Great Kings' War (58 page)

As Phrames completed the thought, a new uproar of screams, war cries, curses and the crashing and clashing of weapons and armor burst out behind the Beshtans. Somebody was hitting them in the rear. By the time Phrames had caught his breath, that somebody had opened enough of a gap in the Beshtan line to let him see men in Saski green and gold swarming across the courtyard. At their head was a bulky figure in freshly re-gilded armor, wielding a bloody mace and defaming the sexual habits of all Beshtans, their parents, and their illegitimate offspring by an astonishing variety of mothers—not all of them human or even earthly.

For a moment Phrames wanted to curse. To owe his success at the breach to Sarrask of Sask—! Then he sighed. His honor was one thing; the lives of his men another. He could not throw the second away because of some whimsical notion of the first. Besides, it was beginning to seem that Dralm and Galzar had so made Sarrask that there
was
some good in him—or at least a fighting man's courage that the right leader could bring out, and then Dralm and Galzar sent Kalvan...

No good ever came of questioning the judgment of Allfather Dralm or Galzar Wolfhead, even when one did not understand it.

So Phrames walked down the rubble over the outstretched bodies of the Beshtans to greet Prince Sarrask with outstretched hands. They touched palms and the big man grinned, then clapped Phrames on both shoulders.

Sarrask unhooked a silver-stoppered flask from his belt. "You look like a man who could use this."

"After we've cleared the courtyard, I won't say no."

"Then drink up, Count. We've got everything except the keep already. He swept his hand around to the broken Beshtans scattered around the courtyard, most surrendering and calling "Oath to Galzar!" with only a few clots still holding out against the Hostigi.

Phrames looked toward the keep and realized that the downpour had passed almost as quickly as it had come. He could see the whole castle and the trench-carved ground beyond it. The courtyard swarmed with Sarrask's men, and the walls were crowded with the Sastragathi irregulars who'd followed the Saski up the ladders. True to their habits, the Sastragathi were busily stripping what Phrames hoped were the corpses of the defenders and tossing them into the moat or onto the courtyard.

On top of one of the gate towers a little knot of defenders was still holding out, but below a gang of Saski with sledges was already trying to free the portcullis and lower the drawbridge, to let Alkides bring in his artillery and finish off the keep.

"Hope those poor bastards in the keep have the sense to yield before Alkides brings in a bombard," Sarrask said, waving the flask at Phrames again. This time the Count took it. "Otherwise you'll be a Prince with no place to sleep. I could knock that (guilty of fornication with a barnyard fowl) pile down with my mace! Drink up, Count!"

Yes, all this was going to be his soon!
Phrames didn't know quite what to think of all that; he did know he owed Kalvan more than he could ever repay.
How was he going to turn this princedom into a loyal cornerstone of Hos-Hostigos?
He took a deep drink of what turned out to be a most potent winter wine and sputtered, with wine dripping it down his beard.

When he'd caught his breath, he took a more cautious swallow. It was extraordinarily good wine. "Thank you, Prince. Your own stock?"

Sarrask shook his head. "Made in Hos-Agrys. Those Beshtans nobles and are taking everything with them but the cobblestones. This one was on his way to Syriphlon with a cartload of wine in a wagon train that passed too close to one of my foraging parties. Captain Strathos was out raiding that day and bagged the lot. He presented it to King Kalvan, who sent over a barrel last night. Come around tonight; there's plenty left."

Phrames drank again, considering that Sarrask of Sask accusing another nobleman of being too comfortable in the field was the pot calling the kettle black—as Kalvan liked to say—but hardly inclined to say it out loud.

Then a Saski captain was coming over to tell his Prince that the portcullis was hopelessly jammed; did he and Phrames think the gate should be blown up or did Alkides want to drag his guns through the breach?

"Galzar strike me dead if I know" Sarrask said. "I'm no damned gunner! Phrames, do you mind a few more holes in the wall of your new seat? I'll hand over a few ransoms to you and see that Balthames does the same, since the gods didn't finish the little bugger off at Tenabra or Phyrax! If you need to rebuild—"

Phrames wasn't listening. He was instead looking at the top of the keep, where a helmet was being raised over the battlements. A moment later a second joined it, then a third.

