Prince of Wrath (77 page)

“Sire, we’ve found two people.”

Jorqel pushed past into the room. It was a day room full of furniture and a bed in the far corner. Tied to a table face down, her ankles and wrists secured to a point underneath the table, was a naked woman. The prince hissed as he caught sight of a series of welts on her back, criss-crossing it. There seemed no part of her back that was untouched. He walked up to her head and looked at her.

She looked up with pain-dulled eyes. A young woman.

Jorqel stroked her hair softly. “Your ordeal is over,” he said softly. “I am Prince Jorqel Koros, heir to the throne of Kastania.”

The woman closed her eyes slowly, then shook as sobs broke out. Jorqel waved to one of his men to free her. He looked beyond to where the second figure was, seated in a chair, bottle in hand, looking vacantly at the men. He had heard the words and chuckled for a moment. “Prince Jorqel,” he slurred, dribble and alcohol dropping from his flaccid mouth to his chest. “May the gods rot your genitals.”

“And who are you, scum?”

“Captain Volkanos,” he replied. “At your service!” He raised the bottle of strong-smelling drink to his lips.

Jorqel slapped it out of his hands and the bottle crashed to the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces, the liquid splashing out onto the floor. “Drunken sot!”

“Hey,” Volkanos said in dismay, “that was expensive!”

“Get this creature out of here and sobered up,” he snapped. “Put him in chains and get him to work on cleaning this dungheap up.”

Two of his men grinned and hauled the confused man to his feet and carried him out.

“Find a servant to care for this one,” Jorqel pointed to the crying woman who was curled up in a ball on the rug next to the table. “She needs looking after. Now, where are the rest of these canines?”

“Sire – out here.”

The prince rushed to the doorway where the man on guard outside had seen three men approach from further down. They were big, unkempt, dressed in a variety of styles of armour and sported axes, swords and maces. Jorqel faced them, Gavan to his left, another of his men to the right. “Drop your weapons,” he commanded the three. “Your leader is dead.”

“I follow no command of a Koros!” the middle one snarled and sprang at Jorqel, his mace raised to smash down onto the prince’s head. Jorqel stepped forward, raised his axe and the haft took the blow of the mace, shaking both his arms. The haft, made of iron, rode the blow, and Jorqel’s downward blow carved into the man’s face, splitting it apart, continuing through his skull, stopping only after it got to the lower jaw.

The man fell like a stone, blood and gore splashing out. Gavan struck at his opponent, knocking him into the wall before ramming his sword point-first into his gut, pinning the screaming man against the wooden planking. The other man slashed down hard from just above head height across the man to Jorqel’s right. This blow was blocked but the Kastanian warrior stumbled backwards, knocked off-balance by the force of the blow.

Jorqel moved across, his axe swinging up, spraying blood. The blade sank into the man’s midriff and caved in three ribs before stopping. The guard folded over in pain and the prince jerked the axe free and watched dispassionately as the doomed man fell to the floor, retching. He looked at Gavan. “Secure the rest of the fort – round all prisoners up and have them placed in irons outside under guard. Put a flag up on the top to make it clear we’re in control here.”

Gavan saluted, wiping a splash of blood from his face. The guard who had been knocked over got to his feet and checked the three fallen men. All were dead – or as near to it as made no difference.

“Let’s clear this mess up, shall we?” Jorqel said, moving back into the main room where the girl was now being wrapped in a single cloth someone had found. She was still crying, her knees to her chest. Jorqel dropped the bloodied axe on the tabletop and tugged off his gauntlets. “Take her to one of the bed chambers and put a guard outside her room. I may need to speak to her later.”

“Sire,” the two men with her acknowledged and gently guided the woman to her feet and then out of the room.

Jorqel puffed out his cheeks and sank into the chair recently occupied by Volkanos. Apart from some mopping up, it looked like Romos was secured. It had gone much better than he’d thought.

