by John F. Carr
Shipwright Dargoth, a small elderly man with a wrinkled face like a crab apple and a fringe of white hair, pointed to a half-completed boat. “Your Majesty, note the five compartments. Watertight barriers are built-in along with these floatation tanks, that Your Majesty suggested, underneath the boat. Even if a cannonball knocks a hole in the stern, the boat’s in no danger. The new gunboats are designed to float with two flooded compartments.”
Kalvan examined the boat, running his hands along the seams. The boats were in the classic carvel design: a skeleton of steam-bent oak was formed to support planks from stem to stern. The planks were elm, hard wood designed to survive extreme stress with the seams between planks packed with oakum caulking to make the structure watertight. He noted the oak reinforcement of the stern where the guns would be seated.
Kalvan watched as a boat builder used an adze to trim a plank, swinging it so close to his sandals that he marveled the man didn’t chop off some of his exposed toes. Other boat builders were using bow drills, caulking mallets and other tools of the trade he was unable to identify.
Dargoth pointed. “See those cutter-sized frames over there? When they’re done, they’ll be big enough for the twenty-four-pounders you want installed. They’ll be stern-mounted with a six-pound bow chaser.”
“Good. How many will you have built by next spring?” Kalvan asked.
“We will have four of the cutters finished by the Flower Moon. Not as many as Your Majesty wanted, but that’s all the twenty-four pounders that the Royal Foundry would promise.”
Kalvan nodded. The brass foundry was working night and day to cast all the new guns, all of them rifled, that he’d requested. The rifling demanded more precision casting and, of course, added more time to the process. He needed additional cannons for the City Walls, the new men-of-war ships and the gunboats. Each military branch had its own needs and priorities.
“How’s the draft on the cutters?”
“They’ll navigate most of the rivers and the larger streams.”
“What about the Lyr River?” Kalvan asked, which was known back on otherwhen as the Wabash.
“Should be no problem, Your Majesty,” Admiral Herad answered. “At its widest it’s over a hundred paces in width and sufficiently deep for our gunboats.”
“Good. We’re going to need an Admiral of the inland rivers. Do you have any candidates, Admiral?”
“Hmm. I’ll give it some thought, Your Majesty, and come up with a list by tomorrow.”
“It should be somebody local, who has knowledge of most of the rivers and streams in the Middle Kingdoms.” Like most naval authorities, Admiral Herad preferred to reward his friends and cronies, but none of the Hostigi knew the Ohio and Indiana river systems. He’d also have a talk with Captain-General Errock and see who he suggested for the post. Errock had proved to be a fountain of information on the Upper Middle Kingdoms’ military leaders and the different armies.
“Yes, sir.”
Even though they’d destroyed or damaged a third of the Grefftscharr Navy, they were a long way from being on equal terms. It was the gunboats and arrogance of the Grefftscharri officers that had allowed them their victory over the Greffan Fleet. They wouldn’t be so accommodating next time. It typically took a year or two to build a warship before it was commissioned. By standardization of parts, Kalvan had cut some of the time down, but not enough to build a fleet big enough to defeat the Grefftscharri Navy. And no one, including himself, expected them to make the mistakes they’d made in their attack against Thagnor City.
II
Phidestros hated the thought of leaving home; he hadn’t been back more than three days, all of them busy organizing the coming campaign and sending out captains to raise the militia. He’d never had a home, or place he’d considered home before. But it wasn’t the stone walls, drafty halls and great hearth that made Tarr-Beshta a home; it was Princess Arminta. She was his touchstone, and he hated the thought of leaving without her, but there was no way he could justify bringing her along on his expedition to Sask. He was leaving, not only to claim his new Princedom, but to bring an end to Great King Lysandos’ reign.
With his support of Selestros as Great King of Hos-Harphax, Phidestros had put a target on his hide and he meant to strike first before Lysandros had time to return to Harphax City and rest his army. He wasn’t overly worried about the outcome, although any man’s fate was always up to a toss of the bones. Still, a resourceful man could be cautious and shave the bones in his favor.
