by Roland Green
Yes, that's why you've fought its advances lo these many years, you old hypocrite! thought Anaxthenes to himself. He truly did enjoy working behind Styphon's image, or he would have poisoned the old bugger ten winters ago. Although it was becoming increasingly wearisome to play son to Sesklos the father—a man old enough to be his grandfather. His own family was of noble blood and could trace its lineage back to the first kings of Ktemnos; he had no need for a surrogate father—as a youth he could hardly escape his real one fast enough!
"When will Soton be brought before the Inner Circle?" he asked.
"A moon-half. That is as long as I can put off Dracar and his followers and arrange for Soton to come from Tarr-Ceros. What will you do?"
"I don't know," Anaxthenes said, although even had he known it, he would have said the same. Maybe a miracle would happen—
Of course, said a voice in his head. And maybe Styphon's Great Image will speak on its own and walk off its pedestal too.
II
The sky was turning gray as Count Phrames rode up to the manor house where Kalvan had his headquarters. By the time he'd dismounted and climbed to the royal observation post on the roof, he could see occasional flickers of lightning in the gunmetal sky. Phrames hoped the storm would hold off until after they'd taken Tarr-Beshta; he had no wish to lead his men forward through flooded trenches with useless arquebuses and no artillery to keep the traitors' heads down.
The head of the stairs was held by Aspasthar the Royal Page and Captain Xykos, Rylla's new bodyguard. Xykos wore only a back-and-breast and an open-faced burgonet with a high comb; his famous two-handed sword and axe were nowhere in sight. The armor was richly decorated and Phrames wondered which former Harphaxi or Ktemnoi nobleman had donated it to sustain Xykos' new dignity and position.
Xykos certainly made a fine sight in silvered breastplate and tasses, dark-blue velvet breeches, slashed and paneled and red and blue striped hose; his burgonet was chased with gold and silver, sporting several long red plumes. He also seemed to have a natural instinct for dealing with his betters. Xykos would need every bit of that, and more, the first time Kalvan ordered him to keep Rylla from doing something she really wanted to do.
Guarding Rylla was not so much a matter of fighting off enemies; any who sought her life would first have to hack their way through the entire Army of Hos-Hostigos and Phrames himself if she had the sense to stay safely under their protection. If she went back to her old habits, on the other hand—well, if all else failed, Xykos was big enough to pick up Rylla under one arm and carry her out of danger.
If he did that, of course, he'd be wise to spend the rest of his life among the Ruthani of the Sea of Grass; anywhere closer Rylla might track him down. Phrames knew that he would love no other woman as he had loved Rylla till he'd drawn his last breath, but occasionally he found himself blessing the wisdom of the gods in sending Kalvan to protect both Rylla and Hostigos.
"Welcome, Phrames," Kalvan said. "Are the storming parties ready?"
"As ready as I can make them, Your Majesty," he answered. That was much readier than they would have been before Kalvan; the Great King had taught captains to see that their men each had a spare flint, a water flask, dry socks, a bandage and many other things that might not be needed if they were ready at hand, but infallibly would be needed if left behind.
Phrames thought of quoting Prince Sarrask's doubts about the brushwood and timber that were supposed to fill up the moat for his men's scaling ladders. Then he realized that he would be doing that for the dishonorable purpose of trying to make Kalvan doubt Sarrask's faith in the Great King's weapons. Kalvan didn't expect blind obedience, Phrames had his own doubts, and—Galzar moved in mysterious ways, but moved he had!—if the Saski storming party died in the moat, their Prince was very likely to die there with them.
After years of knowing Sarrask of Sask as a deadly enemy, it was not easy to turn around and accept him as an ally. He would have to try harder in the future to make Sarrask feel welcome. But the gods have mercy on him if he turned out to be the kind of ally that Balthar of Beshta had been at Tenabra!
Rylla stepped up to Phrames. For a moment he felt his heart stop, then took a deep breath and disciplined his thoughts and body.
"Phrames, I wanted to give you a scarf embroidered with the arms of Beshta to wear today, but that seemed like tempting the gods. Xykos has something, though, I would like you to wear in place of any favor from me."
