He hated the sight of all of them, and the two priests most of all. He cut short their greetings.
“This is Duke Skranga,” he told them. “Next to me, he is first nobleman of Nostor. He takes precedence over all here.” The faces in front of his went slack with amazement, then stiffened angrily. A mutter of protest was hushed almost as soon as it began. “Do any object? Then it had better be one who’s served me at least half as well as this man, and I see none such here.” He turned to Vyblos. “What do you want, and who’s this with you?”
“His Sanctity, the Archpriest Krastokles, sent by His Divinity, Styphon’s Voice,” Krastokles began furiously. “And how has he fared since entering your realm? Set upon by Hostigi heathens, hounded like a deer through the hills, his people murdered, his wagons pillaged ...
“His wagons, you say? Well, great Galzar, what of my gold and my fireseed, sent me by Styphon’s Voice in his care, and look how he’s cared for them. he and Styphon between them.”
“You blaspheme!” Archpriest Krastokles cried. “And it was not your gold and fireseed, but the god’s, to be given you in the god’s service at my discretion.”
“And lost at your indiscretion. You witless fool in a yellow bed gown, didn’t you know a battle when you were riding into one?”
“Sacrilege!” A dozen voices said it at once: Vyblos’s and Krastokles’s, and, among others, Netzigon’s. By the Mace of Galzar, now didn’t he have a fine right to open his mouth here? Anger almost sickened him; in a moment he was afraid that he would vomit pure bile. He strode to Netzigon, snatching the golden chief-captain’s chain from over his shoulder.
“All the gods curse you, and all the devils take you! I told you to wait at Listra-Mouth for Klestreus, not to throw your army away along with his. By Galzar, I ought to have you flayed alive!” He struck Netzigon across the face with the chain. “Out of my sight, while you’re still alive!” Then he turned to Vyblos. “You, too—out of here, and take the Archpimp Krastokles with you. Go to your temple and stay there; return here either at my bidding or at your peril.”
He watched them leave: Netzigon shaken, the black-armored captain stolidly, Vyblos and Krastokles stiff with rage. A few of Netzigon’s officers and gentlemen attended him; the rest drew back from them as though from contamination. He went to Pheblon and threw the golden chain over his head.
“I still don’t thank you for losing me Tarr-Dombra, but that’s a handful of dried peas to what that son of a horse-leech’s daughter cost me. Now, Galzar help you, you’ll have to make an army out of what he left you.”
“My ransom still needs paying,” Phebion reminded him. “Till that’s done, I’m oath-bound to Prince Ptosphes and Lord Kalvan.”
“So you are; twenty thousand ounces of silver for you and those taken with you. You know where to find it? I don’t.”
“I do, Prince,” Duke Skranga said. “There’s ten times that in the treasure vault of the temple of Styphon.”
COLONEL Netzigon waited until he was outside to touch a handkerchief to his check. It was bleeding freely, and had dripped onto his doublet. Now, by Styphon, the cleaning of that would cost Gormoth dear!
It wasn’t his fault, anyhow. Great Styphon, was he to sit still while Chartiphon cannonaded him from across the river? And how had he known what sort of cannon Chartiphon had? The Hostigi really must be making fireseed; he hadn’t believed that until yesterday. Three times he had sent his cavalry splashing into the river, and three times the guns had murdered them. He’d never seen guns throw small-shot so far. So then he’d sent his infantry over at Vryllos, and driven those with Prince Ptosphes back into the gap, and then, while he was driving against Chartiphon’s right and the day had seemed won, Ptosphes had brought his beaten soldiers back, fighting like panthers, and that she-devil daughter of his—he’d heard, later, that she’d been killed. Styphon bless whoever did it!
Then everything had gone down in bloody ruin. Driven back across the river again, the Hostigi pouring after them, and then riders from Nostor Town with word that Klestreus' army was beaten in East Hostigos and orders to fall back, and they had retreated, with the whole country burning around them, fire and smoke at Dyssa and fugitives screaming that a thousand Hostigi were pouring out of Dombra Gap, and his worthless peasant levies throwing away their weapons and taking to their heels....
