Gunpowder God (58 page)

He was still muttering to himself when Duke Sestembar returned, his brow furrowed and his jowls drooping.

“What’s the matter, Your Highness?”

He spun around, pointing his finger at Sestembar. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

The Duke raised his hands in surrender. “Warn you about what?”

“What an ungrateful whelp that son of mine turned out to be, that black-hearted bastard. I want his heart cut out, so I can rip it apart with my teeth while it’s still throbbing—”

Sestembar turned white. “What’s wrong?”

“Phidestros, the misbegotten seed of my loins, has brought his army into Hos-Agrys and guess what he’s going to do with it?”

“No-o-o,” Sestembar stuttered.

“Yes, he’s going to turn against the one man in this cruel world who supplied him with funds and backing so that he could rise above the common sword-for-hire that he was before my gold elevated his purpose.”

“How many men did he bring?”

“Over thirty thousand men, all tested veterans of the wars,” Eudocles declared.

“What can we do? What can we do?” Sestembar dithered. “The man absolutely despises me. Can we pay him enough gold to go away?”

The Great King barked out a laugh. “My
son
has already killed both Prince-Regent Selestros and his Great King, Lysandros. Why would he balk at removing our heads?”

“Hide, maybe that’s what we can do,” Sestembar said. “We should return to Zygros City and take all the gold and jewels we can pack and get out of here.”

Eudocles shook his head. “Where can we go that will be far enough away to be safe?”

“The Upper Middle Kingdoms. King Theovacar could use men who know the lay of the Great Kingdoms and can supply him with fresh intelligence.”

“I’m too old to become a political exile. Since there’s no way we can defeat Phidestros in war, maybe we can beat him in negotiations.”

Sestembar didn’t appear relieved by that suggestion, in fact he looked more downcast than before.

T
hey had been traveling for the past moon in an oversized wagon decked out like a palace on wheels. Phidestros had spared no luxury and Princess Arminta was lounging on a comfortable bearskin bedcover, while outside the rain pitter-pattered on the top of the canvas wagon’s roof. It was nightfall and she was waiting for her husband to return from a meeting with the envoys of Prince Cystros of the Princedom of Marathax.

Arminta heard the creaking of leather boots and murmurs between her husband and the guards stationed outside the wagon. He always spent time talking or joking with his personal guards, always disabled veterans of the Iron Band. Even with a peg leg or a missing limb, they were more than capable of dealing with any intruders, and all were fiercely loyal.

A little while later, he boosted himself up the ladder and into the wagon bed. “Are you awake?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m in bed.”

“Good, I’ll join you as soon as I get undressed.”

When he joined her, she could see that his hair was still dripping. “Let me dry your hair.”

He smiled. “I never got service like this when I was by myself.”

They kissed and she had to stop his amorous hands. They had important matters of state to discuss. “How did it go with Clystros’ envoys?” she asked.

“They say that Prince Clystros is willing to renounce his oath to my father and swear an oath of fealty to me as Great King. In return, I will guarantee his position and suspend the onerous taxes my father has raised throughout the Kingdom.”

Princess Arminta looked up at her husband in amazement. “Prince Clystros is the third Zygrosi prince in two days to renounce his loyalty to your father and swear his oath of support to Us!”

“Like fleas jumping off a dead wolf’s carcass,” Phidestros said, shaking his head. “If we learn nothing else from this, it’s that we can’t trust any of them.”

His wife nodded. “I do not know any of these princes, but it appears that most of them cannot be trusted to keep even a sworn-oath. We will have to move slowly in our dealing with the Zygrosi nobility. We need someone we can trust.”

“I’ll put Kyblannos to work on it. He knows more people in the Five Kingdoms than anyone I’ve ever known. He’s an excellent judge of character, too.”

“Do you have any friends left from when you lived in Zygros City?”

Phidestros tugged at his beard. “I left Master Dalmoth’s workshop at fifteen winters to join up with the Bear Claw Company, and never looked back.”

Arminta knew that her husband had been an apprentice carpenter until his mother’s death, but he had never given her many details. She knew his sickly mother had been forced to work as a seamstress and that he was still bitter about his father’s lack of financial support for the two of them. He had told her that at fifteen winters he had already reached his full height. Shortly after his mother’s death, he had joined the mercenary company and left Zygros City for good.

