Prince of Wrath (2 page)

“So many?” Astiras was dismayed.

“Yes, my lord. At least fifty from each of the militia spear companies. That melee outside the gates was vicious.”

“I know, I was in it, Captain. Remember?”

Sepan bowed in response.

Astiras took a deep breath. Snapping at his officers wasn’t going to sort out his anger towards the Bragalese. “You performed well, Captain. The militia fought very bravely and deserve battle honours for this victory.”

Sepan smiled and bowed again. His face was streaked with blood and showed exhaustion, but the pleasure he felt banished any tiredness he may have been suffering from. “The levy lost twenty-nine, and four of your own bodyguard fell, sire.”

“Yes, I saw one fall as we trampled that canine Elmar. What of the enemy?”

Sepan glanced at the dirt-streaked piece of paper he was holding. “Three hundred and sixty-nine dead. We have taken over two hundred and sixty captive.”

Astiras briefly looked at the bodies lying in the streets, covered in mud and blood. “Get the prisoners to arrange the dead in two groups outside the walls. Our dead are to be buried in a huge commemorative plot. The Bragalese, pile them up and burn them.”

“Sire.”

Astiras moved on, followed by three of his bodyguards. Nobody wished to take any chances of someone deciding to gain immortality by slaying the emperor. “Which of you has the imperial dispatch box?”

The three guards hesitated, looked at each other, and had the grace to look abashed. “Sire, I’ll go get it,” one said, bowing and trotting off towards where the equines were grouped, just inside the wall. Someone had found some hay and the beasts were happily chewing on it, adding their droppings to the general mess.

As he waited for the man to return, he frowned. Something was missing and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something he remembered from before when he was last here. No matter, it would come to him in time.

The man returned, a leather case in his hands. This was the ‘box’ that all Kastanian generals carried with them. It allowed them to issue messages whenever the need arose, whether it be commands to subordinates or a message to send to cities, towns or the enemy. Astiras also used it to send news of the campaign back to Kastan City and his wife, Isbel. She was busy running the administrative and bureaucratic machine of Kastania while he was winning the war.

The guard now pulled out a blackstick, the writing utensil used in the field, as opposed to the ink and feather for office use. Ink got easily spilt and feathers were too large and messy. Blacksticks were shorter, neater and easily stored. He paused, holding the stick above the top sheet of parchment.

Astiras grunted and stood facing the town, the wall behind him. “To the citizens of Kastania,” Astiras began dictating. “Victory is ours! The Bragalese are crushed. Zofela is once again in imperial hands. A victory parade will be held in every city to celebrate the ending of the war. By command of your emperor, and so on.” Astiras watched as the man frantically scribed, his tongue poking out of his teeth in concentration. “Make six copies. I shall personally sign each one, and then arrange for them to be taken by messenger to Kastan City, Turslenka, Kornith, Niake, Slenna and Zipria.”

The guard bowed and finished by writing down the emperor’s name. He folded the sheet, placed it in his pocket and waited for the next message. Astiras was well known for his copious messages.

“To the soldiers of the Army of the East. You are free to occupy a house of your choice. If you wish to move permanently here then you are free to do so. There will be no charge for taking the house. The town hall will record your ownership. If however you wish to return to Kastan City then the property will be purchased from you by your emperor at cost price. All possessions within the house are yours whatever your decision. Signed, and so forth. Make ten copies and post them up on the main street corners.”

The guard bowed. Astiras dismissed him. The man would make the required copies. “Let us take up residence in the governor’s quarters,” Astiras said. He would be busy over the next few days. The people who took up ownership of the houses would form the core of the new township. Those who left would be compensated. Astiras would have to find the funds. Perhaps Elmar had a treasury. He’d have to find it.

As he made his way back to the castle, he suddenly remembered what was wrong with Zofela. There were no fowl, canines or felines moving around. All animals were gone.

The garrison had eaten the lot.

