"At the trotforward!" 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 Houseactually, 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 warhow to chargebut 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 linehis 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 forcea 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 right 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.
Ptosphes hoped they wouldn't ride into more than they could handle, but that would be quite a lot. Democriphon loved to make a show of his swordsmanship and riding, but Kalvan said he was probably the best Colonel in the Great King's regulars.
Ptosphes dismounted to spare his horse and made sure that none of the blood that splattered his armor was his. Except for a nick beside his left knee, he turned out to be intact. He was drinking water laced with vinegar and refusing a bandage when he saw General Hestophes riding back around the farm. With him rode a handful of Agrysi horsemen in rich three-quarter armor and etched and gold-filigreed morion helmets, under the red-falcon banner of Prince Aesklos of Zcynos.
By the time the riders reached him, he was in the saddle again.
"Hail, Prince Ptosphes," the leading horseman stated. "I am Count Artemanes, Captain-General to Prince Aesklos of the Princedom of Zcynos. In his name, I yield all the men sworn to Great King Demistophon of Hos-Agrys on this field."
"Where is Prince Aesklos?"
The Count swallowed, letting Colonel Democriphon speak first. "He's about to have his leg taken off, back there around the hill, he said, pointing with his sword. "There's another whole wagon train back there, four guns and a lot of wounded. Five hundred at least."
"I'll send our Uncle Wolfs to help take care of them as soon as they're through with our own wounded," Ptosphes said. "They may be able to save the Prince's leg."
"With some demon-taught trick?" the Count began, then quickly broke off as he saw faces harden against him. "Very well. I don't suppose a priest of Galzar can really be bought to harm a wounded man."
"Of course not," Ptosphes snapped. The last thing he wanted was to do was waste time discussing the drivel Styphon's House had been spouting about Kalvan's demonic wisdom. "Now. Is there anything else you need other than aid for your wounded?"
The Count looked around as if he wished he could speak to Ptosphes in private, then shrugged. "Just somebody to keep the Red Hand off our back. Three temple bands of Styphon's Own Guard from the Great Temple at Hos-Agrys came with us. They're not more than half a march's ride north along the High Road to ensure we don't fall back. If they think we've surrendered without cause, they may try to retake the camp and kill any of our men, as well as yours, they find."
Ptosphes nodded to indicate he understood. Styphon's House's Red Hand hadn't done this sort of thing to friendly soldiers thus far during the Great Kings' War, but their reputation more than justified expecting or fearing it. "Is that why you fought us?"
"That, and not knowing how many you were. We thought we'd done enough damage in the last two attacks that you'd be licking your wounds. Has the DaeHas Kalvan taught you how to make armies invisible?"
"Great King Kalvan, to you. And, to answer your questions, no he hasn't. Just how to move them so far and so fast that they're hard to see unless one is looking in the right place. You could learn those arts too, if you gave the Great King cause to see you as friend rather than enemy."
The Count's frozen face told Ptosphes he was in no mood to listen to that kind of suggestion. Why, those words smacked of treason!, it seemed to say. If the Count had any sense he'd desert that hunk of whale blubber that overflowed the Golden Throne of Hos-Agrys and cast his bones with the Fireseed Throne of Hos-Hostigos. Learn what it was like to fight with a real captain. Maybe a few more defeats like this might bang some sense into that stump of wood he carried on his shoulders? Ptosphes' wouldn't bet a half phenig on it happening, though...
"Colonel Democriphon," he ordered. "Take your Lancers, two companies of dragoons, two bands of mercenary cavalry and four guns up the High Road. Find the Red Hand and block the road against them, but don't engage them unless they advance. If they do, signal by rocket. Then I'll bring up the whole army and we'll see about collecting their heads as my Name-Day gift to Princess Demia!"
"My Prince!"
Ptosphes turned to General Hestophes and said, "Prepare your Mobile Force just in case the Colonel needs support." Hestophes smiled in a way that showed he'd very much enjoy mixing it up with the Red Hand.
Democriphon wheeled his horse and trotted off. The Count sighed and appeared to sit easier in his saddle. "Thank you, Your Highness. I wishwell, it seemed better to have my men die at your hands than at Styphon's bloody hands."
"Better still if they had not died at all," Ptosphes added. "Now, if you would care to sit down with me over some winter wine, I do believe we can put an end to this war in Nostor..."
