by Roland Green
Phidestros had entered the battle with three hundred men and one guns; he'd be leaving it with no guns, but four hundred men, reasonably well armed and well mounted. Above all, they were ready to follow him anywhere. The question now was—where?
The only friendly army within reach was Grand Master Soton's Army of the Pirsystros, and they were a five-day's ride across doubtfully friendly country. Yet Phidestros was not ready to turn bandit and see his command fall apart. He saw no hope of safety or employment in Hos-Harphax itself. It would be a notable gift from the gods if the Harphaxi got back from today's battle a single gun or more than one man in three. It was enough to make even a non-believer begin to believe in demons!
There was nothing and nobody left in Hos-Harphax to stop Kalvan from marching up to the walls of Harphax City and summoning Kaiphranos the Timid (probably after today destined to be known as Kaiphranos the Witless) to give him terms of surrender. Nor would there be a thing Kaiphranos could do but hide under his wife's bed.
Before that happened, Phidestros wanted to be well away from anyplace to be covered by Kalvan's terms. He hadn't heard that Prince Sarrask of Sask rode with the Great King's host, but he knew that the Prince had a long memory and an unforgiving temper. The Great King was known for rewarding his friends, and if Sarrask asked as a reward the head of one Captain Phidestros, the man who'd looted his baggage train at the Battle of Fyk...well, so be it.
"Captain! The first man's across!"
Phidestros strained his eyes into the gathering darkness and saw a dim figure on the far bank shaking himself like a dog as he waved his arms. The Iron Company sent up a cheer until he and the petty-captains shouted them into silence for fear of attracting unwanted attention.
II
"That's all of them?" Kalvan asked. He'd counted no more than a thousand men in the line of bedraggled and mud-smeared Harphaxi prisoners standing in the torchlight.
"All the ones we fished out, Your Majesty," the mercenary captain said. "I think the Mobile Force picked up more somewhere over there." A callused hand pointed off into the darkness. "There's a lot more out in the swamp, but Regwarn's Caverns have them now." Which was a polite way of saying that even Great King Kalvan would be wasting his breath if he ordered the mercenaries any farther into the swamp.
Kalvan wasn't going to order anything of the kind; it must be nearly midnight, and from the way he felt himself, he was surprised that anyone in the Army of Hos-Hostigos was still on his feet or even awake. The heavy fighting had ended about three o'clock in the afternoon, except against the Zarthani Knights in the north; the mopping-up and pursuit had gone on until well after dark.
At least it had gone on in the south, against the left flank of the Harphaxi. In the north, the Zarthani Knights and Temple Guardsmen, surrounded and out-manned, had nearly died to the last man, but in the process they'd fought Harmakros and Phrames to a standstill. Most of the Harphaxi right who hadn't been bagged already had escaped through the Middle Gap, at least five thousand men. Not a single gun, though, and Harmakros' messenger reported that the Gap was choked with abandoned wagons as well as discarded weapons and armor. It was a rabble, not an army that was fleeing toward Harphax City from the Heights.
The one part of the Harphaxi left that got away did so in better order. Four or five thousand of the rearguard had been sighted on the Great Harph Road shortly after Phrames rode north. Before Kalvan could deploy to receive them, he'd had to finish the slaughter at Ryklos Farm. The only survivors of that engagement were a band of mercenaries led by a big man on a white charger who appeared to enjoy a charmed life.
By the time the massacre was complete, the Harphaxi rearguard had been warned of the danger. They'd turned and departed with more haste than dignity, although they didn't disintegrate into a rabble, thanks to a Temple Band of Styphon's Own Guard who stood fast and died to a man. By the time they'd finished dying, Kalvan's cavalry were too blown for rapid pursuit, his infantry nearly out of ammunition and there were too many miscellaneous groups of fugitives roaming about who needed rounding up.
With no commanders, half their number killed or taken prisoner, the Harphaxi Army was an army in name only.
One of the largest bands of Harphaxi survivors had decided that the dry weather of the past week had made it safe to try wading the swamp on either side of Hogwallow Creek. The ones who'd lived to learn they were wrong were now being fished out by the Hostigi and packed off to an improvised POW compound where Kalvan had captured the four big bombards.