Out at sea, Nikos Duras peered back at the town, and his jaw hardened in anger as the imperial flag of Kastania rose up the single flagpole on top of the fort. He was not finished yet with the Koros.

Astiras growled in frustration. The building of the new Zofela was going much slower than he had planned, and the constant letters and scrolls that were received were getting on his nerves. “For Kastan’s sake, Pepil,” he shouted, “you’re an administrator, sort out the rubbish from the important stuff, and give me only the things I need to see.”

Pepil bowed obsequiously. “Sire. What would constitute important matters in this instance?”

Astiras glared at the man. “War! Supplies! Don’t give me these whining appeals for more food, wood or money from these beggars,” he waved a thick wad of parchments under the major domo’s nose.”

Pepil stared at the papers as if they were causing him some discomfort. “But sire, these are from prominent members of society, important families in the empire.”

“Prominent pains in my arse!” Astiras replied. “Get one of your clerks to tell them thank you but we’ve got nothing spare thanks to the war with Venn. Every spare item is going to the defence of the empire. I’m not interested in Lord Moaning Bastard’s new set of chairs for his pimply arse!”

“Very good, sire.” Pepil took the thick wad and stared at it in dismay. “I shall arrange for these to be given my fullest attention.”

“You do that,” Astiras and waved the man away. He looked at Vosgaris, standing smartly to attention before him. “So, Captain, are you here to complain about the draughty quarters or the ruined view from your bedroom portal?”

“No sire,” Vosgaris smothered a smile.”

“Good, or I may demote you to privy attendant, class two. So what is it you want?”

“My figures for the ongoing work here.” He presented the emperor with a parchment.

Astiras snatched it, glared at the captain, then shook it violently. “Does this interest me, or shall I use it the next time I visit the garderobe?”

“Astiras,” Isbel said from her chair, “perhaps I could take that from the Captain?”

“What?” Astiras swung round, considered his wife for a moment, then frowned and scanned the sheet. As he did so Isbel smiled at Vosgaris who winked at her. Isbel gave him a mock glare, then switched her attention to the emperor. “What does this mean, Captain?” he demanded, the figures and words blending into a red mist.

“Sire. We need more stone for the new castle. The walls will be completed with what we have already, but we will need three times what we have now to finish it.”

“Three times?” Astiras almost shrieked. “What are you building me here? I want a castle, not a lifesize replica of that mountain out there!”

“Indeed, sire, but the walls are two men’s heights thick, they have to have buttressing to support the roofs, there’s the two gatehouses you want, the barbican against the keep entrance, the raised area on top of the stone outcrop to stop tunnelling, the chambers to accommodate the Council as well as your throne room, the bed chambers, servants’ quarters…..”

“Yes, yes, and a brothel for the soldiers!” Astiras snapped.

“Astiras!” Isbel said sharply.

“Oh, all right!” the emperor sighed and slapped the parchment down on his desk. “Goodness’ sake – I want a military campaign to take me away from all this!”

“We’re not in a position to mount any such expedition, your majesty,” advised the newest addition to the staff, an tall man with a black beard and piercing blue eyes by the name of Golten Mirrodin. Mirrodin had been in Makenia until recently. He’d gone to see Thetos Olskan and offered his services as a biographer, but the governor had gruffly told him he needed nobody to tell his life story. Metila, however, had told him to go to Zofela and had sent him on his way along with a letter for Astiras which Golten had passed on once he had gained an audience with Astiras.

The emperor had been intrigued by the prospect of having his story written down and disseminated throughout the empire, and had taken the man on. Isbel and Pepil weren’t so sure and had treated him indifferently, but so far Golten had proved he was a capable biographer and even made some useful contributions to discussions in the day chamber. Astiras thought the man possessed some sharp insight.

As to the letter… Astiras had read it in privacy. The woman had been blunt and brief. Astiras would have to visit Turslenka in the near future. It had been enigmatic and she had merely said she wished to see him again and to inform Thetos when it would be. She had something to show him. He felt excited; nobody had made love to him the way she had. Even by Bragalese standards she was good. He yearned to have her again.

