The chill night air cut through Grand-Captain Phidestros' Grefftscharrer buffjacket like a knife blade. He hadn't been back to Zygros City for four years and had forgotten how bitter cold these narrow streets became after sundown. He watched as half a dozen drunken fur trappers staggered out of a nearby tavern, the stench rising off them like steam. One trapper, with a mouth full of broken teeth, eyed him and his mount. Phidestros slowly slipped one of the big horse pistols out of its saddle holster and-by the light coming from the torches framing the tavern door-carefully checked the priming pan.
One of the trappers, with a tilted coonskin cap, saluted him with a flask and shouted, "To Galzar!"
"To the Wargod," Phidestros echoed. On this frozen night he could use all the help the Galzar could provide. Any sane man would have taken Captain Kyblannos' advice and brought a squad of troopers or, at least, Petty-Captain Geblon, his huge banner-bearer with him. In Hos-Zygros, the northern-most of the Five Kingdoms, a man by himself was not safe on streets of Zygros City after dark-winter, spring, summer or fall. Yet, this night's business was private, between only him and his past. So Geblon was waiting with Captain Kyblannos and the rest of the squad, with a tankard of winter wine back at the inn. And none too happily, at that.
A battle-scarred tomcat screamed and his mount whinnied. Phidestros kneed his horse sharply and pulled back on the reins. He had purchased Grayhawk from a horse trader in Harphax City several moons ago to replace Snowdrift, the faithful destrier he'd left behind-with about half his command at the Dralm-damned battlefield of Phyrax. The horse trader had sworn on his mother's life and Styphon's Wheel that the stallion was battle trained-raised on vinegar and fireseed.
Phidestros swore a promise to Galzar that if Grayhawk shied away from war cries, as he did from cat yowls, he'd fillet that horse trader, from scalp to sole, with his hunting knife.
From farther down the twisted streets, Grand-Captain Phidestros heard the clamor of horse hooves on cobbled stones and rested his long-muzzled flintlock on the saddle pommel. The silver-chased horse pistol, taken from the corpse of one of the Hostigi Royal Pistoleers, had been the sum total of the Iron Band's spoils from the cursed Battle of Phyrax. Phidestros hoped that the more than ten score of soldiers he'd left behind fared better in Galzar's Great Hall.
When the horsemen emerged from the alleyway, he recognized them as members of the watch, rather than some baron's hired bullyboys. They wore cloaks of black wool, with red trim; the city colors. "And what be your business this eventide, your nobleship?" the watch's petty-captain asked, covering himself with the honorific because of Grayhawk's rich trappings.
"An overlong dalliance with a comely tavern wench, my good, sir," Phidestros answered.
"'Tis a frosty night and a good time for a warm fire and willing wench, me thinks." The other watchmen, wearing mismatched bison cloaks around their blackened back-and-breast armor, nodded their agreement. "But, be on your way. There lurks more serious game than sewer rats on these streets."
Phidestros nodded his agreement and urged Grayhawk into a faster pace. The house wasn't but a few doors down, just past the venires, which he knew from past visits-six in the past twelve years. The first had been when he was fourteen, apprenticed to a cabinet master, two moons after his mother's death of the flux. She had been a handsome woman, the daughter of a merchant, who had never married and ran a respectable boarding house. It was there Phidestros had gotten his first yen for soldiering from a retired petty-captain, who'd filled him with tall tales about past campaigns and battles-that is, whenever his mother was out of earshot.
His mother, a woman of unusually stern will, had determined Phidestros' course until her death had set him free. The other children had mocked him as a bastard until his face began to sprout and his limbs hardened like oak. Then he'd paid long-standing debts with broken teeth and blackened eyes.
His father, nor his absence, was ever mentioned. Not by his mother. The earliest inkling that his father was even alive came after his fourteenth winter, when he received an invitation to this same house, here on the Street of Furriers. He'd learned little then about his father, and not much since. Only that his father was a man of wealth and social prominence who was unable to acknowledge his bastard son, but did want to see that said son was provided for. Phidestros had asked more questions, of course, but they'd been met with silence and a purse of gold-even at fourteen winters he'd had the good sense to know when to keep his mouth shut. He had little curiosity left now that he knew the ways of the world and he, himself, had sired two of his own get-un-recognized, but modestly provided for.
In his youth, Phidestros had plotted with his friends to have his father's go-between followed and identified, but finally had concluded that a purse in hand was worth more than a kick in the hindparts. Besides, his life as a mercenary captain was not one to make most fathers puff with pride.
Phidestros saw the familiar portal, a wooden plank door with a boar's head emblem carved into the top brace, and dismounted. He was careful to tie Grayhawk's reins to the thick metal loop in the doorpost. Any thief fool enough to try and steal a war horse would deserve the not so gentle surprise he would receive from his destrier's steel-shod hooves.
