by Roland Green
"There are many, Your Majesty. Harmakros, Alkides, Hestophes, even Prince Sarrask—"
"Yes, Harmakros and Alkides were invaluable. So was Sarrask. But it was you who held the left wing together after Ptosphes' retreat."
Kalvan held up his hand to block further argument. "I know the First Prince did everything that was humanly possible. But you performed a miracle. If the Knights had rolled up the left wing and hit our center on the flank—well, right now we would not be having this discussion. Nor would there be a Great King of Hos-Hostigos to reward his brave and loyal subjects. Furthermore, to win this war with Styphon's House, Hos-Hostigos is going to need all the miracle workers we can get.
"Also, announcing the new Prince of Beshta before we've settled accounts with the old one has a few other advantages. First, it will keep people from worrying that I'm the kind of Great King who likes to collect vacant Princedoms. I understand they are not popular." An understatement if there ever was one. "We will expect a share of the vacant estates and the treasury, but that is traditional.
"Second, you're popular in Beshta, Phrames. The people and even some of the nobles may rise up against Balthar as soon as they know whom they're rising for. That may save Us the trouble of his execution. It will certainly save Us a good deal of fighting and some lives. If We asked the Beshtans to rise without naming a new Prince, it might look as if We like starting rebellions. That would Us even more unpopular. But naming a successor to a prince attainted for treason—again, that's traditional."
"There is wisdom in all that you say, Your Majesty, but— What's that?"
It sounded as if the battle were starting all over again for a moment—gunshots and shouts, then Kalvan recognized cheers. A short while later he recognized two familiar riders approaching at a trot, both carrying torches. One was Verkan, the other Aspasthar, and both of them had grins that practically met at the backs of their heads.
"The Great Queen and baby are safe!" hollered Aspasthar.
Kalvan was struck speechless.
Aspasthar gentled his pony, then dismounted to kneel before Kalvan.
"Yes, Sire. Both Queen Rylla and the new Princess of Hos-Hostigos are well."
"How—how did they choose you as messenger?"
Aspasthar blushed. "Your Majesty, they didn't exactly—you see, I was listening outside the birthing chamber. When I heard everybody being so happy, I knew what had happened. With all the excitement, I thought it might take a while before they told someone else to ride to you, and I was certain that you would want to know right away, so I got on Redpoll and rode off. But I became lost and had to ask Colonel Verkan for help—"
"And insult my honor into the bargain," Verkan added laughing. He told the rest of the story while Aspasthar blushed even brighter.
Kalvan wanted to run around waving his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs, but he did have his royal dignity to preserve. The boy also had a reward coming.
"Aspasthar. You have earned yourself a good-news bearer's reward. Ten Hostigos Crowns. It shall be paid to you tomorrow, and then you will take it to your—to Baron Harmakros and give nine Crowns of it to him for safekeeping. You are also to say that it is the Great King's command that you be thoroughly thrashed for riding out as you did with no authority or permission, putting yourself in danger and insulting Colonel Verkan as well!"
Aspasthar only had to gulp twice before he stammered, "Y-Yes, Your M-M-Majesty!"
Kalvan turned away and took a few stumbling steps. If there is anybody to thank—thank you for Rylla and our daughter. Now, what to name her—
Kalvan took the offered jug and swigged from it without thinking. For a moment, he felt as if he'd swallowed a mouthful from one of the Foundry crucibles. Nothing was this strong except high-proof corn liquor! Had they gone and invented distilling behind his back while he was off fighting the war?
He sniffed the neck of the jug. Not bourbon, not rye or any other kind of whiskey—just good winter wine. It was only fatigue and battle strain and not having eaten anything for twelve hours that made the winter wine taste so potent.
"Aspasthar demonstrated good sense in one thing," Verkan said. "The lad tied two jugs to Redpoll's saddle, and took some cheese and sausage as well. Probably stole them from the kitchen, of course. Drink up, Your Majesty."
Kalvan took another sip, then felt rain on his face and shook his head. If he drank any more, he'd either have to be carried back to Tarr-Hostigos or else stand here in the rain like a barnyard turkey, his mouth upturned until the rain filled it and he drowned.
