Prince of Wrath (37 page)

His senior bodyguard peered forward. “Sir they look like Tybar equine archers!”

“Tybar mercenaries?” Lombert shouted, “where did they get the money and contacts to hire them?”

“Kastania don’t have any, sir, and they don’t look like Mazag irregulars.” The bodyguard frowned, puzzled. “But they don’t look like Tybar tribesmen either; their uniforms are too smart and regular. I don’t recognise their identification flag.” He pointed to a fluttering pennant of a purple cross and five circles, one in each white quarter and the fifth in the centre where the cross met.

“Damn the Koros. Who’s their commander?”

They looked up to the main body and the large flag of an avian and sword. There was a crown circling the sword tip. “Sir, that’s the heir to the throne. Jorqel Koros.”

“He’s supposed to be in Kastan City! Can’t the spies get anything right?” Lombert snapped. “What of his infantry? I can’t see any. Is this a trap?”

“I don’t think so sir…..” the bodyguard lifted himself as high as he could in his saddle. “No, there’s just archers and the imperial armoured bodyguard.”

Lombert slapped his hands together. “The fool! No infantry? We’ll ride those archers down ahead and the spearmen can follow! Send the archers out as a screen. They can duel with the Koros archers, then we can charge and hit them hard!”

Jorqel, meanwhile, waited until the three squadrons of mounted archers were in position, then ordered the red flag to be raised. Gavan raised an eyebrow in surprise. “No parley, sire?”

“Damn Lombert and his army to the underworld,” Jorqel snapped. “They don’t fight with decency, imprisoning women and threatening the people with a vile drug addiction. They deserve no mercy. I certainly won’t parley with that scum! Kill them all! Kill!”

Even as Lombert prepared to ride out, the mounted archers cheered and began galloping forward, riding at the rebels from three directions. “What?” Lombert sat in his saddle, stunned, “no parley?”

“Sire, they’re attacking!” his bodyguard commander yelled, alarmed. “Archers!” he added, not waiting for Lombert to give the order.

The rebel archers hastily began fitting arrows but the first missiles from the hard riding mounted men from Kastan City were already arcing through the air with deadly intent. Deran screamed in delight and got his men to wheel, loose off another volley, and ride back and forth, helping to make them harder to hit.

Arrows fell like a deadly rain amongst the archers. Men staggered under the impact, crying out in pain, twisted in agony or merely fell to the ground. Arrows struck the ground, soft flesh, clothing and shields as the bodyguard desperately tried to extricate themselves from the confusion.

Jorqel looked on with grim satisfaction at the carnage developing. “Captains,” he said to the imperial archer officers, “you may loose.”

The two companies of Taboz bow carrying men raised their weapons in unison, their discipline admirable and something of deadly beauty, and they loosed off in one motion. The heavier and faster travelling arrows poured down onto the already frightened rebel archers. The thudding impact of the second part of Jorqel’s deadly rain sent the line of archers toppling in clumps. Bodies fell on top of one another, some of them never to move again, others jerking spasmodically with the searing pain of their injuries.

Lombert Soul cursed loudly. “Damn his black heart! Ride those archers down!” he ordered, raising his sword. Behind him the three companies of spearmen began to follow, marching grimly forward. They had only been trained to deal with enemy infantry and cavalry, so they made their way along the valley towards the bottom of the slope that Jorqel and his archers were standing halfway up. The mounted archers directly in front of the main Kastanian army peeled away, still loosing off arrows.

Those to the left and right closed in on the wavering archers, now isolated behind the rebel army, and sent shaft after shaft into the hapless men. With no protection, they turned and fled, throwing away their bows. Best to be away from the remorseless archers and their damned arrows than to stand there to be butchered.

Lombert and his men gathered pace, outstripping the spearmen, and charged up the slope. Jorqel saw the lancers coming and snapped down his visor. “With me, come on!”