“What about Master Dalmoth? I remember you telling me that he was not the worst of Masters.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Phidestros said, “but he wasn’t the best, either. He was a hard taskmaster and very critical, but honest and fair. He tried to reason with me after my mother’s death, but I was too grief struck to listen to his advice. If he’s still alive, he might be worth talking to when we reach Zygros City.”

“How about the other apprentices? Were you close to any of them?”

Phidestros shrugged. “I was angry a lot; the other apprentices left me alone, once I showed them my fists and that I knew how to use them.”

Arminta and her husband had lived in two different worlds, she in the world of wealth and privilege, her husband in the world of gutters. Her father, Prince Soligon, had doted on her. But Phidestros had always known, once his mother had identified his father, that he’d been excluded from the better life that he had so craved for himself and his mother.
Maybe that explains his ambition
.

“In the morning, we meet with your father outside the wall of Kelos Town.”

“Yes, the envoys had something to say about that. They said the Lord Mayor would not open the gates to my father, but they will for me.” He laughed. “As if they are granting me a favor!”

“They’re afraid. But they expect better terms from you than from your father. He’s a man of excess and treats people as if they are vermin. If they must have a new overlord, I’m sure they far prefer you to your father—or, for Yirtta’s sake, Styphon’s House.”

It was a beautiful spring morning with not a cloud on the horizon, a welcome respite after a moon quarter of rainstorms. A brisk wind had blown away most of the smoke from the fires that had blanketed Zcynos for the past two days. For the most part, Soton’s men were worn-out from their two-day debauch after the Host’s entry into the city. The time had arrived to end the sack.

He had a group of city fathers, the Council of Six as they called themselves, waiting to see him. The baron who had ruled the city had died during the initial breakthrough of the walls, too late to save the city. Baron Galth had been a devout Dralmite and had sworn to fight to his final breath.

And so he did
, Soton thought. The baron certainly hadn’t done Zcynos City any favors. About a third of the city was in ruins and most of the merchants relieved of their wares. The strange thing was the inhabitants actually thought this was terrible and cruel treatment, which showed how the long peace throughout most of Hos-Agrys had left the kingdom vulnerable to war. The slave traders were already docking at the wharves; the city folk would learn just how awful war could be when you were on the losing side, as most of the surviving healthy men and women were sold to fill the Temple’s coffers.

He didn’t envy the next city administrator one bit. The Grand Temple of Zcynos had been looted and destroyed last spring when Prince Aesklos had resigned from the Union of Styphon’s Friends and joined the League of Dralm. A decision which he was sure the dour Prince thoroughly regretted, having falsely blamed Styphon’s House—instead of Great King Demistophon—for his army’s loss to the Hostigi under Prince Ptosphes at the Battle of Owl Woods.

Since the city’s highpriest had been one of the first victims of the local temple’s destruction, Soton had no one to direct him as to which of the local nobles were in Styphon’s purse. Any Styphon’s House’s loyalists had been killed or run out of town when the Grand Temple had been looted.

Once again, Archpriest Grythos would elevate one of his cronies to the position. He already had more lackeys than the Host’s baggage train had harlots. Besides, once Soton was rid of this place, Grythos, as Prince-Regent, would have to instill order and discipline on the fractious Agrysi nobility and townsfolk, who actually believed in the rights in the charters they issued themselves.

Why had Great King Demistophon allowed his subjects such leeway? It was no wonder the witling had died stuck in his throne like a stopper in a keg of ale. Not that their Harphaxi cousins were much wiser. Weak kings, like Kaiphranos and Demistophon, breed bad subjects
, he decided.

He snapped out of his reverie when he saw Horse Master Sarmoth coming over at a run.

“What’s wrong?” Soton asked.

“Word just arrived, Grand Master,” Sarmoth said, between gulps of breath. “The League of Dralm completely defeated the Union! The Union forces broke at the Battle of Varthon Town and were mostly ridden down. Only a few hundred escaped. Some tried to make their way through the Princedom of Orchon, but were set upon by peasants and soldiers. Even less escaped through Kryphlon.”

