"And another thing: battle-cries." They had to be shouted constantly, to keep friend from killing friend. "Besides 'Ptosphes!' and 'Hostigos!' we will shout 'Down Styphon!"
That met with general approval. They all knew who the real enemy was.
GORMOTH, Prince of Nostor, set down the goblet, wiping his bearded lips on the back of his hand. The candies in front of him and down the long tables at the sides flickered. Tableware clattered, and voices were loud.
"Lost everything!" The speaker was a baron driven from Sevenhills Valley when Tarr-Dombra had fallen almost a moon ago. "My house, a score of farms, a village…"
"You think we've lost nothing?" another noble demanded. "They crossed the river the night after they chased you out, and burned everything on my land. It was Styphon's own miracle I got out with my own blood unspilled."
"For shame!" cried Vyblos, the high priest of the temple of Styphon, sitting with him at the high table. "You speak of cow-byres and peasant-huts; what of the temple-farm of Sevenhills, a holy place pillaged and desecrated? What of fifteen consecrated priests and novices, and a score of lay guards, all cruelly murdered? 'Dealt with as wolves are'," he quoted.
"That's Styphon's business; let him took to his own," the lord from western Nostor said. "I want to know why our Prince isn't looking to the protection of Nostor."
"It can be stopped, Prince." That was the mayor, and wealthiest merchant, of Nostor Town. "Prince Ptosphes has offered peace, now that Hostigos has Tarr-Dombra again. He's a man of his word."
"Peace tossed like a bone to a cur?" yelled Netzigon, the chief captain of Nostor. "Friendship shot at us out of cannon?"
"Peace with a desecrator of holy places, and a butcher of Styphon's priests?" Vyblos fairly screamed. "Peace with a blasphemer who pretends, with his mortal hands, to work Styphon's own miracle, and make fireseed without Styphon's aid?"
"More than pretends!" That was Gormoth's cousin, Count Phebion. He still hadn't taken Pheblon back into his favor after losing Tarr-Dombra, but for those words he was close to it. "By Dralm, the Hostigi burned more fireseed taking Tarr-Dombra than we thought they had in all Hostigos. I was there, which you weren't. And when they opened the magazines, they only sneered and said, 'That filthy trash; don't get it mixed with ours'."
"That's all aside," the baron from Listra-Mouth said. "I want to know what's being done to keep their raiders out of Nostor. Why, they've harried all the strip between the mountains and the river; there isn't a house standing there now."
Weapons clattered at the door. Somebody else sneered: "That's Ptosphes, now! Under the tables, everybody!" A man in mail and black leather strode in, advancing and saluting; the captain of the dungeons.
"Lord Prince, the special prisoner has been made to talk. He will tell all."
"Ha!" Gormoth knew what that meant., Then he laughed at the looks of concern on faces down the side tables. Not a few at his court had cause to dread somebody telling all about something. He drew his poignard and cut a line across the candle in front of him, a thumb's breadth from the top.
"You bring good news. I'll go to hear him in that time." As he nodded dismissal, the captain bowed and backed away. He rapped loudly on the table with the pommel of the dagger. "Be silent, all of you; I've little time, so give heed. Klestreus," he addressed the elected captain-general of the mercenary free-companies, "you have four thousand horse, two thousand foot, and ten cannon. Add to them a thousand of my infantry and such guns of mine as you think fit. You'll cross the Athan at Marax Ford. Be on the road before the dew's off the grass tomorrow; before dawn of the next day, take and hold the ford, put the best of your cavalry across at once, and let the others follow as speedily as they can.
"Netzigon," he told his own chief-captain, "you'll gather every man you can, down to the very peasant rabble, and such cannon as Klestreus leaves you. Post companies to confront every pass in the mountains from across the river; use the peasants for that. With the rest of your force, march to Listra-Mouth and Vryllos Gap. As Klestreus moves west through East Hostigos, he will attack each gap from behind; when he does, your people will cross over and give aid. Tarr-Dombra we'll have to starve out; the rest must be taken by storm. When Klestreus is as far as Vryllos Gap, you will cross the Athan and move up Listra Valley. After that, we'll have Tarr-Hostigos to take. Galzer only knows how long we'll be at that, but by the end of the moon-half all else in Hostigos should be ours."
There were gratified murmurs all along the table; this made good hearing, and they had waited long to hear it. Only the high priest, Vyblos, was ill-pleased.
"But why so soon, Prince?"
"Soon? By the Mace of Galzar, you've been bawling for it like a branded calf since greenleaf-time. Well, now you have your invasion-yet you object. Why?"
"A few more days would cost nothing, Prince," Vyblos said. "Today I had word from Styphon's House Upon Earth, from the pen of His Divinity, Styphon's Voice Himself. An archpriest, His Sanctity Krastokles, is traveling hither with rich gifts and the blessing of Styphon. It were poor reverence not to await His Sanctity's coming."
Another cursed temple-rat, bigger and fatter and more insolent than this one. Well, let him come after the victory, and content himself with what bones were tossed to him.
"You heard me," he told the two captains. "I rule here, not this priest. Be about it; send out your orders now, and move in the morning."
Then he rose, pushing back the chair before the servant behind him could touch it. The line was still visible at the top of the candle.
Guards with torches attended him down the winding stairs into the dungeons. The air stank. His breath congealed; the heat of summer never penetrated here. From the torture chamber shrieks told of some wretch being questioned; idly he wondered who. Stopping at an iron-bound door, he unlocked it with a key from his belt and entered alone, closing it behind him.
The room within was large, warmed by a fire on a hearth in the corner and lighted by a great lantern from above. Under it, a man bent over a littered table, working with a mortar and pestle. As the door closed, he straightened and turned. He had a bald head and a red beard, and wore a most unprisoner-like dagger on his belt. A key for the door lay on the table, and by them a pair of heavy horseman's pistols. He smiled.
"Greetings, Prince; it's done. I tried some, and it's as good as they make in Hostigos, and better than the dirt the priests sell."
"And no prayers to Styphon, Skranga?"
Skranga was chewing tobacco. He spat brownly on the floor.
"That in the face of Styphon! You want to try it, Prince? The pistols are empty."
There was a bowl half full of fireseed on the table. He measured a charge and poured it into one, loaded and wadded a ball on top of it, primed the pan, readied the flint and striker. Aiming at a billet of wood by the hearth, he fired, then laid the pistol down and went to probe the hole with a straw. The bullet had gone in almost a little finger's length; Styphon's powder wouldn't do that much.
"Well, Skranga! " he laughed. "We'll have to keep you hidden for awhile yet, but from this hour you're first nobleman of Nostor after myself. Style yourself Duke. There'll be rich lands for you in Hostigos, when Hostigos is mine."
"And in Nostor the Styphon temple-farms?" Skranga asked. "If I'm to make fireseed for you, there's all there that I'll need."
"Yes, by Galzar, that too! After I've dealt with Ptosphes, I'll have a reckoning with Vyblos, and before I let him die, he'll be envying Ptosphes."
Snatching up a pewter cup without looking to see if it were clean, he went to the wine-barrel and drew it full. He tasted the wine, then spat it out.