His bodyguard advanced through the archers, the bowmen opening their ranks and retreating, and suddenly Lombert was faced with the steely front of the imperial armoured heavy cavalry. “Charge!” the rebel commander screamed. It was do or die now, and they were committed to their charge. If they turned they would be at Jorqel’s mercy. Jorqel yelled in delight; here were the lancers completely exposed, downhill, and with no chance of avoiding them. In a straight chase the lancers would outrun the heavier equines, but here they had no chance of getting out of the way, and Lombert Soul had realised that, so he had gritted his teeth and charged.

The imperial cavalry broke into a canter as they closed. There was not enough time or distance to change into a full gallop, but the slope assisted them and slowed the lancers as they came up at their opponents. Jorqel raised his sword as they struck, his shield covering his left chest. A lancer passed close by, his wooden strike weapon splintering. The prince slashed down, catching the lancer across the neck. The man grunted and slid off his saddle, and then Jorqel was past and knocking a second man’s attack up out of the way. The equines stopped and milled about, a few yards from the imperial archers who watched in morbid fascination at the melee before them. If Jorqel and his men fell, they would be cut to ribbons, but after a few moments it was clear the lancers, out armoured and outclassed, were on a hiding to nothing.

Deran waved his squadron round away from the melee. His remit was not to get caught in that fight. He concentrated instead on the rebel spearmen who had reached the bottom of the slope and were now beginning to march up, hoping to catch Jorqel in the melee. If they reached the prince, his cavalry would be vulnerable to the wicked spear points. “Archers, cut them down!” Deran snapped, delighting in the feeling of commanding mobile archers once again. One thing he had not revealed to the Kastanians, for obvious reasons, was in his past he’d been with a Tybar force that had defeated a Kastanian army in the highlands of Izaras. Having become an outcast meant those days were over, but now he’d found his calling again. The feeling was so good it was almost sexual in nature. He was supremely confident of victory, the helplessness of the foot soldiers compared to the free moving archers.

The three squadrons now shot arrow after arrow into the grimly advancing spearmen, joined in by those imperial archers away from the melee. The line of the rebel spearmen extended beyond the limits of the foot archers of Jorqel’s army, so they were clearly visible to half of the imperial bowmen.

Jorqel hacked at another lancer who had struck the prince’s shield, and the lancer shied away from the raging Koros heir. Jorqel was not going to allow these creatures that were less than men to deny him reuniting with Sannia. The lancer screamed as Jorqel’s blade found his guts, slicing up under his guard and shield and tearing through the lamellar armour. The rebel doubled up and fell forward onto the ground with a crash.

Bodies littered the ground which was cutting up and becoming wet with blood, equine urine and other bodily fluids. The air was full of screams, the clashes of weapon on weapon and men grunting and cursing. Lombert parried one cut from his opponent and slid his blade forward, in under the armoured man’s armpit and cut into his ribs. The bodyguard cried out and twisted as he fell, blood splattering over Soul’s blade. Lancer after lancer was falling and Soul needed space to assess the battle. “Withdraw!” he shouted.

His surviving men pulled away, following their leader, and they got enough space to be able to turn and gather their strength. Only twenty remained from an initial eighty-one, and only one of Jorqel’s men had fallen. The Kastanian armour had been too strong. Lombert sucked in a deep lungful of air and watched as his line of spearmen staggered up the slope, wilting under a hail of arrows. It was madness; arrows hit them from three directions and the spearmen’s progress was marked by a mass of bodies, covered in shafts. Men sank to their knees in pain or span round to topple lifelessly to the messy hillside.

“Come on, one last charge!” Soul snapped, knowing this was his last chance. He would not flee like a coward. He knew it was do or die. With a cheer, the twenty lancers broke into a charge across the slope, angling towards the end of the line of archers who were beginning to peel away in fright.

Jorqel, having made sure his men were ready, waved them to follow and they charged across the hill right into the lancers who had just reached the bowmen. A wild-eyed man ran past Jorqel just as the prince reached his pursuer, cutting through his arm and sending the limb flying up into the air. The lancer rode on for a few steps, then, realising his arm had gone, fell to the ground, his body numbed with the shock of it.

