear. The mercenary horse, which was on the verge of retreat, suddenly stiffened and Kalvan heard them chant. “King Kalvan! For King Kalvan! Down Styphon, too!” A moment later he had fired the pistol in his left hand, bowling a lancer in scaled armor out of his saddle, and was swinging his saber at a helmless Ros-Zarthani man-at-arms.
Vanar Halgoth’s massive battleaxe split the helm of a Ros-Zarthani who was about to throw a nasty looking dart at Kalvan. He nodded his thanks, and Vanar’s face split in a grin that showed a mouthful of jack-o’-lantern teeth. Then Kalvan was too busy exchanging sword blows with a fully armored Agrysi knight to notice anything but the red splatter in the air as his saber split the man’s armet helm in twain.
V
White and gray smoke swirled around Vanar Halgoth like the early morning fog broiling around the banks of the Great River. The stench of fear and brimstone filled the air. A breeze came up and blew the gunsmoke into tatters and he could see a sea of soldiers moving towards their position. The big guns went off again and a thunderclap smote his ears. The Tymannian Guardsmen moved uneasily, but he knew they would hold against anything this world had to offer. They were still not used to seeing and hearing so many guns at once. More fireseed had been burned in that salvo than all the fireseed used in the Sastragath for a generation.
Great King Kalvan had provided the Guard with horses, but they fought better on foot, so most had dismounted and formed a line six men deep. Only Vanar and a dozen handpicked Guardsmen were on horseback, since it was the Great King’s way to ride off into battle, often ahead of his Lifeguard. Vanar had given Queen Rylla his oath that he would not let Kalvan get farther than two horse lengths away from his Guard.
The Urgothi warriors who made up the Bodyguard were not accustomed to holding a formation in the midst of battle so there was a lot of uneasy movement back and forth. These men were not fearful, just anxious to join in battle against their foes. Traditionally, the berserks would spend two or three ritualized sleepless evenings, drinking, smoking pipes, dancing to the drums and shouting until they felt the very blood in their veins boil. Some of the warriors were anxious and even angry at foregoing their battle rituals, but Vanar had explained this was a new type of warfare and the old ways did not always work, especially against the fireseed devils.
He watched as a load of caseshot tore through a troop of enemy cavalry, shredding armor, men and horses with impartiality. Already the scent and excitement of battle must have put some of the Bodyguard into the battle-rage, he could tell by the their eyes and how some of them were chewing the edges of their shields. If they broke out of line, battle-rage or no, they would answer to him!
His own mouth was dry as dust and he felt the accelerated pulse of the rage as it coursed through his body. Vanar pulled a piece of jerky out of his pouch and began to chew. He fought down the urge to yank out his sword and charge into the enemy lines. He did not like this new way of fighting, but it was King Kalvan’s way and the path his overlord ordered him to follow.
He watched as one of Kalvan’s aides galloped up and talked hurriedly to the Great King, pointing furiously at the Hostigi left wing. Vanar gave the hand signal for the Guard to mount up on the double. Before the last of his men had taken their mounts from the horse handlers, Kalvan had signaled him and his regular cavalry guard to follow. He heard the Great King shouting, but all he could understand was the last word, “Charge!”
Kalvan was headed straight into a group of cavalry with iron scales. He made a quick prayer of thanksgiving to the Raven Hag of War and jumped into the fray behind his overlord. One of the scaled Ros-Zarthani cavalry aimed a wicked looking barbed dart at the Great King, but before he could throw it, Vanar’s battleaxe cleaved his helmet, leaving a trail of blood and brains. Moments later he was at his King’s side, wrestling a lance out of a cuirassier’s arms. He looked over at Kalvan and smiled--life didn’t get much better than this!
Suddenly a company of Styphon’s Guard, wearing fancy red capes and silver armor, surrounded the King. Vanar usually only had contempt for soldiers who spent money on fancy armor and weapons, but these red birds appeared to have sharp beaks and talons as well as finery. He couldn’t wait to test their claws against his battleaxe!
