John Carr - Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

Seeing their own cavalry flee, the Grefftscharrer foot surrendered, putting their helmets upon their swords. The survivors numbered less than half of those who had joined the battle. Zarphu rubbed his hands-a nice ransom.

Highpriest Arkemanes, too, had a big smile. He nodded, saying, "I am impressed, Arch-Stratego." They both watched as the enemy horse, under withering fire, left in a massed but orderly retreat. "Are you going to ride them down?"

"We could grind them into the dust, but they are not cowards. We would take unnecessary losses. Also, another army lies in wait some forty marches away. There is no profit in goading them to attack. Better to let them hide behind their walls and lick their wounds, Highpriest. They will not forget us soon. We have other more important battles to win. And there will be no reinforcements."

"Wisely put," the Highpriest said. "I think many will be surprised by the Iron Men from across the Sea of Grass. None more so than the Usurper Kalvan!"

"What happened to my army?" Prince Varrack cried when Captain-General Errock pulled up alongside, his horse breathing like a bellows.

The Captain-General's face was white and there was blood splattered across his breastplate. "A lot of good men died because we under-estimated the enemy. It's the Trickster's own luck that the Ros-Zarthani didn't decide to chase us to the City walls."

"This is good fortune?" Varrack screamed, looking around at the ragtag collection of horsemen that surrounded him, their finery soiled and their plumed helmets discarded. "We have lost a great battle, and you talk of luck!"

"We will be laughed out of the City," one of the Barons cried.

Varrack punched the Baron in the face with his armored hand, knocking him off his horse and onto the ground, where he was stretched out frozen as if he'd been poleaxed.

"You've killed him, Varrack!" the young Count cried. "This day has been a disaster for all of us."

Except Theovacar, thought Varrack, who right this moment is laughing himself off his throne! He ground his teeth until they squealed. If we'd had King Theovacar's support, this defeat would never have happened. He withheld his soldiers to play us as fools! This disaster is his fault. Theovacar is in the pay of the Usurper Kalvan, as the priests of Styphon's House claim, otherwise he would have helped us take the field. Yes, this disaster is the result ofTheovacar's treason! Wait until the City learns of it.

Kalvan woke with the knowledge that siege bombards were going off beside one ear. He couldn't decide whether it was the left ear or the right ear.

Finally he decided it was both ears. He groaned and pulled the bearskin coverlet over his head. This movement made the bombards fire salvoes. It also made Kalvan realize that they were inside his ears.

A memory returned-he had been sitting on a bench, watching the All-mother Fires with a jug of wine (a whole jug, not a cup) in one hand and the other arm around a woman. He knew where the wine had gone. What had happened to the woman?

Half remembered fragments of a stage production of Midsummer Night's Dream that he saw on stage in Philadelphia ran through his mind; for a moment, he wondered if some confused here-and-now Puck had turned him into a donkey, because he sure felt like a jackass!

Meanwhile, if it didn't involve too much movement, he could do something about the hangover. Uncle Wolf Tharses had a poultice, which in combination with sassafras tea made a decent headache remedy. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Kalvan reached for the bell pull.

Instead, his hand encountered proof that he wasn't alone in bed. Proof, what's more, that his companion was a woman!

Kalvan's gritted teeth couldn't stifle a groan, more of disgust than pain this time. Well, now he knew what had happened to the woman he'd been drinking with. He also knew what would happen to what was left of his marriage, the minute Rylla found out.

Rylla would have right on her side, too-not just her pride. Kings who shared beds with random women were likely to breed up bastards. To a precariously seated Great King, a flock of royal bastards would be more liability than asset. Few of them would be worthy of admiration, as was Harmakros' son, Aspasthar-

That's what started this nightmare, he remembered. Last night had been Aspasthar's adoption ceremony. Harmakros and Ptosphes had seemed determined to get him drunk on winter wine.

He heard a stifled groan from beneath the bed cover. Kalvan slowly pulled down the bearskin for a look. A thatch of golden blond hair that could only be Rylla's met his eyes. Dralm be praised! it wasn't that Greffan vixen from the Foundry-Eldra was her name, who'd been making eyes at him and a most immodest proposal-at the Founder's Celebration the other night at the University. But how had he ended up in his own bed?

It had been months since his return from Hos-Rathon, and many more besides when he'd fought in the Sastragath, since he and Rylla had shared a bed-or anything else for that matter. Yes, the adoption ceremony. Those rascals! Rylla had been there too! Harmakros had asked her to be Aspasthar's godmother-a custom he had accused Harmakros of inventing on the spot. Then Kalvan vaguely recalled apologizing-for what?-to Rylla, and then taking her weeping in his arms. Shortly afterwards they had both retired to the royal bedchambers…

Rylla had been as drunk as he was. Had to have been. Yes, he saw the hands of at least two meddlers in this stirring of the royal stew. Now what? Should he slip out the bedchamber before Rylla awakened, so they could both pretend this had never happened? Or should he stay and try to resolve this mess it appeared they had both helped to create?

Kalvan groaned as his head pounded again. Rylla stirred. One lovely arm groped out from under the blankets and pinned Kalvan's hand in place. Sometimes he forgot just how strong she was.

"Kalvan, are you made of iron?"

"Rylla?"

"Were you expecting somebody else?" Kalvan could hear ice tinkling in those words.

"I was praying it wouldn't be anyone else." He was too hung over to come up with any good lies.

"Are you trying to tell me that you've been faithful ever since your return?"

"Since it's the truth, why shouldn't I tell it?"

"All that time at the Foundry? I know about those Grefftscharrer girls."

"You weren't making our home a very pleasant place, Rylla."

Kalvan felt her arm go rigid as a steel bar. "Well, you made your homecoming something I'm still trying to forget."

"Maybe if you don't forget it, you won't do something like that Dralm-damned invasion of Phaxos again!" Kalvan took several deep breaths and sighed. "I'm sorry, darling. That was not only unnecessary, but unkind."

A long silence, a faint ghost of Rylla's usual hearty laughter. "I'll admit that last night you didn't behave like a man who's found other women." Rylla's head was now on the pillow, blond hair streaming every which way, eyes red and bleary, her face slowly turning the same color.

Royal dignity demanded that he make a peace offer sitting up. The royal hangover demanded that he stay down. Kalvan finally compromised by raising himself slightly higher on the pillows. Rylla did the same, so that the blankets slipped down from her freckled bare shoulders.

Kalvan had the chilling thought that last night he would have gone to bed with any willing woman, and thanked Dralm it had turned out to be Rylla. No, thank Ptosphes and Harmakros. His memories of their hauling him up the stairs after he was too drunk to climb them by himself returned; now it was his turn to flush.

Still, it had all worked out, if not for the best, at least, without doing any more harm.

"And besides, Rylla, you're the most beautiful woman in Hostigos, so what made you think I'd have the bad taste to be unfaithful?"