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.