John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

The Lord Tyrant was notoriously tightfisted; Zarphu couldn't help but wonder why the sudden benevolence. While a few of his friends had whispered their complaints about the Lord Tyrant's growing capriciousness, he had never in any way encouraged this kind of talk. He had also heard from one of his confidants that there were actual factions opposed to the Lord Tyrant's rule, so perhaps Dyzar had some justification for his worries about his security and the loyalty of his stratagi.

His own loyalty was incorruptible. "I thank you for your generosity, Your Magnificence. I shall return before the passing of two winters so your generosity will not be wasted." Zarphu prostrated himself before the crown again and kissed the Lord Tyrant's feet. He then rose, pausing only as he was about to cross the threshold to ask one last question. "When do we leave?"

"In a moon-quarter, Arch-Stratego. We are having the fleet fitted and provisioned to take you and your command as far as Mythrene. There you will disembark, buy additional provisions and wagons, and take leave for Olythrio. The Styphoni will have additional guides there to help you with your travels. Now We will give you leave to muster your men and prepare for the coming journey."

Thunder roared and shook the rooftree of Ranjar Sargos' temporary longhouse. For a few moments it drowned out the squeal of horses and the babble of more tongues than he had heard in all his days. Not since the time of his grandfather twice removed had such a great wave of humanity flooded over the Great River and spilled its way into the Sastragath. Like flotsam tossed by the River, Sargos and his tribe had been picked up and pushed up into the Lydistros Valley.

Yet, as a flood replenishes the land it destroys, there was good which came with this river of humanity. Since few of the chiefs knew these lands, the Plainsmen had been forced to rely upon the knowledge of those who did. Ranjar Sargos, having spent four years of his youth as a mercenary in the Army of Gyroth, knew more about the Trygath than all but a few headmen in the great war band. This, along with Sargos' renown as a warrior, had placed him at the forefront of this human tidal wave.

Now only the constant pressure of the Black Knights gave the wave its form and kept it from dispersing into hundreds of separate war bands. Once that push was gone the horde would break up and lose its cohesion, whereupon they would all be destroyed piecemeal by the Trygathi iron hats and their allies. The time had arrived for a great warlord to guide the horde and Ranjar Sargos knew that there lay his own destiny-for had not his own dream vision foretold of such triumphs? So it had and much more!

Sargos took several deep breaths, held them, and waited until Thanor's banging upon his great anvil in the sky had ceased, then he spoke again to the assembled Plains headmen and Sastragathi chiefs. "The gods have allowed the Black Knights to take the field. They have allowed the demigod Kalvan of Hostigos to enter the Trygath-"

"Demigod or daemon, this Kalvan is no friend to the Trygathi, less so to the Black Knights," Chief Alfgar interrupted. "Let all three of them fight one another, I say. This is what the gods intend. Then let us pick the bones of the survivors!"

"Or Nestros and Kalvan swear brotherhood and pick our bones," Sargos snapped, his voice growing in volume. He had never been even-tempered and knew it. He also knew that since the Tymannes had left their ancestral hunting grounds he had grown even sharper of tongue.

"By Thanor's Hammer, that is as the gods will-" Chief Alfgar began.

A wordless muttering interrupted him, as Headman Jardar Hyphos once more tried to form words with a mouth and jaw yet unhealed from the blow of a Knight's mace. His son held his ear against Hyphos' mouth for a moment, and then nodded.

"My father says he doubts the gods have willed it that we come so far only to fall to our pride as well as our enemies."

"You yapping puppy!" Chief Alfgar roared. "Your father is a man. You are-"

"Silence," Sargos bellowed. He did not know what this would do, except perhaps make all the chiefs angry at him rather than at one another. That could be a gain, if he were able to do something with their attention.

"To be proud is the mark of a warrior, as all are here," Sargos began. "To let everything yield to that pride is the mark of a fool. More than four hands worth of tribes in this great warband have set aside their pride and sworn to follow me. The gods have not punished them. Why should you fare otherwise?"

"Witlings and women," Alfgar muttered just loud enough that Sargos alone could hear. Sargos decided for the moment to ignore him and willed his blood to slow its pounding beat.

"How many of those tribes are now north of the Lydistros, fighting as they please?" Chief Rostino asked. Of all those present, he seemed to have the most Ruthani blood as well as the most dignity.

Sargos chose an equally dignified answer. "I am not a Great King, with a host of armed slaves to punish disobedient warriors as if they were children.

I am Warchief over the Tymannes, and those who swear to follow me as Warlord do so by choice."

"Well, then," Chief Alfgar said. "It is my choice not to swear any oaths to Ranjar Sargos, nor any other sachem or chieftain. We of the Sea of Grass have held that each chief was his own master since the Great Mountains rose from the earth. Maybe the dirt scrapers and log builders of the Sastragath are more accustomed to following at the heels of their masters like curs!" Alfgar punctuated his words by slamming his hands against his bone vest, making a sound like that of a shot being fired.

The hands of about half of the two score of chieftains inside the long-house streaked for their knives, the only weapons allowed inside during the parlay. Sargos was glad that Althea had obeyed his request to stay in their hut. He hadn't had to explain to Althea that her presence would a strike against his leadership by the more hide-bound Grassmen and clansmen. He also knew that she would not only have drawn her knife, after Chief Alfgar's insult, but used it as well!

Sargos signaled for attention. "This is not the time to hurl baseless insults nor fight among ourselves. There is great treasure to be won and much glory to be gained in fighting our real enemies, not each other.

Most of the chiefs sat back down and nodded their agreement to this sage advice.

But Hyphos' son held his ground. "You have not fought Kalvan, Alfgar. We have fought others like him many times in the Trygath and we have learned that to win we must stand as one-like wolves, not curs."

"You, a milksop not long from you mother's teat, dare instruct me!" Alfgar replied, with his face twisted into an ugly leer. "What has Sargos given you, that you take his word about the Daemon Kalvan, whom he has never seen?"

Hyphos' son would have drawn his knife if his father's arm had not been sounder than his jaw-the bronzed arm gripped the young man's wrist and twisted. He gasped and dropped his knife.

"See! How the Sastragathi lick their master's hand. When Sargos nods his head, the old rein in the young. This is not the way of the Plains!"

Rage flowed into Sargos, lifting him like a giant's hands-or perhaps the hands of the gods. Certainly he had never felt their presence more strongly, even in the sweathouse of his manhood rites.

"Let us submit this matter to the judgment of the gods." Sargos drew from the hides of his chieftain's chair the sacred ax of the chiefs of the Tymannes. "With this ax and no other weapon I will fight Chief Alfgar, this day, in this place. He may use any weapon his honor allows him."

"No!" Chief Ulldar exclaimed. Next to Sargos, Ulldar Zodan was the wisest man in the room in the new ways of warfare. Two of his sons had served Chief Harmakros in Kalvan's wars and told him much. They had also brought him a tooled and engraved horsepistol that was the envy of every chief in the longhouse. "The gods have taken away Chief Alfgar's wits. What if they have taken away his honor as well?"