IV
Very little of the morning sunlight penetrated into the keep and Kalvan had to hold up his torch to find his way up the narrow stone stairway. The door to the birthing chamber was closed when Kalvan reached the top of the stairs. One of the midwives and a maidservant were slumped on a bench outside the door; another maidservant was sprawled on a pallet under the bench, snoring like a small thunderstorm. The door opened a crack and the bulldog face of old Amasphalya, the chief midwife, peered out.
"You can't come in, Your Majesty. Both Rylla and the baby are asleep, and they need the sleep more than they need you."
Kalvan felt his mouth open and shut several times without any sound coming out. He was glad the antechamber was dark and the three women asleep, because he knew he must be making a thoroughly non-royal spectacle of himself.
He thought briefly of battering rams. He thought somewhat less briefly of summoning Brother Mytron and having him negotiate a passage for the Great King. Then he remembered that Mytron was also enjoying a well-deserved sleep after a day not as dangerous but certainly as long as his King's.
He was thinking that he really didn't know what to do next when he heard Rylla's voice from inside the chamber. "By Yirtta, Amasphalya, let him in! That's an order."
"Your Majesty—"
"Let him in! Or I'm going to get out of bed and open the door myself."
Kalvan would have very much liked a camera to record the expression on Amasphalya's face. If nothing else, he could have used the picture to blackmail her into better manners the next time she decided that she outranked a Great King.
Then he gave out a great whoop of laughter. Until now he'd only been told that Rylla was alive and healthy; in his exhaustion he'd had moments of believing that everyone was lying to him. Now he'd heard her voice, and more than her voice, her old familiar impatience with fools.
Amasphalya sighed and stepped out of Kalvan's path without opening the door any wider. Kalvan kicked it open all the way and ran to the bed. He kissed Rylla several times and ran his hands through her hair before he realized how fortunate he'd been to hear her voice before seeing her; she looked like a stranger, with dark circles under her eyes, pain-carved lines in her pale face and hair matted to the consistency of barbed wire.
No, not a stranger. Just a woman who'd been through a long hard labor, and he'd delivered numerous women in labor to the hospital in his squad car and seen what they looked like when they arrived—twice, even helping deliver babies. But he hadn't been married to any of them.
"Kalvan, look!"
He looked to where a too thin, too pale hand was pointing. At first he saw nothing but a pile of furs and linen, then—
"By Galzar's Mace! I didn't know babies came that big."
Rylla laughed and Amasphalya was bold enough to say, "Oh, she was a fine big lass, that's for certain. Almost three ingots. It's no great wonder that she was hard in coming, but all's well now. She's already eaten once and—"
Kalvan wasn't listening. In fact, as he stared down at his nine pounds of daughter, he wouldn't have heard Dralm himself coming to announce that Balph had burned to the ground and Styphon's House was surrendering unconditionally to the will of Great King Kalvan. All his attention was on the baby, red-faced and wrinkled as she was, with a snub nose that looked more like Rylla's than his—
Under her father's scrutiny, the Princess of Hostigos opened large blue eyes that were her mother's an
d nobody else's. Then she opened her mouth and let out an earsplitting howl.
"She wants another meal, the greedy thing," clucked Amasphalya. "I'd best summon the wet nurse."
She bustled off to do that, while Kalvan held out his thumb to the baby. Her fingers curled firmly around it, but she went on squalling. He grinned.
"I suppose it's going to be a while before she can be impressed by Great Kings or anybody else who can't provide nourishment."
Rylla smiled and silently gripped his free hand. "Kalvan, you don't believe the gods will mind if we name the baby now like they do in the Cold Lands where you came from?"
Kalvan shook his head. Due to the high infant mortality, most here-and-now babies were not given proper names until they reached their third year, which was when their families celebrated their first Name Day. This was because of the high infant mortality rate here-and-now; he'd heard that in the Trygath it ran as high as fifty percent. Often, their Name Day wasn't on their real birthday, not even the one supplied by the lunar and solar Zarthani calendars.
