Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen

by H. Beam Piper

  And, according to best intelligence estimates, Gormoth had six thousand mercenaries, of whom four thousand were cavalry, and four thousand of his own subjects, including neither the senile nor the adolescent and none of them armed with agricultural implements or crossbows. He looked at the map again. Gormoth would attack where he could use his cavalry superiority to best advantage. Either Listra-Mouth or Marax Ford.

  “Good. And all the riflemen.” All fifty of them. “Put them on the best horses, they’ll have to be everywhere at once. And five hundred regular cavalry.”

  Everybody howled at that. There weren’t that many, not uncommitted. Swords flashed over the map, indicating places where they only had half enough now. Contradictions were shouted. One of these days somebody was going to use a sword for something besides map-pointing in one of these arguments. Finally, by robbing Peter and Paul both, they scraped up five hundred for the Mobile Force.

  “And I want all those musketoons and lances turned in,” he said. “The lances are better pikes than half our pikemen have, and the musketoons are almost as good as arquebuses. We won’t have cavalrymen burdened with infantry weapons when the infantry need them as desperately as they do.”

  Harmakros wanted to know what the cavalry would fight with. “Swords and pistols. The purpose of cavalry is to scout and collect information, neutralize enemy cavalry, harass enemy movement and communications, and pursue fugitives. It is not to fight on foot—that’s why we’re organizing mounted infantry—and it is not to commit suicide by making attacks on massed pikemen—that’s why we’re building these light four-pounders. The lances and musketoons will go to the infantry, and the fowling-pieces and scythe-blade things they replace can go to the militia.

  “Now, you’ll command this Mobile Force, Harmakros. Turn all your intelligence work over to Xentos; Prince Ptosphes and I will help him. You’ll have all four of the four-pounders, and the two being built as soon as they’re finished, and pick out the lightest four of the old eight-pounders. You’ll be based in Sevenhills Valley; be prepared to move either east or west as soon as you have orders.

  “And another thing: battle-cries.” They had to be shouted constantly, to keep friend from killing friend. “Besides ‘Ptosphes!’ and ‘Hostigos!’ we will shout ‘Down Styphon!”

  That met with general approval. They all knew who the real enemy was.

  GORMOTH, Prince of Nostor, set down the goblet, wiping his bearded lips on the back of his hand. The candies in front of him and down the long tables at the sides flickered. Tableware clattered, and voices were loud.

  “Lost everything!” The speaker was a baron driven from Sevenhills Valley when Tarr-Dombra had fallen almost a moon ago. “My house, a score of farms, a village ...”

  “You think we’ve lost nothing?” another noble demanded. “They crossed the river the night after they chased you out, and burned everything on my land. It was Styphon’s own miracle I got out with my own blood unspilled.”

  “For shame!” cried Vyblos, the high priest of the temple of Styphon, sitting with him at the high table. “You speak of cow-byres and peasant-huts; what of the temple-farm of Sevenhills, a holy place pillaged and desecrated? What of fifteen consecrated priests and novices, and a score of lay guards, all cruelly murdered? ‘Dealt with as wolves are’,” he quoted.

  “That’s Styphon’s business; let him took to his own,” the lord from western Nostor said. “I want to know why our Prince isn’t looking to the protection of Nostor.”

  “It can be stopped, Prince.” That was the mayor, and wealthiest merchant, of Nostor Town. “Prince Ptosphes has offered peace, now that Hostigos has Tarr-Dombra again. He’s a man of his word.”

  “Peace tossed like a bone to a cur?” yelled Netzigon, the chief captain of Nostor. “Friendship shot at us out of cannon?”

  “Peace with a desecrator of holy places, and a butcher of Styphon’s priests?” Vyblos fairly screamed. “Peace with a blasphemer who pretends, with his mortal hands, to work Styphon’s own miracle, and make fireseed without Styphon’s aid?”

  “More than pretends!” That was Gormoth’s cousin, Count Phebion. He still hadn’t taken Pheblon back into his favor after losing Tarr-Dombra, but for those words he was close to it. “By Dralm, the Hostigi burned more fireseed taking Tarr-Dombra than we thought they had in all Hostigos. I was there, which you weren’t. And when they opened the magazines, they only sneered and said, ‘That filthy trash; don’t get it mixed with ours’.”

