The Fireseed Wars Page 3

  Theovacar emptied about half his goblet in one deep swallow, then leaned back in his chair and ordered: “Tell me what you know about the situation in Hos-Hostigos.”

  “Your Majesty does us great honor by gracing us with his presence. Your humble servant has just returned from Ulthor where King Kalvan and his people are regrouping to face the soldiers of the false god Styphon. King Kalvan has been driven from his capital of Hostigos Town by the minions of Styphon and forced to flee his Kingdom.” Tortha had been warned not to call Kalvan, “Great King,” as Theovacar considered himself the only true Great King and the east coast Great Kings upstart barbarians. Unfortunately, Theovacar didn’t dare call himself Great King, even though he ruled over more territory than any two “Great Kings,” because his nobles would rise up in arms if he did. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to, or wasn’t planning to do so in the future.

  “We have heard word of the great victory of Styphon’s House,” Theovacar said, barely holding back the grin that tugged at his lips. He reached over to scratch the ears of the jaguar, which was--in Tortha’s opinion--uncomfortably close to the throne. “What are King Kalvan’s plans to deal with this calamity that has befallen him and Hos-Hostigos?”

  “Your Majesty, Kalvan is regrouping his forces in Ulthor. I do not know of his future plans beyond keeping his people alive. I suspect it is his intention to someday win back his kingdom and destroy the False Temple of Styphon.”

  “A laudable ambition, Trader Tortha. Do you believe he can win back in the future what he has lost in the past?”

  Tortha paused to drink deeply from the golden goblet before speaking. “I do not know the answer to that question, Your Majesty; only the gods can foresee the future. I am but a simple merchant and know little of the ways of war.”

  This time there was no mistaking the frustration in Theovacar’s voice. “I know that you are not a soldier, but as a trader you have traveled many places and seen many things. What is your informed view of the Hostigi situation?”

  Theovacar’s voice was loud enough that the jaguar reared off its haunches and prowled back and forth with its jaws stretched wide.

  “I think Kalvan will be indeed fortunate to keep his head on his shoulders should the Grand Host of Styphon follow him into Ulthor.” He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead but didn’t dare wipe it off with the sleeve of his robe. It provided additional verisimilitude to his answers. The last thing he wanted to do was provide any indication that Kalvan was thinking of migrating into Grefftscharrer territory--even if he was.

  “See Trader, with a little prompting, you have found out that you indeed do know more than you suspected.”

  Tortha nodded in agreement.

  “Has Kalvan talked about moving his troops into Our lands?”

  “Not in my presence, Your Majesty. Of course, I am a lowly trader, not one of the King’s confidants. Nor do I know what his lips speak in his innermost councils.”

  “A quick response, Trader. How many ships does Kalvan have in Ulthor?”

  “Not counting the fishing fleets, there were no more than forty ships, many of them merchant vessels, at Port Ulthor, Sire.” A figure that had the benefit of being both true and absolutely no threat to Greffan naval hegemony.

  Theovacar practically beamed; his prize student had given him the answer he wanted to hear. “How many soldiers can King Kalvan muster now?”

  Tortha had expected this question and thought out his answer in detail during the sea voyage to Greffa. His decision was to be truthful. In all probability, Theovacar’s spies had already determined the size of the Hostigi Army and it was a trick question to test his veracity. “Your Majesty, more soldiers were rejoining the Hostigos Army almost every day, many of them recovering from their injuries. Of course, as you know, I am not privy to Kalvan’s councils, but rumors and gossip lead me to believe the Hostigi Army could muster some thirty to thirty-five thousand men.”

  Theovacar might have already known this answer, but it still did not please him in the least, gauging by the frown creasing his forehead--and for good reason. An army that strong in the Upper Middle Kingdoms could just about write its own ticket, as they said on Fourth Level Europo-American. The standing Grefftscharrer Army stood at less than ten thousand men, counting the King’s Companions. And only elite troops carried fireseed arms. If they were of a mind to, the Army of Hos-Hostigos could tear apart Grefftscharr like a wolf pack ravaging an elk. Armies this large were only good as distant allies, and the Hostigi army man for man was the best army Styphon’s House Subsector had ever known.

