The Fireseed Wars

II

Grand-Captain Ranthos reined his horse in and slowly got off his horse. His morion comb was slashed and bent from a sword blow, the red and white plumes broken and bent, and the brim held together by only the gods-knew-what. He tossed it to the ground and ran his stubby fingers over his sweat-slicked head. His backside was sore and he needed a drink badly. Captain-General Hestophes appeared to read his mind and handed him a metal flask. It was filled with Ermut's Best diluted with water. His throat contracted, he sputtered for a moment, and then drank again. "Dralm damnit, that's good!"

"How's the fight going, Ranthos?" Hestophes asked.

"We're getting the snot kicked out of us. I'm glad we decided to keep my companies with the reserve. Where's the Royal Army?"

The Captain-General held his hands out palms up. "Hiding in Tarr-Agrys with King Demistophon, under his bed, I suppose. The League put too much faith in him; I warned them he was as reliable as winter weather."

"If Demistophon's not sending the Royal Army, somebody better sound a retreat soon or there won't be enough left of the League Army to garrison a good castle."

"That's up to Prince Vython. He's convinced that his nephew, the Great King, will not leave the League in the lurch."

"By Styphon's cutlets, he already has! And so has the League by appointing this doddering old fool Captain-General of the Army."

"Let's go talk some sense into him!"

"That's his pavilion over there." They walked their horses over to the temporary command post which Prince Vython had outfitted like a royal brothel. The Prince, a gray-haired man of polished mien, was ordering his staff at full screech to load his belongings. Most of them stood frozen in shock. Four or five other princes and commanders were wandering in a daze. The sound of guns firing and the clang of arms made it almost impossible to hear.

Ranthos went over, grabbed the Prince's shoulders and rocked him back and forth until his eyes focused. "What in Styphon's name are you doing, Prince? Why aren't you on the battlefield?"

His bodyguards, dressed in their parade uniforms with silvered armor, looked as if they wanted to wring Ranthos' neck but held back waiting for the Prince's orders. Maybe they're afraid to get their hands dirty!

"I returned here to prepare to retire. My nephew was supposed to support our attack-"

"Well, he hasn't and he's not going to."

"Then what can I do? I have to return to my tarr," the Prince said, wringing his hands.

Ranthos had never seen anyone do that with steel gauntlets and bet that later that evening, if he was still alive, he'd be unable to move his fingers. "Who's in command of the Army, if you're not?"

"Duke Mnestros is holding the Styphoni advance, while we-"

Hestophes pushed his way past Ranthos. "Sound the retreat, and damn your eyes! If we don't leave now, there won't be anything but the peasant levy to stop Soton from rolling up Hos-Agrys all the way to the Sea of Aesklos!"

"I don't know," Vython dithered. "If we sound the retreat, there won't be time to pack-"

Hestophes pushed him aside and turned to the Prince's trumpeter. "Sound the horns, now!"

"Yes, sir!" the young horn-player cried.

"Sto-" Prince Vython cried out, as Ranthos' fist punched out his front teeth in a smear of blood and broken teeth.

One of the Prince's guardsmen started to pull his sword, but wisely stopped when he saw Hestophes' horse pistol staring him in the face.

"Take the Prince to an Uncle Wolf and get ready to withdraw," Hestophes ordered. "I'm going to use the reserve in a feint, to make Soton believe that we're going to blindside him. He'll have to pull his forces short and redress his lines. That'll give our soldiers time to retreat to the nearest tarr, which is Tarr-Malthros, over here.

"Now, get moving, Dralm-damn all of you!"