Kalvan studied the distant walls of Tarr-Beshta as he strode back and forth in front of the Army of Beshta HQ, a former mansion of one of Balthar's favorites. From a distance the castle reminded him of a medieval painting of a siege he'd seen at The Louvre, except that the smell ruined the illusion. The siege had been going on for several weeks and the air was tainted with the smoke of burning campfires, unwashed bodies and rotting food. Fortunately, he only had to stay there as long as it took to breach the walls of Tarr-Beshta and take the possession.
Harmakros' Army of Observation had cleared the passes and the roads of Beshtan opposition, what little there was of it! Now Harmakros was laying siege to the border forts and castles with Hos-Harphax before they could surrender to the Harphaxiwhich except for a loyal few would be as soon as they learned Tarr-Beshta had fallen. Many of the castles surrendered outright; a few welcoming the Hostigi as liberators.
The majority of Balthar's subjects appeared to have little enthusiasm for their Prince and the resistance on the road to Beshta City had been minimal. Still, the old miser hadn't been a complete fool; he'd always paid his armyif not wellon time. Although now, that he was stitched up in his castle, the Beshtan Army was on short rations. According to Harmakros' latest dispatch, most of the border tarrs haven't received pay or provisions in over a moon-half. It appeared that Balthar's Princely authority was shrinking to the length of his sword arm.
"How much deeper, Your Majesty?" the Captain of Artillery asked.
Kalvan put Ptosphes' dispatch into his saddlebag, mounted his horse and trotted over to the mortar pit, which was about a hundred feet from the walls of Tarr-Beshta. After he dismounted, his shield bearers, four of them carrying a reinforced gun guard about the size of a one-car garage door, walked in front of him, shielding him from enemy fire. "About a third of a rod," he told the Captain. To the men digging he said, "Ankle high."
Then he returned to field headquarters, remembering the fate of Richard Lionheart, who'd ridden into crossbow range of a French castle he was besieging and paid for it with his life, leaving John Lackland as the next King of England. Nor did it make any sense to put his shield bearers at needless risk.
Once he was settled, he began to read Ptosphes' dispatch where he'd left of:
on terms which you will see in the enclosed copy of the Truce Agreement. It is hard to believe that anyone not a minion of Styphon's House will consider them other than honorable, or even generous for a host so thoroughly defeated as that of Great King Demistophon's.
Kalvan quickly looked over the other sheets of parchment with Ptosphes' letter. The Agrysi were to retain all their small arms and such fireseed and food as they could carry on their persons or mounts; those taken prisoner in the earlier battles were to be released on oath to pay token ransoms before next spring; petty-captains and above were to retain their armor.
These terms cover the lawful subjects of Great King Demistophon and his Princes. The mercenaries have given their Oath to Galzar in the customary manner. It appears that not less than three thousand of them and perhaps more could be persuaded to take Hostigi colors. With the captured supplies and this addition to our strength, we are more than fit to stand against any treachery by Styphon's House, without eating Prince Pheblon's lands any barer than they are already.
From the speed with which the Red Hand retreated, I much doubt that they were given orders to slay the Agrysi for yielding untimely. Such an act added to Prince Balthar's folly at Tarr-Catassa would drive many mercenaries into our serviceor at least out of Styphon's House'sand hasten the end of the war. Grand Master Soton would have the wit to see this, if none of the Inner Circle did.
Kalvan's mouth made an O and a soundless whistle. A casual, even complimentary mention of the man who'd defeated him demonstrated just how much Ptosphes had recovered his morale. He wondered if he should include in his reply the rumors that the Grand Master was in serious trouble with the Inner Circle for pulling his Knights off the field of Phyrax instead of keeping them there to die to the last man.
Best not. Letters could be captured, and so far the rumor was just that, apart from also being something the Styphoni might not know had reached Hos-Hostigos. Right now Styphon's House appeared to be running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off, and any precaution that contributed to their confusion and ignorance was justified.
And speaking of precautionsKalvan rose to his feet and shouted at the gunners who were digging a pit out of the side of the trench toward Tarr-Beshta. "That's deep enough, you Ormaz-spawned idiots! Any deeper, the gun will be firing straight up. And the shells will land on the heads of the men in the forward trenches! If they landed on your heads it might not be so bad, because I don't think you keep anything important there! But that's not true of your comrades."