Sorcery, that’s what it was! That cursed foreign wizard, Kalvan! Someone touched his arm. His hand flew to his poignard, and then he saw that it was the archpriest’s guard-captain. He relaxed. “You were ill-used, Count Netzigon,” the man in black armor said. “By Styphon, it ired me to see a brave soldier used like a thievish serf!”
“His Sanctity wasn’t reverently treated, nor His Holiness Vyblos. It shocked me to hear such words to the consecrated of Styphon” he replied. “What good can come to a realm whose Prince so insults the anointed of the god?”
“Ah!” The captain smiled. “It’s a pleasure, in such a court, to hear such piety. Now, Count Netzigon, if you could have a few words with His Sanctity—this evening, say, at the temple. Come after dark, cloaked and in commoner’s dress.”
KALVAN’S horse stumbled, jerking him awake. Behind him, fifty-odd riders clattered, many of them more or less wounded, none seriously. There had been a score on horse litters, or barely able to cling to their mounts, but they had been left at the base hospital in Sevenhills Valley. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had had his clothes, or even all his armor, off, except for quarter-hour pauses, now and then, he had been in the saddle since daylight, when he had recrossed the Athan with the smoke of southern Nostor behind him.
That had been as bad as Phil Sheridan in the Shenandoah, but every time some peasant’s thatching blazed up, he knew it was burning another hole in Prince Gormoth’s morale. He’d felt better about it today, after following the mile-wide swath of devastation west from, Marax Ford and seeing it stop, with dramatic suddenness, at Fitra.
And the story Harmakros’s stragglers had told him: fifteen eight-horse wagons, four tons of fireseed, seven thousand ounces of gold—that would come to about $150,000—two wagon-loads of armor, three hundred new calivers, six hundred pistols, and all of a Styphon’s House archpriest’s personal baggage and vestments. He was sorry the archpriest had gotten away; his execution would have been an interesting feature of the victory celebration.
He had passed prisoners marching east, all mercenaries, under arms and in good spirits, at least one pike or lance in each detachment sporting a red and blue pennon. Most of them shouted, “Down Styphon!” as he rode by. The back road from Fitra to Sevenhills Valley hadn’t been so bad, but now, in what he had formerly known as Nittany Valley, traffic had become heavy again. Militia from Listra-Mouth and Vryllos, marching like regulars, which was what they were, now. Trains of carts and farm-wagons, piled with sacks and barrels or loaded with cabbages and potatoes, or with furniture that must have come from manor-houses. Droves of cattle, and droves of prisoners, not armed, not in good spirits, and under heavy guard: Nostori subjects headed for labor-camps and intensive Styphon-is-a-fake indoctrination. And guns, on four-wheel carts, that he couldn’t remember from any Hostigi ordnance inventory.
Hostigos Town was in an all-time record traffic-jam. He ran into Alkides, the mercenary artilleryman, with a strip of blue cloth that seemed to have come from a bedspread and a strip of red from the bottom of a petticoat. He was magnificently drunk.
“Lord Kalvan!” he shouted. “I saw your guns; they’re wonderful! What god taught you that? Can you mount mine that way?”
“I think so. I’ll have a talk with you about it tomorrow, if I’m awake then.” Harmakros was on his horse in the middle of the square, his rapier drawn, trying to untangle the chaos of wagons and carts and riders. Kalvan shouted to him, above the din:
“What the Styphon—when did we start using three-star generals for traffic-cops?” Military Police; organize soonest. Mercenaries, tough ones.
“Just till
I get a detail here. I sent all my own crowd up with the wagons.” He started to say something else, then stopped short and asked, “Did you hear about Rylla?”
“No, for Dralm’s sake.” He went cold under his scalding armor. “What about her?”
“Well, she was hurt—late yesterday, across the river. Her horse threw her; I only know what I got from one of Chartiphon’s aides. She’s at the castle.”
“Thanks; I’ll see you there later.” He swung his horse about and plowed into the crowd, drawing his sword and yelling for way. People crowded aside, and yelled his name to others beyond. Outside town, the road was choked with troops, and with things too big and slow to get out of the way; he rode mostly in the ditch. The wagons Harmakros had captured, great canvas-covered things like Conestogas, were going up to Tarr-Hostigos. He thought he’d never get past them: there always seemed to be more ahead. Finally he got through the outer gate and galloped across the bailey.