  “So it is your conclusion that Kalvan will fight his battles in Ulthor, Trader Tortha?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, Kalvan does not want to abandon his people. And, he has nowhere else to go except into the Trygath where the traitor who calls himself Great King Nestros hides.” That was a nice piece of misdirection, thought Tortha, knowing that Theovacar did not like upstart neighbors who pronounced themselves “Great Kings.”

  “Nestros!” Theovacar almost spit out the name. “I have long considered clipping the wings of that fat turkey myself. That the Pretender Nestros sold his honor to the dung-eating priests of the False God Styphon only makes me loathe him more. I wonder if they would spare a single soldier or gold piece to save his kingdom?” In his anger, Theovacar banged his hands down hard on the armrests of his throne.

  The jaguar screamed in response.

  This question Tortha had no problem answering. “Styphon’s priests do not honor their word, nor their god. They only honor their own purses.”

  “Disbelieving swine!” Theovacar had a bit of drool running down his chin. “Kalvan is welcome to feast on Nestros’ flesh and clean his teeth with the Pretender’s bones. If he undertakes such a boon, I will provide him with troops and gold.”

  That pronouncement Tortha had trouble swallowing. Still, he would report all this to Kalvan, who would find it most interesting. Who knew that Theovacar was this venomous over Nestros’ title? Or did he consider him a rival?

  Theovacar asked him a few more innocuous questions before dismissing him. “Tell the Hostigi Ambassador, Prince Phrames, that I will see him in two days. My seneschal will provide you the exact time and place.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Tortha then exited the audience chamber with as much grace as he could muster. He was relieved to have gotten out of there before Theovacar asked him the one question he was most afraid to answer: How many of Kalvan’s subjects have followed him into exile? His answer would have raised the hackles on both Theovacar and the not-so-tame jaguar he kept chained next to the throne.

  After they had exited the White Palace complex and were safely beyond the guards, Tortha turned to Kostran, speaking in First Level tongue: “Four days after Phrames and I leave Greffa City to return to Port Ulthor, I want you to blow up Verkan’s Fireseed Works. Give it a boost with some non-contaminating incendiary devices, if necessary. I want a big enough bang to demolish all the buildings and any fireseed stored on the grounds.”

  Kostran looked horrified. “An explosion from the Fireseed Works that big would blow out every window in Greffa City and take out several other factories besides.”

  “That’s the idea. The last thing we want is Theovacar using our own gunpowder plant to make fireseed to use against Kalvan.”

  “Understood, Trader. But won’t Theovacar be suspicious?”

  “That’s why I plan to be safely out to sea before it blows. He may have his suspicions, but nothing he can prove. Set off the explosion during a time when all the workers would be there. Transpose all the non-Paratime Police First Level people back to Fifth Level Police Terminal. Remember to import some fresh corpses before you blow it up as window dressing. You can plant them where they’ll do the most good. No reason to make Theovacar any more suspicious than he already is.”

  Kostran stopped before they reached the outer gateworks and asked, “I take it this means you don’t think Theovacar will be Kalva
n’s ally?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  ** SUMMER **

  ONE

  Rylla listened to Kalvan’s footsteps as he paced back and forth in front of the tent that had become her last refuge. It was here that she had retreated in order to nurse her grief: the loss of her father, Prince Ptosphes, the loss of their home in Hostigos, their subjects, their kingdom. Were it not for her little daughter, Demia, she might have stayed with her father--and died in Hostigos with the bravest of her people, Harmakros, Old Thalmoth, Phosg and so many more. Not that Kalvan was a coward--even the gods knew how brave he was. But he was so cautious, always planning every move--sometimes jumping far into the future, when there were plenty of problems right here.