He felt his pulse race as he anticipated tonight's purse. His pay chest had been depleted by the Daemon's War and what remained had been quickly emptied re-fitting his troopers, reimbursing their pay chits and mustering them out for the winter. He'd had little enough gold left to do anything more than see after his own lodging. To return the Iron Band to its former strength would take more than one purse of gold, but it was a start. Harphax City was filled to the bursting with returning soldiers and captain-less mercenaries.
The parchment telling him to meet with Count Sestembar had been welcome indeed, despite the half-moon long journey with a merchants' caravan through inhospitable weather. At least the squad had received a small purse of silver as payment, earning it twice over when highwaymen sprung an ambush. Phidestros still grinned at their dismay when they learned it was the Iron Band, not some gaggle of unemployed mercenaries, they were crossing swords with. The roads were no longer safe since the war, with too many soldiers without captains, and peasants without farms or hope.
He hoped there would be enough gold so he could re-outfit the Iron Band for next spring's campaigns. War with Hos-Hostigos was as certain now as the morning sun. With Hos-Harphax in the middle of a succession crisis and the army demoralized, there was little to keep Great King Kalvan from storming Harphax City itself.
While Styphon's Own Paymasters had indeed paid off the survivor's of Grand Master Soton's army, contrary to rumor, they had not been generous with their gold. With no battlefield loot or ransom, there was little left for any captain's pay chest. Many companies, even those with long serving captains, had been forced to disperse. If Phidestros could obtain a good purse, there would be no problem next year in raising a full muster. He was sure Styphon's pay chests would be overflowing gold this spring now that Kalvan had defeated the Holy Host and was calling himself a Great King. Having been within spear throwing distance of Kalvan, Phidestros was certain the man was no demon, just a good soldier and a great captain; a man, had circumstances been different, that Phidestros would be proud to serve under. If the truth were to be known, he had little love for the flinty-eyed priests of the fireseed god, Styphon. But their gold was pure and there was plenty of it.
His sword-hardened fist pounded on the door. Count Sestembar, little changed except for his baldpate, gestured for him to enter the furnished room, pointing out a high-backed chair for him to sit in. Phidestros could remember when that chair had loomed so much larger. The room had changed in some subtle fashion and his eye quickly added up the contents: the maple desk at which the Count was now sitting, a large cupboard and two chests. All stoutly made of quality walnut, he had worked similar wood as a boy. Everything was the same as always except for the wine-red curtain at the back corner of the room. Had his father finally decided Phidestros' reputation was too tarnished to bear, and planted an assassin to see he was removed from the family's list?
Phidestros casually splayed out his right leg and gently rested his hand on his sword's basket hilt. Should the pistol misfire, with Galzar's help, he would give no man time for a second shot.
Count Sestembar opened, "Even here in Zygros City we have heard of the battlefield exploits of Grand-Captain Phidestros."
Phidestros watched Sestembar's eyes to see if they matched his words. The Count appeared to be speaking sincerely. He swallowed and attempted to relax. "Thank you, my lord. I hope what you have heard has been pleasing to your ears."
"We have long waited for such success for our Grace's son, and it appears our patience has been rewarded. You have done no worse, and far better, than most in the Holy Host."
Phidestros slowly began to uncoil. "I was fortunate to have good soldiers in my employ."
"To survive three battles with the man called The Daemon by the Temple of Styphon takes more than good soldiers or even good fortune. It takes a good commander. One, who having fought the new King of Hos-Hostigos more than any commander yet alive, is now in position to have learned more about his military leadership and strategy than any man in the Five Kingdoms."
Phidestros relaxed a little more, feeling kindly disposed towards Sestembar for failing to mention that the three battles against Great King Kalvan had been losses not victories.
"Now," Count Sestembar announced, "I've got someone who wants to meet you and share your knowledge of the man who has appointed himself the first new Great King in over two hundred years."
The velvet curtains parted and out stepped a tall, long-boned aristocrat, who looked vaguely familiar. The gunmetal blue beard was well trimmed and shot with silver; the aquiline nose looked like the twin to his. Of course, you idiot! It's the same nose you see every morning in your metal looking-piece when you trim your beard.
Count Sestembar bowed, saying, "Grand-Captain Phidestros, I would like you to meet your father, the Grand Duke Eudocles of the First House of Hos-Zygros."
Phidestros attempted to rise too quickly and almost tripped over his scabbard.
The Grand Duke motioned with his hand that he should remain seated. "Let me look at you, son. Sestembar, you've been telling me the truth; he does look to be my spitting image-when I was younger, of course. But broader in the shoulders and thicker in limb. Much as I might have been had I lived by the sword rather than by the throne."
