by Roland Green
"Yhoo!"
As he watched the last of Kalvan's artillerymen run away and Leonnestros' men swarm over the deserted battery, Phidestros felt a hollow sensation in his stomach. Not only had he just ordered a good man to a needless death, but he was about to watch the Holy Host come apart at the seams.
"Great Galzar's Ghost!" He wildly signaled his trumpeter—caught his attention and shouted. "Play retreat!"
TWENTY-FOUR
I
Xykos turned around warily, Boarsbane raised toward the sky. Other than the twisted heaps of what had once been living men, some piled three and four deep, there was no one standing in any direction for a good twenty paces. He set his sword down and tried to clear his head of the battle-madness that possessed him when he fought. His lungs labored like bellows. For the first time, he noticed that his breastplate was dented in a score of places and there was a trickle of blood from above his eyebrow falling into his left eye. With this realization came the ache of bruised ribs and weary arms pushed far beyond ordinary duty.
He said a quick prayer to the Wargod; he knew this unexpected and unasked-for sanctuary would not last for long. Above the pikes and flailing bills, he saw the trees of the Grove of the Badger King. From where he stood, it appeared that the battle had passed over him and the surviving Veterans of the Long March.
Within moments he had located a dozen Hostigi stragglers and battle-stunned. Three or four had risen from the piles of dead and wounded like Hadron awakening in the tale of the Lost Mountain. One of the stragglers was the banner-bearer of the Veterans, still carrying the ripped and slashed flag bearing an iron boot crushing a red winged serpent. With the help of some of the other Veterans, he had soon assembled a force of some fifty to sixty men, most with minor wounds but good spirits. Those who were battle-shaken he sent to aid the gravely wounded.
The main battle was far now far enough away so that Xykos could see what was happening. The troops of the right and left flanks had held, while the center had given way. The two Great Squares were no longer in any sort of recognizable formation and had been hammered badly by the Hostigi flanks. The Royal Square had shifted to the weakest point in the Hostigi center and was slowly chewing its way toward the Great Battery.
The Great Battery itself was eerily silent, with only an occasional flash showing that was still Hostigi-held. Xykos supposed that the two armies had become so entangled that the Hostigi gunners were afraid to fire on the Holy Host for fear of hitting their own men.
It would be sheer folly to attack the Ktemnoi with only thirty men, especially since that meant going against Styphon's Red Hand. Instead he decided to move quickly through the fallen tangle of friends and foes until they were in a position to help relieve the Great Battery. He hastily explained this plan to his little company. There were no arguments; indeed they moved out eagerly, when they saw a squadron of horse under a Ktemnoi banner looking curiously in their direction.
The squadron rode off without attacking, but they'd only covered a quarter of the distance to the Great Battery when a company of Red Hand broke out of the main battle and formed a line facing Xykos' men. Their first rank fired a ragged volley with their musketoons. Three of his men dropped. He measured the distance to the Styphoni with his eyes, threw up Boarsbane and shouted, "Charge!"
II
Kalvan watched with grim satisfaction as one of the distant Ktemnoi figures lit a torch and fired the first of the captured Hostigi guns. A bright flash was followed by a deep rumble as the ancient bombard exploded. Right behind it came another blast and then a fireball and roar that made Kalvan think of a nuclear explosion, as thirty tons of strategically buried Styphon's Best went off all at once!
The better part of three thousand Ktemnoi cavalry disappeared in the great fulguration and the sky filled with dark smoke as if thunderclouds had rushed in! For a few moments the entire battlefield froze.
Kalvan noticed that the mercenary horse appeared to have escaped the worst of the explosion; their commander must have guessed the nature of Kalvan's trap in time to steer his men away from the redoubt. He wasn't able to warn Prince Leonnestros, though, or else the Prince hadn't wanted to believe him. Three thousand Ktemnoi cavalry turned into mincemeat along with a third of the Hostigi field guns!
