John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Ikkos stood stiffly with a sour expression, which Sargos ignored. Open defiance he would deal with swiftly, insolence-just don't let it go on too long-

As though reading his mind, as was frequently the way among comrades who had fought many battles together, Halgoth put his huge hand on Ikkos shoulder, and played gently with the ball of his shoulder. Ikkos looked as if he'd just stuck his hand into a panther's mouth. Sargos had to resist the impulse to laugh.

"Althea, you may join the war party. I will loan you my knife."

The young maiden gave him a look that could have melted stone. "Thank you, Warchief Sargos, but I still have the knife that sent the Grassmen to the Undercaverns of the Dead. I will bring one of my Uncle's bows, as well."

Sargos knew that Halgoth was a master archer; he spent most of the winter teaching the younger warriors how to improve their shooting. He suspected that Althea might share her uncle's gods given gift; if so, she would be a welcome addition to the war band. The Tymannes would be heavily out-numbered in this attack and the Tribe would need any, and every, advantage it could get.

"When do we blood these Grassmen, Warchief?" One-Eyed Red asked. His flame-red hair came out of his cone helmet in two thick braids.

"Tomorrow night. We will avenge our clansmen and fill the Undercaverns of the Dead, with these Grassmen."

"At night!" One-Eyed Red, scrunched his remaining eye. "It's not honorable to attack foes at night time."

If there was one thing a lifetime of warfare had taught Ranjar Sargos, it was, there was no such thing as an honorable war. It was always the victors who pronounced what was honorable, after the war was over.

He addressed One-Eyed Red as though he were addressing a multitude, and in effect he was, since every word said here would be repeated many times this evening over the tribe's campfires. "Honorable war is only for those who would fight with honor. These Grassmen know no honor."

He heard a growl of fury escaping Althea's lips, as she expressed her agreement.

"These grasseaters, who are less than men, are despoilers of our clanswomen and the butchers of children. Would you accord them honor?"

One-Eyed Red drew back in alarm. "No, Warchief! Let us butcher them as we do the wolf packs that cross our lands."

An expression that Ranjar would hesitate to call a smile played upon Althea's lips. He would not want to be one of the Grassmen, if she and her knife were within an arm's reach. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for the enemy.

The chill night air cut through Grand-Captain Phidestros' Grefftscharrer buffjacket like a knife blade. He hadn't been back to Zygros City for four years and had forgotten how bitter cold these narrow streets became after sundown. He watched as half a dozen drunken fur trappers staggered out of a nearby tavern, the stench rising off them like steam. One trapper, with a mouth full of broken teeth, eyed him and his mount. Phidestros slowly slipped one of the big horse pistols out of its saddle holster and-by the light coming from the torches framing the tavern door-carefully checked the priming pan.

One of the trappers, with a tilted coonskin cap, saluted him with a flask and shouted, "To Galzar!"

"To the Wargod," Phidestros echoed. On this frozen night he could use all the help the Galzar could provide. Any sane man would have taken Captain Kyblannos' advice and brought a squad of troopers or, at least, Petty-Captain Geblon, his huge banner-bearer with him. In Hos-Zygros, the northern-most of the Five Kingdoms, a man by himself was not safe on streets of Zygros City after dark-winter, spring, summer or fall. Yet, this night's business was private, between only him and his past. So Geblon was waiting with Captain Kyblannos and the rest of the squad, with a tankard of winter wine back at the inn. And none too happily, at that.

A battle-scarred tomcat screamed and his mount whinnied. Phidestros kneed his horse sharply and pulled back on the reins. He had purchased Grayhawk from a horse trader in Harphax City several moons ago to replace Snowdrift, the faithful destrier he'd left behind-with about half his command at the Dralm-damned battlefield of Phyrax. The horse trader had sworn on his mother's life and Styphon's Wheel that the stallion was battle trained-raised on vinegar and fireseed.

Phidestros swore a promise to Galzar that if Grayhawk shied away from war cries, as he did from cat yowls, he'd fillet that horse trader, from scalp to sole, with his hunting knife.

From farther down the twisted streets, Grand-Captain Phidestros heard the clamor of horse hooves on cobbled stones and rested his long-muzzled flintlock on the saddle pommel. The silver-chased horse pistol, taken from the corpse of one of the Hostigi Royal Pistoleers, had been the sum total of the Iron Band's spoils from the cursed Battle of Phyrax. Phidestros hoped that the more than ten score of soldiers he'd left behind fared better in Galzar's Great Hall.

When the horsemen emerged from the alleyway, he recognized them as members of the watch, rather than some baron's hired bullyboys. They wore cloaks of black wool, with red trim; the city colors. "And what be your business this eventide, your nobleship?" the watch's petty-captain asked, covering himself with the honorific because of Grayhawk's rich trappings.

"An overlong dalliance with a comely tavern wench, my good, sir," Phidestros answered.

"'Tis a frosty night and a good time for a warm fire and willing wench, me thinks." The other watchmen, wearing mismatched bison cloaks around their blackened back-and-breast armor, nodded their agreement. "But, be on your way. There lurks more serious game than sewer rats on these streets."

Phidestros nodded his agreement and urged Grayhawk into a faster pace. The house wasn't but a few doors down, just past the venires, which he knew from past visits-six in the past twelve years. The first had been when he was fourteen, apprenticed to a cabinet master, two moons after his mother's death of the flux. She had been a handsome woman, the daughter of a merchant, who had never married and ran a respectable boarding house. It was there Phidestros had gotten his first yen for soldiering from a retired petty-captain, who'd filled him with tall tales about past campaigns and battles-that is, whenever his mother was out of earshot.

His mother, a woman of unusually stern will, had determined Phidestros' course until her death had set him free. The other children had mocked him as a bastard until his face began to sprout and his limbs hardened like oak. Then he'd paid long-standing debts with broken teeth and blackened eyes.

His father, nor his absence, was ever mentioned. Not by his mother. The earliest inkling that his father was even alive came after his fourteenth winter, when he received an invitation to this same house, here on the Street of Furriers. He'd learned little then about his father, and not much since. Only that his father was a man of wealth and social prominence who was unable to acknowledge his bastard son, but did want to see that said son was provided for. Phidestros had asked more questions, of course, but they'd been met with silence and a purse of gold-even at fourteen winters he'd had the good sense to know when to keep his mouth shut. He had little curiosity left now that he knew the ways of the world and he, himself, had sired two of his own get-un-recognized, but modestly provided for.

In his youth, Phidestros had plotted with his friends to have his father's go-between followed and identified, but finally had concluded that a purse in hand was worth more than a kick in the hindparts. Besides, his life as a mercenary captain was not one to make most fathers puff with pride.

Phidestros saw the familiar portal, a wooden plank door with a boar's head emblem carved into the top brace, and dismounted. He was careful to tie Grayhawk's reins to the thick metal loop in the doorpost. Any thief fool enough to try and steal a war horse would deserve the not so gentle surprise he would receive from his destrier's steel-shod hooves.