“To the King!” he shouted, as he bashed his battleaxe into the shoulder of a Red Hand, taking the man’s entire arm off. Then all was lost in a red haze of killing and battle lust.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rylla turned quickly in her saddle at the sound of someone running and raised her horsepistol. She quickly lowered it as she recognized green and gold plumes and the gilded armor of Prince Sarrask of S ask, moving with surprising quickness for someone so big. When Sarrask reached her horse, he paused to remove his gilded and engraved burgonet and catch his breath.
“Your Majesty, these slime-sucking Styphoni have broken our right wing!
Rylla felt her stomach fall. Would the right wing have broken had she held her position? “Dralm-damn the baggage train!” How would she ever explain this to Kalvan? She thought quickly, What to do? What to do? It had taken what seemed to be a complete candle to re-assemble the reserve from the baggage train botchery. All the dragoons were here and about two-thirds of the regular cavalry.
The rest were still chasing the false Sastragathi. With growing apprehension, Rylla led her command back up the hillside. At the top her worst fears were confirmed.
The entire right wing was gone, no sign of Hestophes or any of his troops. Kalvan’s flood was supposed to kill only the Styphoni, but it appeared from the number of bodies that much of both armies had died in what was now a muddy swamp. What remained of the Hostigi left wing was retreating through a defile ahead of several thousand Ros-Zarthani cavalry. A lane of dead and wounded marked their passage. Only the center was still holding and it was about to be encircled by the Red Hand.
Rylla stifled a sharp sob, grasped the hilt of her saber so hard she could feel the metal cut her hand, then raised her sword and shouted, “Charge!”
She didn’t wait to see if anyone followed but charged blindly down the hillside with Prince Sarrask at her side toward the hated Red Hand. She looked for her husband’s banner but it was nowhere to be seen. Had she lost her only love as well?
She felt her horse stumble and would have fallen from the saddle but for Sarrask’s firm hand. His face was a terrible mask of anger and vengeance and she was truly glad he was on her side. She knew her own face mirrored Sarrask’s.
When they reached the Red Hand, her sword arm fell and slashed until it was as dead of feeling as her heart. She must have killed a dozen Temple Guard before they realized that they were being attacked from behind. Suddenly glaives were falling like scythes at harvest time and Rylla’s saber was knocked out of her hand. She pulled a loaded pistol out of her sash and shot the silver helmeted Guardsman in the mouth. Then she heard her horse scream, threw her pistol at another red-cloaked Guardsman, and wrestled two more pistols from her saddle holsters.
Rylla looked around and saw she was separated from the rest of her command by an inlet of red. She dodged a glaive thrust and used one of her boot guns to shoot the Guardsman in the face. Something hard struck her breastplate, and for a moment, she thought she was going to be knocked off her horse. Then she caught her balance, righted herself and used her last bullet to take out another Guardsman. Finally, Rylla grabbed the pistol by the barrel and began to use it as a club.
She would take as many of these red devils with her as she could. Yes, there would be fine company this eve in Hadron’s Great Hall!
II
A miasma of anxiety and worry lay over the Foundry quarters like a thick blanket of fog. The sky was filled with broiling dark clouds, and every few minutes sheet lightning would light up the sky. In the far distance Sirna could hear the distant roll of cannons, or maybe thunder--
she couldn’t be sure.
The normal clanging, banging and thrumming of the Foundry were absent. Many of the workers belonged to the Hostigos Militia and were off to fight the Grand Host; others had sons or brothers who were off to war and might not be coming home. Even the Study Team members were sticking to their quarters, avoiding the common rooms of the two-story stone farmhouse.
Sirna put down the sweater she’d been knitting to relieve the tedium, and went downstairs to the first floor dining area. Mrytta, the housekeeper, usually kept a pot of sassafras tea on the stove. Everyone but Varnath Lala allowed Mrytta to clean their rooms; the famed Metallurgist refused to promote sexual stereotyping “in any of its myriad of corrupting guises” and as a result her personal quarters looked like a pigsty. The only person sitting at the long plank table was Aranth Sain who was busy taking apart a long flintlock pistol and cleaning it.