“I know that, Golten,” Astiras said, “for the moment,” he added, pointing a stubby forefinger at the biographer. “But mark my words – I will yet lead an army into battle once more.”

“At your age, Astiras, would it not be best to leave it to one of your generals?” Isbel said, concerned.

“What do you think I am; a coffin dodger?” the emperor snapped, piqued. “I’m still able to wield a sword and I haven’t lost my faculties. And you know I’m still able to…”

“Yes, yes, I get the general gist of what you’re saying, dear,” Isbel interrupted. “I just think you’d be best leaving it to Captain Vosgaris here or the castellan.”

“Hah!” Astiras snorted, then eyed Vosgaris. “No demeaning your abilities, Vosgaris, but you are not me.”

“No, sire,” Vosgaris snapped even straighter to attention.

“And Argan is a few years away yet from being old enough to lead in battle. Until he is, I shall continue to command on the battlefield. Any news from our diplomatic mission to Venn, by the way?” he asked of Pepil who was shuffling papers across his desk towards the rear of the office.

“Ah, no sire. I suspect they may be finding the journey difficult, given the increased border patrols and suspicions of both sides. I understand even trade caravans are being stopped and searched now.”

“Too right they should,” the emperor said. “Merchants! They think they’re above the law, whining about being searched. I’d have them strip searched if they complained.”

“One sure way of stopping merchants plying their trade with us, dear,” Isbel sighed in exasperation.

“Bah,” Astiras threw a hand up in the air. “What are we, men or rodents? Show them strength – the iron fist. Be weak with them and they show nothing in return but contempt and then they take advantage of you.”

“If you say so, dear.”

Astiras glared at his wife. “Hmph! I distrust you when you agree with me like that.”

“Why is that, darling?” Isbel smiled.

Astiras grumbled under his breath and rapped his fingers on the desk top. “It worries me. You’re up to something, I know it.”

Isbel affected a look of innocence. “Astiras, you have an untrustworthy attitude. I’m your wife; what in Kastania could I possibly do to your detriment?”

“I dunno – but I feel it in my bones.” He gave her one long look, then turned his attention back to Vosgaris. “Get more workers onto the project. I want this place completed in two years.”

“Yes, sire. We may have to hire Mazag or Valchian labourers.”

“Really? Ah….. well do it. They’ll be good for the basic labouring jobs. Pay them the minimum rates.”

“Really, Astiras,” Isbel frowned, “that’s taking advantage of them!”

“No it isn’t – they’re probably from dunghills and other such beautiful cesspits where they live, grovelling in poverty. At least here they’ll have a job, money, a roof over their heads and a place to spend their wages! What would they expect from where they live? A beating, sharing their chamber with their animals, a nagging wife and squalling brats. Good gods in the heavens, I know what I’d choose!”

“What of the labour force here in Zofela and Frasia, sire?” Frendicus asked. “They won’t be happy at jobs going to foreigners when they find out.”

“Can’t see anyone coming forward to offer their services at the moment, can you?” Astiras said belligerently. “Anyway, Frendicus, you’re a miser with the treasury. What would you say if I doubled the pay?”

Frendicus went pale.

“Exactly! I’m right again, as always. Offer people the minimum rate, and then when nobody comes forward, go get those piles of hairy droppings across the border to work on the castle. I want to be in bigger accommodation in two years so I can work away from you whining shits,” he waved at Pepil and Frendicus, “and your irritating smirk,” he pointed at Vosgaris. “I can’t break wind at the moment since he,” the emperor waved at Golten, “would write it down and post it on every street corner.” He paused and emitted a thunderous emission as if to emphasise his point.

Isbel looked disgusted, as did Pepil and Frendicus. Vosgaris grinned while Golten went to pick up a stylus.

