by John F. Carr
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.
One of the officers rode through the gate and into the grounds. He recognized Kirv as the man in charge and asked, "Have you seen any of Styphon's curs today?"
Kirv shook his head. "No, you're the first soldiers we've seen coming from Sashta in days."
"Today we feasted upon the Styphoni soldiers. A great victory! We broke through the Styphoni lines at Ardros Field and have been chasing them down, killing all the cowardly swine that turned their hindquarters and ran."
Kirv looked worried. "How has the rest of the battle gone?"
The commander looked back and forth. "A victory, what else with the Styphoni left battle fleeing the field? Tell your people about our Great King's destruction of the cowardly Host!"
"I will, Grand-Captain."
The knight turned and rode away, while Kirv rode over to Aranth Sain. "I felt like telling that Ulthori idiot he'd be better off supporting his Great King than chasing down strays, but I don't think he'd have taken it well."
Sain nodded. "We'll know soon enough, but don't break out the victory wine just yet, Captain."
III
Sarrask watched with mounting horror as Queen Rylla pushed her way through the Styphoni ranks. Her big bodyguard, Xykos, was slashing everything in sight with his great sword but was still several horses removed from his charge. Moving his horse through Styphon's Temple Guard was like navigating a fast moving stream over cobblestones. Sarrask swung his saber to cleave a passageway until it lodged in a Guardsman's shoulder so firmly he couldn't remove it. Then he dropped it and used his mace.
Rylla was now only two or three bodies away, using her guns like clubs until one was knocked out of her hand. The Red Hand appeared to know who Rylla was and now only hands were tearing at her. Quite a few got bruised knuckles and broken fingers as a result. Xykos and the Queen's Beefeaters were caught in the tide of battle and were two horse-lengths removed from their Queen.
Sarrask knew he had to reach her before the Guardsmen tore her from her horse and all was lost. How could he face Kalvan if he returned with Rylla missing, or worse, a prisoner of the Red Hand and Roxthar's Investigators? Sarrask literally pulled one Guardsman off his horse, silencing him with a smack with his mace.
About half a dozen of his own Guardsmen and two of Rylla's Beefeaters were at his side when he reached the Great Queen. She was half off her horse, but still fighting like a she-panther. Sarrask saw one Red Hand take a kick to the jaw that must have loosened every tooth in his head. Then Sarrask had the Queen by the back of her back-and-breast, and yanked her onto his own horse. He took a couple of hard elbows to the breastplate before she recognized him for a friend. He wasn't surprised to see dents the size of fists in his breastplate when he got her situated behind him on his mount.
"Why did you save me?" Rylla screamed.
Sarrask turned and slapped her hard across the face, hard enough to send her helmet with the white owl plumes tumbling.
She reddened and then straightened up. "You have saved me from an honorable death. Why?"
"There is no honor on Roxthar's racks or in his hot irons. Did you think they would kill you? No, your death would be slow, horrible and with no honor."
Rylla shook her head, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. "I am sorry. You are right, Sarrask. I don't know what possessed me. Find me a horse so I can kill more of our enemies."
"Of course, Your Majesty," Sarrask answered. Not that he had the slightest intention of letting Rylla out of his sight, or off his horse, until this Ormaz-spawned battle was over. The Saski bodyguard and her Beefeaters had now formed a circle around Sarrask and their Great Queen and for the first time in a quarter candle he could afford to take a deep breath.
Xykos rode up on his lathered horse, his face dripping with sweat. His great sword was battered and covered with gore. "Praise Dralm and Yirtta Allmother-the Queen lives!"
One of the Queen's Beefeaters cried, "I saw Sarrask single-handedly rescue Great Queen Rylla from the Red Hand!"
Xykos made a quick bow. "Prince Sarrask, I owe you my honor!"
Queen Rylla grabbed his cheek and bussed him, crying, "My paladin!"
Heads turned as the combined Queen's and Saski bodyguard cheered.
Sarrask lowered his face so no one would see how inflamed his cheeks had become. Someday he would savor this moment, but not now. He had to find Great King Kalvan and help him salvage what could be saved from this disaster.
From the looks of things, Sarrask would not be returning to Sask and his current sharp-tongued mistress, who was beginning to leave him longing for his late wife-something he had never dreamed possible. Things could be a lot worse! As long as Kalvan was alive and healthy, Praise Galzar, there would be many more battles and much glory to be won-that is, so long as they got out of this great murthering mess!
IV
"By Styphon's Beard, those Ros-Zarthani barbarians ran down four Temple Bands of Styphon's Own Guard! They must be punished!"
Captain-General Mythross cried, punctuating his words with his fist against his saddle pommel.