The Kastanian Empire hugged the edges of the Aester Sea. Like an immense curved bow it ran from the port of Parsot in the east along the eastern boundary of the sea, down to the fertile plains of Makenia and west to the heart of the Empire, Frasia, and the capital city, Kastan. Then it crossed the narrow channel that separated east from west and encompassed Bathenia and its biggest settlement, the city of Niake, before running north-west along the western boundary of the sea to the province of Lodria and its main town, Slenna.

Slenna, like Zofela, was a wooden-walled fortress town. Again, like Zofela, it had been the centre of a rebellion against the Kastanian Empire. This rebellion had been led, not by an entire people, but by a rival family to the one that had at that time been ruling. When Astiras Koros seized power four years previously, the rebel faction in Slenna had refused to acknowledge the Koros as rulers and had continued to defy the imperial line. So the emperor’s son, Jorqel, Prince of Kastania and heir to the throne, had marched into the region and taken Slenna by force, ending the rebellion.

This, however, had not ended the resistance. Although the family responsible for the rebellion in the first place, the Fokis, had been cowed, another family, the Duras, had risen in their place to defy the Koros. They claimed greater legitimacy to the throne.

Elsewhere in the Empire they were raising the standard of revolt, and here in Lodria they had joined forces with another, a man called Lombert Soul. Soul appealed to those at the bottom of society, declaring that with the help of the gods, he would sweep the corrupt and degenerates who ruled the Empire away, and return Kastania to its former glory. He preached Holy War against the heretical Tybar tribes that stood to the west, a fierce, hostile race that had overrun much of the Empire’s former territories in the west in recent years.

The Duras saw Jorqel as the main obstacle to their ambitions, so they had formulated a plan to defeat the prince. First, Jorqel’s betrothed, the young and beautiful Sannia Nicate was abducted. Then Jorqel was handed a hostage note. If he wanted his bride-to-be returned to him safely, then he must surrender Slenna. The Duras were careful not to be implicated in the affair; Lombert Soul’s name was on the note. Once Jorqel was out of the way, then Niake would be next, run by the feckless and fence-sitting Evas Extonos. Then with the seizure of the entire west of Kastania, the rest would fall. Already, one of their family was raising an army in Makenia, and between them they would crush any force the Koros could raise in Frasia.

Jorqel looked at the note that had been handed him that very day. It mocked him, resting there on the table before him. He stood in his day room in the castle of Slenna, stroking his neatly clipped black beard in worry and agitation. He was in his mid-twenties, tall, handsome and dark. He had clear blue eyes and a finely-chiselled nose and chin that had always managed to turn a young maiden’s head. He had never lacked female company if he so desired it, but now only one female was on his mind. Sannia.

Another man stood in the room with him, his faithful companion and guardian Gavan. Gavan was the commander of Jorqel’s bodyguard. Big, brash and blunt, Gavan was as different as could be to Jorqel, yet the two were the best of friends. They had grown up together in Kastan City, and, later, in Zofela when Jorqel’s father took up his governor’s post of Bragal. When the war with the Tybar called Astiras away to support the deteriorating situation in the west, Jorqel took up the military post of commanding the Zofela garrison in his father’s absence at the age of sixteen.

His first action was in the Bragal war. Astiras had sent his family back to Kastan, leaving a smaller garrison in Zofela under Kandalar, and it was soon afterwards that Zofela was taken by the rebels and the war with the Bragalese begun. Astiras was recalled to the east and together with Jorqel began the campaign to recover the province.

Although young, Jorqel’s grasp of tactics and his fighting prowess won him many admirers, and when the emperor at the time asked for more military assistance in the west, nobody contested Jorqel’s posting along with Gavan to the Army of the West. It was then that Astiras moved to topple the emperor, when he learned of the intention to surrender Bragal.

Jorqel’s victory over the Fokis at Slenna had stabilised matters in Lodria, but Lombert Soul was active in Bathenia and needed to be brought to heel.

“We cannot march the army up to Bathenia, sire,” Gavan protested. “It would almost certainly cause Sannia’s death. Besides, where is this man’s camp? Nobody knows.”

“We must find out, Gavan. I won’t have that canine holding my Sannia prisoner! He’s as good as dead.”