“Do you mind?” she asked, pointing to a seat.
“No. Could use the company. This waiting is hard on everyone. I’d be down in the basement with Kirv watching the fighting on the sky-eye feed, but I’m not cleared for access. Although to be fair to Kirv--who’s really a decent sort--if he let me into the basement, he’d have to let everyone else on the Study Team--”
“And that would be a disaster!” they both said in unison, laughing afterwards.
“What do you think of Kalvan’s chances?” Sirna asked.
“He’s got the advantage of fighting in his own backyard and the best man-for-man army in the Six Kingdoms. His biggest problem is sheer numbers. Kalvan wins one battle and Styphon’s House throws twice as many troops at him on the next go-around. See, they know they can lose a hundred battles and still be in the game, but the moment Kalvan loses once--” Sain threw out his hands and brought them together with a loud bang! “Well, that’s the end of Hos-Hostigos. Problem solved.”
“Didn’t he lose once already, at Tenabra?”
“Technically, but it was his father-in-law, Prince Ptosphes, who lost that battle--and it was a ‘relatively’ small skirmish compared to the fight that’s going on in Sashta right now. Every time Kalvan commits his army there’s a chance he might take it on the chin. Don’t get me wrong; with the Fire-seed Mystery out in the open, Styphon’s House only has a limited time to marshal their forces before their house of cards collapses, to use an appropriate Europo-American cliché. I learned a lot of them working undercover at the Missouri Independence newspaper with young Sam Clemens.
“Until then, Styphon’s House has all the power and men that gold and silver can buy. And someone over there in Balph--Archpriest Anaxthenes, according to our inside source, Danthor Dras--is smart enough to know it and he’s not afraid to spend whatever it takes to defeat Kalvan. In three years there won’t be a Styphon’s House if they don’t eliminate Kalvan and consolidate their power militarily. Even if they do win it’s going to be an uphill fight to maintain a church without a constituency.”
“Isn’t that what Roxthar’s revolution is all about, putting the true believers back in control of Styphon’s House hierarchy, including the Inner Circle?”
“That’s what Archpriest Roxthar thinks it’s about, Sirna. I’ve seen this before. Fourth Level Macedonian-Imperial has this wonderfully fragile system of government run by the God Alexander. Everyone on the inside who runs things knows that Alexander is really just a mortal man and the god designation is purely traditional and ceremonial; it went along like this for millennia--until God Alexander CXII came to power. A true megalomaniac, he actually believed--as Roxthar believes that Styphon is an actual god--that he was a ‘God,’ and by Alexander’s Ghost, he was going to act like one. Are you familiar with Macedonian-Imperial at all?”
“No, Sain.”
“It’s a small subsector only about ten or twelve parayears wide. Its divarication point was Alexander of Macedonia surviving the illness that killed him at age thirty-two on all other Europo-American subsectors. He went on to conquer the known world at that time, whopping the Styphon out of anyone who objected. By the time of his death at the ripe old age of eighty-eight he’d not only cowed all his opponents but created, in typical Mediterranean-style, the cult of god worship in his image. He went from a cultural innovator--even bringing his tutor Aristotle along with him to do ‘research’--to a typical Persian god king. A perfect example of a Fourth Level quote that’s been popular on First Level for some time; ‘Power corrupts; while absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ Of course, we Home Timeliners have seen this all over Second Level, Third Level and numerous times on Fourth Level.
“To make a long story short, Alexander created the longest-lived and most peaceful dynasty of that entire Sector. Unfortunately, his legacy has not only been peace, but cultural and scientific stagnation. They’re still mired at the pre-mechanical stage of development and only recently discovered gunpowder.”
“What happened to the God who thought he was a god?”
“Since he was the heir apparent and the closest living descendant of Alexander the Great, the oligarchs who rule in his name did their best to put up with his antics, such as having everyone in Alexandria dress in yellow, no stepping on cracks every odd day of the month or killing all the one-legged children in the Empire. It didn’t take long before his demands tried the patience of even his true worshippers, of which there were a surprising number! At first they tried to find a double to act in his place, but he had peculiarly wide eyes and without advanced cosmetic surgery there was no way they were going to find a twin to double for him. They couldn’t publicly admit their God Alexander CXII was insane and that he didn’t yet have any heirs with whom they could replace him.