Moments later the black cloud settled and began raining pieces of equipment, leather, mangled iron and human and horse parts so thoroughly mixed together that it would take a doctor to tell them apart. Then everyone started moving, fighting and Kalvan guessed screaming.
His ears were ringing despite the cotton he had stuffed in them. He'd expected that so he had set up a system of hand signals for the charge. He took a final look at the Hostigi center, still being squeezed by the Royal Square, then raised his hand. Major Nicomoth had attempted to persuade Kalvan to stay on the ridge with his Lifeguards and command the battle from there, but once again there were too many good reasons for him to lead the charge in person: too much of the battle was already in other hands—for better or worse.
Ptosphes, Phrames, Chartiphon, Alkides and Harmakros all had their own parts to win. Besides, whom else did he have to lead the charge, after sending Count Phrames to stiffen Ptosphes? Colonel Democriphon of the First Royal Lancers was a good commander, even if he did bear an uncanny resemblance to George Armstrong Custer, with his long blond hair and flowing mustache. Kalvan had his eye on the Colonel, but he needed more seasoning, and there was nobody else remotely good enough except—
Kalvan suddenly realized he'd been woolgathering with all eyes on him. Not time for speculation now. The die was cast. He raised his hand again, and this time the ringing in his ears didn't drown out the shouts all around him.
"Down Styphon!"
III
Grand Master Soton first saw a blast of light so intense it was if Barzon, the Sun God, had smote the very earth itself. Was it possible that the other True Gods were punishing Styphon's Servants for their work? No, impossible!
A blast of thunder cleared his head of all thoughts. To his ears, it was as if his helm had been smacked by a mace.
All around him horses reared, Knights rocked in their saddles, some tumbled from their mounts. Fortunately, the Hostigi were having similar problems with their horses as well or they could have slaughtered his men like drunken sheep.
Already they were reforming to press their attack! Had they pre-knowledge of this catastrophe? Is Kalvan truly a Daemon, capable of summoning help from Regwarn or Hadron's Hall?
Then a great cloud rose up, turning the sky black. An arquebus barrel slammed into his breastplate, leaving a dent and a bruise underneath. He wouldn't have been surprised if Styphon's fireseed demons and devils had followed them.
Men and horses were milling all around him in confusion. Soton raised his war hammer and pointed to the Hostigi cavalry. Maybe this time they could break through Prince Ptosphes' desperate defense and come to the relief of the center.
IV
Harmakros' head reeled. Three thousand men and horses and a score of field pieces; all destroyed in the wink of an eye!
May Dralm forgive me, but maybe there is something to this fireseed-demon tale of Styphon's House's. Not that Great King Kalvan was any demon; he was human enough, as anyone who'd watched him suffer though one of Rylla's late-term furies knew. But this fireseed—that was another matter entirely! Enough of that in one place could destroy the whole world; if he'd doubted it before, he didn't now—after all, he'd just seen the proof with his own eyes.
Great King Kalvan's charge was now halfway across the meadow. Harmakros could make out the Styphoni mercenaries preparing the Hostigi charge. Most were having trouble calming their horses; they'd been a lot closer to the forward battery than Kalvan's forces. Plus, the Ktemnoi commander was dead along with several thousand Pistoleers and Royal Guard. There was little doubt about the outcome of that engagement. Kalvan's plan had worked out as well as anything, considering his words, "that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy."
"Harmakros, we need your help," Phrames said, as close to pleading as he would ever come. "When Soton hit us with his Knights, I thought we were finished. If it hadn't been for Prince Sarrask rallying the Saski horse, we would have broken. After Tenabra and today there won't be enough Old Hostigos cavalry to muster a full regiment. Yet, Prince Ptosphes is prepared to die with his last man rather than retreat; I'm afraid, without reinforcements, Galzar may grant him his wish."
Phrames would bend his knee and ask favors for the Prince that he would never ask for himself. Harmakros mentally re-shuffled his options. "Phrames, I can give you my two regiments of cavalry, but not one man more."
