John Carr - Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

"It is too late, young Duke. The Styphoni are already victorious. Now, we must prepare for the defense of the true faith of Allfather Dralm, the God of Peace. In the words of King Kalvan, 'The best offense is a good defense.'"

Duke Mnestros shook his head. "You have a fine way of twisting words, priest. But you know little of warfare, or of Styphon's House. They plan to make slaves of all of us and you and your kind only help prepare their siege train."

Xentos felt the old pressure inside his head grow. "I suggest you leave this temple, boy, before I have to call the guards and have you pitched out by your ears!"

Mnestros laughed. "Those old men you call guards would have Hadron's own time pitching me anywhere, priest! I will leave now before I say things that may cause my father pain upon the re-telling. But mark my words, the Temple of Dralm will rue the day it turned its back on Kalvan, whose only sin was that he was the Temple's greatest champion!"

Mnestros spat on the floor, spun around and stalked out of the chamber.

The moment the door closed half a dozen lower priests scurried into the chamber asking if Xentos was all right. "I don't know. We have either done what was wise, or we have committed the gravest error in the history of the Temple. Only time will tell."

The priests looked at him in confusion.

Highpriest Davros, who must have been waiting outside the door, entered saying, "We have only done what we must to preserve the Allfather's High Temple."

Xentos nodded, but could not still the voice asking in the back of his head: But have we done what we must to preserve Dralm's people? He had no answer to that question, most especially for the faithful of Hos-Hostigos.

The climb to the gun platform on top of the north tower of Tarr-Hostigos left Prince Ptosphes unpleasantly short of breath. Old age had been pursuing him for a long time. Now it had finally caught him. Under other circumstances he would have been angry at the prospect of not seeing his grandchildren grow up, but that matter had been taken care of a moon-quarter ago at Ardros Field.

"Should we summon an Uncle Wolf for you, my Prince?" the gun captain asked.

Ptosphes shook his head. "No. Just let me sit down and catch my wind."

He lowered himself onto an upended fireseed barrel and was about to light his pipe when he remembered what he was sitting on. The gunners and sentries, he noticed, had returned to their work as soon as they knew he didn't need their help.

Good men, and more than ever a pity that they had to stand here and face certain death even if most of them were, like him, a bit long in the tooth. At least they were the last good men he'd be leading to their doom. No more battles like Tenabra, to haunt him during the long winter nights. Kalvan and Rylla wouldn't be so lucky, and Kalvan at least liked such work even less than Ptosphes. Kalvan would just have to endure Rylla's tongue on the subject, as Ptosphes had endured Demia's.

Ptosphes chuckled, as he thought of Rylla's mother for the first time in nearly a moon. Rylla had much of her mother in her; the great beauty, the strengths, the tongue and temper. Ptosphes remembered Demia asking (at the top of her lungs) whether he was afraid of war too much to hold even the little Princedom of Hostigos. He hadn't been afraid of a war with Nostor, Sask or Beshta; only afraid for his vassals, outnumbered and outgunned by ambitious neighbors on every border.

Well, Demia had been right in a way. He would have lost even that to Gormoth of Nostor if the gods hadn't sent Kalvan. Why, then, had those same gods turned their faces away when he needed their help most? What had he or Kalvan done to earn their wrath?

Great Dralm, I ask nothing for myself. Let your wrath fall on me, and spare Kalvan, Rylla, and my granddaughter Demia.

Ptosphes' breath came more easily now, and he badly wanted that pipe. He rose and was turning toward the stairs when he saw a horseman riding uphill toward the castle. He wore armor but no helmet, and a sash with Prince Phrames' colors. Probably one of Phrames' loyal Beshtans.

"Ahoooo! Prince Ptosphes! Prince Phrames has sent me back to warn you. The Styphoni are on the march once more. Their scouts are barely a candle from Hostigos Town!"

"Thank you, and carry my thanks to Prince Phrames." So the siege begins even sooner than we expected.

The trooper made no move to turn his mount; Ptosphes glared down at him. "No, you can't come into the castle. Your Prince and your Great King need you more than I do."

"Prince-"

"Now, Dralm-damn you, turn that horse around and get it moving! If you're not gone before I count to ten you'll be the first casualty of the siege of Tarr-Hostigos."

Ptosphes drew his pistol but his roar had already startled the horse into movement. It whickered and suddenly wheeled, nearly losing its footing on the steep slope, then broke into a canter. By the time Ptosphes had counted to five, it was out of pistol range. The Beshtan was still looking back at the castle. Ptosphes hoped he would turn around and look where he was going before he rode into a ditch.

Once his pipe was drawing well, Ptosphes walked around the walls to where he had a good view to the southeast. That was the likely direction for the Grand Host; or at least where he hoped most to see them. Anyplace else would mean they had a too-godless-good chance of cutting off at least Kalvan's rearguard.

The southwest was empty of smoke clouds, and so were all the other directions. Were the Styphoni advancing along roads where there was nothing left that even a fanatical believer would consider worth burning? Or was the Grand Host already thinking of having roofs over their heads and food in their bellies during the siege?

Tarr-Hostigos should have a bit of time before its walls had to be kept manned until the Styphoni stormed them. Plenty of time for what Ptosphes intended.

He pointed the stem of his pipe at the nearest sentry. "Take a message to Captain-General Harmakros. Summon everyone in the castle, except the sentries, to the outer courtyard."

"Every-?" the man began, and then broke off at Ptosphes' look. "Everyone. Captain-General Harmakros, too."

"Yes, my Prince."

The soldier hurried off, as if he wanted to open the distance between himself and his Prince before Ptosphes showed any more signs of madness.

Ptosphes followed at a more leisurely pace.

By the time the garrison was gathered in the outer courtyard, the sun was high overhead. Even the twenty-foot walls cast short shadows. Ptosphes sweated in his armor, wishing the laggards would hurry, and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. It was a newly forged Kalvan-style rapier, balanced for fighting on foot but quite long enough for his purposes now. The Great Sword of Hostigos, which he'd belted on the day he was proclaimed Prince, was on its way westward with Kalvan and Rylla. His grandson would need that Sword some day, when he ruled a realm so huge that Old Hostigos would barely rank as a respectable Princedom.

If the gods are merciful.

Ptosphes saw no more men joining the crowd. He drew the sword and raised it overhead in both hands. Sunlight blazed from the steel.

"Men of Hostigos. You all know why you are here. You all were told, when you offered to hold Tarr-Hostigos until our Great King and his family might reach safety. Every one of you has already earned honor in the eyes of Allfather Dralm, Galzar Wolfhead and the other true gods, and the gratitude of your Prince and Great King and the goodwill of your comrades.

"Styphon's Grand Host is approaching faster than we thought. Within ten candles this castle will be surrounded by the mightiest army in the history of the Great Kingdoms. For every one of us, there will be a hundred of the enemy. When they camp, a mouse won't be getting out of this castle.