Great Kings' War

by John F. Carr

  "Galzar strike me dead if I know" Sarrask said. "I'm no damned gunner! Phrames, do you mind a few more holes in the wall of your new seat? I'll hand over a few ransoms to you and see that Balthames does the same, since the gods didn't finish the little bugger off at Tenabra or Phyrax! If you need to rebuild—"

  Phrames wasn't listening. He was instead looking at the top of the keep, where a helmet was being raised over the battlements. A moment later a second joined it, then a third.

  "Never mind, Prince. I don't think we're going to need any artillery in here at all. Just someone to parley with the men in the keep. Would you care to join me?"

  "My pleasure, Count Phrames."

  THIRTY

  I

  The screams and groans of the dying were fading behind Kalvan as he descended the winding stone staircase in the northwest tower of Tarr-Beshta. They weren't fading fast enough to suit him, but he couldn't move any faster. The stairs were crumbling and treacherous—more of Balthar's cheese-paring! Besides, Captain Xykos was just ahead and determined to slow his Great King to what he considered a proper pace. Since Xykos filled the stairs from top to bottom and nearly from side to side, his determination counted for a great deal.

  After what seemed like enough time to reach the bottom of a mineshaft, they reached the tower cellar. Here, so it was said, lay the door to Prince Balthar's treasure rooms, whose riches had grown in soldiers' imaginations until they rivaled Styphon's Own Treasury in the Holy City of Balph—the here-and-now equivalent of King Midas' hoard. With all the tales of debauchery and poisoning and double-dealing and such goings on in Balph, it most resembled the Papal City sometime in the late Sixteenth Century.

  Kalvan hoped the rumors were true; from first to last Balthar had cost Hos-Hostigos too Dralm-damned much to be paid for with nothing but his head and those of his kin who hadn't been able to cross into Hos-Harphax before the Army of Observation swept into Beshta.

  The cellar was already crowded, with Phrames and half a dozen of the King's Lifeguards. They held either drawn swords or torches, except for one who was bending over a dying woman, trying to work a dagger out from between her ribs. Two men and another woman lay sprawled in a corner, already dead.

  "Your Majesty," Phrames said. "One of the men seems to have been the keeper of the—of whatever lies beyond that door." He pointed to an oak door bound in tarnished brass to the left of the stairs. "He had a key to it. We unlocked the door but thought you should have the honor of being first to enter."

  It was on the tip of Kalvan's tongue to remind them that men who'd seen Leonnestros' cavalry massacred by the explosion of the artillery redoubt at Phyrax should be aware of booby traps. The words died there; they were doing him an honor and besides, he'd be drowned in mare's milk if he'd abandon "Follow Me" leadership, even here in the bowels of Tarr-Beshta. Kalvan drew his sword, thrust hard against the door, and when it squealed open on rusty hinges stepped through the gap.

  It took a moment for Kalvan's eyes to adjust to the thick darkness inside. It took several more moments to believe that what they were showing him was actually there.

  Several tunnels ran off in different directions from a stone-walled circular room. On either side of each tunnel sacks, boxes, barrels and kegs were piled as high as a man, except where cloth or wood had rotted and let the piles collapse. There the tunnels were completely impassable, knee—or even waist—deep in fragments of rotting cloth or wood and gold and silver!

  Kalvan heard blasphemous mutterings behind him as the Guardsmen pushed in through the door and stared around them. He also saw more gold and silver gleaming in the chinks and rents in the many boxes and canvas bags. The torches now lit one tunnel; he saw that not all the piled gold and silver were coins. Most of the silver was, but a lot of the gold was rings, cups, bowls, plates—even ingots; not to mention swords and daggers and armor plated with precious metals, bags of pearls, ornamental boxes inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl, what looked like uncut emeralds—

  Kalvan's head spun, and not just because so many torches were burning in an unventilated room. Now he understood how Cortez felt when he first saw the golden treasures of Tenochtitlán. The Treasure of Beshta was no soldier's tall tale. It was real; and enough specie to buy a Kingdom—or save the one he already had. Three generations of miserliness...

  Kalvan took another step, to see if what looked like pearls really were, then saw for the first time the man sitting in the tunnel just beyond the emeralds.

