The Fireseed Wars

Soton expected that King Demistophon would soon regret the folly of sending his soldiers into Harphaxi territory. Great King Lysandros was made of far tougher steel than his dead brother, Great King Kaiphranos.

"Prince Phidestros will do that job or I will put his neck on the executioner's block." Lysandros spat out the last words. "Phaaw! Prince and that adventurers' name together put holes in my stomach!"

That mercenary is more like you than you'll ever know, Lysandros, and certainly as ambitious, thought Soton. And, he had as much royal blood in his veins as Lysandros. He was tempted to tell the Great King of Phidestros' link to the Zygrosi royal family, but thought better of it. Archpriest Anaxthenes had ferreted out the secret and should be the one to use it to his advantage. Besides, it might throw more whale oil on the fire of his hatred. This was a time to build bridges between the commanders, not burn them.

Soton shrugged. "I am sure Phidestros will clip King Demistophon's wings. He has enough men to mount an expedition against Agrys City itself. Since he is no longer under the command of Styphon's Grand Host, the priests of Galzar will not be able to put him under the Ban. That will work to our advantage, too."

"Good. I'm glad we were able to come to an accord on this issue."

Soton would have felt better if Lysandros had kept the grin off his face. "Now, I must return to camp," he said. "I have much to mull over."

"Go with Styphon, Grand Master."

As Soton made his way out of the audience chamber, he heard Lysandros mumble, "If I hadn't given my oath, I would just as soon make that jumped-up mercenary Prince of Privies."

FOUR

Chancellor Chartiphon strode into the large tent Kalvan was still using as his headquarters with a grim expression. "Your Majesty, is Great Queen Rylla here today?"

"No, Chartiphon," Kalvan replied. "She's off to a seamstress in Ulthor Port with Lady Eutare. Later they're going to visit some shops."

He sighed. "Good. Prince Kestophes is demanding to be admitted. I don't think this is a good time to meet with the Prince; he appears vexed over some of Your Majesty's proposals. However, it would be best if you saw him before Queen Rylla returns."

Everyone knew that Rylla had very little patience for the concerns of their underlings, even the princes. She saw most issues in the starkest of blacks and whites with few shades of gray. Kalvan did have to admit that since their last talk she was trying to exercise more patience. Still, the merest lifting of an eyebrow from an underling could raise her blood pressure, whereas when Kalvan discussed it in the light of day, she was much more reasonable. Thus he'd found it was better to resolve conflicts while she was away, saving Rylla her good humor and their supplicants a scolding.

Rumors had been flying through Ulthor Port for the past few days that Kalvan was going to fire the city before he departed. Now it appeared the rumors had not only landed, but gone afoot. Kalvan's problem was that he indeed planned to burn the town, right down to its foundations, in order to keep the Grand Host from using Ulthor Port as a gathering center and a place to billet their troops while they prepared to chase after Kalvan and the Hostigi. He hadn't intended to give advance notice, but after firing most of the towns and farms along the Nyklos Trail, it wasn't surprising that such a tale would arise. He had told no one of his plans, as rumors were ripe fuel for secret Styphoni supporters and Ulthor loyalists.

Kalvan took his pipe out and loaded it with fresh leaf. He thought back to his last encounter with Prince Kestophes over a moon ago.

Kalvan raised his hand, giving the order for the van to halt, when he reached the small stream. He liked to ride at the front of the army-well, not an army exactly, but a massive trail of people, carts and wagons that stretched for over a hundred miles-so that he could breathe fresh air and escape the never-ending questions of his subjects, although in truth the dead stares of the walking wounded were the hardest to bear. This rest stop would provide his troopers a chance to water and feed themselves and their horses; they were about two miles, or four marches, ahead of the main body. Behind them he could see black fingers of smoke poking up into the gray eastern sky from burning Nyklosi farmhouses and fields that lay behind the Hostigi horde.