Many of the mercenaries were oath-bound now and under light guard. He'd give them an opportunity to take Hostigi colors after things settled down. He needed to talk with Uncle Wolf Tharses to learn whether or not they would be allowed under here-and-now union rules to fight against the Styphoni on their way from Hos-Ktemnos. The Harphaxi mercenaries weren't directly under Styphon's House's authority since Kaiphranos and his nobles were paying their salary; however, the money was indirectly coming from the Temple. He just wasn't sure how Galzar's stewards would see it.
He looked around for someone to send for the Uncle Wolf and spotted Phrames. He hated to send a General to do a Lieutenant's job, but—with Nicomoth on his way to Tarr-Hostigos with a dispatch to Rylla chronicling their victory over the Harphaxi—the Count was his acting aide-de-camp. He gave Phrames his order and in less than a few minutes he returned with Uncle Wolf Tharses, whose mail shirt and surcoat were so blood splattered he feared the priest was wounded.
"I'm fine, Sire. I was tending to the wounded; no end to them this day. A great victory for Hostigos and a bad defeat for the vile priesthood of Styphon's House." The highpriest spat a wad of tobacco on the ground.
Usually, Tharses was usually more circumspect when describing the priestly competition, so Kalvan wondered what had gotten his goat. "What's bothering you?"
"Those damn-blasted Red Hand! They murdered a company of Hostigi prisoners when they realized their retreat was cut off. Styphoni dogs! And I'm oath-bound to treat all prisoners—even those devil-spawned heathen! While I was tending to one Guardsman, the blackguard tried to stab me with his poniard! He called me an impious worshipper of a false god—Galzar no less! A curse on Styphon and all his vile minions!"
Tharses was all but foaming at the mouth. Kalvan could see religious war that he feared reaching its roots into fertile soil.
"What we just fought was but the child of the army that's on its way from Hos-Ktemnos, Highpriest Tharses. I have a question for you regarding the Law of Galzar."
The Uncle Wolf visibly calmed himself down. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"We have several thousand Harphaxi mercenary prisoners who have surrendered and taken oaths not to fight against Hostigos. While according to the Law we are not allowed to use them to guard the Harphaxi regulars, I want to know if we can we swear them into Our service against the Styphoni army that now calls itself the Holy Host."
Tharses turned beet red. "Unholy Host would be a better name. Sire, Galzar's Law states that sworn mercenaries, once captured, may not actively take arms against their former employer, in this case Great King Kaiphranos of Hos-Harphax or his vassals. However, once captured the mercenaries are free to swear oaths to their captives should this be done willingly and overseen by Galzar's priests—as has been done this day. The questions were must ask now are these: Is the army coming from Hos-Ktemnos, that calls itself the Holy Host, from Hos-Harphax? Or in any manner part of the Harphaxi Royal Army? Or under command of the Harphaxi Royal Army? Or being fought by Harphaxi Royal soldiers? Or being mustered out or paid for by the Great King of Hos-Harphax or his Princes? Are any of these questions true?"
"Not in any way that I can discern, Highpriest Tharses."
Tharses smiled, a grim tight-lipped smile. "Nor I, Your Majesty. Therefore, it is my Judgment, as Highpriest of Galzar of all Hos-Hostigos and the army of Hos-Hostigos, that the former Harphaxi mercenaries are not under the command of the Holy Host and are free to fight under Hostigi colors—Galzar's Judgment
."
Phrames looked like someone who'd just seen a rabbit pulled out of a hat for the first time.
Kalvan returned the Uncle Wolf's smile with one of his own. "Thank you for your judgment, Highpriest Tharses. I will thank Galzar at the next shrine. You may return to your duties."
With that pronouncement from Tharses, the Army of the Harph has just replaced most of its casualties, and then some. Now, the next crisis: what to do with the thousands of regular Harphaxi prisoners?
He decided to carry out his original plan of releasing most of the disarmed Harphaxi prisoners tomorrow, after the Hostigi had brought up supplies, tended their wounded and policed up the battlefield. Right now it was littered with discarded weapons, which might tempt a disarmed Harphaxi soldier to rearm himself and make trouble—if not for the Hostigi at least for his own people. Phrames was right; there was no point in making the lot of the losing civilians any more miserable than it was already.