Phrames nodded.
"My dragoons are needed to reinforce the center. If the Great Battery falls, Soton will turn it on our army! We have to support the Battery until King Kalvan can cut his way through the Styphoni mercenaries and hit their center from the rear. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do. May Allfather Dralm and Galzar guard you and our Prince today."
V
Xykos was the first to reach the Styphoni line; their short-hafted glaives were no match for a double-handed sword wielded by a giant. Within a few breaths his men had joined him with their halberds and pikes and captured bills. The Temple Guardsmen still outnumbered Xykos' men by four to one, and would have given better than they got it they hadn't been in three ranks instead of one.
Xykos was wrestling Boarsbane out of an enemy corpse with one hand and strangling another with his left, when an explosion blew him off his feet like a lightning clap.
Swords and enemies were forgotten for a moment; his ears felt as if they'd been beaten by clubs. He rolled around on the ground, his hand cupping his ears. As he tossed and turned, he saw the barrel of a big field piece fly end over end above his head. He stared with disbelief as it fell among the Red Hand, turning the company into a mob of writhing red figures. He knew from their gaping mouths they had to be shouting and crying, but he heard nothing.
When he stumbled back to his feet, one ear was bleeding and both were numb—almost deaf...
Xykos looked around him to see friends and enemies alike littering the ground like leaves shaken from a tree. Some had been struck by flying iron, others knocked down and stunned by the unholy blast. The ground was littered with body parts, twisted armor and splashes of blood. The banner-bearer was still gripping the Veterans' banner and Xykos trudged over and helped him to his feet, then started rallying the survivors.
Among themselves they were able to bring three hands of men to their feet. All around were stunned or wounded Styphoni, most unable to rise to their feet. Those still standing were lurching about as if they were drunk on winter wine.
"ATTACK!" Xykos shouted. Or at least that was what his mouth was doing. No one including himself appeared to hear his words.
Then it struck him that for this business no words were necessary.
"Down Styphon!" he cried, grabbing the hair of one of the Red Hand whose helmet had been blown off his head. As the man dangled, feet kicking above the ground, Xykos drew his dagger with his free hand and let his men see what needed doing.
VI
Prince Sarrask laughed until his sides ached, when his charger reared and fell upon the haunches of a Zarthani Knight's black horse, as though attempting to mount it for an entirely different kind of sport than war. How they would laugh when he told this story at the Silver Stag! The Knight was knocked off his saddle by the sudden display of equine affection, falling to certain death by trampling—if nothing else—on the gore soaked earth. One less of Styphon's spawn to fight, but—Praise Galzar!—there appears to be no end to them today.
The Knights were tough crayfish to pry open, especially the ones in full armor. His trusty sword and mace were all that had kept him from entering Galzar's Great Hall this day. He'd fired both pistols until he'd run out of bullets and fireseed, then used them as clubs until they broke.
This was the fiercest fight he'd ever been in, as glorious a battle as man or gods might dream of. He'd have to thank Kalvan over some winter wine this eve for giving him such a gift. By Galzar's Mace, the Great King—now there was a man!
No wonder the Harphaxi had been trounced so badly at Chothros; their Great King was a musician, not a warrior!
Suddenly a roaring explosion swallowed the screaming of horses and men, the steady hammering of muskets and guns, even the clang of steel on steel. Through his saddle Sarrask felt a rumble as though Endrath, God of Earth, had shaken the ground itself!
Every horse in sight, including his own, tried to rear and bolt. Without room to run, pressed up together like cattle in the slaughterhouse chute, they dashed mindlessly against each other and their riders. Sarrask used his sword freely to keep the battle-maddened horses from crushing his legs; not even armor could withstand the press of a big destrier.
Sarrask knew in his mind that both men and horses must be screaming even louder than before the explosion, but he could hear nothing except a shrill ring in both ears.