“So one of the councilors devised a devilishly evil idea of putting him into a permanent coma and telling the people he was communicating with his godly ancestors.”
“How did they do that?”
“One of them must have been in the holdup trade at one time because he came up with the idea of smashing in the Emperor’s skull with a leather sandbag.”
“That’s awful!”
“Yes, but it doesn’t leave any marks and turns the brains underneath to jelly. Of course, if the beating is too severe it’s fatal. They were very careful in their execution. Once the bruises went away they were able to display him in a crystal crypt, keeping him alive for over forty years. It made everybody happy.”
Sirna shivered. “But didn’t that end the line?”
Aranth smiled. “No. The rest of his body worked just fine. They bred him like a paralyzed sheep.”
Sirna shuddered. “Some of the things that are business as usual outtime make you long for Home Time Line. But getting back to Aryan-Transpacific, if you’re saying that Roxthar has the same take on reality as Alexander CXII, then why hasn’t anyone slipped a blade between his ribs?”
“Because he’s Styphon’s House’s best weapon in the war against Kalvan; look at how quickly he’s been able to mobilize the Inner Circle and Temple bureaucracy. I doubt the Grand Host would have ever come into being without Roxthar’s backing. Without Roxthar to mobilize and scare them, the Inner Circle would still be worrying over how to maximize their kickbacks from their suppliers of war materials and transportation.
“But, once the war against Kalvan is finished, Roxthar will then become their greatest liability. In addition, Roxthar also has an important ally, Xenophes, Commander of Styphon’s Own Guard.”
Aranth paused while he finished cleaning his flintlock pistol; when it was ready to re-assemble, he continued. “First Speaker Anaxthenes has been mobilizing all his Temple resources against the Investigator, but he may still not be able to stop Archpriest Roxthar, who has built a sizable faction and not just among his own Investigators. The Roxthar/Anaxthenes struggle may be as important to this time line as the war between Styphon’s House and Kalvan.”
Sirna heard shouting coming from outside the Foundry quarters. Aranth Sain motioned her to shush and put his half-assembled pistol back together faster than she would
have believed possible, priming, loading and cocking it almost in a single motion. He tiptoed over to the door, his pistol barrel down at his side. The shutters were open and he carefully pulled back the scraped cowhide shade to show the outer courtyard and Foundry building. There were four towers at each corner of the compound and the guards at the front were waving and shouting to someone out on the Great King’s Highway.
Aranth used his pocket phone, disguised as a powder horn, to call Captain Kirv and tell him there was some commotion going on outside the gates. He talked quickly and sub-vocally so Sirna was unable to hear his half of the conversation. When he was finished, he put away the phone, saying, “Kirv says it looks safe for the moment. He’s already at the stable; he was contacted by one of the lookouts. Let’s go outside and see what all the hoopla is about.”
Sirna grabbed a flintlock musket out of the gunrack next to the door, loaded and primed it before following Sain into the courtyard. She noticed that Aranth was still holding his cocked pistol by his side. It hit her that Sain was also wearing his back-and-breast and that she’d never seen him outside the Foundry without it, which bespoke of long service outtime on primitive worlds like Aryan-Transpacific, where being prepared meant living to see another day.
Captain Kirv rode up on his horse and indicated for the guards to open the gates. Sirna moved to where she could see out the gate doors, while Sain scaled a ladder and got up on the outer wall’s catwalk. She could see a crowd of heavily armored men, all of them with raised visors and pennants flying. One of the flags was the Hostigos standard, a blue halberd on a red field. A lot of the armor looked dented and banged up; one shield appeared as if it had been chewed by giant rats. Several of the men-at-arms had impromptu bandages and missing armor. One of the knights shouted, “Hail Kalvan! The Styphoni have broken--Down Styphon!”
His cry was echoed by a score of voices both inside and outside the courtyard.