Phidestros picked up his goblet of winter wine, drinking deeply before resuming his conversation with Grand-Captain Cythros, his castellan. “I’m going to leave you ten additional companies besides the regular garrison. With Kalvan settling into Thagnor and Grand Master Soton busy banging on Agrys City’s gates, I don’t foresee any problems.”
Captain Cythros, a moon-faced man with a short brown beard framing his face, was unable to keep his disappointment from showing.
“I know you’re disappointed; there’s little chance for advancement while keeping charge over a town. However, I had to leave Captain-General Geblon in Harphax City to hold Selestros’ reins in case he decided to hare off on his own. I don’t trust that former son-of-a-diseased-sow out of my sight.”
“And wisely, sir, if you value my opinion,” Cythros said.
Phidestros nodded. “Captain-General Kyblannos will be with me overseeing the two new mobile batteries. “He splayed his hands. “Who else is there to protect my most valuable possessions?”
Cythros gave up what was for him a rare smile. “Princess Arminta has been good for you. I like the way she thinks. I would follow her into battle anytime.”
Phidestros nodded, hiding the warmth that Cythros’ words brought. Arminta would be pleased, as well, when he repeated this conversation later.
“Your Highness, do not underestimate Lysandros’ battle savvy or ruthlessness. I spent six winters in his service and he will use any trick or ambush to defeat an enemy. He will lie, plead, threaten and anything else that he can think of to gain him victory. He will even break an oath to Galzar.”
Cythros’ voice lowered to a harsh whisper as he continued, as though afraid the tarr’s stone walls might hear his words. “When we were fighting as mercenaries in Hos-Ktemnos, Captain Lysandros, as he was called at that time, lost a battle and surrendered his command to one of the local princes. Beforehand, Lysandros made certain that his men had knives hidden upon their person. When it was dark, he abused his parole to sneak into the holding pens and release his men, who had surrendered under Oath to Galzar. Then he snuck them into the tarr where they slit the throats of everyone in the entire castle, including all the Uncle Wolfs of both sides. Lysandros threatened death to any of his men who ever breathed a word of this misadventure. Afterwards, he then claimed he had used a ruse to capture the castle. It gained him fame throughout Hos-Ktemnos.
“Few who survived that campaign lived to tell about it. I was smart enough to desert camp at the first opportunity,” Cythros said. “I left for Hos-Agrys so that our paths wouldn’t cross in the future. King Lysandros has a long memory and never forgets a slight. The only one who profited from that adventure besides Lysandros was Petty-Captain Demnos. Later, as I understand it, Lysandros played a major part in Demnos’ elevation to Captain of his brother’s Royal Guard. Where I also suspect Demnos played a part in Great King Kaiphranos’ untimely death.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I’m quite familiar with Lysandros’ ways. I spent too many moons with him in Hostigos Town. I will have at my call the Iron Band, some four thousand strong, the Greater Beshta Army of another twelve thousand men, plus four thousand Sashtan militia, all veterans of the Fireseed Wars. I doubt that Lysandros will bring more than four thousand horse and eight thousand infantry, including the Royal Harphaxi Pistoleers and his own Bodyguard. As far as the princely levy is concerned, I don’t see them standing with Lysandros unless they believe he can win. Even if they do join the field, we will
abuse them for their folly.
“So, unless the Wargod himself comes down from his Great Hall in the Sky to aid him, I do not see Lysandros escaping from the sword I’ve sharpened to take his head.”
III
Grand Master Soton rested his head in his hands as he sat in his tent after eating his evening meal. It had always been his way to eat the same rations that the lower ranks ate and at the same time. Tonight’s meal had been an uninspired one of boiled beef or buffalo, of unknown provenance, and stale bread fried in lard with a bowl of overcooked succotash. It sat in his guts like a small cannonball. He took another sip of wine hoping that it might settle his stomach.
At least, I still have most of my teeth, he thought. Which is Styphon’s Own Miracle, considering the foodstuffs I’ve consumed over the last twenty years of campaigning.