“We must send word to Niake, sire. Perhaps the governor there, Extonos, knows more?”

Jorqel looked at Gavan. Both had a low opinion of Evas Extonos. “Do you really think he knows what goes on inside his own city, Gavan? I doubt he has a clue where this rebel is, let alone what to do. We cannot count on any help from him!”

Gavan snorted. “There are others in the Niake administration. Someone must know. I could ride there with a small force; it’d also be useful if I scouted out the terrain and looked for signs of the rebels.”

Jorqel pondered on the request. “How many are you thinking of taking? This Lombert Soul is said to be recruiting large numbers of men. If they happen upon you I doubt you could hold them off.”

Gavan spread his hands wide. “We would be on equine back; most of Soul’s men are surely on foot. Even if they are mounted, they couldn’t deal with the heavily armoured bodyguard.”

“Take ten men,” Jorqel said, making a decision. “I want to know if the roads are still open. I also want to send a message to Niake that I am watching them, and want their assistance in this matter. I’ll compose a letter for you to take to the governor. You are to impress upon him that I will not accept any prevaricating or procrastinating from him.”

“Understood, sire. One thing is worrying me, though.”

“And what is that?”

“Sannia was taken from her estate, to the north of here. Lombert Soul has never been seen in Lodria.”

Jorqel nodded. “An unusual thing indeed; the same had occurred to me. You infer that perhaps there is another helping this rebel?”

Gavan shrugged. “Maybe further questioning of the Nicate servant who was with her might gain some clues.”

“Yes, good idea. Now go get ready for the ride. You’ll take a few days to get there.”

Gavan departed. Jorqel remained standing looking at the message. He became aware that another had appeared at the doorway. He looked round and saw that it was the castellan, Fostan Caras. Caras had served both under the last official imperial regime and also the Fokis rebels. He had kept his head mainly because he was good at his job and refused to get embroiled in politics. Perhaps a dangerous attitude, but he had faithfully served three different masters now and Jorqel, piqued at first that he had gone along with the rebels, had come around to the fact that this man was irreplaceable.

“Yes, Castellan?”

“Sire,” Caras bowed. “The new drawbridge is almost completed.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten all about that, given the distraction of the note from the Nicate estate. “I’d best come see it, in that case. Lead on.”

The new castle would soon be completed. Jorqel had pushed and pushed for it to be done by the summer, when he planned to marry Sannia. Now it seemed all the urging on his account was to be for nothing. The walls, too, were nearing completion, and within perhaps thirty days all would be done. Then all there would remain to be done was the cosmetic business of making the walls look neat, the castle impressive and the town attractive.

Easier said than done, but for the wedding it wouldn’t do to have it looking like a builder’s plot. The new castle entrance was to be protected by a drawbridge rather than a stout door and a steep set of stairs. A ditch had been dug in front of the new keep and filled with sharpened stakes. To cross this twenty feet deep chasm a ten foot long drawbridge had been built. The carpenters had been working on it feverishly for the past ten days and now proudly declared it finished.

It had been manoeuvred into position and was even now being lowered onto the pins sitting in the well of the pit that the bridge would pivot on. Ten people were working on it, some shouting loudly, giving instructions to the others to guide it into place.

Jorqel followed the castellan to the entrance doorway. The wooden castle keep did not have any wards or courtyards, but was one self-contained building. He watched as the door was hammered into position, and then the ropes were looped through iron rungs, tied to them and then iron banding affixed to ensure the ropes did not come loose.

“Right!” the works foreman said, stepping back. “Raise her!”

In the room above two soldiers rotated a large wheel with spokes. The ropes were wrapped around it at each end, and rotating it wrapped more rope to it and helped pull the drawbridge up. It raised itself with a protest, creaking loudly, but it went up. The workmen cheered and there was applause, too. Jorqel nodded in satisfaction. “Good work. You can congratulate yourselves on a job well done.”

The men thanked the prince and dispersed. Jorqel remained staring at the drawbridge, gazing into the distance.

“Sire?” Caras asked, worry on his face.