"I… I… I'm pleased to meet you, Your Grace," Phidestros mumbled. His father was the Grand Duke of all Hos-Zygros, the only living brother to Great King Sopharar. Never in his wildest imaginings-even as a child-had he dared dream of a father sitting so high!
"I must apologize, my son, for the delay at our meeting. But, as you can guess, there are certain political realities that have precluded me from claiming you as my son, or even sharing my knowledge with you. There are men here in Zygros City and elsewhere that might well have profited greatly from that knowledge, or even have tried to harm me through you. The burdens of office and kinship weigh heavily upon our family."
"Of course, Your Grace, and I thank you for your kindness all these years," Phidestros answered, his wits and tongue finally untied. Yes, you old fox, you had plenty of reasons for not letting the world know your by-blow was waiting in the wings. Until the right moment, of course, when said bastard can repay some of his long-standing debt.
"Since the miraculous arrival a few years ago of the Dralm-sent, or Ormaz-spawned Kalvan-depending upon who you listen to-our kingdoms have seen more warfare than at any time in the previous fifty years. With both Styphon's House and the new League of Dralm clamoring for Zygrosi support, we must know more about this man who claims for himself the title of Great King of Hos-Hostigos. Is he a demon, a demi-god-or just a mere mortal? Is he a friend to our House, or an enemy? Will he attempt to raise himself up to be King of Great Kings, as some princes fear, or will he be content with his present crown and lands in Hos-Hostigos? These are just some of the questions that need answering, my son."
Phidestros noticed the coin-sized cold spot under his lower rib that he always felt when facing off against a dangerous adversary. Now he knew the reason behind the long-delayed father and son reunion. He'd had the misfortune-probably the wrong word since he had survived and learned more about Kalvan's tactics than anyone outside Hos-Hostigos-to be bested by the most feared man alive in three different battles.
The question now was how much should he, could he, tell this man who'd never had the time to greet him until now-when it was worth his while? Yes, worth Eudocles while it may well be, but the real question was: Was it worth his while? To feign ignorance of Kalvan would gain him little, and probably cost him a fat purse. A well-crafted answer, however, might raise his value in his father's eyes and possibly lead to future opportunities within Hos-Zygros. A barony, or even a princedom, was not an unknown reward for a valuable son from the left side of the badge. He wondered how word of his parentage might rattle the Inner Circles of the upper priesthood in Balph.
While mercenary captains were not renowned for their longevity, a significant number were known to live to that ripe old age where both their battle prowess and their wits began to decline. When they reached the age of retirement, there were few houses or cities that welcomed them, as more than one captain had been known to come out of retirement when it suited his purse rather than his ruler. It would be no bad thing-even for a footloose man of the sword, like himself-to have even a minor place in the royal family of Hos-Zygros. Especially, in a kingdom where the Great King had out-lived his two sons and his only grandson was in frail health. Dare he dream…?
Of course, he dared! It was the destiny Phidestros had always dreamed of. No, he would not retire to some backwoods village in his dotage! He would rise as high as his ambition, or fill some anonymous grave. It was time to play the dutiful son to his flint-hearted sire. Maybe one day he would rise above even his father's ambitions; the father who had abandoned him to a commoner's life. One day there would come a day of reckoning, when all past debts would be settled. Phidestros, for one, would enjoy each payment-small and large. Would he ever!
"Yes, father, I will answer those questions I can. Though no man may see into another's heart, even when he has peered into his eyes."
"You have actually seen this Kalvan up close!"
The hook was set. "Truly, I was as close to Great King Kalvan as the curtain you stood behind." He pointed to the curtain, which appeared to be blood red in the flickering candlelight. "The tide of battle thrust us together on the fields of Phyrax, for a moment, then tore us asunder as the tides of the ocean.
"I saw a man, like other men; but touched by the gods. His eyes burn from a deep inner fire and his laugh is a terrible thing to hear. Still, while a great leader of men and blessed by the gods; he is still a man-like you or me. Not a demi-god as the priests of Dralm would make him, or a demon as the Styphon's priests decry. A man who could be a good friend, or a terrible enemy."
"What of the demon spawned gifts he has brought with him?"
Phidestros slowly brought forth his rapier and demonstrated its point. "This is one of Kalvan's 'gifts.' A sword that not only cuts, but thrusts too. A simple idea, you could say, but one no other man thought to do it. Yes, it makes this sword far more dangerous to my enemies. I say, if this is demon magic-give me more! Like his fireseed that burns smoother and with more blast than Styphon's Best."
Duke Eudocles nodded sagely. "We have tried his new formula here in Hos-Zygros and found it superior to Styphon's Best in all ways."
"He has brought other gifts as well: a special harness that allows him to haul demi-cannon by a team of horses. Cannons that can be taken anywhere on the field and removed in a half-candle. And a musket that shoots as far as a bird can fly, with great accuracy."
"Even here we have heard of these rifles, but, until now, I had dismissed them as priest blather."