"Never mind, Prince. I don't think we're going to need any artillery in here at all. Just someone to parley with the men in the keep. Would you care to join me?"

"My pleasure, Count Phrames."

The screams and groans of the dying were fading behind Kalvan as he descended the winding stone staircase in the northwest tower of Tarr-Beshta. They weren't fading fast enough to suit him, but he couldn't move any faster. The stairs were crumbling and treacherous—more of Balthar's cheese-paring! Besides, Captain Xykos was just ahead and determined to slow his Great King to what he considered a proper pace. Since Xykos filled the stairs from top to bottom and nearly from side to side, his determination counted for a great deal.

After what seemed like enough time to reach the bottom of a mineshaft, they reached the tower cellar. Here, so it was said, lay the door to Prince Balthar's treasure rooms, whose riches had grown in soldiers' imaginations until they rivaled Styphon's Own Treasury in the Holy City of Balph—the here-and-now equivalent of King Midas' hoard. With all the tales of debauchery and poisoning and double-dealing and such goings on in Balph, it most resembled the Papal City sometime in the late Sixteenth Century.

Kalvan hoped the rumors were true; from first to last Balthar had cost Hos-Hostigos too Dralm-damned much to be paid for with nothing but his head and those of his kin who hadn't been able to cross into Hos-Harphax before the Army of Observation swept into Beshta.

The cellar was already crowded, with Phrames and half a dozen of the King's Lifeguards. They held either drawn swords or torches, except for one who was bending over a dying woman, trying to work a dagger out from between her ribs. Two men and another woman lay sprawled in a corner, already dead.

"Your Majesty," Phrames said. "One of the men seems to have been the keeper of the—of whatever lies beyond that door." He pointed to an oak door bound in tarnished brass to the left of the stairs. "He had a key to it. We unlocked the door but thought you should have the honor of being first to enter."

It was on the tip of Kalvan's tongue to remind them that men who'd seen Leonnestros' cavalry massacred by the explosion of the artillery redoubt at Phyrax should be aware of booby traps. The words died there; they were doing him an honor and besides, he'd be drowned in mare's milk if he'd abandon "Follow Me" leadership, even here in the bowels of Tarr-Beshta. Kalvan drew his sword, thrust hard against the door, and when it squealed open on rusty hinges stepped through the gap.

It took a moment for Kalvan's eyes to adjust to the thick darkness inside. It took several more moments to believe that what they were showing him was actually there.

Several tunnels ran off in different directions from a stone-walled circular room. On either side of each tunnel sacks, boxes, barrels and kegs were piled as high as a man, except where cloth or wood had rotted and let the piles collapse. There the tunnels were completely impassable, knee—or even waist—deep in fragments of rotting cloth or wood and gold and silver!

Kalvan heard blasphemous mutterings behind him as the Guardsmen pushed in through the door and stared around them. He also saw more gold and silver gleaming in the chinks and rents in the many boxes and canvas bags. The torches now lit one tunnel; he saw that not all the piled gold and silver were coins. Most of the silver was, but a lot of the gold was rings, cups, bowls, plates—even ingots; not to mention swords and daggers and armor plated with precious metals, bags of pearls, ornamental boxes inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl, what looked like uncut emeralds—

Kalvan's head spun, and not just because so many torches were burning in an unventilated room. Now he understood how Cortez felt when he first saw the golden treasures of Tenochtitlán. The Treasure of Beshta was no soldier's tall tale. It was real; and enough specie to buy a Kingdom—or save the one he already had. Three generations of miserliness...

Kalvan took another step, to see if what looked like pearls really were, then saw for the first time the man sitting in the tunnel just beyond the emeralds.

Prince Balthar, his gray hair tousled and sticking up in clumps, sat cross-legged, with his back braced against a barrel. He was running gold coins through his fingers like a child playing at the beach with the pretty shells he had collected.

"Yes, yes, my pretties," Balthar said, in a cackling voices that made Kalvan's flesh crawl. "Dada will see that the evil Daemon won't hurt you."