  If he coming in? she asked herself. And if he is, do I want him to go? She remembered the moment she had begun to draw back from her husband. It had started in her father’s empty bedchamber in Tarr-Hostigos, when she had falsely blamed Kalvan for her father’s stubbornness--his refusal to leave his castle and flee with Kalvan and herself into only the gods knew what kind of future. The same obstinacy she had inherited from Ptosphes. The pride, too. Kalvan’s afraid to come in, this man who fears no other--not even the gods. And I know why. ..

  Kalvan, wounded at the battle of Ardros Field, had needed her love, her support, her forgiveness; instead, he’d gotten her disdain and anger. Not directed at him personally; if it were not for him, they would have all died three years before when Prince Gormoth of Nostor and Sarrask of Sask were determined, with the backing of Styphon’s House, to invade and absorb the Princedom of Hostigos. Kalvan had been the dashing hero from out of a troubadour’s song who had arrived just in time to save all.

  She had been a willful young maid back then, convinced that no man would ever put her in harness. Count Phrames had been her betrothed, but she had never accepted that union and, fortunately, he had never pressed for a wedding. Kalvan had disarmed her with both his kindness and his modesty. And, in the process, had stolen her heart as well. Sometimes she forgot that it was these traits that initially brought him into her arms, especially when he showed mercy toward their enemies.

  It hadn’t helped that she had “blamed” Kalvan for their loss to the Grand Host, even though she knew in the depths of her being that he had done everything any mortal man could do to stop Styphon’s Grand Host--and some things most couldn’t. She had deflected her grief and fury at their loss by creating a wall that kept him away at arm’s length--at the very time she needed him the most.

  She had never been very good at keeping her feelings at bay, probably the result of being raised by a doting father who gave in to her every whim. And the emotions roiling inside her were earth-shattering--loss, frustration, grief and a raging anger.

  Kalvan was the only man in her life who’d brought forth her softer emotions and feelings. Until then she hadn’t known they existed. It wasn’t fair that he had to pay for her misery, but it was a sign of his love that he did so willingly and was pacing before her tent like some lovesick swain. Why was it so Dralm-damned hard--no, impossible!--for her to go to that tent flap, pull it back and welcome him into her arms? She tried to will her feet to the entrance, but her legs felt as if they were made of lead. Tears of frustration began to squeeze from her eyes.

  Suddenly, the flap opened, bringing in daylight and Kalvan’s furrowed face. He had an apprehensive look on his countenance that reminded her of a bear approaching a honey hive surrounded by bees. It made her both want to laugh and sing, so she did the next best thing and bawled.

  Kalvan rushed into the tent and took her into his arms. “Are you all right, darling?”

  She wanted to snap at him, but restrained herself. More than anything else she hated to be seen crying, or even worse--vulnerable. It wasn’t his fault she was crying; it was the fact that he was so considerate. “I’m not mad at you, my husband. I’m just mad at the world. At Styphon’s House, for starting this war that killed my father. And at myself for not being strong enough to make him leave with us!”

  Kalvan sighed. “Ptosphes made the best choice he could under the circumstances. He knew his poor health would make traveling difficult and he didn’t want to leave his homeland--”

  “Neither did I!” she sputtered. “It’s your fault I’m here--”

  “Instead of dead, along with your father: Is that what you were going to say?” Kalvan interrupted, his voice rising in anger. “You’re right; I take full blame!”

  “As you should!” she cried. “Look at us now. We’re homeless wanderers with no place to go! We have the largest army ever assembled in the Five Kingdoms at our back. Styphon’s House will not rest until we are all dead. How are you going to stop them? We should have stayed in Hostigos and died defending our home!”

  “For what, revenge? Dying in Hostigos wouldn’t have done us or our subjects any good. I left so that our people might find someplace where we can build a future. What do you think I was doing? This hasn’t been fun for me, losing my best friends and your father whom I loved and admired. Now, this Dralm-damned Investigation is grinding those poor bastards who didn’t have a chance to leave into dust. Rylla, we had no choice but to run. Otherwise, all would have been lost. Do you think I liked leaving Hostigos with my tail behind my legs! Now, we at least have a chance at a life.”