"Your Majesty?" several bewildered artillerymen said at once.
Kalvan sighed, cursing Styphon's House for discouraging the art of siegecraft, and stood up. He spent a long moment studying the scarred gray walls of Tarr-Beshta for any signs of unusual activity that might mean a sortie, then scrambled down into the trench without regard to his dignity or the ability of his guards to keep up with him.
Five minutes with the artillerymen who were digging the pit was enough to give him some hope that they almost understood most of what he'd been trying to teach them. To be sure, the old twelve-pounder they were using as an improvised mortar would have a longer barrel and therefore more range than the mortars he had the Foundry working on, but why take chances? Only one or two shells on the heads of the infantrymen doing the dirtiest work of the siege, and the whole concept of indirect fire would be distrusted and despised so thoroughly that not even a Dralm-sent Great King could get it easily accepted.
On the other hand, if those shells landed inside Tarr-Beshtait would take more than one or two, but not many more before it would be safe to storm the castle, end the siege and let a Great King who was also acting as his own Chief of Engineers get more than three hours' sleep a night! Note: First thing, start a Dept. of Engineering at the new University of Hostigos.
Kalvan finished Ptosphes' letter over lunch in his field headquarters. The letter concluded almost jauntily:
Prince Aesklos' leg is being treated with your new healing wisdom about cleanliness by Brother Cyphrax, an underpriest of Galzar. There is some danger in this, because if the Prince dies or loses his leg, we shall be blamed for setting demons upon him. However, Brother Cyphrax says that the bone of his leg is not so badly broken. If the flesh wound does not bring the fester devils and the Prince need fear neither for life nor limb. We are more likely to heal than harm him, as he is much respected both as Prince and as war leader in Hos-Agrys, we will have in our debt a man whose voice will carry much weight in the councils of Demistophon the Short-Sighted.
When the dangers from Styphon's Guardsmen is past, I intend to use such of the Army of Nostor as can be supported with our available supplies to rebuild and garrison some of Prince Pheblon's abandoned tarrs and strongholds, and after that root out the bandits who have become a veritable plague upon the countryside. Despite their wagon trains, the Agrysi soldiers fell upon Nostor like locusts, although most prudent men and women fled from their advance, abandoning their fields. However, what is more likely to prevent a proper harvest in Nostor this year, besides the number of farmers who died in the wars or protecting their holds, are the Agrysi deserters and the bandits, and it seems to me that the best work for me is seeing that they are destroyed.
With good fortune and the aid of the True Gods, I may return to Hostigos within a moon. Amasphalya should be warned that at that time I shall pick up my granddaughter and hold her, and Hadron take anyone who stands in my path!
Perhaps Amasphalya dares to stand against a mere Prince, but if she stands against a grandfather she shall suffer for it.
With best wishes for Your Majesty's continued health and success and for that of our well-beloved Queen Rylla and Princess Demia, I remain,
Your obedient humble servant
Ptosphes
First Prince of Hos-Hostigos
This time Kalvan whistled out loud. It was hard to believe this letter was written by the same man he'd seen off to Nostor a moon ago, who'd looked as if he were going to his execution. Kalvan had been torn between sending someone to keep an eye on his father-in-law and prevent him from getting killed unnecessarily, and fearing that doing this would be an insult that would make Ptosphes certain he was incompetent and dishonored even in the eyes of his son-in-law. After listening to Rylla, he'd decided to let Ptosphes go without a watchdog and keep his fingers crosseda gesture that the here-and-now gods or Somebody seemed to have rewarded.
It was a pity that after so many men wound up being killed in the process of restoring Ptosphes' morale. Not that the war with Hos-Agrys was Ptosphes' faultor Kalvan's, or anybody's but Styphon's House and to some extend King Demistophon, who had fallen upon Hostigos like a wolf on a wounded bear only to learn to his cost that the bear was still full of fight.
Kalvan saw no reason to quarrel with Harmakros' epitaph on Demistophon's campaign in Nostor:
"The stupid son of a she-ass should have known better."
Not to mention that some of his nobles apparently had known better, or at least were having second thoughts, and if antisepsis saved Prince Aesklos' life and his leg as well... Kalvan decided not to uncross his fingers until he heard how Aesklos was doing.
