Great Kings' War (42 page)

The Holy Host could not even stay where it had been camped much longer without sending larger and larger foraging parties farther a field. Long before Hostigos was eaten bare, the Hostigi could march on the weakened main body and force it to fight against odds, then cut off the foraging parties at their leisure.

After a while it became clear to Verkan that there weren't going to be any disagreements where his voice had to be heard, or even suggestions he needed to make about the best use of the Mounted Rifles. So he studied his fellow commanders.

Ptosphes: a man who looked as if he were being eaten alive by the shame of defeat. Sarrask: loud and lewd, but who seemed to be finding something in himself that hadn't been there before he had a leader worth following. The men Verkan had begun to call (after one of Dalla's favorite Fourth Level, Europo-American novels) "The Three Musketeers"—Harmakros, Phrames and Hestophes. Chartiphon: big and bluff, and not quite up to the demands of the new kind of war that would be fought in Kalvan's Time-Line from now on, but useful within his limits and probably wise enough to know what they were.

Balthames of Sashta, looking daggers at his father-in-law Sarrask every time he thought he was unobserved—a prime candidate for a dose of hypno-truth drug. Alkides, who looked almost as grim as Ptosphes, after being ordered to blow up much of the captured Harphaxi artillery train at Chothros Heights—which to an artilleryman must have been like losing an adopted child. Verkan decided to keep a particularly close eye on Alkides, since he could be the key to victory in a battle where Kalvan's artillery superiority might mean everything.

Count Euphrades of Ulthor, thin and remote, with obvious plans of his own he was telling no one—another prime candidate for hypno-truth drugs. And three or four others who might prove as interesting as Euphrades once Verkan knew something about them.

A good company, not quite a "band of brothers" yet (and they were much rarer in fact than in fiction or hagiographical history, Verkan knew), but formidable enemies and fine friends.

Too fine to abandon, if it came to that. Verkan knew he wasn't going to deliberately put himself in a position where he had to go down with Kalvan. On the other hand, if he found himself in that position with no way out that let him keep a clear conscience—well, this time he was glad that Dalla was back on First Level. She wasn't Rylla, who would try not to outlive Kalvan by more than five minutes if she could help it, but she would have some hard decisions to make that he was just as glad she didn't have to face now.

Grand-Captain Phidestros looked at the eastern sky turning pale. In another few minutes it would be light enough for his men to see him. He stood up and walked back and forth beside Snowdrift, stopping now and then to rub his knee. It had healed enough so that he could fight on foot today, even in three-quarter armor if he had to.

Snowdrift whickered and nuzzled at Phidestros' belt pouch. "Very well, you godsforsaken brat unworthy of either dam or sire." He reached into the pouch and pulled out a half-slab of ration bread. Snowdrift whickered again and munched vigorously, while he scratched the big gelding up and down his neck the way he liked it. He hoped Snowdrift was fit to carry him through what would surely be a long and wearing battle, but hoping was all he could do.

He'd done all any man could do to make sure that his men and their mounts were properly fed after the ride from the Harph to join the Holy Host, but that "all" had not been much. He supposed he should have expected that Grand Master Soton, commander of the Host, would be pushing forward hard on the heels of the Hostigi, and that any company of horse that had held together in a moon-quarter and-a-half's ride across unknown country was worth having well up toward the front. Certainly both proved that Soton knew his business, and being toward the front had given the Iron Company several chances to fight under the Grand Master's own eye. Praise Galzar that that would make up for the wear on the horses and weapons!

It was most likely the major reason why he was now a Grand-Captain, commanding a band—the Iron Band—the three hundred survivors of those who'd crossed the Harph and the remnants of several other companies following the Holy Host. One had joined his banner on the ride north; the One-Eyed Boar Company whose Captain had lost a leg when his horse rolled while navigating the Vynar Pass. The others had joined a moon-quarter ago when Soton raised him to his present rank.

"Grand-Captain Phidestros." It had an agreeable ring to it, but the meeting with the Grand Master had hardly been all sweetness and light. Darkness had long fallen, the candles on the table between them burned almost to stubs, the hard planes and angles of Soton's face still harsher in the orange-red light, his voice rasping like a file with weariness and anger as he questioned Phidestros.