"Yes, my—I mean, Your Majesty." Phrames fought to keep the color rising to his cheeks.
The big man pulled a long strip of bloodstained, ragged cloth out of his sash. "My lord, this is what's left of the Banner of the Veterans of the Long March. It's not much, but then we aren't much either. Just enough to make three companies, with most of those too hurt to be fighting here today.
"If you could see your way to wearing this onto the walls—well, a lot of us who aren't here because of the pig-spawn Balthar will sleep easier." Xykos held out the cloth, and Phrames tried to ignore that both his hands and the big man's were not entirely steady.
"I would be honored, Captain."
Rylla stepped closer, bussed him lightly on the cheek, and helped tie the banner around his helmet. This time there were no betraying blushes or stammers. Rylla had just finished the last knot when Kalvan raised his hand to the signalers at the far end of the platform. A fireseed rocket spewed green smoke, then soared into the darkening sky, trailing more smoke behind it.
Phrames saw ripples of movement in the gun positions between the headquarters and the trenches—then involuntarily flinched as every gun in the Hostigi siege batteries fired as one. By the time he was mounted and riding back toward his men, the fireseed smoke had completely obscured the Hostigi batteries.
III
When Count Phrames and his banner-bearer took their place at the head of the breach-storming party, the combination of smoke and darkening sky had cast a sinister twilight over Tarr-Beshta. On Kalvan's orders the men of the storming parties had chalked or painted white squares on their helmets so they could tell friends from enemies when the fighting moved indoors; Phrames suspected those marks would be useful the moment battle was joined.
Meanwhile, the guns were falling silent one by one and a faint breeze was beginning to thin the smoke. It would have done more if the Beshtans hadn't been busy proving they weren't out of fireseed, guns or even determination. Marksmanship was fortunately another matter; most of the fire from the breach and the walls to either side was going a bit too high to hit Phrames' leading regiment, the dismounted Royal Musketeers, although his golden-eagle banner had a couple of new bullet holes.
The regiments to the rear were out of range of everything except a two-pounder in the breach itself, which was firing too slowly to be a problem once the Hostigi began their forward movement.
A final shell burst against the face of the keep itself, spraying chunks of masonry into the courtyard, then the guns were silent. Kalvan had spoken of the guns of his homeland, which could actually keep firing over the heads of the infantry as they advanced on the enemy, and General Alkides swore that his gunners could do the same if they were allowed to. Phrames had politely refused; Prince Sarrask had refused somewhat less politely.
"I know all you gunners think you can drop a ball into Styphon's chamberpot if you have the chance!" the Prince had growled. "Maybe you can. And maybe you'll just drop the ball on my head, and while maybe it isn't the greatest head Dralm ever made, it's the only one I've got!"
A minute later the Beshtan fire seemed to slacken and arquebusiers, musketeers and gunners shifted position to meet the attack they knew was coming. Most knew that there would be no quarter given in this fight—despite the Great King's promises; after all, Kalvan wasn't Lytris with eyes that could look in two directions at once. Phrames decided it was safe to climb out of the trench for a better view. He'd reached open ground and was rising to hands and knees when a bullet wheeted past his ear. A second spanged off a stone b
y his left hand—and then, with a crash of thunder louder than the Great Battery at Phyrax, the skies opened and poured rain.
Phrames had never been in such a storm; it was more like being under a waterfall than being out in the rain. He felt as if he were lifting a tangible weight as he struggled to his feet, his boot soles sinking into suddenly muddy ground. As the thunder rumbled away into silence, he heard someone squalling in panic:
"The gods are angry! This is a warning from Thanor not to fight today."
One such idiot could be more than enough to start a panic. Phrames drew his sword with one hand and gripped his banner-bearer's helmet to urge him upward with the other.
"Traitor! Fool! This storm is the gods themselves fighting for us! Dralm and Galzar and Thanor and Lytris have sent this storm to soak the Beshtan fireseed. We outnumber them ten to one; with no fireseed they're doomed. We can take the castle with our bare hands!"
