John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

"Let us divide the loot into two piles, one for the clansmen and one for those of the Trygath. Then let each chief judge those most in need and give them their pick." This would cost them more than a day's travel, (he could almost hear Soton's chuckle) but if it would keep his so-called allies from each other's throats it would be worth the delay.

"I will begin the first pile with this pistol of mine. Whoever carries it, Trygathi or tribesman, he will carry it with my blessing. So speaks-"

"He seeks our Warlord's life!" somebody shouted. Kalvan's hand completed the drawing of the pistol before his ears could signal his mind to stop the motion. Then the sky seemed to fall upon him, a sky consisting of armored bodies.

Two shots crashed overhead, followed by a scream, a babble of curses and war cries, and Harmakros roaring above everything, "Take the bastard alive!"

The weight lifted from Kalvan, enough to let him draw breath for cursing. There was an audible sigh of relief from his Horse Guard. He spat out mud and grass, and then rose to his knees. A Sastragathi subchief was lying on his back, with Aspasthar kneeling on one arm and several hefty Sastragathi warriors holding other portions of the chief's anatomy-none too gently.

"What the Styphon-!"

Ranjar Sargos answered. "This fool thought you sought to take my life. He drew a pistol. Your war leader's son seized his arm so that his shot went wide of you. It struck my son in the arm. Yet with his other hand he joined-Aspasthar-in dragging the fool from his saddle."

"There is more, father," Larkander said. "Aspasthar shed blood too in the fight, and it mingled with mine."

"You are blood-brothers?" Both fathers seemed to speak at once, then stared at each other. Kalvan swallowed a laugh; he knew just enough about the Sastragathi to know that blood-brotherhood was a deadly serious business among them.

"It is an omen," cried one of the chiefs.

"This seems to be so," Larkander said, as he held his arm against his side. His father's face was as white as if he'd seen a premonition of his own death-or that of his line.

Aspasthar stood up proudly, holding his hand over a shoulder wound.

Since nobody else seemed to have the wits to do so, it fell on Kalvan to call a medic. Uncle Wolf Ramakros dismounted and limped over to the boys, bent down and began to bandage Larkander, who had the more serious wound, first. The question of dividing the loot dropped from everyone's mind until both Larkander's arm and Aspasthar's wound were tightly bound.

"Question him rigorously," Sargos said. "It must be known, whether he was only a witling, or a tool of Styphon's House. Has anyone seen this man before today?"

Everyone within hearing distance shook his heads. Which was not a definitive answer, since there were so many tribes and clans that no one man of the horde knew even half of them. Still, Kalvan relaxed. If Sargos was ready to torture one of his own captains to help the alliance, the worst danger of the split was already past. Note: Have to give Aspasthar something really impressive as reward-consulting with his father and blood-brother first, of course.

As the subchief was carried off, Sargos dismounted. He almost stumbled as he touched the ground. Kalvan realized that the Sastragathi Warlord had driven himself to the edge of exhaustion.

"I don't think our dignity will suffer if we sit down and share some wine," Kalvan said. He wanted to wash the grit and grass out from between his teeth. Sargos looked ready to lie down and sleep for a week.

Well, the man's in his forties. He'd probably be just as happy if being Warlord of the Sastragathi was a headquarters job, in a headquarters equipped with cool ale and warm women. By Hadron's flames, that sounds good to me, too!

That brought to Kalvan's mind a picture of his own warm woman. He wondered what Rylla was doing. Her last letter had promised to take no drastic action against the Harphaxi unless provoked, but to patrol the borders heavily and keep the Army of Hostigos ready to move swiftly.

Knowing Rylla, Kalvan knew far to well how "border patrols" could be turned into scouts, and then into the vanguard of an invasion. And 'provoked'-in Rylla's mind-was a sufficiently ambiguous term as to leave the gate wide open. Good thing Dalla, Colonel Verkan's wife, was in Greffa with her husband, when Dalla and Rylla got together trouble was never far away. From this distance, however, he couldn't do much but hope and consider praying to Dralm.

From the grim cast of Knight Commander Aristocles' face, Soton knew he was the bearer of more bad news. The Grand Master's first thought was that it was too early in the morning to hear anymore.

When he had heard Aristocles out, Soton knew that there was no time of the day or night fit for the hearing of such a tale. Kalvan was driving his host on as though he truly had demons at his command to put them in fear. The vanguard was already past Xenos, two whole days before Soton had expected them. The Usurper and his allies had not been delayed as much by the piles of discarded weapons and armor as he had hoped.

"That means they will be up with us in their full strength before we reach Tryphlon, which is a day's hard ride from Tarr-Ceros."

Aristocles nodded. "Unless they can be delayed."

"By whom?"

The two men looked at each other. They both knew the answer. The rearmost four Lances would have to stand, fight, and most probably die to the last man, like the three Lances had at Chothros Heights. "Who is senior Commander among the rearward?"

"Drakmos, of the Sixteenth Lance," Aristocles answered.

"May Kalvan's brother demons flay him alive!" Aristocles looked startled. Soton knew that some of the agony he felt must have shown in his voice. "No, it is just that I am growing weary of sending friends and faithful Knights to their death just to buy time."

"We could send another-"

"That would take time, which we do not have. His learning the land where he must stand would take more time. Besides, Lance Commander Drakmos would never abandon the Sixteenth."

You are doomed, old friend. All I can do is let you die with honor, as you have lived.

Soton looked at Aristocles, his best friend. The Knight Commander was a trusty right arm, a fine captain and more often than not a wise counselor. Yet he had not been among the company of youths to whose ranks had come one day a peasant boy, small of stature but with an ambition to be a Knight burning bright enough for six giants.

Some of the boys had bullied Soton in the practice bouts, with wooden weapons or unarmed. Others had held back, out of pity for so small an opponent with such a large and clearly foredoomed ambition. Only Drakmos had done neither, giving Soton his best and taking Soton's best in return. Since Drakmos had been the best fighter among the youths, Soton learned more from the bouts with him than from all the others put together. It would not be too much to say that Soton's own prowess on the battlefield, which had saved his life a dozen times over, was in large measure Drakmos' gift.

And now Soton was repaying the gift of a noble life with one of death. An honorable death, to be sure, but there was something to be said for an honorable life.

"Summon a messenger," Soton growled, to hide his urge to scream curses at Kalvan, the gods and anyone else who had brought this about. "Drakmos is to attack Kalvan's main body and keep on attacking until he has drawn that main body on to himself. We need not fear barbarians or light-cavalry scouts sent on ahead."

It hardly needed saying that the barbarians and scouts in advance of Kalvan's great host would cut off what little chance of retreat Drakmos and his Lances had. To balance the odds, Soton added, "We will leave a thousand of our Auxiliary light horse and all our Sastragathi irregulars."