"Do you think yourself fit to lead a band?"

"Yes. That is, if they are horse and not too untrained or badly mounted." Something that was the truth and would also sound well, the best combination. "I would grieve to abandon the Iron Company on the eve of victory, though. We have endured much together and know each other's ways. The One-Eyed Boar Company is also proving itself to be good comrades in battle and in camp."

"You would not be giving up either company. You would be leading three more under-strength companies, the Silver Wolf Company, the Thirteen Moons Company and the Bloody Sabers. They meet your conditions, I believe."

"I am honored by your confidence, Grand Master, and by theirs—if they have asked me to lead them. However, I know little about these companies or their commanders, other that they are under the command of Prince Balthar."

"Were. They are three of the companies formerly in the service of Balthar of Beshta."

Phidestros was too tired to think of any subtle response, but anything was better than gape-jawed silence. "Am I to believe that the Massacre of Tarr-Catassa actually happened?"

"You thought it was a camp rumor?"

"I had no reason to think otherwise. Stranger tales have crawled out of barrels of bad ale and the terrors of men far from home."

"Well, you may rest easy," Soton said in a flat voice. "It is no rumor that Prince Balthar's castellan of Tarr-Catassa killed a hundred and twenty-five free companions who would not swear to join the Holy Host in the service of Balthar of Beshta—or Balthar the Black as he is called now after his treason at Tenabra." For the first time, distaste registered in the Grand Master's voice. "Their women were given to the Beshtans, then killed also."

Soton spit on the ground. "Styphon's gold bought his treachery, but I will not ride beside Balthar even though he turned traitor to a Usurper and enemy of the God of Gods."

Phidestros nodded in agreement: By the laws governing the employment of mercenary free companies and the Code of Galzar, when an employer changed sides during a war or battle, their oath to him was still binding until he released them or their term of service expired. A wise Prince usually released doubtful mercenaries as quickly as possible, since a thousand reliable men were worth two thousand who might surrender on the slightest pretext.

Soton explained, "If the mercenaries of Tarr-Catassa had sworn to serve under Balthar of Beshta 'against all enemies, in field or fortress, wheresoever he may find them,' then they would have been violating their oaths to Prince Balthar. As it was, they were a company sworn in only as the garrison of an isolated tarr. They could not have been a very good company, but nonetheless they had been slaughtered for refusing to do something their Prince's castellan had no right to ask of them.

"It's hardly surprising that Balthar's name now reeks to the Sky Thrones of the Gods. The six companies who placed themselves in his pay before he joined the Holy Host do not wish to be released from their oaths, however, or to leave our ranks."

That means one of two things, thought Phidestros, either they believe that Kalvan will lose the war against Hos-Harphax—well, really, Styphon's House—or they'd had no real choice. Not a safe bag of talk to open with the Grand Master. 

"Three of these Companies no longer wish to serve under Balthar's banner, his Captain-General or their own elected captains. They say all are too friendly with Prince Balthar. At the end of this campaign, once word of their action reaches the High Temple of Galzar in Hos-Agrys, both Balthar and his castellan—who was in his
pay
—will be placed under the Ban of Galzar."

The Ban of Galzar meant that no free companion of the Brotherhood could swear an oath to Prince Balthar, under threat of expulsion. Thus, the only men Balthar would be able to command would be his own sworn vassals, outcasts and criminals. The only thing worse than the Ban of Galzar was the Interdict, where no man, vassal or not, could fight for a war leader and still receive the Rites of Galzar.

Had Balthar ordered the slaughter himself he might well have faced the Interdict, but no sane man—even a Prince of Princes or Great King—would so risk offending the Wargod or his priests. Only a madman would knowingly commit such an offense against Galzar; and while Balthar exhibited many characteristics of such—including fears of bathing and the outdoors—he appeared to be at worst a miser and skinflint.

"The three companies I offer, which allow you the rank of Grand-Captain, have voted to follow you if you are so willing. They have heard the tales of your ride from the Harph and of how under you the Iron Company won free of two lost battles—Fyk and Chothros Heights."