  “But why not stay? What you did was cowardly! It makes my skin crawl, husband! You should have stayed and made the Styphoni pay for every rod of Hostigos with their blood! They’ll kill us all anyway. I don’t want to die in some distant land.”

  “I’ll tell you why!” Kalvan shouted, pointing first to her, then to Demia’s cradle. “I left because I was trying to save my family! Why did you leave?”

  His shouting, instead of making her angrier, as it usually did, gave her pause for thought. After their loss at the Battle of Ardros, the siege of Tarr-Hostigos was foreordained, just as it was inevitable that the castle would fall, considering the gigantic army arrayed against it. Had she stayed, she would have perished along with her father, Harmakros and so many other brave men. And then what would have happened to my baby? Left in the arms of some wet-nurse, until Kalvan found himself another wife. She knew there’d be plenty of candidates; after all, he was a man.

  She took a deep breath. “I left for Demia--I didn’t want her to be motherless.” Then, she couldn’t help but grin. “Or you to have to suffer another wife.”

  Kalvan nodded, expelling a deep breath and casting out his anger. “There will never be another woman in my life, if anything should happen to you, my love. I will do my best to follow--”

  “I know that darling. The pain of leaving Hostigos has cut my heart in two. The one half wants to die: the other half is glad to be safe with you and our baby. I know these are perilous times. We are homeless, and on the run from a merciless foe. We will be lucky to survive the coming winter.”

  “DPs--that’s what we called them after our big war--Displaced Persons, or refugees. We will endure.”

  “I have faith in you, my husband, but I know in my heart we would still be in Our home but for my rash decision to punish Prince Araxes of Phaxos ... That is when the world turned against us--”

  Kalvan shook his head. “You’re wrong, Rylla. This war with Styphon’s House to the end was inevitable. As long as the Fireseed Temple exists, we will be at war. We’ve broken the Temple’s monopoly of fireseed and shifted the earth underneath their feet. Styphon’s House will not rest until we are both dead and our memory erased--that is, if we let them.”

  “Spoken like a true king.”

  “A king without a country.” Kalvan looked down at the ground and pressed his fingers against his forehead. “I’ve got such a Dralm-damned headache!”

  “Yes, you, Sarrask and Chartiphon spent most of last night finishing that keg of winter wine ...”

  “So? We were thirsty.”

  “My husband, I haven’t brought this up before because I didn’t think it was a problem, but now I
do. Your drinking grows worse every night--if it’s not with Sarrask, Halgoth and Pheblon, you’re drinking ale by yourself.” She forced herself to remain calm; yelling and screaming would not solve Kalvan’s problem.

  Kalvan face reddened. “I’ve got very good reasons to drink: We’ve lost our home, we’ve lost our country, we’ve lost your father, we’ve lost Harmakros and his good men, too. I’d be worried, if I wasn’t drinking!”

  “I would, too, if it was only two or three times a quarter moon, but not every night.”

  “It’s something I do to relieve stress!” he snapped. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She stomped her foot. “You will talk about it! It’s causing problems, with you, with us and with your thinking.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, his voice rising again.

  “Yesterday, you sent Prince Kestophes running from the audience tent as if he were some low-born varlet!”

  “That sanctimonious skunk had the audacity to tell me that we should stay out of Ulthor; instead go through Nyklos where there’s not even a decent harbor. If it weren’t for my guards, he’d have planted a blade in my back!”

  “But that’s not you, my husband. Prince Kestophes has always supported us before--”

  “Yes, when we were fighting the Styphoni on other people’s territory. He likes to fight, but he’s not trustworthy. I ought to take his head off his shoulders!”

  “Kalvan! That’s not like you. You’re the diplomatic one of the family. Don’t expect any miracles from me, Bless Yirtta! Can’t you see that it’s the drink talking, not you?”

  “The hell you say!”