  “That’s all aside,” the baron from Listra-Mouth said. “I want to know what’s being done to keep their raiders out of Nostor. Why, they’ve harried all the strip between the mountains and the river; there isn’t a house standing there now.”

  Weapons clattered at the door. Somebody else sneered: “That’s Ptosphes, now! Under the tables, everybody!” A man in mail and black leather strode in, advancing and saluting; the captain of the dungeons.

  “Lord Prince, the special prisoner has been made to talk. He will tell all.”

  “Ha!” Gormoth knew what that meant., Then he laughed at the looks of concern on faces down the side tables. Not a few at his court had cause to dread somebody telling all about something. He drew his poignard and cut a line across the candle in front of him, a thumb’s breadth from the top.

  “You bring good news. I’ll go to hear him in that time.” As he nodded dismissal, the captain bowed and backed away. He rapped loudly on the table with the pommel of the dagger. “Be silent, all of you; I’ve little time, so give heed. Klestreus,” he addressed the elected captain-general of the mercenary free-companies, “you have four thousand horse, two thousand foot, and ten cannon. Add to them a thousand of my infantry and such guns of mine as you think fit. You’ll cross the Athan at Marax Ford. Be on the road before the dew’s off the grass tomorrow; before dawn of the next day, take and hold the ford, put the best of your cavalry across at once, and let the others follow as speedily as they can.

  “Netzigon,” he told his own chief-captain, “you’ll gather every man you can, down to the very peasant rabble, and such cannon as Klestreus leaves you. Post companies to confront every pass in the mountains from across the river; use the peasants for that. With the rest of your force, march to Listra-Mouth and Vryllos Gap. As Klestreus moves west through East Hostigos, he will attack each gap from behind; when he does, your people will cross over and give aid. Tarr-Dombra we’ll have to starve out; the rest must be taken by storm. When Klestreus is as far as Vryllos Gap, you will cross the Athan and move up Listra Valley. After that, we’ll have Tarr-Hostigos to take. Galzer only knows how long we’ll be at that, but by the end of the moon-half all else in Hostigos should be ours.”

  There were gratified murmurs all along the table; this made good hearing, and they had waited long to hear it. Only the high priest, Vyblos, was ill-pleased.

  “But why so soon, Prince?”

  “Soon? By the Mace of Galzar, you’ve been bawling for it like a branded calf since greenleaf-time. Well, now you have your invasion—yet you object. Why?”

  “A few more days would cost nothing, Prince,” Vyblos said. “Today I had word from Styphon’s House Upon Earth, from the pen of His Divinity, Styphon’s Voice Himself. An archpriest, His Sanctity Krastokles, is traveling hither with rich gifts and the blessing of Styphon. It were poor reverence not to await His Sanctity’s coming.”

  Another cursed temple-rat, bigger and fatter and more insolent than this one. Well, let him come after the victory, and content himself with what bones were tossed to him.

  “You heard me,” he told the two captains. “I rule here, not this priest. Be about it; send out your orders now, and move in the morning.”

  Then he rose, pushing back the chair before the servant behind him could touch it. The line was still visible at the top of the candle.

  Guards with torches attended him down the winding stairs into the dungeons. The air stank. His breath congealed; the heat of summer never penetrated here. From the torture
chamber shrieks told of some wretch being questioned; idly he wondered who. Stopping at an iron-bound door, he unlocked it with a key from his belt and entered alone, closing it behind him.

  The room within was large, warmed by a fire on a hearth in the corner and lighted by a great lantern from above. Under it, a man bent over a littered table, working with a mortar and pestle. As the door closed, he straightened and turned. He had a bald head and a red beard, and wore a most unprisoner-like dagger on his belt. A key for the door lay on the table, and by them a pair of heavy horseman’s pistols. He smiled.

  “Greetings, Prince; it’s done. I tried some, and it’s as good as they make in Hostigos, and better than the dirt the priests sell.”

  “And no prayers to Styphon, Skranga?”

  Skranga was chewing tobacco. He spat brownly on the floor.

  “That in the face of Styphon! You want to try it, Prince? The pistols are empty.”

  There was a bowl half full of fireseed on the table. He measured a charge and poured it into one, loaded and wadded a ball on top of it, primed the pan, readied the flint and striker. Aiming at a billet of wood by the hearth, he fired, then laid the pistol down and went to probe the hole with a straw. The bullet had gone in almost a little finger’s length; Styphon’s powder wouldn’t do that much.