Soton heard Horse Master Sarmoth’s cough outside the tent, indicating visitors. He sat up straight, pulling his corncob pipe out of its pouch and filling it with leaf.
A few moments later, Sarmoth entered accompanied by Archpriest Grythos and Grand-Captain Karthamos, the head of the Agrysi loyalists.
“Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
Grythos, who knew that Soton shared the same rations as those of the common soldiers, wrinkled his nose in disgust, while Karthamos indicated he’d take a goblet.
“Thank you, sir,” Karthamos said. “This siege has been thirsty work.”
Soton nodded. “Indeed. Work that has gone on far too long.”
At this, Grythos perked up. “Is this why you call us here, to tell us that the siege is coming to an end?”
Soton shook his head. “We have another moon-half of bombardment before we can risk an assault. These old walls were built well and their defenders are tenacious.”
The Archpriest spat on the ground. “Curse these curs! They’re only delaying the inevitable and wasting our time. They have no hope of relief; I do not understand why they won’t face the truth and surrender. I say offer them new terms: Surrender now, or we’ll kill everyone inside after we take the City!”
They’ll hold out because some of them are stout men who know the price that is paid when a city is sacked and pillaged, he thought to himself. “No. Such a demand would only stiffen their resolve further. Besides, open your eyes beyond tomorrow’s daybreak: This is the City you will rule with the heir, once Great King Demistophon is deposed. You will need some subjects to carry out your orders, won’t you?”
Grythos scrunched up his face and said, “You’re right, a depopulated city provides little tax revenue. I’m just tired and bored from waiting for these old walls to fall. I do need subjects, but, after the siege, I will squeeze them like grapes until I drain every ounce of juice from them that I can squeeze.”
Soton would have felt sorry for the city folk if he didn’t have so many other problems to worry over. Grythos would be a stern and cruel taskmaster, but the people of Agrys City had bought their new ruler’s disfavor by their refusal to surrender the City. At least, he would kept Roxthar’s Investigation from entering the City Gates. No city or town should have to pay the Investigator’s blood price.
“Enough complaining. I called you here to discuss our strategy concerning our allies in the Union of Styphon’s Friends. I do not know Prince Simias of Cythor who is reported to be the Union’s leader.”
Grand-Captain Karthamos spoke up. “Your Excellency, Prince Simias is a man who believes he is not only the greatest general in the Five Kingdoms, but—for an accident of birth—that he should be Great King of Hos-Agrys, as well. Simias once fought a minor border war, in truth a skirmish, with the Princedom of Meligos and gained a minor victory. Since then he’s convinced himself that he’s the Kingdom’s greatest general and has been puffed up like a bladder about to explode. Men will follow him, but only reluctantly since he demands all the glory be in his name only. Woe be to him who brings bad news or a defeat.”
Soton nodded. There were too many such popinjays among the Temple’s allies; it was the price they paid for buying loyalty instead of inspiring it. For all their faults, the League’s princes fought for their faith and Allfather Dralm. He could use such mettle among the Agrysi nobility, rather than the base metal he was given.
“Archpriest, do you have any words?”
Grythos nodded. “This Simias is a spendthrift; he not only believes himself to be a great king, but tries to live as one. His summer palace is greater than his own Great King’s, but he had to borrow heavily from the Temple to see it finished. He’s squeezed his subjects with taxes and duties to the point where there is little left but bone and sinew. He is deep into their pockets.
“As to whether or not he’s a capable general, who knows? Simias has not really been blooded and he certainly knows nothing of the new tactics and stratagems birthed by the Usurper Kalvan and the Fireseed Wars. On the other hand, no one else in Hos-Agrys has either, except for those captains who fought with Prince Aesklos in his misguided attempt to invade Nostor several winters ago. Oh, Captain-General Karthamos, weren’t you among their number, if I remember correctly,” he finished snidely.
Karthamos nodded. “We were poorly led by Prince Aesklos—”
“The turncoat!” Grythos exclaimed.