Kalvan sat on his horse as his soldiers bound their prisoners. Even allowing for their bedraggled condition, these regulars were like too many of the Harphaxi troops Kalvan had seen this day: "...discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters and ostlers trade fall'n; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten times more dishonorable ragged than an old-faced ancient" There'd been plenty of those all right, as well as a few boys not much older than Harmakros' son. Like Falstaff before them, the Harphaxi captains could say: "If I be not ashamed of my soldiers I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the king's press damnably"—not to mention losing their Great King a battle.
Kalvan didn't recall what a gurnet was, but he certainly recalled seeing some of the Harphaxi captains properly soused. Not just the captains, either; he'd helped round up about a hundred mercenaries who'd found a wagon load of beer and drunk until they could barely stand, let alone fight.
That was one of the few times Kalvan had to restrain his men from killing prisoners—when they discovered the beer was all gone!
III
It took Kalvan nearly an hour to grope his way through the aftermath of the battle to Army HQ. By the time he saw its campfires in the distance, he knew that either he was getting a second wind or he was too tired to sleep. Just as well—it never hurt royal dignity to stay awake until your generals had finished reporting.
Headquarters proper had been moved into the cellar of a Tudor-style manor house, once a fine, fortified dwelling—now little more than a ruin above ground. It stood in a patch of second-growth timber, and so many Hostigi had pitched tents and lit campfires in and around the trees that Kalvan had to dismount and lead his horse the last hundred yards for fear of treading on a sleeping soldier.
Kalvan groped his way down the dark stairs to the torch lit War Room and was pulling off his gloves when he noticed a pile of bloodstained bandages on the corner of the map table, and under it a pair of boots that had obviously been cut off someone's feet. A policeman's instinct for something being wrong, as well as a soldier's, had him uneasy before he saw the faces of the men in the room. The generals were all there except Hestophes, which was strange in itself considering how badly they must need sleep, and—
"What's wrong?"
Everybody looked at everyone else, waiting for someone to speak out. About the time the silence was beginning to grow uncomfortable, Count Phrames stepped forward. "We've just received a dispatch from the Army of the Besh."
Kalvan took a close look at the grim faces surrounding him and sat down upon an upended barrel.
"It's from Prince Ptosphes."
Kalvan sighed. Praise Dralm! he thought. At least he wouldn't have to tell his wife her father was dead or mortally wounded. Phrames looked as shaken as if were about to face a band of Styphon's Red Hand by himself. "Out with it, man!" Kalvan said, much louder than he'd intended.
"The messenger told us that Ptosphes lost a big battle to the Styphoni at Tenabra!" Now that it was finally out in the open, Phrames looked as if he'd just cast off a hundred-pound sack.
"It was no shame to the Prince," Harmakros said hastily.
"Of course not," Kalvan replied, moving his hand through the air as if to push the words away."
"It was treachery most foul," Harmakros continued. "Balthar the Black of Beshta broke out of our left flank and Soton saw the gap." Then they were all trying to talk at once, until Kalvan had to shout for silence. They looked at him with widened eyes, and he realized for the first time that his royal anger had the power to reduce these tough generals and noblemen to guilty schoolboys. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, still less so on top of Phrames' bad news.
"I think one of us should speak for all," Prince Armanes said. He had a bloody bandage around his right ear, and the hair of that temple had been roughly hacked off. "I will yield that honor to General Harmakros."
Kalvan threw the Prince a grateful look for his tact and nodded to Harmakros.
"As the Uncle Wolf told it, Balthar's treachery left a gap in our left flank when his Army turned and ran from the battlefield. The cowards flew as if their horses had wings. The first troops Grand Master Soton sent through were his mercenary cavalry, but they held it open while he brought up the Knights. When the Zarthani Knights attacked, our left disintegrated. Meanwhile, Chartiphon and Sarrask of Sask drove back the Styphoni left wing under Lord High Marshal Mnephilos and Mnephilos was barely able to rally his Ktemnoi Squares against Chartiphon. Ptosphes ordered the infantry in the center to hold on to the death. They held firm, while the Prince pulled our right back, gathered in the survivors from the left wing, then ordered a retreat."