It also meant that when someone gave his or her age you had to mentally add another three years to get their real age—or close to it! Some families didn't even keep track of the moon or day—just the year. Hestophes liked to say he was born in the first false spring of the Year of the Big Moon. It always got a big laugh.
Kalvan had discussed naming the baby before he realized all the implications. Now, he was stuck with it. You'd better live a long time, little one, he admonished his newborn daughter. "No, I can't see Allfather Dralm being unhappy because we named our baby after your mother."
Rylla smiled. "Little Demia. I like that her name honors a mother I never knew."
Kalvan smiled too and squeezed her hand. Then the door opened again as Amasphalya led a hefty peasant woman into the chamber. Kalvan was looking her over to make sure she'd bathed properly, when he saw two men silhouetted in the doorway. Something about them looked familiar—
"Count Phrames. Colonel Verkan. Welcome. Come in."
The two soldiers followed the wet nurse. Amasphalya took a deep breath, then appeared to think better of whatever she'd been about to say. Instead she looked toward the ceiling with an expression that was clearly a silent prayer to the Goddess to guard Rylla and the baby, since her own best efforts to keep the birthing chamber free of fathers and other useless men had failed.
Kalvan straightened up, although he was so weak that for a moment he wondered if he would need to ask for help. Something seemed to have happened to his spine.
"How is the army?"
"Harmakros, Ptosphes and Sarrask have things well in hand," Verkan said.
"I don't know what that Sarrask is made of," Phrames added. "He fought all day, worked all night; now he and his guardsmen are having a drinking party with some camp followers and some captured beer!"
"Maybe he wants to forget the battle," Verkan said softly. "The gods know I wish I could."
Phrames looked oddly at the Rifleman for a moment, the nodded slowly. "It could be." Obviously, the idea of Sarrask of Sask having some virtues was still novel, but no longer unthinkable.
The baby's howls had died to an occasional squeak or gurgle as she snuggled against the wet nurse's breast and went to work on her meal. Kalvan found himself swaying on his feet, even after Phrames put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
"Come with me, Your Majesty. We've arranged a bed for you in the shrine-house. Many of the wounded are under tents in the courtyard and Verkan has twenty of his Riflemen guarding the shrine-house. You'll be able to sleep in peace."
Sleep sounded like an excellent idea, but he wanted to say goodnight to Rylla. He shook off Phrames' hand, turned, swayed so violently that he nearly fell—and saw that Rylla was asleep again.
A very excellent idea, for everybody. Kalvan cautiously placed one foot in front of another, then felt Phrames gripping him by one arm and Verkan by the other as they led him toward the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I
"At the trot—forward!" Baron Halmoth shouted. With a great thudding of hooves on stony ground and the rattling of harness brass and armor, Prince Ptosphes' Bodyguards put themselves into motion. Baron Halmoth looked behind him to make sure that nobody was moving faster than a trot, then pulled down his visor.
Prince Ptosphes left his own visor up. He had this whole wing of the battle to observe and command, not just a single cavalry regiment with a single fairly simple mission. He was riding with his Bodyguards, newly reinforced after losing half their strength at the battles at Phyrax and Tenabra, because that seemed to the best way to move far enough forward to see what was going on without making himself easy prey to the Agrysi.
Of course, the Agrysi might have run out of either fireseed or the will to fight in the last two days, after the capture of their main wagon train. The loss of their train made three successive defeats for them in the moon-half since Ptosphes led the newly organized Army of Nostor into the Princedom to clear it of King Demistophon's 'gesture of friendship' toward Styphon's House—actually, a blatant land grab of some un-nailed down Harphaxi (now Hostigi) territory! The gods knew that Kaiphranos the Timid was hiding somewhere underneath his bed-cloths in his Royal Bedchamber and not about to dispute Demistophon's claims on the battlefield, the only place where they counted.
The Agrysi might be in full flight, but Ptosphes wasn't going to wager his life, or that of his men, on it. The Army of Nostor's sixteen thousand men had begun with no advantage in numbers, and those three victories had all been hard fought and fairly won; regiments that had been weak when he led them into Nostor were now mere skeletons. Yet, Allfather Dralm be praised!, winning those victories had made Ptosphes really want to go on living for the first time since that dreadful day at Tenabra.
