The Fireseed Wars

FIFTEEN

It was over a moon quarter since Rylla and the Army of the Trygath had left Port Ulthor. There hadn't been a word about the Nythrosi fleet until this morning at sunrise, when Cleon had awakened Kalvan with the news of its arrival. He'd had to stop himself, in a total loss of royal dignity, from throwing on some rumpled breeches and a doublet and dashing down to the wharves to see for himself. He'd decided to wait until he was officially notified of their arrival.

Instead, he forced himself to work with Colonel Ralthos, another of his up-and-coming young officers, on the gunboat situation. With General Alkides off with the Army of the Trygath, Ralthos was the ranking artillery commander. So far they had twelve finished gunboats with half a dozen more in various stages of production.

"We have three more boats that are worth shipping to Thagnor, but the rest aren't far enough along to bother taking them out of the work sheds. It would be easier to build them anew, with some of the improvements Your Majesty suggested."

"Good, Colonel. I want them put aboard our own ships. I don't want the Nythrosi to even hear a whisper about the gunboats. Make sure you burn and destroy everything, including the sheds, before we leave."

"Yes, Sire. We wouldn't want those Styphoni curs getting their paws on our work!"

"We've got outriders waiting to burn every farm and field around Ulthor Port. Once they're finished, they'll blow up all the buildings in town and torch whatever is left before we depart."

Colonel Ralthos' nodded grimly, as it would be his men who would be responsible for laying the charges.

His subjects were still learning the meaning of total war. Kalvan didn't intend to leave anything behind except charcoal and stone. His Ulthori subjects had been warned; over half the town had left with Rylla's baggage train. The rest had left for the hills, leaving Ulthor Port as empty as an Old West ghost town. Those who had the money to buy passage had left half a moon ago for Glarth Town or the Middle Kingdoms.

Kalvan knew he was not a popular figure in westernmost Hos-Hostigos. Still, refugees from the Investigation were arriving daily. Now that they had no more room for extra cargo, the DPs were being turned back at the outskirts of town. They were given as much food as the town's quickly dwindling foodstocks-Rylla and the Army of the Trygath had taken the lion's share-would allow, pointed in the direction of the Trygath and firmly told to depart.

He doubted many of the late arrivals would survive the coming winter, but their survival was out of his hands for now. Someday, he promised himself, Styphon's House would pay for every single death.

He heard Prince Phrames' voice in the hallway.

"Come in, Phrames."

"Your Majesty, the Nythrosi fleet has arrived. Boarding has already commenced."

"Excellent."

Phrames came in wearing a heavy cloak. "Dress warmly, Your Majesty. There's a chill wind blowing off the sea." Trader Tortha and Uncle Wolf Tharses trailed behind, followed by a large dog that looked like a Roman wolfhound.

"Trader Tortha, how long will it take to load all our men and supplies aboard the ships?"

Tortha looked upward, as though asking help from the gods, then said, "Two or three days at most, Your Majesty."

"Good. Colonel Ralthos, I want you to see that the palace is completely destroyed. We've got almost ten tons of Styphon's fireseed that's not worth transporting, not even for trading. Put it where it will do the most good."

Ralthos looked appalled, but nodded his accord. "There's not going to be a lot to return to, Sire."

"I don't intend to leave anything to aid and comfort the enemy!" Kalvan snapped back, no longer able to restrain his temper. He didn't relish torching Ulthor Port the way General Sherman had fired Atlanta, but it had to be done.

Ralthos looked as if he'd been struck. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

Phrames looked at him with hurt eyes.

Kalvan shook his head. "I'm not angry with any of you, so don't take my bad mood personally. I can't tell you how much I hate having to pull our own house down just to discomfort the enemy, but there is no other path. We've lost our home-maybe for good."

They all looked abashed at his bald statement of the facts.

"We must believe, and our subjects must believe, that we will return," Phrames pronounced. "If we lose our identity as Hostigi, we are lost. Both as a kingdom and as a people."

"You are absolutely right. However, among ourselves we'd better be prepared for any eventuality, even if it means permanent exile."

No one had anything to say about this declaration. They all left for the docks a somber, but united, group.