  Prince Balthar, his gray hair tousled and sticking up in clumps, sat cross-legged, with his back braced against a barrel. He was running gold coins through his fingers like a child playing at the beach with the pretty shells he had collected.

  "Yes, yes, my pretties," Balthar said, in a cackling voices that made Kalvan's flesh crawl. "Dada will see that the evil Daemon won't hurt you."

  Balthar wore nothing but one of his threadbare trademark black gowns, and even from a distance Kalvan could tell that both the gown and its wearer stank as if they'd been fished out of a midden pit. The only ornamentation he wore was the Princely gold circlet around his neck. Kalvan stepped forward to peer into Balthar's face, then turned away, very much wishing he hadn't or that at least his stomach would stop twisting ominously.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Rylla's voice. "I came as quickly as I could. I see you found the traitor and his hoard. It seems he will escape justice after all..."

  Frustration filled Kalvan. What good would it do to put a madman on trial for treason? Balthar wouldn't understand what was happening to him, and would be more likely to end up an object of pity than anything else. Or a rallying point for enemies of the Throne. As for caring for him until his body was as dead as his mind—what would that accomplish, except insulting the memory of all the men that Balthar's treachery had murdered? Men whose widows and children would not be living nearly as well.

  Balthar deserved to die, if only in the same way that a dog run over by a car but not yet dead deserved to be put out of its pain. Kalvan drew his flintlock pistol and was cocking it when Rylla gripped his arm."

  "No, Kalvan."

  "We can't have the farce of trying—"

  "You don't understand. A Prince has to die by steel."

  Kalvan nodded, half his mind wondering why he hadn't asked first and the other half replying that he'd never expected to need to know. He started to draw his sword, then doubted it would be heavy enough for the job. His stomach twisted again at the thought of hacking Balthar's head off or running him through. What he needed was a heavier blade—

  "DOWN, YOUR MAJESTY!" Phrames shouted.

  Kalvan twisted around, knocked Rylla off her feet, then looked up to see a yellow robed figure emerging from one of the darkened tunnels. His face was distorted by a triumphant grin and the muzzle of the horsepistol he was holding was aimed right at Kalvan's head; it looked as wide and deep as a well...

  "For the God of Gods, die, Daemon, die!"

  At the periphery of his vision, Kalvan saw Xykos, Phrames and two Guardsmen running toward the highpriest. They were going to be a few moments too late, he realized sadly. His mind seemed to be working faster and more clearly than ever before; he noted dispassionately that he'd dropped his own pistol out of reach when he'd fallen on top of Rylla. At least she would survive to raise Demia and maybe all of his work wouldn't be undone. So much to do and now no time—

  A bright flash of light, then a sharp explosion reverberated through the chamber followed by a high-pitched scream. Suddenly the room was filled with fireseed smoke.

  "Are you all right?" Rylla screamed.

  "Fine, darling," Kalvan said as he patted himself to make sure. That was close, too close.

  The highpriest must have been sent by Styphon's House to keep watch on Prince Balthar and make sure he didn't change sides again. Now he was waving all that was left of a hand peeled to the wrist by the explosion of his pistol. One of his cheeks was opened to porcelain bone from a flying fragment, leav
ing red streaks all down his yellow robe. A shot from Phrames' pistol cut off the screams.

  A thunderstruck Xykos turned back to Kalvan, roaring, "A miracle! All bless the Great God Dralm. King Kalvan is unhurt!"

  Phrames vanished into the tunnel, returning a moment later with a powder horn. He poured some on his hand, then tasted it.

  "Hostigos fireseed. The poor fool probably thought it was Styphon's Best and overloaded the pistol. Praise be to Dralm and Galzar Wolfhead!"

  "It is still a miracle," Xykos repeated.

  Rylla rose shakily to her feet and nodded. "Xykos is right. The True Gods have shown once more that their blessing is upon Great King Kalvan and his war to rid the Great Kingdoms of false Styphon and his corrupt priesthood."

  Kalvan started to disagree, but Rylla's hand cut off his voice.

  "Let them think what they will," she whispered. "It's best for Our cause and Our daughter. Look at Xykos' smile."

  Another instant legend, thought Kalvan. Now all I need now is my own press secretary!

