Roland Green - Great King_s war

"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.

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.

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 by his left hand-and then, with a crash of thunder louder than the Great Battery at Phyrax, the skies opened and poured rain.