Roland Green - Great King_s war

Suddenly Snowdrift screamed loud enough that it pieced even Phidestros numb ears, then he reared, coming down hard on all four hooves. Snowdrift tried to rear again, then his hind legs collapsed and tumbled backward. Phidestros leaped from the saddle, landing hard enough to make his bad knee complain loudly.

Blood was pouring out of Snowdrift's mouth and from his flanks; he was dying but not fast enough for Phidestros just to leave him. He pressed his pocket pistol to the gelding's head, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

That gesture almost cost him his life. Phidestros opened his eyes to see Snowdrift relaxing in death, but neither un-wounded horses nor friendly riders close enough to help him remount. Geblon was the closest, about forty paces away, trying desperately to control a wounded horse without dropping the Iron Band's banner.

While he was trying to attract Geblon's attention, a bullet sang past his helmet. He dropped to hands and knees behind Snowdrift and shot a Hostigi cuirassier off his horse with his last loaded horsepistol. He looked back to see an Iron Band lancer riding up, leading a blood-smeared but seemingly fit remount. Too small to carry him far, but better than standing in the midst of this carnage.

As Phidestros rode back to the Styphoni lines, he saw large groups of mercenaries-some entire companies!-raising helmets on sword points or holding out reversed pistols. His stomach sank. What will Grand Master Soton say? The only consolation was that none of them wore the green and black plumes of the Iron Band.

Brother Mytron clenched his hands tighter together each time he heard another scream from the Royal Bedchamber, now the royal birthing room. He knew Rylla well enough to know that only terrible pain could wrench such cries from her lips. It was just as well that King Kalvan had other matters of great importance to keep him occupied. It was obvious that all was not well in the birthing room.

If only he could see for himself! However, Amasphalya, the chief midwife, had refused him entrance, nor would she answer his questions the few times she'd come out into the antechamber. The next time he saw the old witch he'd have his answers if he had to shake her by the neck!

A moment later the door flew open and Amasphalya lumbered out, followed by one of her ladies. She would have made three of even Mytron's fairly considerable figure; suddenly, the thought of shaking her by the neck seemed as ridiculous as him leading the Royal Bodyguard!

She used her hip to shove him aside, then stopped and looked him up and down like a butcher deciding whether or not to condemn a side of beef as fit only for dogs.

"What is it?" he demanded, pleased to hear how steady his voice sounded despite the quaking in his knees.

"I need more help. Come. You'll have to do."

Mytron put a hand on her broad shoulder to stop her, but she brushed it off like a bothersome fly. She half pushed him into the birthing chamber, where Rylla lay sprawled on the royal bed. She was alive, praise Dralm! But Mytron could not look at her pale, pain-lined face long enough to tell more than that.

Amasphalya and the other midwife each grasped one of Rylla's arms, while the one who'd remained in the chamber stood back.

"Take her feet, priest!" Amasphalya snapped.

"Why?"

"No time for questions, priest! Do it-NOW!"

Mytron found himself obeying, even thought he still questioned why. Rylla screamed, a terrible cry, as he gripped her feet. He felt his head grow light. "What do I do now?"

"Shake!" Amasphalya cried.

Without thinking, Mytron began to jerk on Rylla's feet in time with the two midwives holding her arms. Rylla's screams rose higher until he thought his ears would break. He fought an urge to faint.

I must stop them. They're killing her! What will I tell Kalvan-?

"Turn her! Turn her!" Amasphalya was shouting, apparently not to him. Then: "Don't stop now, priest! We've almost done it!"

Done what? Mytron asked himself, but like a puppet he kept his arms moving, shaking Rylla who was now lying on her side, right or left he didn't know.

"There, the Allmother be thanked!" Amasphalya said. She sounded almost as if she were praying.

"Is the baby coming?" Brother Mytron had to lick his lips three times before he could get the words out.

"Not yet, but now it's to where it can," the chief midwife answered. The next moment her face set as if she regretted having said even so much to a man about her profession, and she growled, "Be off with you now, priest! We've enough to do without picking you up off the floor, too."

Mytron started to snap off a reply, then took a step and realized his knees had turned to syrup. He had to hold onto the bedpost for a moment before he could weave his way to the door.

Looking back, the smirk on Amasphalya's face gave away all her thoughts about the male half of humanity. He looked away and at Rylla, her face no longer twisted in agony. The Great Queen was breathing more strongly; when the contractions came she groaned rather than screamed. Whatever had been done, it appeared to be a good thing. For the moment, at least, he need not fear the burden of having to tell Kalvan that his wife and child were dead.

One thing that he would always wonder for the rest of his life: why he'd been fool enough to want to know what went on in the birthing chamber!

"Where are my reinforcements?" General Alkides asked, his face and breeches black with soot. "What did Chartiphon say?"

"The Great King ordered him to hold back a reserve in case the Knights defeat or outflank Ptosphes," Verkan said. "Which is exactly what Chartiphon intends to do, Great Battery or no Great Battery."

Alkides-already at wits' end over the loss of his precious guns at the redoubt-appeared to be nearly beside himself at the thought that the Styphoni might soon be using his precious guns, Verkan noted. To make matters worse, the Hostigi and the Holy Host were so thoroughly entangled that the gunners of the Great Battery had been holding their fire for most of the battle.

Verkan understood why Chartiphon was holding back the last reserve, the Ktethroni pikemen. It was clearly the safest course of action. Verkan also knew that the safest course of action in a battle was not always the best strategy.

Harmakros' Mobile Force dragoons had brought the advance of the Royal Square to a halt, but now it was advancing again. It struck Verkan that the Ktemnoi infantry were living up to their reputation. For that matter, so were the Hostigi regulars, and in any case the time for the dispassionate evaluations of comparative military prowess was about over. The Mounted Rifles were the last line of defense for the Great Battery; they were either going to stop the Holy Host or die trying.

Verkan saw Harmakros lead another company of dragoon musketeers to a small barricade that had now become the next-to-last line of defense.

"Colonel," one of his subordinate captains, with only one eye, said, "We should be going down to join those dragoons."

"We haven't any orders, Captain Itharos."

"Sir, we haven't any orders not to, either."

Verkan frowned. The captain had been at Tenabra, where he'd lost his eye, and obviously wanted to avenge forty or so lost comrades badly enough to argue with his Colonel. By regular Aryan-Transpacific standards he wasn't committing a serious offense, particularly against an outlander, but for the Mounted Rifles, right here and now standards Another gun blast saved Verkan the trouble of replying. He looked down the slope. The Royal Square was still advancing, slowing in the face of fire from the barricade. Both the front ranks of billmen and the rear ranks of shot looked much neater from a distance than they doubtless did close up. The ground between the Ktemnoi and Harmakros' position was littered with discarded weapons, dead horses, and dead and not-so-dead men of both sides…