  "Who dares to blaspheme my Treasure Chamber?" Balthar cried, as if waking from a dream. "I command you to leave at once, on pain of my displeasure." Then he whispered to the jewels, "I told you I would protect you, my pretty ones."

  "Xykos."

  "Yes, Your Majesty?"

  "You will adjudicate the Great King's Justice on Prince Balthar of Beshta for his treasonable conduct on the field of battle at Tenabra and for his armed resistance to the lawful summons of his Great King."

  Balthar suddenly screamed in terror. Kalvan wondered if he was really insane, or had just been play-acting. If so, the Mystery Plays lost a great talent. Or was it possible that even a madman might understand and protest his death sentence?

  Xykos would have drawn himself up if there'd been room overhead. Instead he nodded. "Gladly, Your Majesty."

  Wrinkling her nose, Rylla approached Balthar and lifted the Princely circlet from his head. Then she and everyone else hastily drew back as Xykos drew Boarsbane from its sheath on his back. There wasn't room for Xykos to swing properly, but Boarsbane was sharp and heavy, while Xykos was strong as a bull and Balthar's neck was thin.

  There was a sharp scream, then a sound like that of an automobile striking a big dog.

  The Prince's head only stopped rolling when Rylla was handing the circlet to Kalvan. Kalvan wiped it off on his sleeve, then held out the gold ring with both hands. Nervously Phrames knelt.

  "Count Phrames, from the hands of your Great King receive this, the token of Princeship over the Princedom of Beshta, truly earned by good and faithful service." The circlet settled into Phrames' chestnut hair.

  "Arise, Prince Phrames of Beshta."

  Then everyone was shouting, "Long live Prince Phrames!" Rylla was kissing both men impartially, while Xykos was waving Boarsbane around so close to those around him that he was sprinkling them with Balthar's blood.

  Most of his mind was on one thing. The dirty work was done, Balthar was dead, and he could now slip off somewhere and be sick to his stomach!

  II

  Anaxthenes' mood was somber as he watched the yellow-robed Archpriests filing into the half-circular chamber at the heart of Styphon's Great Temple. Styphon's Great Image stood tall over the assembled Archpriests viewing all with impartiality. He had used all his influence, but this time with little success. The Inner Circle was as determined as a lodge of Mexicotál priests to have a sacrificial victim for the Temple's losses in Hostigos. It appeared that Grand Master Soton was chosen to be that victim. Nothing short of Styphon's Image moving off its pedestal and stomping the assembled Archpriests into bloody pulp on the stones beneath its feet would stop this miscarriage of justice.

  Even Anaxthenes' usual supporters were wavering. This Council could very well see the end of his decade-long dominance of the Inner Circle and the Grand Master's reign over the Order of Zarthani Knights. Styphon's Voice Sesklos looked weary and refused to meet his eyes. Archpriest Dracar's face was set in a triumphant gloat, which did nothing to raise his spirits. Dracar's ascendancy at this Extraordinary Council could well mark the sunset of Styphon's rule over the Five Kingdoms.

  When all the assembled Archpriests were seated at the triangular table, with Styphon's Own Voice at the apex, Grand Master Soton was brought into the chamber by two Temple Guardsmen. Soton's face was set in grim determination, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness, darting about the chamber. He strode ahead of the two Guardsmen as though he were leading them against the Trygathi. He still wore his badge of office, a large hammered gold sun-wheel suspended on a heavy gold chain and a plain white tunic over his armor with the red border that showed his office as an Archpriest of Styphon's House.

  Soton stopped before the marble dais set at the foot of the Triangle Table. Anaxthenes noted that both his sword and dagger scabbards were empty. Some of the Archpriests were fingering their own knives as if they expected at any moment to rise up in mass and hack the Grand Master to pieces.

  Sesklos' voice, thanks to the curvature of the walls behind his throne, boomed through the chamber as he brought the Council to order. "Soton, Archpriest of Styphon, God of Gods and Grand Master of the Holy Order of Zarthani Knights. You are brought here before us on charges of insubordination, cowardice in battle and desertion in the face of the enemy. What is your defense?"