Furthermore, it was too beautiful a day to die with work unfinished. There was so much more to be done, such as casting down Styphon's Foul House of Iniquities, watching his granddaughter grow up...
White puffs of smoke from the thicket of trees to the left were followed by the bee-hum of bullets passing close by. Three riders and two horses went down; Ptosphes heard Halmoth shouting, "Keep moving! Don't bunch up!" and saw the Bodyguards obeying. The mounted nobles and gentry of Hostigos still knew only one operation of war—how to charge—but they know several ways of making that charge more dangerous to the enemy. Teaching them more would have required the command of a god, not merely of a Great King.
Prince Ptosphes turned in his saddle and shouted to a messenger to bring up a squadron of the mercenary dragoons riding behind the Bodyguards and have them clean out the woods. If the Agrysi detachment there was more than a single squadron could handle, the rest of the mercenaries and the Bodyguards would be within what Kalvan called "supporting distance." Ptosphes hoped they wouldn't be needed in the woods; he wanted to push home this charge right into the Agrysi rear and that would surely need more than a single regiment.
By the time the messenger was gone, the Bodyguards were over the crest of the little rise and Ptosphes could see the entire Hostigi battle line—his own right-flank cavalry, seven to eight thousand infantry in the center and the mercenary, Saski and Ulthori horse on the right. The guns were barely visible at the rear of the infantry line, staying limbered up and well protected until they had good targets. Ptosphes would have given a couple of fingers for three sixteen-pounders to add to his mobile six and four-pounders, but Kalvan needed all the larger guns that had survived Phyrax to dispose of Balthar and the Beshtan tarrs.
A little further, and Ptosphes could see the Agrysi force—a thick but rather ragged line of mercenary infantry drawn up behind a farm and a stone wall, with old-fashioned guns, small bombards, and demicannon in the gaps and the cavalry behind either flank. Black-streaked white smoke rising from the farm told him of a concealed battery opening fire; a moment later whirrings and thumpings told him that its target was his cavalry. Then a solid mass of horsemen was shaking itself loose from the Agrysi r
ight and coming toward the Hostigi.
The Agrysi cavalry weren't quite stupid enough to ride down their own gunners, but they did manage to mask the farm battery's fire completely. The hedges and outbuildings around the farm also broke up their formation, so that it was half a dozen separate squadrons rather than a solid mass that reached Ptosphes' wing. Skirmishers to either side rose up and fired arquebuses to keep the enemy horse bunched up as much as possible.
By Ptosphes' order, the Hostigos Bodyguards were a solid but flexible wall of steel and horseflesh, and another messenger was riding back to bring up the Hostigi Lancers.
The two cavalry forces collided with a sound like a cartload of anvils falling into a stone quarry. Ptosphes saw men hurled from their saddles by the impact of the collision, to die under the slashing hooves of their comrades' horses. He shot one of those horses, used up his other pistol on the horse's rider, saw a knot of men growing behind the fallen horse and lifted his battleaxe.
"For Hostigos! Down Styphon's House! Down the Agrysi dogs!"
"Prince Ptosphes!" the shout came from all around, as his Bodyguards dug in their own spurs and drew steel. Now it was just a matter of straightforward fighting, and Ptosphes had no doubts as to who would win such a contest. Few of his Hostigi veterans did not owe Styphon's House a debt for dead kin or burned homes or both, and no one was disposed to be merciful to the Agrysi and their hired soldiers merely because Great King Demistophon had been stupid rather than evil.
How long the hewing and hacking lasted, Ptosphes never knew precisely. He did know that a moment came when he saw there were no enemies within reach who weren't shouting "Oath to Galzar!" and holding up helmets on sword points or snatching off green sashes. Beyond the surrendering cavalry Ptosphes could see the Agrysi infantry doing the same. Colonel Democriphon, recognizable by his unhelmeted head and flowing blond hair, was riding through the farm battery as if on parade. On either side and to his rear the Hostigi Lancers rode as if invisible ropes tied them to their Colonel.