Throwing his reins to somebody at the foot of the keep steps, he stumbled up them and through the door. From the Staff Room, he heard laughing voices, Ptosphes’s among them. For an instant he was horrified, then reassured; if Ptosphes could laugh, it couldn’t be too bad.
He was mobbed as soon as he entered, everybody shouting his name and thumping him on the back; he was glad for his armor. Chartiphon, Ptosphes, Xentos, Uncle Wolf, most of the General Staff crowd. And a dozen officers he had never seen before, all wearing new red and blue scarves. Ptosphes was presenting a big man with a florid face and gray hair and beard.
“Kalvan, this is General Klestreus, late of Prince Gormoth’s service, now of ours.”
“And most happy at the change, Lord Kalvan,” the mercenary said. “An honor to have been conquered by such a soldier.”
“Our honor, General. You fought most brilliantly and valiantly.” He’d fought like a damned imbecile, and gotten his army chopped to hamburger, but let’s be polite. “I’m sorry I hadn’t time to meet you earlier, but things were a trifle pressing.” He turned to Ptosphes. “Rylla? What happened to her?”
“Why, she broke a leg,” Ptosphes began. That frightened him. People had died from broken legs in his own world when the medical art was at least equal to its here-and-now level. They used to amputate....
“She’s in no danger, Kalvan,” Xentos assured him. “None of us would be here if she were. Brother Mytron is with her. If she’s awake, she’ll want to see you.”
“I’ll go to her at once.” He clinked goblets with the mercenary and drank. It was winter-wine, aged quite a few winters, and evidently frozen down in a very cold one. It warmed and relaxed him. “To your good fortune in Hostigos, General. Your capture,” he lied, “was Gormoth’s heaviest loss, yesterday, and our greatest gain.” He set down the goblet, took off his helmet and helmet-coif and detached his sword from his belt; then picked up the wine again and finished it. “If you’ll excuse me now, gentlemen. I’ll see you all later.”
Rylla, whom he had expected to find gasping her last, sat propped against a pile of pillows in bed, smoking one of her silver-inlaid redstone pipes. She was wrapped in a loose gown, and her left leg, extended, was buckled into a bulky encasement of leather-no plaster casts, here-and-now. Mytron, the chubby and cherubic physician-priest, was with her, and so were several of the women who functioned as midwives, hexes, herb-boilers and general nurses. Rylla saw him first, and her face lighted like a sunrise.
“Hi, Kalvan! Are you all right? When did you get in? How was the battle?”
“Rylla, darling!” The women sprayed away from in front of him like grasshoppers. She flung her arms around his neck as he bent over her; he thought Mytron stepped in to relieve her of her pipe. “What happened to you?”
“You stopped in the Staff Room,” she told him, between kisses. “I smell it on you.”
“How is she, Mytron?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Oh, a beautiful fracture, Lord Kalvan!” the doctor enthused. “One of the priests of Galzar set it; he did an excellent job...”
“Gave me a fine lump on the head, too,” Rylla added. “Why, my horse fell on me. We were burning a Nostori village, and he stepped on a hot ember. He almost threw me, and then fell over something, and down we both went, the horse on top of me. I was carrying an extra pair of pistols in my boots and I fell on one of them. The horse broke a leg, too. They shot him. I guess they thought I was worth making an effort about.... Kalvan! Never hug a girl so tight when you’re wearing mail sleeves!”
“It’s nothing to worry about, Lord Kalvan,” Mytron was saying. “Not the first time for this young lady, either. She broke an ankle when she was eight, trying to climb a cliff to rob a hawk’s nest, and a shoulder when she was twelve, firing a musket-charge out of a carbine.”
“And now,” Rylla was saying, “it’ll be a moon, at least, till we can have the wedding.”
“We could have it right now, sweetheart...”
“I will not be married in my bedroom,” she declared. “People make jokes about girls who have to do that. And I will not limp to the temple of Dralm on crutches.”