Phidestros groaned. He had a massive headache and his ears were ringing from standing too close to one of the Grand Host's big guns. He was on the verge of the greatest victory in history and this Holy Butcher wanted him to punish those most responsible. Until he'd taken command of the Harphaxi Army he hadn't realized how much more there was to being a general than fighting wars and winning battles.
"I talked to Stratego Donos and he claims it was an accident. His
men were counter-attacking the Hostigi left when they encountered the Guard bands and because they were wearing red the troopers mistakenly thought it was a Hostigi flank attack." Phidestros had also seen a twinkle in Donos' eye that told him that it wasn't all that much a mistake, but having dealt with the Red Hand for the past several moons he was more than a little sympathetic to the Ros-Zarthani commander.
"We must make an example of them! What if others think they can get away with dishonoring Styphon's Own Guard?"
"By the Mace of Galzar, we are in the middle of a battle! At the moment we are winning, but it could all change in the wink of an eye. If we turn on our own, like starving wolves, we may well lose the war and everything with it. How would you like to explain that to Styphon's Voice or the Inner Circle? Or better yet, Holy Investigator Roxthar!"
The usually implacable Temple Guardsman actually blanched. "I will hold my hand for now, Grand Captain-General, but there will be no guarantees if we are put on the same field again with these western barbarians." Mythross' face was beet-red and Phidestros knew he was deadly serious. He spat a wad of tobacco on the ground and rode off with his Bodyguard in a swirl of dust.
This battle was even more precarious than Mythross could know. True, the Hostigi left wing was broken and in full retreat, chased by the Ros-Zarthani horse and Soton's Knights. The center was surrounded by the Ros-Zarthani foot, Styphon's Own Guard, and the Sacred Squares of Hos-Ktemnos. However, there was no sign of the victorious Hostigi right, which had devoured the Holy Squares and the Princely cavalry of Hos-Ktemnos. At any moment fifteen thousand Hostigi cavalry could come back over the rise and all there was to stop them was his small reserve.
It might be a good time to slowly disengage the Ros-Zarthani foot, which would also keep them and the Red Hand from going at each other's jugulars, as well as give him a strategic reserve to deal with any returning Hostigi force.
Also, it might be politic to split the Ros-Zarthani off from the rest of the Grand Host after the battle and have them act as a rearguard. He didn't need his army torn apart by internal dissension. It would also help with the supply problems they would soon encounter as they chased the remnants of Kalvan's army through the false-Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. There would be no more supply depots from here on out; they would be covering ground already foraged by Kalvan's retreating troops.
Phidestros lowered his head reflexively as the internal pounding rose in volume. By Styphon's Brass Balls, I wish I were down on that field bashing in someone else's brains, rather than making my head a battleground of thoughts.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Kalvan drew in a deep ragged breath. He was at the eye of the storm; all around him battle raged, but for the moment he was shielded by his Tymannian Guard and had his first opportunity in an hour to catch his breath. Halberds, poleaxes, glaives, bills and polearms of every description were tilling the human soil, spilling a river of blood and gore upon the ground. His arms were so numb from hacking at enemy foot soldiers that he couldn't trust them to re-load his pistols. Pistol, he should say. Somewhere in the heat of battle, he had thrown away or lost four pistols.
If that were all he lost today, it would be a miracle!
His left wing was in retreat, his right wing was lost, and meanwhile the center was getting the stuffing kicked out of it. He had heard that Rylla had re-joined the battle, but hadn't seen any sign of her. Their only hope was that Hestophes would return and save the day. Had he been a praying man, he would have fallen down upon his knees to Dralm for that miracle.
Suddenly there was a commotion and he saw a helmet-less Colonel Porthos trying to work his way through the tightly packed horses to his side. Kalvan helped by turning his own horse and pressing toward his aide.
When Porthos was within hailing distance, he began to shout. "Part of the enemy is breaking off the attack."
"Is it Captain-General Hestophes?"
"I don't know."
"Let's pray to Dralm that it is. Men, it's time to give our friends some help. Down Styphon! Down Styphon!"
A thousand voices quickly took up the chant. He took a moment to reload. Kalvan didn't know where he was, only that he was somewhere inside the Unholy Host. It reminded him of Fyk, the Dralm-damned Battle, where everyone was lost in the fog. Kalvan guessed it didn't matter where they struck so he pointed his pistol at the nearest concentration of Hos-Ktemnoi and shouted, "Charge!"
The troopers around him moved, sluggishly at first, but slowly picking up momentum. It's like fighting through quicksand! Kalvan thought. He just hoped Hestophes was somewhere on the other side of this mass of Ktemnoi billmen.