The Knights' ranks suddenly opened and Sarrask was certain he saw Grand Master Soton, his helm raised, staring about in utter disbelief. Sarrask slapped his horse with the flat edge of his sword to get his attention, then charged toward the opening. He was pleased to note that a dozen of his Bodyguard were following close behind. Then the file closed and Soton vanished so completely that Sarrask wondered if he'd imagined it.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Soton might have escaped today, but there were still plenty of Knights within easy reach to be killed. He whirled his sword over his head.
"Down Styphon!"
TWENTY-FIVE
I
For as long as he lived, Phidestros knew he would never forget the explosion of the Hostigi redoubt. More than a third of the left wing gone in one earth-shattering moment—men, horses, armor, weapons, everything! If intuition hadn't told him to withdraw his own command, ignoring Leonnestros' orders, the casualties would have been doubled, including himself and the Iron Band. As it was he'd lost almost a hundred of the men and horses, killed or panicked by the blast and flying debris, under this banner. It was going to be Hadron's own job getting them ready to receive Kalvan's charge.
Nor was everybody's temporary deafness—Galzar make it be so!—making his job any easier. Phidestros wasted a hundred heartbeats making hand motions to send a courier off to Grand Master Soton requesting reinforcements. It took him even longer to position the Iron Band in the middle of his command so that he could rally the shaken mercenary troops. The sight of their commander and his Banner-Captain stiffened the ranks up and down lines.
When the Hostigi horse had covered two-thirds of the distance to the Holy Host, Phidestros knew he'd done everything he could and signaled for his men to receive the enemy. His flank was organized by companies, ten wide and three deep, with the lancers in front. He had no illusions about turning the Hostigi wing, but he believed he could hold them long enough for Soton and his Knights to come to his relief. Even a thousand fresh reinforcements—if there were such after Styphon's Own Explosion—could make the difference between victory and defeat.
He could see with his own eyes how the Sacred Squares were chewing up the Hostigi Center. Only the field guns held them at bay. Galzar grant him the chance to do the same to the Hostigi right!
The crash of arms and armor as the two cavalry lines met reminded Phidestros uncomfortably of the Slaughter at Ryklos Farm and the unseemly end of the ancient order of Harphaxi Royal Lancers. Let Ormaz, Lord of the Caverns of the Dead, condemn Leonnestros to eternal damnation in his lowliest Cavern for deserting his post and leading his troopers into Kalvan's
deathtrap!
For a moment it appeared as if Kalvan's charge might be broken; there were few lancers in the Hostigi first ranks and too many of the Hostigi pistoleers had fired before the two lines met with clash of arms. Then from the Hostigi second and third ranks came point-blank pistol fire, tearing through his own front ranks.
Phidestros' pressed his knees into Snowdrift's flanks, raised his sword and led the Iron Band directly into the Hostigi lines. The Iron Band's first volley emptied fifty or more Hostigi saddles, including some of King Kalvan's bodyguards. For a moment, no longer than the blink of an eye, the two commanders were within sword distance, then the currents of battle tore them apart before either had a chance to break eye contact.
Phidestros looked down at his still loaded pistol and cursed. What had stopped him from firing, or even thinking of it? The entire battle could have been won in an instant. Maybe it had been the dawning of recognition on Kalvan's face of meeting an equal and his own confirming nod. Maybe the gods weren't finished with either of them—Kalvan could have shot him dead just as easily...
There was something between the two men—no doubt about that—but it was not 'something' to be settled in the heat and confusion of battle.
For not the first time, Phidestros wondered if he had picked the wrong side in this war to the death—and to the death it was, because Styphon's House would not rest until Great King Kalvan and Hos-Hostigos were no more.
There were worse ways to die than at the side of good and brave men in a noble cause. He was no Styphoni; the upper priesthood reeked of corruption and worshipped gold, not god. But there would not be—could not be—a parley with Kalvan until Prince Sarrask was dead. And, from all reports, the Prince led a charmed life—much like Kalvan himself. Maybe there was something to this notion of a War of the Gods?