“All right, Princess; it’s your wedding.” He hoped the war with Sask that everybody expected would be out of the way before she was able to ride again. He’d have a word with Mytron about that. “Somebody,” he said, “go and have a hot bath brought to my rooms, and tell me when it’s ready. I must stink to the very throne of Dralm.”
“I was wondering when you were going to mention that, darling,” Rylla said.
HE did speak to Mytron the next day, catching him between a visit to Rylla and his work at the main army hospital in Hostigos Town. Mytron thought, at first, that he was impatient for Rylla’s full recovery and the wedding.
“Oh, Lord Kalvan, quite soon. You know, of course, that broken bones take time to knit, but our Rylla is young and young bones knit fast. Inside a moon, I’d say.”
“Well, Mytron; you know we’re going to have to fight Sarrask of Sask now. When war with Sask comes, I’d be most happy if she were still in bed, with that thing on her leg. So would Prince Ptosphes.”
“Yes. Our Rylla, shall we say, is a trifle heedless of her own safety.” That was a generous five hundred percent understatement. Mytron put on his professional portentous frown. “You must understand, of course, that it is not good for any patient to be kept too long in bed. She should be able to get up and walk about as soon as possible. And wearing the splints is not pleasant.”
He knew that. It wasn’t any light plaster cast; it was a frame of heavily padded steel splints, forged from old sword-blades, buckled on with a case of saddle leather. It weighed about ten pounds, and it would be even more confining and hotter than his armor. But the next thing she broke might be her neck, or she might stop a two-ounce musket ball, and then his luck would run out along with hers. His mind shied like a frightened horse from the thought of no more happy, lovely Rylla.
“I’ll do my best, Lord Kalvan, but I can’t keep her in bed forever.” War with Sask wouldn’t wait that long, either. Xentos was in contact with the priests of Dralm in Sask Town; they reported that the news of Fitra and Listra-Mouth had stunned Sarrask’s court briefly, then thrown Sarrask into a furor of activity. More mercenaries were being hired, and some sort of negotiations, the exact nature undetermined, were going on between Sarrask and Balthar of Beshta. A Styphon archpriest, one Zothnes, had arrived in Sask Town, with a train of wagons as big as the one taken by Harmakros in southern Nostor.
A priest of Galzar arrived at Tarr-Hostigos from Nostor Town with an escort and a thousand ounces of gold-gold and silver seemed to be on a twenty-to-one ratio, here-and-now—to pay the ransoms of Count Pheblon and the other gentlemen taken at Tarr-Dombra. The news was that Phebion was now Gormoth’s chief-captain and was trying to reorganize what was left of the Nostori army. Gormoth would be back in the ring for another bout in the spring; that meant that Sarrask must be dealt with this fall.
He was having his own reorganization problems.
They’d taken heavier losses than he’d liked, mostly the poorly armed and partly trained militia who’d fought at Listra-Mouth. On the other hand, they’d acquired over a thousand mercenary infantry and better than two thousand cavalry. They were a headache; they’d have to be integrated into the army of Hostigos. He didn’t want any mercenary troops at all. Mercenary soldiers, as individual soldiers, were as good as any; in fact, any regular army man was simply a mercenary in the service of his own country. But mercenary troops, as troops, weren’t good at all. They didn’t fight for the Prince who hired them; they fought for their own captains, who paid them from what the Prince had paid him. Mercenary captains, he could hear his history professor quoting Machiavelli, are either very capable men or not. If they are, you cannot rely upon them, for they will always aspire to their own greatness, either by oppressing you, their master, or by oppressing others against your intentions; but if the captain is not an able man, he will generally ruin you. Most of the captains captured in East Hostigos seemed to be quite able.
Klestreus was one exception. As a battle commander, he was an incompetent—Fitra had proven that. He wasn’t a soldier at all; he was a military businessman. He could handle sales, promotion and public relations, but not management and operations. That was how he’d gotten elected captain-general in Nostor. But he did have a wide knowledge of political situations, knew most of the Princes of Hos-Harphax, and knew the composition and command of all the mercenary outfits in the Five Kingdoms. So Kalvan appointed him Chief of Intelligence, where he could really be of use, and wouldn’t be able to lead troops in combat. He was quite honored and flattered.
Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen Page 13