“Yes, Aesklos owes no allegiance to anyone but himself. He was encouraged by Great King Demistophon to enter Nostor in an attempt to win over those princedoms lost to Hos-Harphax by former Great King Kaiphranos’ incompetence. Unfortunately, Kaiphranos proved to be a weaker reed than we had anticipated and Kalvan was able to mount a counterattack that left our army leaving Hos-Hostigos in tatters. Aesklos has always blamed Demistophon for not giving him enough troops, when in truth it was his own poor generalship that cost us the battle.”
“Enough squabbling,” Soton ordered. “Hos-Hostigos is no more, King Kaiphranos is dead and soon both Great King Demistophon and Prince Aesklos will join him in Ormaz’s Caverns. The problem is we need a strong military man to lead the Union’s forces. Karthamos do you have any suggestions?”
“I am as familiar with this warfare as anyone I know in Hos-Agrys, but I am not experienced in commanding armies. There is only one man who comes to mind, the Great Captain-General.”
Soton nodded. Captain-General Eukides was renowned throughout the Five Kingdoms as one of the all-time great mercenary captains. He had fought and won over a dozen battles and only lost once, when superior numbers held the field. Still, he was long in the tooth. “Is he even still alive?”
Captain Karthamos nodded. “He resides on his estates in Kryphlon. He has been retired for almost twenty winters, but he is still stout of limb and clear of mind. If ordered to by Prince Varion, he will take command of the Union army.”
“Good; it will be done, Grand-Captain. Your honest assessments are much appreciated. Sarmoth, bring in my scribe. I will have him write to Prince Varion this very eve. I have little faith in this so-called Union of Styphon’s Friends as a military force, but they may do well as a cat’s-paw or a diversion to keep the League of Dralm occupied. If they should hold the field, we’ll grant them all the medals and booty they can carry!”
They all laughed heartily.
NINE
I
Captain Xylon yawned as he removed his boots, thinking about the soft cot waiting for him in his private chamber. He was in the Guard Barracks having finished the evening meal after coming off a four-candle tour of duty at Supreme Priest Anaxthenes’ mansion. It had been a long, boring day and on a typical day he would have been out relaxing or drinking with some of the other guards. However, he had heard Anaxthenes talking with Yagos, his Chief Intelligencer, about an important meeting with his top supporters this evening.
Xylon meant to be there, or at least in the private chamber Anaxthenes referred to as his study, as one of Styphon’s Voice’s personal guards. The price for such an exalted position had been dear, but the payoff he’d been waiting for so long might be right around the corner. Thinking back,
he remembered his first meeting with Duke Skranga, Chief of Hos-Hostigos Foreign Intelligence. He had been lying in one of Brother Mytron’s “Mash units,” as Great King Kalvan called them: a large tent with about two hundred wounded soldiers, casualties of the Battle of Phyrax.
The cries of badly wounded men had rent the very air and the stench of rotting flesh and disease filled his nostrils. His own wound, a broken shoulder from a gunshot, had been minor compared to the injuries of most of the men who filled the tent to overflowing.
He remembered looking up and encountering the piercing gray eyes of Duke Skranga, which were in great contrast to his unkempt red beard and hair. He wore an expensive blue robe with wine stains and a slew of gold chains with links the size of baby fingers. In one large hand he carried a wine flask.
“Hello, soldier.”
“Yes, sir,” Xylon replied.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, sir!” He rose up, until his feet hit the ground.
“Wow—you’re a big one!”
“Yes, sir,” he replied; he got that a lot. He treasured the sweet taste of wine going down his parched throat. Until he started to choke—
“Careful, not too much. I have a few questions, if you can talk. If you’re in too much pain, I can leave you the wine.”
He shook his head, using his good arm to brush away some flies. “There are those here who really need this much more than myself.”
“Don’t worry, soldier. I brought a cartload of bottles, courtesy of Great King Kalvan.”
“Long live Kalvan! I’ll have some more, sir.”
“I’m Duke Skranga, head of Intelligence. You can call me Skranga.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Duke smiled wryly. “One of those,” he muttered. “What’s your name and where are you from, son?”