  “Well, Skranga! “ he laughed. “We’ll have to keep you hidden for awhile yet, but from this hour you’re first nobleman of Nostor after myself. Style yourself Duke. There’ll be rich lands for you in Hostigos, when Hostigos is mine.”

  “And in Nostor the Styphon temple-farms?” Skranga asked. “If I’m to make fireseed for you, there’s all there that I’ll need.”

  “Yes, by Galzar, that too! After I’ve dealt with Ptosphes, I’ll have a reckoning with Vyblos, and before I let him die, he’ll be envying Ptosphes.”

  Snatching up a pewter cup without looking to see if it were clean, he went to the wine-barrel and drew it full. He tasted the wine, then spat it out.

  “Is this the swill they’ve given you to drink?” he demanded. “Whoever’s at fault won’t see tomorrow’s sun set!” He flung open the door and bellowed into the hall: “Wine! Wine for Prince Gormoth and Duke Skranga! And silver cups!” He hurled the pewter, still half full of wine, at a guard. “Move your feet, you bastard! And see it’s fit for nobles to drink!”

  MOBILE force HQ had been the mansion of a Nostori noble driven from Sevenhills Valley on D-for-Dombra Day. Kalvan’s name had been shouted ahead as he rode to it through the torch-lit, troop-crowded village, and Harmakros and some of his officers met him at the door.

  “Great Dralm, Kalvan!” Harmakros laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re growing wings on horses, now. Our messengers only got off an hour ago.”

  “Yes, I met them at Vryllos Gap.” They crossed the outer hall and entered the big room beyond. “We got the news at Tarr-Hostigos just after dark. What have you heard since?”

  At least fifty candles burned in the central chandelier. Evidently the cavalry had gotten here before the peasants, on D-Day, and hadn’t looted too destructively themselves. Harmakros led him to an inlaid table on which a map, scorched with hot needles on white deerskin, was spread.

  “We have reports from all the watchtowers along the mountains. They’re too far back from the river for anything but dust to be seen, but the column’s over three miles long. First cavalry, then infantry, then guns and wagons, and then more infantry and some cavalry. They halted at Nirfa at dusk and built hundreds of campfires. Whether they left them burning and moved on after dark, and how far ahead the cavalry are now, we don’t know. We expect them at Marax Ford by dawn.”

  “We got a little more than that. The Nostor priest of Dralm got a messenger off a little after noon, but he didn’t get across the river till twilight. Your column’s commanded by Klestreus, the mercenary captain-general. All Gormoth’s mercenaries, four thousand cavalry and two thousand infantry, a thousand of his own infantry, and fifteen guns, he didn’t say what kind, and a train of wagons that must be simply creaking with loot. At the same time, Netzigon’s moving west on Listra-Mouth with an all-Nostori army; dodging them was what delayed this messenger. Chartiphon’s at Listra-Mouth with what he can scrape up; Ptosphes is at Vryllos Gap with a small force.”

  “That’s it,” Harmakros said. “Double attack, but the one from the east will be the heavy one. We can’t do anything to help Chartiphon, can we?”

  “Beat Klestreus as badly as we can; that’s all I can think of.” He had gotten out his pipe; as soon as he had it filled, one of the staff officers was offering a light. That was another universal constant. “Thank you. What’s been done here, so far?”

  “I started my wagons and the eight-pounders east on the main road; they’ll halt just west of Fitra, here.” He pointed on the map to a little farming village. “As soon as they’re all collected, here, I’ll start down the back road, which joins the main road at Fitra. After I’m past, the heavy stuff will follow on. I have two-hundred militia—the usual odd-and-sods, about half with crossbows­—marching with the wagons.”

  “That was all smart.”

  He looked again at the map. The back road, adequate for cavalry and four-pounders but not for wagons or the heavy guns, followed the mountain and then bent south to join the main valley road. Harmakros had gotten the slow stuff off first, and wouldn’t be impeded by it on his own march, and he was waiting to have all his force together, instead of feeding it in to be chopped up by detail.

  “Where had you, thought of fighting?”

  “Why, on the Adm, of course.” Harmakros was surprised that he should ask. “Klestreus will have some of his cavalry across before we get there, but that can’t be helped. We’ll kill them or run them back, and then defend the line of the river.”

  “No.” Kalvan touched the stem of his corncob on the Fitra road-junction. “We fight here.”