Phrames gave one final heave to his banner-bearer, who struggled up to stand beside him. Then he raised his sword high and ran toward the breach without looking back to see if anyone was following him.
At first he didn't look back because he didn't want to give the impression of doubting his men's courage. Before long he didn't look back because he had to look where he was going to keep from falling over his own feet. He'd been noted both as a runner and a climber as a youth, but he'd never tried to do both at once, over muddy ground strewn with rain slick stones and shot, in a pouring rain, wearing three-quarter armor. He began to wonder if broken ankles would account for as many of his men as Beshtan fire would have otherwise.
By the time Phrames was actually at the breach, enough of his men had caught up so that while he was certainly the first there, it wasn't by much. He counted forty or more Hostigi scrambling over the rubble that had filled the moat, sometimes falling but helping each other up and always going on. The rain had brought Beshtan gunfire to an almost complete halt—something to thank Lytris for.
Suddenly his banner-bearer went down with a crossbow bolt in his leg halfway up the breach. Phrames caught the banner before it fell and made a mental note to set up a special fund in the Princely treasury to support the kin of his banner-bearers; the job seemed unreasonably dangerous.
Being one-handed because of his grip on the banner nearly cost him his life. Many of the Beshtans who'd lost their dry fireseed hadn't lost their courage; they swarmed down from the top of the breach, swinging swords, musket-butts, half-pikes and maces like madmen. Phrames had to use the banner pole like a spear, catching one swordsman in the throat, then he dropped it and laid about with sword and pistol butt. He made another mental note to carry a mace the next time he had to storm a breach. His sword was a fine weapon for use from a horse, but on foot he needed something that would stop an opponent as well as just kill him.
The second regiment of Hostigi came pouring up through the breach, and for a moment Phrames was wedged so tightly between his own men and his enemies that he couldn't have wielded a feather, let alone a mace. Finally the sheer weight of numbers pushed the Beshtans back. The gunners around the two-pounder gave up trying to find dry fireseed, drew swords or picked up their tools, and waded into the fight.
Phrames chopped through a rammer with one sword cut and through the gunner's raised arm with the next, then thrust the man in the face. Thank Galzar most of these soldiers don't have swords with points! In this kind of close-quarters brawl, the Hostigi ability to thrust was a large advantage. Maybe I should be thanking Kalvan instead of Galzar, Phrames wondered, although Kalvan has obviously been blessed by the Wargod with these new ideas of his. So I suppose I can thank Galzar and thank Kalvan without blaspheming the gods.
With lines being drawn now so that friend could be told from foe, the Beshtans on the wall were joining in. Some were leaping down to thicken the defenders' line, other adding bullets, arrows and even thrown stones from above. The number of fallen Hostigi began to increase at a rate that did not meet with Phrames' approval, and not all of them were men who'd slipped on wet stones or tripped over a comrade's foot.
Someone was shouting in his ear about bringing up the pikemen of Queen Rylla's Foot, the third regiment in the storming column. Without bothering to turn and face the man, Phrames bellowed, "Great Galzar, no! The pikes are the last thing we need until we're down in the courtyard. They won't have room to use their pikes or even defend themselves up here." A pikeman needed firm ground for both feet and both hands for his pike; if he lacked either, he was just an easy target instead of one of the deadliest kind of infantrymen ever to march.
The Beshtans were falling faster than the Hostigi; in places their dead and dying were strewn three deep. Reinforcements were still coming up; it looked as if the defenders were staking everything on holding the breach and the walls and not worrying about a second line of defense in the keep.
A man Phrames recognized emerged from the Beshtan line—a baron who'd commanded a Beshtan cavalry squadron on the Great Raid into Hos-Harphax in the spring. He'd done a good job, too; why had he chosen to follow his damnable Prince into treason? No one would ever know, most likely; all the man could be given now was an honorable death. Phrames shouted a war cry and raised his sword.