"I have been on the receiving end of their fire and seen them punch through good proof armor from more than a thousand rods and still knock a man off his horse. I could storm Regwarn itself, with the Iron Band and two hundred of these muskets that Kalvan calls rifles."
His father and Sestembar quickly looked at each other. "Could you bring us one of these rifles!" the Duke asked.
If I could lay my hands upon such a rifle, I would have little need for you, dear father. "I heard a rumor, your Grace-"
"Call me Father."
Phidestros nodded, moving his head down toward his chest, so that the Duke wouldn't catch the unbidden smile that played upon his lips. "I have heard that Grand Master Soton had such a rifle and hid it among the gold and silver in the Holy Host's pay chests. I have never seen one close, only at the receiving end, when a company of Kalvan's Mounted Riflemen ambushed us at Chothros Heights. I lost many good soldiers that afternoon."
"If one should fall into your hands, my son, remember your father well. The reward will be far richer than you can imagine."
Phidestros nodded dutifully. He then went on to tell them about his experiences against the army of Hostigos and the many new things he had observed while fighting Kalvan. They seemed particularly interested in how Kalvan had confiscated the gold from Styphon's temples. He finished up with a detailed description of the political situation that Kalvan's victories had created within Hos-Harphax.
When Phidestros was finished, the Duke said, "We have learned a good deal from your answers, my son. I thank you for your forthrightness."
"As I must thank you for yours, father, sir," Phidestros answered with an ironic smile.
Count Sestembar, his face red, started to rise with his hand reaching for his sword hilt, but the Duke pushed him back down.
"The weight of office is indeed heavy, my son, as I pray you might learn some day."
His father had just taken the pot and raised it. Phidestros had to nod in admiration. What new plans brewed in that crafty old skull, and what was his part in them?
"Now, I want your words on a most important matter of policy. How, in your considered opinion, should Hos-Zygros bend before the growing winds of war? As you might surmise, we have no desire to wear Styphon's yoke, or Kalvan's, either. Should we bow toward the Usurper, or Styphon's House?"
Amazing, a bastard helping formulate the grand strategy of a Great Kingdom! Who would have believed it, not me, thought Phidestros. Still, this was treacherous ground indeed; he would have to answer most cautiously. "Both have great need of Zygrosi blood and treasure and will use them to the last drop of blood and piece of gold.
"King Kalvan is perhaps the greatest general in the history of the Five Kingdoms. He also has weapons of war at his hand that no man has seen before or can truly judge. Yet, he is only one man and Hos-Hostigos is a small Great Kingdom adrift in a sea of enemies. Nor can he depend upon his captains, as himself; thus we learned from the Battle of Tenabra, where First Prince Ptosphes suffered a grave defeat.
"True, Styphon's House has been wounded, but the Temple has many followers and more gold than a company of troops could count in three lifetimes. Hos-Zygros indeed walks a perilous path between these two giants and must walk with care. Yet, if one of these towers must fall; it will surely be Kalvan."
"Then you suggest we support Styphon's House in the coming wars?" The Duke looked as if he were swallowing rattlesnake venom.
"No. I suggest nothing. Even if Kalvan topples, Styphon's House will be the shorter and will never be as it was. I council neutrality for the land of my birth, but armed and prepared neutrality. Support Kalvan with secret gold and Styphon's House with words and promises of soldiers. But give nothing without receiving. Work one against the other and you may stay free of either harness."
"Weighty advice, my son. Well worth consideration. I see now you could have been a courtier as well as a soldier. I will take your words to the proper ears. Now, it is time for us to part. I trust I will see you in good health on your next visit. I will sacrifice to Galzar for your success."
"Thank you, my father," Phidestros answered. The Grand Duke turned and was gone in a swirl of curtains and bows before the words were completely out of his mouth. Phidestros felt as if he'd just watched a street corner gramarye.
His father was not a man to be underestimated, and certainly not the man he'd imagined as his father these many years ago. He was much more and less, too. However, it had been twelve winters since he'd entertained any serious thoughts on the subject. No, this father was not the father of anyone's dreams. He could prove a useful ladder, but only for so long as one kept in mind the rungs could fall from beneath one's feet at the first shake, or misstep.
Count Sestembar stood up and brought forth a bulging leather saddlebag from underneath the desk. With a grunt of effort, he thrust it into Phidestros waiting arms with a less than enthusiastic expression. "Your father believes that this will be of some help in the coming campaigns."
Phidestros' lips twisted, as he swallowed the glee inside-enough gold to outfit a double-company! And plenty left over for a winter's worth of wenching and drinking.
The Count drew back, as if he'd just witnessed a wolf licking its lips.
"Thank you, Count," Phidestros said, as he staggered under the weight of the saddlebag. "Already, I look forward to my next visit."