  “But, Lord Kalvan! That’s miles inside Hostigos!” one of the officers expostulated. Maybe he owned an estate down there. “We can’t let them get that far!”

  “Lord Kalvan,” Harmakros began stiffly. He was going to be insubordinate; he never bothered with titles otherwise. “We cannot give up a foot of Hostigi ground. The honor of Hostigos forbids it.”

  Here we are, back in the Middle Ages! He seemed to hear the voice of the history professor, inside his head, calling a roll of battles lost on points of honor. Mostly by the French, though they weren’t the only ones. He decided to fly into a rage.

  “To Styphon with that!” he yelled, banging his fists on the table. “We’re not fighting this war for honor, and we’re not fighting this war for real-estate. We’re fighting this Dralm-damned war for survival, and the only way we can win it is to kill all the damned Nostori we can, and get as few of our men killed doing it as we can.

  “Now, here,” he continued quietly, the rage having served its purpose. “Here’s the best place to do it. You know what the ground’s like there. Klestreus will cross here at Marax. He’ll rush his best cavalry ahead, and after he’s secured the ford, he’ll push on up the valley. His cavalry’ll want to get in on the best looting before the infantry come up. By the time the infantry are over, they’ll be strung out all up East Hostigos.

  “And they’ll be tired, and, more important, their horses will be tired. We’ll all have gotten to Fitra by daylight, and by the time they begin coming up, we’ll have our position prepared, our horses will be fresh again, all the men will have at least an hour or so sleep, and a hot meal. You think that won’t make a difference? Now, what troops have we east of here?”

  A hundred-odd cavalry along the river; a hundred and fifty regular infantry, and about twice as many militia. Some five hundred, militia and some regulars, at posts in the gaps.

  “All right ... get riders off at once, somebody who won’t be argued with. Have that force along the river move back, the infantry as rapidly as possible, and the cavalry a little ahead of the Nostori, skirmishing. They will not attempt to de
lay them; if the ones in front are slowed down, the ones behind will catch up with them, and we don’t want that.”

  Harmakros had been looking at the map, and also looking over the idea. He nodded. “East Hostigos,” he declared, “will be the graveyard of the Nostori.” That took care of the honor of Hostigos.

  “Well, mercenaries from Hos-Agrys and Hos-Ktemnos. Who hired those mercenaries, anyhow—Gormoth or Styphon’s House?”

  “Why, Gormoth. Styphon’s House furnished the money, but the mercenary captains contracted with Gormoth.’.

  “Stupid of Styphon. The reason I asked, the Rev. What’s-his-name, in Nostor, included an interesting bit of gossip in his report. It seems that this morning Gormoth had one of his under-stewards put to death. Forced a funnel into his mouth, and had close to half a keg of wine poured into him. The wine was of inferior quality, and had been furnished to a prisoner, or supposed prisoner, for whom Gormoth had commanded good treatment.”

  One of the officers made a face. “Sounds like Gormoth.” Another laughed and named a couple of innkeepers in Hostigos Town who deserved the same. Harmakros wanted to know who this pampered prisoner was.

  “You know him. That Agrysi horse-trader, Skranga.”

  “Yes, we got some good horses from him. I’m riding one, myself,” Harmakros said. “Hey! He was working in the fireseed mill. Do you think he’s making fireseed for Gormoth now?”

  “If he’s doing what I told him to he is.” There was an outcry; even Harmakros stared at him in surprise. “If Gormoth starts making his own fireseed, Styphon’s House will find it out, and you know what’ll happen then. That’s why I was wondering who’d be able to use those mercenaries against whom. That’s another thing. We can’t be bothered with Nostori prisoners, but take all the mercenaries who’ll surrender. We’ll need them when Sarrask’s turn comes up.”

  DAWN was only a pallor in the east, and the whitewashed walls were dim blurs under dark thatches, but the village of Fitra was awake, and the shouting began as he approached: “Lord Kalvan! Dralm bless Lord Kalvan!” He was used to it now; it didn’t give him the thrill it had at first. Light streamed from open doors and windows, and a fire blazed on the little common, and there was a crowd of villagers and cavalrymen who had ridden on ahead. Behind him, hooves thudded on the road, and far back he could hear the four-pounders clattering over the pole bridge at the mill. He had to make a speech from the saddle, while orders were shouted and reshouted to the rear and men and horses crowded off the road to make way for the guns.