Lombert Soul smashed at one bodyguard but his blade was blocked by a shield and then he came face to face with Jorqel. The prince bared his teeth in delight behind his visor and slashed down hard. Soul blocked it but the blow sent shockwaves down his arm. He was slow in getting his sword up to stop the next attack and he received a heavy blow across the face that stunned him, knocking his helmet off his head. His vision swimming, he tried to pull his reins round but Jorqel sent his blade down again from high above his head and cut deeply into the rebel leader’s neck.

Blood spurted up and Soul clutched his wound, releasing both reins and sword, and his mount whirled in fright. Without any purchase and totally disorientated, Soul fell off and lay on his back, staring up at the sky, the sound of battle gradually fading. His vision was filled with an immense pair of equine nostrils and, looking up the long neck, the bloodied and pitiless figure of Jorqel holding a dripping sword. Lombert Soul smiled ironically and his vision faded.

“They’re running!” Gavan shouted in delight, looking down the hill at the spearmen who had taken too much, and the cutting down of their leader had been the last straw. They flung away their shields and spears and scattered in all directions. The archers loosed off at their backs until Jorqel snapped to them to cease. They were no longer an army, they were a leaderless rabble, and that was the end of matters. He raised his visor and looked at the carnage.

All up the slope men lay dead or dying, the cries of pain filling the air. The smell of blood and upturned earth pervaded everywhere. Riderless equines stood forlornly by their fallen masters, nuzzling them, or sniffing the unfamiliar smells coming from their broken bodies. The prince lifted off his helm and sighed deeply. It was done. Victory was his. He began to walk his mount across to a clear patch, and the men began cheering, waving their swords or bows in the air, acclaiming their leader. Jorqel waved a gauntleted hand in acknowledgement as he approached Demtro, who had watched in fascination at the fight. The mounted archers were riding in gently, pleased at their part in the victory.

“Gavan, see to the tally,” Jorqel said, sliding off his saddle. “Well, merchant, how was your first battle?”

“I trust it is my last, sire,” Demtro said, awe written over his face. “Battles are not for the likes of me.”

Jorqel grunted. He felt the elation of battle ebbing from him and it was now being replaced by concern for Sannia. “We must act swiftly. You mount up and be ready to accompany us to the rebel camp. I have little doubt one of those who has fled will be taking the news back to them. My betrothed’s life is in danger.”

“As are those of my brother and woman.”

Jorqel nodded. He turned to face his men. “Men of Kastania. You have won a great victory here today. The traitorous Lombert Soul lies dead on the battlefield and his rebellion has died with him. The people of this empire can now go about their daily lives free from the scourge of these rebels, and it is to you whom they will be grateful. You can hold your heads up with pride and say that you put your lives in danger for the good of the empire and those who live within it. Victory!” he raised a fist to the sky.

The men echoed the last word in exultation. Some were bloodied; they had received wounds and now turned to get them seen to, either from themselves, or from their comrades. Gavan loped over to the prince. “Sire, only fifteen dead. Eleven foot archers – Lombert Soul’s lancers got at them before we could stop it, three mounted archers from the enemy bowmen, and poor Lankat of our own bodyguard.”

“I saw Lankat killed; Lombert Soul did it before I despatched that cur. Arrange for his head to be taken to Niake and mounted over the main gate. What of the enemy?”

Gavan glanced at a scruffy piece of parchment. “Over six hundred and fifty slain. We think around eighty fled. We have eight prisoners, sire.”

“Hang them here. Send a messenger to Niake informing them of the victory, and instruct the governor to hang the prisoners he has, as well as mounting Soul’s head from the Aconia Gate. Bring me the message and I shall sign and seal it. Make it fast; I wish to be on my way as soon as possible.”

Gavan saluted and moved away. Jorqel beckoned Deran to him. The swarthy renegade Tybar loped up to the prince and knelt, bowing low. He was smiling, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “A great victory, sire.”

“With thanks to you and your mounted archers. They acquitted themselves well. Take the news of the victory back to Kastan City, and take the three fallen so they can be honoured properly in the capital.”