Soton wasn’t surprised. Having Prince Simias as a co-commander had been a bad idea from the beginning. He’d had to threaten to withdraw the Temple’s paychests to get Duke Eukides put on equal terms with Simias.

“No great loss,” Soton said, pausing to remove his corncob pipe from its belt loop. He had started using a corncob pipe as a youngster and enjoyed the feel and taste over the more expensive clay and burl pipes he could easily afford.

“What?”

“The Union forces were mostly untrained and unfit for real battle, as their defeat at Varthon Town proved. How did the League of Dralm fare?”

“Significant losses, from their report. The Hostigi pike got mauled pretty good by the Temple Guardsmen, until the Guardsmen got enfiladed by the League’s guns.”

“How did that happen?”

Sarmoth shrugged his shoulders. “The report was sketchy on certain details. However, it appears that once the Temple Bands were routed, they were killed to the last man!”

“How has Marshal Orocles taken the news?”

“Badly, sir. The Union had almost a third of the Guard’s remaining bands.”

Soton had to restrain a smile. He’d always hated the arrogance and bloody-mindedness of Styphon’s Own Guard.
If nothing else, the Fire-seed Wars have clipped their wings!

He paused to finish loading his pipe and used his tinderbox to light a large splinter of wood. He put the flame to the barrel and drew deeply.
With the Temple Guard in disarray, the Order would fill the vacuum and increase its own power base.
He knew Styphon’s Voice Anaxthenes hated Styphon’s Own Guard because they had supported Roxthar and his Investigation. Then it hit him—
Roxthar?

“What about the Holy Investigator? Did he escape?”

“No. It was said that some Union deserters fell upon him and disemboweled him, leaving him for the League to find. They also freed all the prisoners—the poor bastards!”

Soton could barely contain himself.
I want to shout and hoot like some Ruthani tribesman fresh over the Great River and dance in the mucking street! Roxthar the Butcher of Styphon’s House is dead!

He rubbed his hands vigorously instead. “Glorious day! Sarmoth, fetch us some of Ermut’s Best. This is better than any victory, ever!”

Sarmoth, who knew Soton’s struggles with the fanatical Archpriest, smiled wryly and pulled out a flask of Ermut’s and two goblets from his leather shoulder bag. “I thought you’d want a celebratory drink.”

“This may be the happiest day of my life! I’ve had to put up with insults and endless harangues from that bloody butcher for far too long. He’s had his uses, but he’ll do better work in Hadron’s Realm. They’ll know how to work him, by Galzar! But what about his white robes?”

“Before they left, the deserters freed all the prisoners and gave them weapons. From what I read, the investigators were all either killed or taken prisoner. I don’t think there’s a live one left in Hos-Agrys.”

Soton smiled. He had refused to include any of Roxthar’s Investigators in the Host of Styphon’s Deliverance despite the Investigator’s threats. “And no one to miss them, but High Marshal Xenophes.”

It’s too bad that Xenophes stayed behind in Agrys City; I’d love to see his face when this news reaches him. Not only has his Guard lost a third of their already truncated number, but he just lost his greatest source of revenue with Roxthar’s death. As soon as this news reaches Balph, there won’t be a living Investigator in the entire Holy City
.

“I’d love to be in Balph when they hear word of Archpriest Roxthar’s fate,” Sarmoth offered.

“There’ll be parades in the streets and as much celebration as if the Daemon Kalvan himself had died. I’d give you leave to tell them yourself but for the fact that our work here is not done. Mostly mopping up, though.”

“Didn’t the League win?”

“Yes, but they won a battle that probably cost them a third of their manpower. Soldiers they cannot replace. Nor do they have the numbers to attack us. Their victory may revitalize them for a time, but in the long run they’re doomed. We’re going to go through every princedom, dukedom and barony in Hos-Agrys like a dose of the salts. When we get through reaming them out, there won’t be any opposition to speak of.”

“Won’t we need new leaders for all the vacant seats?”

“Yes, but that’s not our problem. Let the Prince-Regent worry about it. Were any of the Union’s princes killed or captured after the battle?”

“Yes, Prince Varion was killed; although, some of the survivors say it was at the hand of Prince Simias, not the League. No word on Simias; apparently he chased the League’s left wing all the way to the walls of Varthon Town. He may have been captured and held for ransom.”