  Soton's weathered face paled—then reddened with rage. "My orders from the Inner Circle of Styphon's House were to support Lord High Marshal Mnephilos and do all in my power to ensure his defeat of the Usurper Kalvan of the False Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. This I did and the Holy Host of Styphon fought and defeated Prince Ptosphes, the Usurper's father-in-law, in battle at Tenabra Town.

  At the Battle of Phyrax the Holy Host was winning. Yes, winning, until that animal that eats its own droppings, Leonnestros, disobeyed orders! Fortunately for him, he died of his own folly, or I would have smashed him into pulp with my mace!"

  Anaxthenes groaned. This was not the way to talk to Archpriests who'd never smelled fireseed outside of the Temple Alchemy Office. Such forceful words would only make Dracar's job easier. Nor were Soton's endless details of Kalvan's movements through the mercenaries into the rear of the center any more helpful to his cause. Anaxthenes had the impression that at this moment Soton would like to hack his way through the Inner Circle as though it were Kalvan's Bodyguards. If the others noticed it, Soton's fate would be sealed.

  "...when I saw there was no more center to support and that it would be a waste of Styphon's soldiers to continue, I ordered the Knights to retire. That they did so in order and in no little haste, in my opinion, was the sole reason that over a third of the Holy Host escaped death or capture by the Army of the False Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. I would not change my orders even now, regardless of my own personal safety.

  "Usurper, Daemon or both, Kalvan is the greatest captain I have ever faced. We are going to need every man in our service to have any chance to defeat him and his perfidious ideas."

  "Is that all you have to say in your defense?" Styphon's Voice asked.

  "That it is."

  "Is there anyone here who would like to remark upon these charges?"

  "Yes," an older Archpriest said. "In my youth I fought as a captain in the Great Square of Hos-Ktemnos. Grand Master, is it not true that when you...recalled...your Knights, the Sacred Squares were still fighting Kalvan under the now deceased Marshal Mnephilos?"

  As Soton replied, Anaxthenes remembered that the elderly Archpriest had once served as Mnephilos' personal healer and as a result considered himself an expert regarding matters of war. No one living that Anaxthenes could find ever remembered the elderly Archpriest serving in the Sacred Squares or any other army.

  "Yes," Soton answered. "The Squares were still fighting. They were also trapped between Kalvan's battery on one side and his cavalry on the other."

  "Is it not true that they wrested control of that battery you mentioned from Kalvan's gunners and turned it upon his army?"
/>
  "I do not know. I was engaged elsewhere."

  "Then you really didn't know whether Marshal Mnephilos was winning or losing when your Knights deserted their post!"

  "Of course, I knew." Soton raised his eyes upward as if to beg Styphon for more patience. "Battery or no battery, Kalvan had the center enveloped. Sooner or later it was going to be defeated. There were not enough men under my command to change that outcome. I ordered them to retire while I could still have my orders obeyed."

  "There are a number of the late Lord High Marshal's captains who would willingly debate you on that point. Marshal Mnephilos himself would do so had he survived the battle!"

  Archpriest Roxthar catapulted out of his seat. "Mnephilos was a doddering old fool and Leonnestros was an ambitious idiot who knew less about soldiering than I do! Had either survived the battle, I'd personally crack his joints on the rack."

  "You are out of order!" Sesklos cried.

  Roxthar's voice cut through the objection like a knife blade. "No! This entire Council is out of order! I was there at Phyrax: Where were the rest of you? I watched the entire battle from the baggage train, while you were no doubt counting the latest Temple offerings and lamenting at how small they were.

  "I tell you all, if it were not for Grand Master Soton our defeat would have been complete—a final disaster. And Kalvan would now be knocking at the gates of Balph instead of Tarr-Beshta!"

  As Roxthar continued, Anaxthenes was reminded of the pilot of a galleass he'd been aboard when she ran hard aground on a sandbar in what the pilot had thought was a clear channel. The same combination of fear, incredulity and surprise he'd seen on the pilot's face was now showing on the faces of most of the Archpriests.

  If his own face had been allowed to reflect his feelings, it would have worn a triumphant grin. Clearly Roxthar was turning the tide and Soton would not be thrown to the wolves, leaving them free to rend Styphon's House any time Kalvan chose to whip the pack.