“Oh, nothing. Too much to think of,” Jorqel said glibly. “Lower the drawbridge and keep it down until nightfall. I’m going to be in my room.”

“Very good, sire.”

Jorqel returned to the relative quiet of his room. The new castle was very much similar to the old one, but just larger. The main keep was still a series of rooms stacked above one another, but now there were three instead of two. The top floor, where he was now, was his personal chamber in which he slept and worked. Below was the dining chamber and on the ground floor the meeting room and reception chamber. Beneath that was the storeroom-cum-dungeon.

The rest of the castle comprised of a ditch surrounding the keep and an outer wall with a parapet. A gate led out into the town. This gate had two small towers for archers to stand guard in, and the walkway that ran along the inner face ran all the way round with occasional small towers to both support the wall and also to provide some cover for the guards as well as give them a position in which to protect the wall.

Inside the boundaries of this outer wall stood a few buildings; a stables, a forge, a barracks. Very basic, all of them. They would do for the moment. The town was roughly of two separate halves. The old town, where the original town had been when it had been taken by Jorqel, was furthest away from the entrance, and was a collection of houses and narrow streets. The other half of Slenna was an open space, marked with a grid pattern of streets and plots. Here was Jorqel’s new quarter. He hoped that in time people would come to the settlement and with them would come prosperity and growth. Slenna would need wood for the houses, and people to live in them. Neither of which was at present in sight.

Early days.

He sat in his chair, staring balefully at the note on the desk. It was written correctly and without any error in grammar or punctuation, which therefore indicated an educated writer. No common criminal could possibly have composed it. It did indicate a noble hand behind it, but was Lombert Soul a nobleman, or was he educated? If the answer to both was no, then the note would have been written by someone with position in society, which could only mean either the Fokis or the Duras, no matter that Soul’s name was indicated upon it.

Were they in league with this bandit? It was known that the Duras were leading the insurrection in Makenia and were blockading Kalkos and the land routes between Turslenka and Kastan City. Perhaps they were also giving Lombert Soul help here in the west. If it was found to be so, then he’d hunt down every last one of those traitorous canines, even if it took him to the ends of the world.

That made him pause for a moment. Here in the west he was nominally in charge of all imperial policies. His father had bestowed upon him the responsibility of running this half of the Empire. No matter that it was currently the smaller ‘half’. Until recent years it had been the larger, more populous portion. Sadly that had changed thanks to the military disasters and the in-fighting between the noble houses of Kastania, and the Tybar had crept forward, slowly devouring all. The great line of fortresses that had protected Kastania’s heart from the west had all gone; Taboz, Kezara and Adnea.

Kezara had been stormed by the Tybar shortly after the loss at Zerika some nineteen years previously and that had ripped apart the defensive line the Empire had developed over the centuries. Adnea had been left isolated and who knows what had happened there. It was known that it no longer looked to Kastania, and was either an independent entity or was now part of either the Tybar tribal lands or the outer limits of the old enemy Epatamia. Epatamia had pushed forward once it had become known Kastania had imploded, but now they were vying with the Tybar as to who held sway in that part of the world.

As for Taboz – that had revolted in disgust at the utter selfishness and corruption that had gripped Kastania and had tried to go their own way, still sticking to the older values of the Empire in years gone by. On their own and alone, with no friends, it wasn’t likely that they would last that long.

Jorqel pictured the provinces in his mind. Beyond the line of three fortresses were the softer, fertile lands of Kaprenia, and the great city of Imakum. It was now the capital of the Tybar tribes. Jorqel had ambitions of retaking it and making it his capital, but there was no way of marching his army up the slopes of the great plateau from Lodria into enemy lands and hope to seize the city. Kastanian forces would be surrounded and cut to pieces by the mobile, manoeuvrable mounted archers the Tybar employed. Until Kastania came up with an answer to that, it was foolish to even try to meet them in favourable terrain. Kastanian forces had been confused and routed time and time again by this form of warfare, and their foot soldier-orientated methods were seen as outdated and clumsy by comparison.