Later, back at the manor house he was using as the Army of Beshta HQ, Kalvan was reading Ptosphes' second enclosure, a list of booty collected and honors he wanted awarded, when he became aware of someone standing in his light. He looked up and stifled a groan when he saw Major-General Klestreus looming over the whale-oil lamp. The Chief of Intelligence could hardly have ridden down from Hostigos Town without neglecting his duties, so he'd better have a damn good excuse for the trip.
"Yes, Klestreus?"
"Your Majesty, the convoy with the shells for thethe mortarhas arrived. Great Queen Rylla rides with it, as well as Princess Demia, so it seemed to me that a man of more rank that the captain of the convoy should accompany"
"Rylla? The baby! Here?"
"I just told Your Majesty"
"Yes, you did. Now tell meare they well?"
"I am no judge of such matters, having always believed that saddles were made for horses, not men, and that if the True Gods"
"Get on with it, man!"
"Yes. Yes. The Queen rode all the way, and Her Royal Highness cries most lustily and keeps the wet nurses awake much of the nightand the drovers and guards as well. I suspect a trace of the croup."
"Kalvan thought of tell the life-long bachelor that he was not a lot of other things besides a judge of the health of babies, then decided to save his breath for the inevitable fight with Rylla. This time he was going to lay down the law, and if she threw tantrums or anything else, he'd just duck and go on until he'd spoken his piece.
He practically leaped down the stairs from his War Room and reached the door of the manor just in time to see Rylla dismounting from the big roan gelding that had the easiest gait of any horse in the royal stables. Rylla looked pale, but she was still so damn beautiful that before he could think of royal dignity he was running toward her.
She ran to meet him, and a moment later he was glad he was wearing a back-and-breast, because otherwise he would have felt his ribs cracking. He was hugging her back with one arm and stroking her hair with the other, saying things he hoped nobody else was hearing until he ran out of breath.
At last, Kalvan held her out at arm's length and saw beyond her grinning face most of his guards trying very hard not to grin. Farther out was a trio of horse litters and a long string of pack animals surrounded by at least two hundred mounted men all armed to the teeth. A fat, gray-haired woman was dismounting from one of the litter, carrying a wailing bundle as delicately as if it had been a basket of spiderwebs.
Rylla hadn't just ridden off on a whim; she had come with a proper escort and a regular traveling nursery and generally done things the way he would have told her to do themassuming that he hadn't been able to keep her from coming at all, which knowing Rylla was a pretty safe assumption.
Besides, a second look told him that Rylla wasn't pale because she was sick. She'd been inside so long that she'd lost her usual tan. In fact, she looked even better close up than she had from a distance.
Not to mention that after he'd made this kind of spectacle of himself, she'd never believe a single harsh word he said. She'd break into giggles, and in the face of that, Kalvan doubted he could keep either the last shreds of his royal dignity or even much of a straight face.
Tarr-Beshta was the oldest castle Kalvan had seen here-and-now; it reminded him of some of the Norman castles he'd seen after his discharge from the Army. He'd taken a month off to tour Europe, though he'd spent most of his time in England and France. Balthar might have been as miserly as Scrooge, but he still had spent enough to keep the old stone walls in good repair. With traditional here-and-now siege craft, it might have taken two moons to invest Tarr-Beshta; Kalvan hoped to do it in a quarter of that time.
From behind Kalvan and Rylla the converted twelve-pounder went off with a sound like that of a bull running into a wooden fence. They watched the shell train sparks as it soared overhead, rising toward the peak of its trajectory and then dropping toward the walls of Tarr-Beshta.
With the previous two shells, the spark trail had died on the way down as the fuse went out, and the shells fell as harmlessly as stones. At least that was better than the shell bursting over the Hostigi trenches, which had only happened oncea damned good record for the gunners, considering that the fusing of shells was still very much a matter of by guess and by gods.
The trial of sparks lasted all the way down to the shell's bursting just above the breach in the curtain wall. The Beshtans working in the breach didn't panic; they'd learned by now that shells were not a demonic visitation but only a new use of fireseed. They still hadn't leaned one of the basic rules of night combat: when suddenly illuminated, don't move. Hardly surprising, either, since this was the first night bombardment with shells in here-and-now history.