The Hostigi hit the Ktemnoi line like a bulldozer running into a stone wall. Suddenly, as the battle surged around him, Kalvan found himself at the front. He used his pistol at point-blank range to kill a Ktemnoi petty-captain, then drew his nicked and bloodied saber. One of the Ktemnoi recognized him, starting a counter-chant of "Kill Kalvan! Kill Kalvan!"
He looked all around for his Guardsmen. Within an instant, Kalvan found himself fighting half-a-dozen billmen and musketeers for his life. He slashed one in the face, opening the cheek to the bone beneath, and chopped off a falling billhead. Then a bill sliced through his guard and he felt it slash through his steel tasses and cotton breeches into the muscle underneath. A groan slipped through his teeth. He could feel sharp, hot pain, wetness on his right thigh. His head grew light.
Kalvan grabbed on to the pommel with all his strength; if he fell right here he would be finished. Then what would happen to Rylla, his daughter, Ptosphes, and so many friends? As if the enemy sensed his weakness, the attack against him grew in fury. It was all he could do to beat off the falling billheads and swords. Then he was propped up from behind by a hand so strong it could only belong to Vanar Halgoth.
The rest of his Tymannian Guard raced to his side, many diving off their horses to fight their enemy on foot with their axes. The billmen scattered before their concentrated fury. The enemy pulled back and Kalvan found he could breathe again, but his head was growing lighter…
Suddenly, he began to fall. It was only Vanar's grip that kept him from falling to the ground.
"The Great King's hurt! We must get him to safety."
Kalvan tried to straighten up. "It's just a flesh wound!" His breeches were soaked with blood, but the bleeding appeared to have been staunched-for the moment. He still felt lightheaded, but he could ride.
"Vanar, I need to get back to the top of the ridge so I can see the course of the battle. Can you get me there?"
"Of course, Your Majesty. And kill more of Styphon's servants on the way."
II
Syllon took a moment to catch his breath and drink some warm wine from his flask. He was in a little pocket a ways back from the front line. He had someone's red sash wrapped around his head; his morion was long lost. He had lost his helmet when he was struck in the head.
He was still dizzy when he moved too quickly, but that didn't happen often on this impossibly crowded and blood-soaked ground. He knew he'd come close to death when he'd been struck by a warhammer. He remembered a vision of blinding light and something about Galzar's Great Hall- but already the memory was fading. It was good; men weren't supposed to know their gods' will.
If the battle current hadn't passed away from him, he might have been trampled or had his throat slit by Sastragathi robbers or Harphaxi camp followers. Whether or not he had visited Galzar's Hall, he owed the War-god his life and he would make the proper sacrifices at the next temple he visited.
Once again Syllon began to move in the press of bodies. He realized the movement away from the frontline was like a slow river current; you could push against it, but it would still have its way. The entire Hostigi center was moving back up the hill, pressed upon the front and both sides by the Grand Host. The guns were silent; the smaller ones had been moved while the bigger ones were spiked or now in the hands of the godless Styphoni.
A few Hostigi had broken ranks and tried to run,
but they were shot dead by their fellow soldiers. Better a bullet from a friendly gun than the agony of the red-hot branding iron of the Holy Investigation of Styphon's House. It wasn't just former Captain-General Harmakros' warning either; it was the stories everyone had heard from the refugees fleeing Beshta and Sashta that had convinced every man jack of the Hostigi Army that if they broke formation they would die-and die horribly. "No quarter, no mercy from Styphon's House!"
Galzar the Wargod and Judge, despite his vision, was not at Ardros Field today!
His arquebus was a memory, but Syllon carried a pistol he'd ripped out of the hands of a dead Harphaxi cavalryman. What he needed was a pike! He searched the battleground, careful to maintain his footing. The dead and the wounded covered the ground like rusty autumn leaves.
At last, he spotted an unbroken pike, dropped by one of the Nostori soldiers. He held the ash stock lovingly; it was as smooth as his wife's cheek.
Syllon raised the pike to high port and began to push his way to the front. Other pikemen in Nostori green and black saw him and followed his lead. A few musketeers dropped their muskets to pick up abandoned Harphaxi and Hostigi pikes.
One of the petty-captains took up the cry, "Hedgehog! Pikes forward!" Other captains joined the cry.
Soon the pikes reached the front of the battle-line, forming at first one thin rank, then two and suddenly three and four ranks. The arquebusiers and riflemen began to fill the files. A huge grin split Syllon's face. This was the natural order of warfare.
"Pikes down!"
A group of Harphaxi lobsters, in three-quarters armor, slowed as their horses fell back from the sudden forest of pikes. Several of them were shot out of their saddles by the riflemen in the files. Syllon pushed his pike head into the face of an unarmored horse, which reared up and threw an arquebusier off his saddle. After a short pause, the line started to fall back again, but this time it was at a measured cadence-the Styphoni press had relaxed.