Was there a note of irony in those last words of Soton's? Phidestros didn't particularly care, since he'd also been freely given a gift he would otherwise have had to ask or even beg for. The three companies were not composed of men who wanted a safe road out of the war, or at least to the other side, and would shoot their Captain the moment they found him barring it. They were instead merely free companions exercising their ancient privilege of choosing who would lead them into battle—a privilege only fools like Balthar's castellan denied them.

It was now light enough for Phidestros to pick out the few dark hairs in Snowdrift's mane and tail. Plenty of light to see by—and to see in the distance the banners and lance tips of the approaching Zarthani Knights. Phidestros swung himself onto Snowdrift's back and waved to Banner-Captain Geblon. The banner of the Iron Band rose against the dawn sky: a gold thunderbolt breaking a black iron chain on a green field.

Some of the old Iron Company began to cheer. The orange sashes of the Hos-Ktemnos army made vivid splashes of color against their blackened three-quarter armor. Phidestros waved them to silence, then pointed to the banner.

"My brothers—that is the banner of the Iron Band. Those of you who have followed it before know what it means." Two well-conducted and profitable retreats, mostly, but let's not be too particular about the truth at a time like this. 

"To our new comrades who are following the Iron Banner for the first time in this battle—rejoice in your opportunity. You have proven brothers on all sides and a chance to add to the honor of the banner you follow. Fight as I know you can, and before another moon we shall be drinking a toast from the skulls of our enemies. You are the Iron Band!"

He let them cheer freely this time. When the sound began to ebb, he cried, "To victory! To gold! To Galzar!" As an after-thought, in case Soton or an Inner Circle intelligencer was listening, he added, "To Styphon!"

His old troopers responded with a cheer of their own. "To Phidestros! To Phidestros! Phidestros! Phidestros!"

That rang even more agreeably on his ears, but he also knew it was the last thing Soton should hear at this time. He quickly silenced his men. "The Iron Band will soon be the Iron Hand around the throat of Hostigos! Furthermore, no one who has faced us in battle will find that name a matter for jests."

It had not escaped his attention that some among the free companions, jealous of his success and rapid advancement, had already taken to calling the Iron Band the Yellow Hand, "First to retreat, last to advance."

"Galzar smite me if I do not speak truth!"

The Wargod, Phidestros reflected, seemed to turn a deaf ear to anything a captain said to his men before a battle. He had heard of captains being smitten down on the morning of battle by apoplexies or attacks of bile—but never by Galzar's Mace.

He could still wish most of them were better mounted, though. Even Snowdrift was showing a hint of rib under his creamy flanks. As a troop of Sastragath horse-archers cantered past, a thought struck Phidestros.
Could he earn enough of Soton's goodwill to be allowed to buy some of the archers' light mounts, which could feed by grazing where a charger would starve?
 

Such horses could hardly carry a man in armor, of course, or even press home a charge with lances.
Was that so great a loss?
he began to wonder. With the new way of war Kalvan seemed to know and Soton seemed ready to learn, speed appeared likely to prove as important as armor.

It was something to think over if he survived today with both his head on shoulders and honor in Grand Master Soton's too-shrewd eyes.

Verkan Vall felt somewhat like an intruder as he climbed the last flight of stairs to the royal chamber at the top of the keep of Tarr-Hostigos. He also felt even more like a deserter from his post, which would normally have been at the head of the Mounted Rifles with the Army of Hostigos near the village of Phyrax to the southwest of Hostigos Town.

However, the battle of Phyrax wasn't going to be a "normal" battle, assuming there was such a thing even on Aryan-Transpacific. By the Great King's orders, the Mounted Rifles weren't going to spend themselves scouting against the superior and well-trained light cavalry of the Zarthani Knights. They were going to remain in the rear, wait for the Holy Host to attack, then work around its flanks and snipe at its captains. This
assignment
had nearly provoked mutiny among some of the hotheads in the Mounted Rifles—the few that still thought of war as an exercise in gallantry—but it made good sense considering the force Hostigos was facing.