In the glare of the bursting shell, Kalvan could see men with picks and sledges running for cover. He also saw the Hostigi in the forward trenches raising their rifles and arquebuses. Two volleys crashed out, the second fired into darkness, drawing a score of screams from the Beshtans. Two or three slow shooters let fly after the volleys; they drew the voice of a petty-captain describing explicitly where he would put their handguns the next time they fired without a target.
From the battered walls of Tarr-Beshta came only silence.
"They must be short of fireseed," Rylla said.
"That, or saving it for when we storm the walls."
"They still can't do much harmseven hundred against six thousand."
"They can do enough," Kalvan answered. "Not to repel the attack, probably, but certainly enough to send our men out of control."
"Does that matter? The traitorous dogs have no right to quarter!"
Kalvan shook his head. "If it will save Our own men"
"It won't, my husband. All it will do is make other rebels think that the Great King is too weak to punish them as they deserve. Then they will think that rebellion is perhaps not so foolish, and we will have more Balthars and more Tenabras. That is not saving Our men."
The hint was about as subtle as the chamber pot lid she's once thrown at him. Kalvan looked to his right and left along the earthworks. Count Phrames stood to the left, Captain Xykos, newly promoted and made a Royal Bodyguard for his work at Phyrax on Colonel Verkan's recommendation, stood to the right. They were keeping the guards out of earshot; Phrames would sooner be burned alive than embarrass Rylla, and Xykos had the intelligent peasant's common sense about ignoring the indiscretions of his betters. As long as he and Rylla didn't start shouting at each other, they would have it out right here.
"All right. I'll consider not giving them another chance to surrender."
It would be better not to do it at all."
"I'll think about it. Men who ignore three chances to surrender aren't likely to have the wits to recognize a fourth."
"That is certainly true."
"But I won't take Tarr-Beshta the way Styphon's Red Hand took that temple of Dralm in Sashta. I'll cut off my hand and cut out my tongue before I write or speak the orders to do that."
Rylla shook her head in exasperation. "What's more important to you, the Great King's tender conscience or the Great King's justice? And the Great King's head, and the Great Queen's and our daughter's? All of them will rest uneasy on their shoulders if you are weak toward traitors. This is a time for death warrants, not pardons!"
"Rylla" Kalvan began, then stopped, shaking his head as he realized the futility of the argument. She was right, of course. He'd even said something like that himself, last fall when he considered how many kings had lost their thrones through signing too many pardons and too few death warrants.
That was before the Great Kings' War, though, with its hundred thousand or more dead or maimed between spring and autumn, not to mention only-the-gods-knew how many civilians. That was also before he faced the need to sign the death warrants himself.
"All right. I won't summon them to surrender again. Custom would require I give them a day to answer, and that means putting of the assault when we have a breach already. I still won't stand for a massacre off every living thing in the tarr, either. Let's figure out a way to prevent that, because I'm going to do so and Styphon fly away with anybody who argues the point."
He heard Rylla's hiss of indrawn breath and braced himself for anything from a curse to a slap. Instead he heard silence, then a small sigh.
"I'm sorry, Kalvan. I shouldn't have called you weak. You were just trying to do something new, or something old in a new way, as you always have. But if you'd seen my father's face the day he came home from Tenabra..."
Kalvan resisted rubbing in the fact that he'd seen Ptosphes even before that, and there wasn't much she could tell him about the price the First Prince had paid for Balthar's treachery.
A moment later she spoke as briskly as ever.
"There is a way. You can proclaim that the women and children are the Great King's personal charge, for his judgment. Anyone who rapes a woman or murders a child will be usurping the Great King's justice, and his own life will be forfeit. You can also have Uncle Wolf Tharses administer an oath to the storming parties."
Kalvan agreed. He would have liked to have Chancellor Xentos do the oath-binding as well, but Xentos was in Agrys City, involved in the interminable wrangling of the Council of Dralm. Xentos had provided useful information about Great King Demistophon's attack on Hos-Hostigos, but there hadn't been any formal denunciation of it the Council either: a fact that did not bode well for his future relationship with the Councilor even Highpriest Xentos.
He was beginning to think it had been a mistake to make the Highpriest of Dralm the kingdom's Chancellorespecially since it appeared Xentos had dual loyalties.