“Don’t you dare or I’ll cut your hand off and stuff it up your rear end!” Astiras threatened. “So, get this blasted castle done as soon as you can, and I don’t car eif you have to travel to the furthest points of the world to get people to do it. Now get going.”

Vosgaris bowed and left. He was glad the empress had confidence in him leading men into battle, but unless they were attacked full-on by a large invasion force, that was unlikely. Young Argan was growing up fast and would no doubt be given his own command before too many more years were gone. The youngest sibling Istan was a different matter. If he were given command of armed men, who knows what he would do? He was enough of a problem now, let alone being given more opportunity to wreak havoc.

He called in on his wife, Alenna. She was working on the figures necessary to employ more people for the building of the new Zofela. He told her to revise the pay rates downwards, which she did, but not without commenting it was virtual slavery. Vosgaris didn’t argue. After a kiss and a few moments together he went out and tracked down where Argan was practicing with a young equine, outside the now vanished walls. The ditch where the foundations of the new wall were to go were there, but nothing else existed at the moment save for a few wooden bridges spanning the gap.

Both Argan and Kerrin were racing along an improvised tilt yard, holding small wooden spears, aiming at stuffed rag targets in the shape of an imaginary enemy. Vosgaris sauntered up to the side of Panat Afos, who was encouraging the two to greater efforts. “How are they progressing, Panat?”

The veteran retainer turned slowly. One eye was clouded over but the other was still bright and observant. “They progress. The prince is catching up slowly.”

“But not fast enough?”

Panat shook his grey head. “That illness put him back a long way. It will take a few years to build up his leg strength. I don’t want to push him too hard since I don’t know how weak his bones are.”

“And your son?”

Panat nodded, a slight smile playing across his face. “He is going well. He is totally dedicated to Prince Argan. I don’t think anyone can doubt he will be his bodyguard for the rest of their lives.”

Vosgaris felt pleased at that. That was one issue sorted. He gave his compliments and returned back towards the town, heading for the stocked piles of stone where the slaves and labourers were working, further around towards the south-east, the direction of the Venn borders. Astiras had demanded that section be completed first. He hoped the walls could be completed before Venn tried again, and that Argan and the others be given a chance to grow to adulthood and put their mark on the history of Kastania.

___

The new day broke over the town of Romos. People were wandering around the streets, many with worried expressions on their faces. Nobody knew what Prince Jorqel would do now he was in charge. The fact he had the corpses of the three Duras family members mounted on wooden stands and left hanging there by the gates had scared many. They hadn’t believed a Koros was capable of such acts.

Jorqel cared little for their opinions. He had acted fast once the town had been secured. Anyone who was suspected of or accused of collusion with the pirates and/or the Duras had been arrested and stowed on one of the abandoned ships in the harbour. He had been furious to discover Nikos Duras had escaped on that one ship, but there was nothing anyone could do about it.

One ship was in a fit state to sail, the rest not. Two were beyond hope, having been burned in the fire Kiros Louk had created, and three others were unlikely to sail ever again. There were no pirates left – all had fled. Jorqel had sent out Hammarfall and some mounted archers to scour the island for any fugitives, and to spread the word that imperial rule had once more been restored to the island.

One of the first things he had done was to proclaim a cessation of the levy and tithe that had existed under the rebels, and a mere restoration of imperial tax at one fourth. Jorqel intended sending four-fifths of that to Kastan City, and he would keep the balance for repairs and improvements on the island. He also sent a messenger by ship – the one that was in a decent condition – to Slenna. There were enough townsfolk and sailors who volunteered to man the ship to make it seaworthy. Jorqel put one of his two RIMM captains in charge with specific orders to collect Sannia and his daughter and return once the messages had been delivered.

The girl who had been found whipped in the room he was now using as his headquarters had been comforted by two of the towns women. People were now coming forward to tell of the rule under Volkanos and, latterly, the Duras. While Volkanos had been a careless and callous leader, the Duras had been far worse. Volkanos had been dealt with already by Jorqel.