Balthar wore nothing but one of his threadbare trademark black gowns, and even from a distance Kalvan could tell that both the gown and its wearer stank as if they'd been fished out of a midden pit. The only ornamentation he wore was the Princely gold circlet around his neck. Kalvan stepped forward to peer into Balthar's face, then turned away, very much wishing he hadn't or that at least his stomach would stop twisting ominously.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Rylla's voice. "I came as quickly as I could. I see you found the traitor and his hoard. It seems he will escape justice after all..."

Frustration filled Kalvan. What good would it do to put a madman on trial for treason? Balthar wouldn't understand what was happening to him, and would be more likely to end up an object of pity than anything else. Or a rallying point for enemies of the Throne. As for caring for him until his body was as dead as his mind—what would that accomplish, except insulting the memory of all the men that Balthar's treachery had murdered? Men whose widows and children would not be living nearly as well.

Balthar deserved to die, if only in the same way that a dog run over by a car but not yet dead deserved to be put out of its pain. Kalvan drew his flintlock pistol and was cocking it when Rylla gripped his arm."

"No, Kalvan."

"We can't have the farce of trying—"

"You don't understand. A Prince has to die by steel."

Kalvan nodded, half his mind wondering why he hadn't asked first and the other half replying that he'd never expected to need to know. He started to draw his sword, then doubted it would be heavy enough for the job. His stomach twisted again at the thought of hacking Balthar's head off or running him through. What he needed was a heavier blade—

"DOWN, YOUR MAJESTY!" Phrames shouted.

Kalvan twisted around, knocked Rylla off her feet, then looked up to see a yellow robed figure emerging from one of the darkened tunnels. His face was distorted by a triumphant grin and the muzzle of the horsepistol he was holding was aimed right at Kalvan's head; it looked as wide and deep as a well...

"For the God of Gods, die, Daemon, die!"

At the periphery of his vision, Kalvan saw Xykos, Phrames and two Guardsmen running toward the highpriest. They were going to be a few moments too late, he realized sadly. His mind seemed to be working faster and more clearly than ever before; he noted dispassionately that he'd dropped his own pistol out of reach when he'd fallen on top of Rylla. At least she would survive to raise Demia and maybe all of his work wouldn't be undone. So much to do and now no time—

A bright flash of light, then a sharp explosion reverberated through the chamber followed by a high-pitched scream. Suddenly the room was filled with fireseed smoke.

"Are you all right?" Rylla screamed.

"Fine, darling," Kalvan said as he patted himself to make sure. That was close, too close.

The highpriest must have been sent by Styphon's House to keep watch on Prince Balthar and make sure he didn't change sides again. Now he was waving all that was left of a hand peeled to the wrist by the explosion of his pistol. One of his cheeks was opened to porcelain bone from a flying fragment, leaving red streaks all down his yellow robe. A shot from Phrames' pistol cut off the screams.

A thunderstruck Xykos turned back to Kalvan, roaring, "A miracle! All bless the Great God Dralm. King Kalvan is unhurt!"

Phrames vanished into the tunnel, returning a moment later with a powder horn. He poured some on his hand, then tasted it.

"Hostigos fireseed. The poor fool probably thought it was Styphon's Best and overloaded the pistol. Praise be to Dralm and Galzar Wolfhead!"

"It is still a miracle," Xykos repeated.

Rylla rose shakily to her feet and nodded. "Xykos is right. The True Gods have shown once more that their blessing is upon Great King Kalvan and his war to rid the Great Kingdoms of false Styphon and his corrupt priesthood."

Kalvan started to disagree, but Rylla's hand cut off his voice.

"Let them think what they will," she whispered. "It's best for Our cause and Our daughter. Look at Xykos' smile."

Another instant legend, thought Kalvan. Now all I need now is my own press secretary!  

"Who dares to blaspheme my Treasure Chamber?" Balthar cried, as if waking from a dream. "I command you to leave at once, on pain of my displeasure." Then he whispered to the jewels, "I told you I would protect you, my pretty ones."

"Xykos."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"You will adjudicate the Great King's Justice on Prince Balthar of Beshta for his treasonable conduct on the field of battle at Tenabra and for his armed resistance to the lawful summons of his Great King."

Balthar suddenly screamed in terror. Kalvan wondered if he was really insane, or had just been play-acting. If so, the Mystery Plays lost a great talent. Or was it possible that even a madman might understand and protest his death sentence?