Chartiphon was with Prince Ptosphes, Verkan was on his way back to Greffa City, and in general too many of his best people seemed to be anywhere and everywhere except where he needed them! Oh well, at least he still had Rylla, and she was worth any two of the others, and he would have said that even if he hadn't been married to her in the bargain.
"I'll do that, Rylla. Then what will we do with the women and children?"
Rylla laughed. "The Sastragathi will probably be thinking you're planning to set up a harem. What I would suggest is that you turn them over to the new Prince of Beshta for his justice. That way you will assure the other Princes that you will not be taking away their right of high and low justice."
Kalvan had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but it was likely that some of them wouldn't believe that without tangible proof. After all, hadn't the new Great King taken away slaves, indentured servitude and private warfare? What might his fingers itch for next?
A moment's suspicion struck him. Of all the people who might have rights over the prisoners, Phrames was the one mostly likely to listen to Rylla. She was also the only person other than himself and Phrames who knew the Count was slated to be the next Beshtan Prince. What would she advise?
In the next moment Kalvan realized he was doing both Rylla and Phrames an injustice. Rylla might think that the only good traitor was one whose head was on a spike outside the Great King's gate, but she was hardly likely to order a cold-blooded massacre of women and children. If she did, Phrames would listen politely because of his regard for her, then refuse, becausewell, because he was Phrames.
"Very well. Phrames is going to be leading one of the storming parties, though. It would be best if you took charge of the women and children until Phrames is free."
Rylla nodded. "My Lifeguard can protect them as well." She squinted her eyes. "This, of course, will also keep me off the scaling ladders on the day of the storming?"
Kalvan heard the strained laughter in Rylla's voice. "I couldn't help thinking of that, I admit."
"Don't worry Kalvan. I can ride and sit in council, but I can't wear armor yet, let alone climb a scaling ladder in it."
Kalvan kissed her and toyed with the idea of proclaiming a National Day of Thanksgiving in Hos-Hostigos: Queen Rylla, for the first time in her life, was careful of her own safety. Instead he changed the subject.
"What do you think of your father using the Agrysi mercenaries who've taken colors to reduce Nostor to order?"
"Something had to be done about all the bandits and brigands, but I've heard Harmakros complaining that he'd like about a thousand of the horse down here to reinforce the Army of Observation. I was surprised to hear he was short of cavalry. I thought the Beshtans ran rather than fought."
"After the Ban of Galzar stripped them of their last mercenaries, they were too weak to face us on the field of battle. They did run. But when they ran, we had to chase them, and chasing men running for their lives wears out horses faster than big guns use up fireseed. Harmakros informed me in yesterday's dispatch that half the Mounted Rifles were on mules, and he was going to have to dismount one regiment of dragoons completely.
"Some of the Beshta soldiers have already crossed the border into Hos-Harphax. If we allow much more of that, we'll be providing our enemies with a ready-made army."
"Then by all means let's give him a thousand Agrysi," Rylla said. "They'll have to bring their own supplies, because Sashta has been eaten bare and we have our own army to feed in Beshta."
Kalvan laughed. "I wish it were that simpleI give the order and fishes jump into baskets and loaves multiply... If Nostor is a desert and Sask has been 'eaten bare,' then Beshta has been devoured by locusts! If I order the Agrysi mercenaries into Beshta, where are they going to get the victuals to ride all the way to Beshta, through Nostor and Hostigos? No, they're better off where they are foraging off the bandits and robbers they find in Nostor and getting supplies from Hostigos. The line of supply from Hostigos which, Praise Dralm!, was spared most of the spoilage and damage of this war, is already stretched to the breaking point, feeding the Army of Beshta and the Army of Nostor. Harmakros will have to make do with mules and ponies, if need be."
"And what will we do when winter comes, my husband?"
"Now, you're thinking. Verkan will be shipping several convoys of dried fish and corn and barley from Greffa, paid for with Styphon's gold. I've already made a deal with some Agrysi merchants to sell us potatoes and grain. Hostigos had a better harvest than expected and so did Kyblos and Nyklos. With a little luck, we'll get by..."
"You formulate our food stocks as if it were a battle plan!"
"It is. As one of the greats once said, 'An army marches on its stomach.' I plan to see the Army of Hos-Hostigos is as well-fed as it is well-trained."