For about a hundred breaths it wasn't entirely clear who was going to give whom what sort of death. The baron's sword was heavier and his reach longer than Phrames'; three times the Baron beat down the Count's guard and would have finished him if Phrames' armor hadn't been sound. Finally, he hooked a foot behind the baron's leg and sent him crashing down on the stones, then thrust him in the throat through his mail aventail. When he stepped back from the dying baron, there appeared to be as many Beshtans as ever and he began to wonder if he hadn't been a little too hasty in dismissing the pikemen. They wouldn't help to get through the breach, but as for holding it against the Beshtans...
As Phrames completed the thought, a new uproar of screams, war cries, curses and the crashing and clashing of weapons and armor burst out behind the Beshtans. Somebody was hitting them in the rear. By the time Phrames had caught his breath, that somebody had opened enough of a gap in the Beshtan line to let him see men in Saski green and gold swarming across the courtyard. At their head was a bulky figure in freshly re-gilded armor, wielding a bloody mace and defaming the sexual habits of all Beshtans, their parents, and their illegitimate offspring by an astonishing variety of mothers—not all of them human or even earthly.
For a moment Phrames wanted to curse. To owe his success at the breach to Sarrask of Sask—! Then he sighed. His honor was one thing; the lives of his men another. He could not throw the second away because of some whimsical notion of the first. Besides, it was beginning to seem that Dralm and Galzar had so made Sarrask that there was some good in him—or at least a fighting man's courage that the right leader could bring out, and then Dralm and Galzar sent Kalvan...
No good ever came of questioning the judgment of Allfather Dralm or Galzar Wolfhead, even when one did not understand it.
So Phrames walked down the rubble over the outstretched bodies of the Beshtans to greet Prince Sarrask with outstretched hands. They touched palms and the big man grinned, then clapped Phrames on both shoulders.
Sarrask unhooked a silver-stoppered flask from his belt. "You look like a man who could use this."
"After we've cleared the courtyard, I won't say no."
"Then drink up, Count. We've got everything except the keep already. He swept his hand around to the broken Beshtans scattered around the courtyard, most surrendering and calling "Oath to Galzar!" with only a few clots still holding out against the Hostigi.
Phrames looked toward the keep and realized that the downpour had passed almost as quickly as it had come. He could see the whole castle and the trench-carved ground beyond it. The courtyard swarmed with Sarrask's men, and the walls were crowded with the Sastragathi irregulars who'd followed the Saski up the ladders. True to their habits, the Sastragathi were busily stripping what Phrames hoped were the cor
pses of the defenders and tossing them into the moat or onto the courtyard.
On top of one of the gate towers a little knot of defenders was still holding out, but below a gang of Saski with sledges was already trying to free the portcullis and lower the drawbridge, to let Alkides bring in his artillery and finish off the keep.
"Hope those poor bastards in the keep have the sense to yield before Alkides brings in a bombard," Sarrask said, waving the flask at Phrames again. This time the Count took it. "Otherwise you'll be a Prince with no place to sleep. I could knock that (guilty of fornication with a barnyard fowl) pile down with my mace! Drink up, Count!"
Yes, all this was going to be his soon! Phrames didn't know quite what to think of all that; he did know he owed Kalvan more than he could ever repay. How was he going to turn this princedom into a loyal cornerstone of Hos-Hostigos? He took a deep drink of what turned out to be a most potent winter wine and sputtered, with wine dripping it down his beard.
When he'd caught his breath, he took a more cautious swallow. It was extraordinarily good wine. "Thank you, Prince. Your own stock?"
Sarrask shook his head. "Made in Hos-Agrys. Those Beshtans nobles and are taking everything with them but the cobblestones. This one was on his way to Syriphlon with a cartload of wine in a wagon train that passed too close to one of my foraging parties. Captain Strathos was out raiding that day and bagged the lot. He presented it to King Kalvan, who sent over a barrel last night. Come around tonight; there's plenty left."
Phrames drank again, considering that Sarrask of Sask accusing another nobleman of being too comfortable in the field was the pot calling the kettle black—as Kalvan liked to say—but hardly inclined to say it out loud.
Then a Saski captain was coming over to tell his Prince that the portcullis was hopelessly jammed; did he and Phrames think the gate should be blown up or did Alkides want to drag his guns through the breach?
