John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

"In that, they shall be disappointed, Grand Master. The audience may gather, but the players in the pageant are going to slip out the backdoor."

"Leaving all their tavern bills unpaid, of course," Soton added. "Are you thinking as I am?"

"What else makes any sense? At best, we face odds of perhaps five to one, two of those five are civilized soldiers under captains not to be despised, with more guns than have been seen west of the Pyromannes since fireseed was sent by Styphon! Half our strength are light troops, or half-trained or both."

This bald statement of the truth made it neither less nor more endurable. In the end, that did not matter, if one was the Grand Master and sworn to bear any burden in the name of the Order.

Soton mentally ran over his mental army table of organization: fifteen Lances, comprised of nine thousand Order Brethren and two thousand auxiliaries; seven thousand levy, mostly Sastragathi mounted archers and lancers; and three to four thousand unreliable nomad light cavalry-who in a pinch might change sides or run off the battlefield.

To stand and fight the great horde would be suicide. Yet, it still seemed to Soton that his own death by Kalvan's hand would be easier to face than the orders he knew he would have to give before this campaign was done. Nor could he hope to find peace by seeking that or any other death.

To do that would be to cast the Order into the hands of Roxthar, who in the name of Styphon would surely finish the work Kalvan had begun.

"We must be across the Lydistros within five days. Organize messengers and escorts, to ride with word to Tarr-Ceros. The bridge of boats is to be ready within a moon quarter, or I will decorate the battlements of Tarr-Ceros with the heads of those who have delayed it."

"At once, Grand Master," Aristocles said. No one hearing him could have imagined this was one friend carrying out the wishes of another. He called for his oath-brother, "Ho, Heron! Summon Knight Commander Cyblon to the Grand Master's tent, at once."

When he had heard the order repeated by his messenger, Aristocles turned back to Soton, hand on his sword hilt. Soton wondered if the tales of wizardry in Aristocles' sword had any truth to them. Certainly the sword was the better part of two centuries old. By grasping it in times of trouble Aristocles seemed to soothe himself and sharpen his wits. Also, he had never suffered a sword wound on the battlefield. A half-score of other weapons had left scars, but never a sword…

"Grand Master, what about sending some of our boats up the Lydistros to strike at Kalvan's barges?"

"With the river running as it must, after this rain? They would never be able to reach Kalvan's fleet and return in time."

Aristocles wished shameful and wasting diseases upon those who had sent the rains, finishing with some choice comments on the uselessness of Styphon's Archpriests and priests in general.

Soton shook his head. "Again, old friend, guard your tongue, for even I cannot save you from Archpriest Roxthar."

"Roxthar-" Aristocles began, in the same tone he would have used to speak of a pile of dung on his tent floor. Then he took a deep breath. "Roxthar serves Styphon with holy zeal. Doubtless he has done all that mortal man could do even with Styphon's favor.

"Yet I could still wish the rains had not come."

"The gods give with one hand, and take away with the other," Soton replied, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject from priestly politics to other less dangerous topics-such as war. "The wet ground and flooding will slow pursuit.

"Also, we know the Lydistros. Kalvan does not. It will take much luck and more boats than he is likely to have to even cross the river. While he is trying to cross, we can attack his fleet."

"If we are lucky," Soton replied. "Warlord Ranjar Sargos has more knowledge than we would like."

Conversation died for a moment while the messengers rode up to receive their orders. Soton's servants took the opportunity to light the lamps in the tent, sweep the latest coat of dried mud from the floor and ask the Grand Master what he wished for dinner.

"Kalvan's heart," Soton said sharply. "If you cannot produce that, whatever is ready at hand."

The servants departed; Aristocles poured the last wine from a jug into the two least dirty cups in the tent.

"Another message, I think," Soton said, after the first swallow. "To the Commander of Tarr-Ceros, to prepare it in all respects for a siege."

"Holding our whole host?"

"Hardly. We will send within the walls as many Knights as Knight Commander Demelles thinks he can feed for a moon or two. The rest will fall back on Tarr-Lydra and Tarr-Tyros.

"Then we can pray that Kalvan will cross the Lydistros. Once his men have dug themselves into the hills around Tarr-Ceros, they will be like bears tethered in a pit. We will be the dogs, free to move where we will and strike when we think wise. Oh, the bear will take a lot of killing, but we will have him in the end."

It was an improbable vision, unless Kalvan lost his wits, but for a moment it warmed Soton more than the wine. Then he sobered.

"At all costs, we must keep well ahead of Kalvan. That means lightening ourselves as much as possible. All the artillery-after the guns have been destroyed, all the spare armor, all the horse barding-"

"That makes Kalvan a free gift, Soton."

"But a lesser gift than the entire Order! Besides, the gold of Balph can buy blacksmiths to make new armor, saddlers to fit our horses, and brass to recast the cannon. It cannot buy men. If we save our Knights, nothing else matters. Nothing!"

Arch-Stratego Zarphu made room on the cluttered table for a freshly scraped deerskin parchment. He dipped his quill into the inkpot, making a notation that two hundred barrels of salt fish would be arriving from Helios within the moon half. Zarphu knew that most soldiers considered provisioning and buying victuals scribes' work, but he knew that an army marched on its belly, as well as on its feet; and woe to any Stratego who forgot that fact.

The sea journey from Andiphon to Mythrene had taken over a moon quarter, as the ships had been forced to go against the current and prevailing winds. Even with rowers it was a long, arduous trip and, praise to the weather god, they had only lost one ship to foul winds and none to pirates. Best of all, his stomach was once again his own and not leaping at every lurch of the ship.

Their greeting from the Lord Tyrant of Mythrene had been gracious, befitting an ally who came at the head of an army. The Lord Tyrant had offered him rooms at the palace, but Zarphu had refused. As long as he was in Mythrene, the local Tyrant's spies would be weighing their every move. Still there was no gain in making their job an easy one. Instead Zarphu had hired the Black Horn Tavern as his headquarters.

The army was garrisoned outside the city wall, although keeping them outside the city was a major headache. It would not be wise to have half of them mugged by cutpurses and the other half given the pox by local tarts before they left the coast. In truth, Zarphu could hardly wait until they were on their way. He was going to have to wait for another moon-at the earliest-before he could gather up enough foodstuffs for the initial leg of their journey. If the stories about great herds of bison and cattle moving across the Sea of Grass, like schools of tuna and albacore, were true there would be no end of food. In case it was the stuff of legend, he intended to send several large pack trains out ahead of the army to set up depots, since there was no conceivable way they could take enough victuals along with them over the entire passage.

A hearty knock at the plank door told him his Eastern visitors had arrived. "Enter."