"Who brought in the news?"
"An Uncle Wolf with an escort. They stole fresh horses as their own died. The priest himself was wounded. He also brought the dispatch from Ptosphes."
"Has anyone read it?"
"No." Harmakros held the dispatch tube as gingerly as though it were filled with hot coals. "It is addressed to Your Majesty."
Kalvan mentally counted to ten, and when that didn't work, to twenty. "The next time Ptosphes, or anyone else, sends a dispatch with bad news, anyone who needs to know what it contains can read it. That means all of you. Please don't ever wait for me when a day or two can make the difference between victory and defeat."
The schoolboy expression was back on their faces as he removed the roll of parchment with Ptosphes' seal on it. "And wake up Hestophes. It's time for a Council of War." He drew his knife and cut through the red wax seal with Ptosphes' crossed halberds insignia stamped into it.
The dispatch told the same story as Harmakros, but in more detail. It struck Kalvan as odd to be reading the tale of a disaster in Ptosphes' usual firm, neat runes; horror stories ought to be scrawled and scribbled. It was a horror story, too, even if it seemed a little less horrible toward the end—
—must commend the good service of Sarrask of Sask. He fought most valiantly on the field, and has done further good work since. Thanks to him, several Saski castles will be properly garrisoned and fit to receive our wounded and defend them. Without his labors, we would have been forced to abandon more than three thousand of our wounded, including Prince Pheblon of Nostor.
I have with me, fit for battle, not more than ten thousand men, the greater part of them cavalry. Two-thirds of our infantry, apart from the loss of the Traitor Balthar's two thousand foot, is taken or slain. We have only six guns left. However, some three thousand mercenary cavalry have fled; some may return to their duty before we have crossed into Sask. Also, Sarrask's plans to defend several Saski castles will force Soton to slow his advance, to blockade them, storm them or even besiege them, a task for which he has as of yet no proper artillery train. Prisoners say that one may be among the reinforcements he is expected to receive in the moon-half, but they are not sure.
"They usually aren't," Kalvan muttered, then apologized when he realized he'd spoken out loud.
I fear that Sask and southern Hostigos will still lie open to the cavalry of the Holy Host, as the Styphoni
are calling themselves, particularly the Zarthani Knights under Grand Master Soton. Both, I must admit, have lived up to their reputation. Therefore, I can see no hope for anything but a prompt retreat to Hostigos to prepare for a stand there. With the garrison troops and the reserve militia to add to my strength I may be able to meet Soton and Marshal Mnephilos with not less than fifteen thousand men, but it is clearly urgent that we receive additional strength from the Army of the Harph as soon as Your Majesty can spare them.
"He'll receive the whole Dralm-blasted army," Kalvan said, then read the last paragraph:
I have prepared a list of men who have done particularly good service in this battle, so that they or their families may be rewarded by the Throne of Hos-Hostigos. That list I am sending north at once with a messenger who will entrust it to Rylla for safeguarding if I do not survive the retreat.
With most earnest hopes for Your Majesty's continued good health and good fortune, I am:
Your Obedient Servant
Ptosphes
First Prince of Hostigos
Commander, Army of the Besh
"Here," Kalvan said, handing the letter to Phrames. "Actually, it's not as bad as I'd feared." This didn't seem to console anybody, but they all took turns with the letter while Kalvan tried to organize his thoughts so that when he had to speak he could give a convincing imitation of a man who knew just what he was talking about.
One decision he'd already taken: all future operations against the Harphaxi were going to have to be canceled. That was irritating to say the least, since that killed the best chance he'd ever have of dictating peace terms to Great King Kaiphranos. With his elder son dead, his younger son fit only to be King of Brothels, his Captain-General a prisoner and his brother, Lysandros, the scheming son of fifty fathers—not to mention an army either nonexistent or useless—Kaiphranos might actually be brought to make peace with Hostigos. Regardless of what Styphon's House wanted, or wished... A precarious peace, to be sure—it would last just as long as Kaiphranos did, and he could literally die any day. Still, peace was better than a war on two fronts—and now it was impossible.
