John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Knight-Sergeant Sarmoth sighed with relief, when up ahead he saw the first Kythari watchtower. His oath brother, Longshanks, was walking behind his destrier, having rode his own pony into the ground. Steel Hooves was made of sterner horseflesh, but Sarmoth could hear his lungs laboring like a blacksmiths bellows.

"Who goes there?" asked a helmed figure from the top of the watchtower, cradling a crossbow.

Longshanks snorted, as if to say, 'Isn't it obvious we are Zarthani Knights?' After all, Kythar was a garrison town, the garrison to Tarr-Ceros, the biggest and most important of all the Orders castles and seat of the Grand Master of the Holy Order of Zarthani Knights.

"Knight-Sergeant Sarmoth of the Twelfth Lance, reporting. We need new mounts. It is urgent that we see Grand Master Soton at once!"

The guard raised the visor of his helm, revealing a youthful face just beginning to sprout a blonde fringe around the jaw. "Nomad trouble?"

Sarmoth nodded. He didn't intend to give a full report to every guard and under-officer he met.

"In that case, you can use my horse. Leave her at the Old Barley Stable on the first street north of the tannery-you can't miss the smell."

The watchguard's horse was a swaybacked old nag, which snorted and kicked at Steel Hooves approach. Sarmoth was pleased to see that his destrier took no notice of the other horse, except to nip her on the flanks. He tied a rope between the two horses and took off at a canter, with his oath brother riding behind.

Within two candles, after two more stops at a watchtower and a guard shack, they reached the outskirts of Kythar. Sarmoth was pleased to find the city so alert; other towns much closer to the nomad hordes he had passed had been lax about the threat of invasion. He knew that fools ruled their councils.

Kythar was a thriving city, bustling with commerce and industry; half a dozen war galleys were tied up at the docks and dozens of barges and riverboats swarmed the lesser wharves. Twice he saw points of Knights moving through the streets toward the towering castle, perched on a hillside, east of the city. The streets were far wider than those of Dorg, which he had visited with his father many years ago. Sarmoth suspected the broad avenues were to facilitate the movement of troops, since the city had grown up around Tarr-Ceros, not the other way around, as was usually the case.

It took six candles to reach the first barricade; twice he was questioned at the outer works, until he was provided with an escort. Sarmoth was guided across temporary wooden bridges that passed over deep trenches, and through three wooden palisades, the height of the outer walls of Tarr-Syklos! Then came the great stonewalls, eighteen to twenty rods thick, which ringed the foot of the great Tarr. These ring walls would break the heart of any nomad army, thought Sarmoth, as he was led through one gate after another.

He left his mount, escort and the watchman's nag with the Tarr sentry, with orders to have his mount taken to the castle stalls, and the guards returned to the Old Barley Stable.

Still nothing he had seen so far had prepared him for his first close-up view of Tarr-Ceros, a veritable stone mountain of a fortress, faced with white marble. A great central keep towered over the surrounding buildings like a sentry. The atmosphere was forbidding, as though the great fortress were already under siege. Knights, some fully armored, were coming and going in large numbers through the great portal. Maybe the Order was at siege, he thought, hadn't the Knights fought and lost many of their Lances in far-off Hostigos, where they defended Styphon House, against the heretical Easterners.

Sarmoth was led to a large antechamber with several long benches, holding four or five parties, including that of a yellow robed Archpriest, who was flanked by a bodyguard of Styphon's Own Guard, resplendent in their silver armor and blazing red capes. He suddenly felt shabby in his woolen pants and dusty jerkin, with only a short black tunic emblazoned with the white Holy Wheel to indicate he was one of the Brethren.

Sarmoth was given a scowl by the Archpriest, when a Knight Commander, in silvered armor every bit as shiny as the Temples guardsmen, approached and called him by name. He followed the Commander into the Great Hall, hung with banners and rich tapestries picturing the Orders great victories. Behind the Grand Master's seat was a magnificent window made of a dozen or more panes of glass, which displayed the Lydistros River and the bustling port. Sitting beneath the window, in a gilded chair that was more throne than seat, sat the Orders commander, Grand Master Soton.

Sarmoth was surprised, when the massive figure rose up from his seat to greet him, he wasn't much taller than he'd appeared seated. Grand Master Soton had a huge head and was clean-shaven but for a mustache. He was also surprised to see that Soton wore a simple tunic, from better cloth, but otherwise similar to the one he wore over his jerkin. The Grand Master's only badge of office was a massive silver chain with a gold representation of Styphons Holy Wheel the size of his fist. Sarmoth had expected raiment fit for a king; after all, the Knights protected lands larger by two than even the grandest of the Middle or Great Kingdoms.

The Grand Master indicated a chair in front of his desk, saying, "Have a seat. You've come a long ways, Sergeant Sarmoth."

Sarmoth nodded, his tongue suddenly in knots, and sat after the Grand Master.

"What news do you bring?"

The urgency behind his words broke through the temporary paralysis of Sarmoth's tongue and he began to speak. "The Mexicotal have driven the western nomads and Ruthani across the Sea of Grass to the very gates of Xiphlon. The great walled city has once again rebuffed their attempts at siege craft, and now the nomads are moving into the lower Sastragath. The Mexicotal have invested Xiphlon and the nomads have nowhere else to flee, but to the east and north. Many of the lower tribes are being pushed into our realms and the Knight Commander of Tarr-Syklos has sent me with this message, requesting additional troops."

Sarmoth removed a folded leather packet from inside his jerkin and gave it to the Grand Master. The Grand Master paused to read the document, his brows furrowing as he read. Halfway through, he rose to his feet and banged his fist on the table. "We will have to put an end to this invasion, or we will lose a century of progress!" Then he muttered some curses damning the Daemon Kalvan and the Inner Circle of Styphon's House for wasting so many of the Order's finest Knights. Sarmoth pretended he didn't hear the curses, since he was not offended: he was no lover of priests, be they for the so-called One God, Styphon, or any other god.

While the Grand Master was busy reading the message, Sarmoth studied the standards and flags hanging from the massive timbers bracing the stones walls. There were old banners, won at battles and wars, from the dawn of history. Many were now the stuff of legend. Wasn't that flag, with a cow skull on a black field, the personal banner of Erasthames The Great? Then he saw the tattered red banner, with the blue halberd-head of Hostigos. He looked in awe; this was the Daemon Kalvans banner!

"We took that from the Veterans of Hostigos at Tenabra." Soton said, as if reading his mind. Soton raised his head and looked Sarmoth in the eye. "No, it's not King Kalvans flag, but his father-in-law's, Prince Ptosphes of Hostigos. We had to cut off the banner-bearers arm to take this away!"

"The spoils of victory."

"Hard won, son. And only after, the traitor, Balthar changed sides in the middle of the battle-the old skinflint." Soton made as if to spit on the floor. Then he paused to load a corncob pipe and light it from a tinderbox. "Balthar found a fitting end at the edge of Kalvans blade, or so I hear. After Tenabra we chased Ptosphes all the way up the Syphistros Valley and into Beshta. It was a grand chase and we would have caught him, too, if it hadn't been for all our allies straggling behind.