"Grand Master Soton! I thought he was with the Grand Host of Styphon, chasing Great King Kalvan into the Trygath."
"No, Your Eminence. After Sesklos' death, Soton left the Host to return to Balph for the Election of Anaxthenes as the new Styphon's Own Voice. The Inner Circle directed Soton to raise an army and leave for Thebra City, where he was to prepare stores and arms for the attack upon your Great King."
Xentos mind was awhirl. First, he would have to personally give this news to Great King Demistophon. With the Allfather's help, the King might even believe his words. Then, he must contact the League of Dralm; it was time for them to support the Temple and their King with more than just words.
"What shall we do, Your Eminence?" Davros asked, wringing his hands. "How could they do this to us?"
"It's Styphon's House, you fool. They do as they wish, and they wish to destroy the Temple of Dralm. Prepare a carriage. I must leave for the palace at once! I'll need you along, and Mathros, too. Say a few prayers, if you think they'll help. Maybe, with Dralm's aid, we can convince the Great King of Weather Vanes of the urgency of our words."
III
Captain Jephros, whose upper lip was clean-shaven with a full brown beard covering the rest of his face, rode up from the plains with a dust-covered scout. Captain-General Hestophes raised his arm to signal the advance party to halt. There were about twenty men in the advance party, including guards and Captain-General Errock. Errock had been giving the Hostigi background on the northern plains nomads and which ones were allied with Grefftscharr, Ragnar, Lyros and Dorg.
King Kalvan had sent them from Thagnor to rescue the buffalo expedition; the King was counting on this meat to get his subjects through the winter. Hestophes meant to fulfill his King's command if he had to kill every nomad between Grefftscharr and Dorg.
The scout, dressed in typical nomad leathers, drew up and had to pause to catch his breath while his horse made a noise like a bellows. It was lathered and quivering with exhaustion despite the cold.
"Get this man a remount," Hestophes ordered. Most of the scouts were Rathoni locals that had allied themselves with King Chartiphon after the conquest of Hos-Rathon. He had sent some of them along with Rylla. Kalvan had taken the best of the lot and mustered them into the Royal Army. As a recruitment bonus, he had given them each fifty pieces of silver and a small landholding outside Thagnor City.
"Sir, we ran into an ambush up ahead about three and a half marches." The scout stopped to take a couple of deep breaths. Like many of the tribesmen who lived along the Trygath/Sea of Grass border, he knew how to speak both Zarthani and Urgothi fluently.
"Do the nomads know we're coming?"
"No, it's a trap they've set for Prince Phrames and the wagon train, sir. One large band of nomads is chasing Phrames, while another band lies in wait. There's a stream up ahead, the locals call it the Varthon Creek, and they've set an ambush on the other side of the ford at the top of a small cliff. It appears their strategy is to lie in wait until Phrames and his men try to forge across the creek. Then strike from both sides of the stream while they're crossing."
"How large is the creek?" Hestophes asked.
"At the ford, it is about three hundred paces wide, sir."The scout paused to place a hand on his hip. "The water is this high at the deepest spot."
Just deep enough to give men on horseback a disadvantage if attacked during its passage, Hestophes decided. "Will the horses be able to cross the ford without running into a marsh or any other obstacle?"
"We crossed it ourselves earlier without any trouble," the scout said. "The water is low and it should be solid enough for the wagons, as well."
"How many tribesmen did you see?" Errock asked.
"On this side of the Varthon, about seven to ten thousand is our guess, sir. The band chasing Phrames and the wagon train is even larger. There were men from more clans and tribes than I've seen in many winters. A couple of our scouts acted as if they were laggards and made their way among the ambushers. There's a lot of comings and goings with supplies and reinforcements constantly arriving. They had no trouble scouting them out. Their Warlord is Arthap, an ally of King Theovacar's whose clan roams the no-man's land between Grefftscharr and Dorg.
"Arthap has promised the tribesmen all the spoils they can carry and ten pieces of silver for every Hostigi scalp. He's also promised them enough buffalo for a moon-quarter-long victory feast! There's a much larger force behind Phrames that's supposed to drive them into their arms. Arthap's clansmen have been waiting there for almost a moon quarter and patience is running low, with some of the lesser tribes already leaving in clumps of tens and twenty."
Hestophes stroked his beard. "How are they getting their victuals? This place looks played-out for hunting."
"It is, Captain-General. They've been getting large wagons of dried-fish, beef and bread from Grefftscharr. Some of the wagon train guards are even wearing Grefftscharrer uniforms."
"There it is, General Hestophes," Errock said, nodding. "The proof we've been looking for. The Great King will need to know this."
"Right. I'll send a scout back to Thagnor before we engage the enemy."
Hestophes turned to the Rathoni scout. "How many observers do they have?"
"We counted less than twenty watchmen and scouts. Give me twenty more men and we will send them all to Wind."
"Good. First we need to coordinate this attack with Phrames. Can you reach him before nightfall?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. We encountered one of the Prince's scouts. His camp is about ten marches from the stream. He knows about the ambush and has been awaiting our arrival."
One of Hestophes' bodyguards rode up, trailing a remount. "Here's a fresh horse. Take as many men as you need and tell Prince Phrames to have his men prepare to ford the stream at sun's height. We'll meet him on the other side."
"Yes, sir."
THIRTY
The Great Hall of Tarr-Beshta was decked out in all its finery, with all new tapestries and hangings. Princess Arminta had been to this tarr once before, during the reign of Balthar the Black, and the few hangings in the castle had been in tatters or black with mildew. Now, the Banner of the Iron Band hung proudly from the main beam. One wall displayed a large tapestry depicting the Battle of Ardros, showing Prince Phidestros bathed in light as if he were a demi-god from one of the Mystery Plays.
The Prince, who towered over his retainers, stood in one corner with a flagon of drink. He had strong features and a royal air; he was much more handsome than she had expected. He perked up when he saw her party; she was too far away to see if he was disappointed at her appearance, or surprised. This was the part she hated!
Arminta's mother had died when she was only eight winters old. As the oldest daughter, it had been her responsibility to see that her three brothers and two sisters were raised properly. Her father did not remarry and grew dependent upon her to act as surrogate mother to her siblings. She hadn't minded, having grown accustomed to the disinterest of most of the young men she met. She had resigned herself to being a spinster and, in fact, enjoyed advising her father on both political and dynastic matters.
Now her younger sisters were married and her father had, at Great King Lysandros' demand, bargained her off to this mercenary. The problem for Arminta was that she was no starry-eyed young girl or naive daughter; she was twenty-four winters old. While men appeared to enjoy her company- after all, she had raised two brothers-they had not shown much interest in her as a woman. So why should Prince Phidestros be an exception?