Empire of Avarice (20 page)

“So, Koros,” Duras spoke first as they came close and
halted, “we meet at last.”

“A little brave of you, is it not, Duras? Surely you
prefer to skulk in shadows or under rocks and get others to do their dirty work
for them?”

Nikos Duras sneered. “Since your clumsy raid on the
warehouse of the Fokis, my family has decided not to put their faith in those
idiots. We shall rid the land of your presence. I’m glad you have arrived at
last to die here at the hands of my army. They are veterans of the Bragal War,
you may be interested to learn.”

Astiras laughed out loud, throwing his head back. “Veterans
of the Bragal War? Oh, Duras, any ‘veteran’ was taken by my son off to Bathenia
before I became emperor; these soldiers here were trained up, yes, but the
former emperor lost his nerve before they saw any action in the war. They are
no more veterans than you are! Are these your crack troops? Well we’ll see how
they fare against men who have seen, drawn and tasted blood!”

Nikos Duras scowled. “And you have elite troops here? Paper-pushers,
road cleaners and male prostitutes from the dirtiest back streets of Kastan? I
know all about these spearmen you have trained up in Kastan. They will flee the
moment my troops attack, and then where will you be, Emperor of Kastania?”

Astiras pulled a wry face. Duras had spoken some truth
in his criticism, but not all of it was so. “I have other troops here, which
even you ought to have noticed, or were you too busy counting up to ten and
having to start again?”

Duras sneered. “Bragal peasants? Rough uncouth mountain
men from the Bakran? Pah! If this is the best you can do, Koros, then it is
just as well I’m about to part your head from your shoulders. You are clearly
unfit to rule if you are unable to gather a proper army together. Do your best,
for it will not be good enough!”

With that he turned about and galloped back to his own
lines. Astiras turned round in a more leisurely manner and as he and Teduskis
walked their mounts back to their force, spoke to his right hand man. “A little
over-confident, isn’t he?”

“Sire. He believes the battle won already.”

The emperor nodded and thoughtfully looked at his force,
gathering itself into formation. Teduskis frowned. “Surely you do not doubt
these men, sire?”

“Not the mercenaries or the imperial archers, no. But
those road cleaners and – what did he call them? – male prostitutes….. ahh” he
shrugged. “You know yourself they’re just about able to hold their spears up
the right way.”

“So we hold the line?”

Astiras grinned. “We hold the line.”

They turned as they got to their army and looked along
the green valley to the enemy lines. Behind Duras and his force the land rose
to a ridge, heavily wooded. The road ran west-east from the imperial army’s
lines to the rebels and was to the left of Astiras’ forces. Duras had arranged
his army across the road. Three companies of imperial spearmen stood from the
rebel left flank to the centre, and their right flank was made up of another
company, but this was of untrained spearmen, their weak point. Nikos Duras and
his imperial lancers waited at the rear.

“How many do you count of them?” the emperor asked
Teduskis.

“Sire, I count around six hundred and fifty.”

“And we have over seven hundred.” He looked at his army,
arranged in two lines. In front were the archers, the Bakran mercenaries to the
left and the imperial archers to the right. The second line was made up of the
three foot soldier companies. The two militia spear units were on the left and
in the centre, while the imperial right was made up of the Bragal irregulars. Astiras
was at the rear, overlooking everything. “What’s the nearest settlement to
here?”

Teduskis shrugged and called out to the captains. The
Bakran captain Cupran shouted back that a village called Hadris was over the
ridge by the roadside.

“So,” Astiras smiled widely. “My first victory as
emperor shall be at the Battle of Hadris.”

Nikos Duras, meanwhile, had walked to the front of his
force and was now addressing them. Drawing his sword, and pointing it at them,
he poured scorn on the imperial troops lined up ahead of his army, set on
slightly higher ground. “Look at them,” he said derisively, “half of them can’t
even hold their shields straight! The Koros aren’t even capable of bringing
proper soldiers to the field! What do they have? Old men and children! You are
the best that the empire had, before you were betrayed and cast out like so
much chaff! Do you wish people like that to run our glorious Empire? I do not,
and neither does my family, the Duras. Only we can lead the Empire back to
greatness. Look at our forces! Who is it that brings a proper army to the
battlefield? Who is it that re-employs people who were rejected by an uncaring
regime? The Duras! One victory today shall cast down these usurpers and then we
can rightly take our place at the head of the empire of Kastan! Be strong; be
determined! With the Duras to lead you we shall enter a new golden age of
greatness!”

As the roar from the rebel troops carried to the waiting
imperial lines, Astiras gently guided his equine out to the front of his
soldiers. He looked at their faces. The imperial archers were watching the
enemy lines with a determined look; they would be fine. They knew their job. The
Bakran archers looked as if they were enjoying the whole affair; the chance to
kill their hated lowland neighbours was something they looked forward to. And
here they were being given the chance to do so by the emperor himself!

The two raw companies of spearmen nervously looked at
him. Here were those troops he really needed to inspire in the next few
moments. Just to one side the Bragalese were stamping their feet and twitching
with nervous anticipation; here, again, he knew these people would be happy to
join in the slaughter. “Men of the Empire!” he boomed out, “for too long we
have suffered under the tyranny of families bent on selfish gain at our
expense, whether it be by persecution,” he looked at the Bakran archers, “or by
wasteful and poorly led wars,” he eyed the Bragalese, “or, by bringing about
social and financial strife.” He stared directly into the eyes of the spearmen.
“That brings us all today to this very spot. We have to fight for what we believe
in or want. Without the courage to fight and put our lives in danger, our
wishes will never be fulfilled. Here, today, at the battlefield of Hadris, you
will show to your friends, to me, and most importantly, to yourselves that you
are truly men and moreover, men of your word and conviction.

“Over there are a mixture of traitors and fools;
traitors who wish to continue with the chaos and rape of our lands, and fools
who do not have the will or courage to look for the truth, and would rather
follow the lies of feckless and backstabbing degenerates. All I ask of you
today is to stand here and be as a wall. A wall that will neither buckle or
fall. Stand and fight, and victory will be yours, I promise this to you! Victory
to the Empire, and death to the Duras!”

The men cheered and raised their weapons, and Astiras
grinned and rode slowly back through the lines to the rear. Teduskis smiled as
the emperor wheeled and took up his position next to him. “Nice speech, sire. Now
we’ll see if courage stands against treachery and foolishness.”

“We’ll win, Teduskis,” the emperor said, “or you will
carry my body from this place. I haven’t taken the steps I have only to lose
today to a collection of idiots and foul corruptors.”

Ahead, the enemy lines began to move forward with a deep
roar from hundreds of throats. Astiras slammed down his visor. No more time for
talk. Now it was down to action.

The rebel army tramped up the slight slope, shields
raised, spears pointed forward. Behind them came Nikos Duras and his lancers. Astiras
nodded towards Captain Cupran and the captain of the imperial archers. The two
captains turned back to face forward and barked short commands to their bowmen.
Two hundred and fifty archers fitted an arrow to their strings and pulled hard,
drawing the strings back to their faces, holding the tension and staring hard
at the advancing soldiers coming towards them, a hundred paces away.

“Loose!” came the order.

Over two hundred arrows leaped from strings and tore
through the air down onto the spearmen advancing through the cropped grass. Clearly
herd beasts grazed here. As the shafts struck, the line of rebels could almost
be seen to shiver. Men fell, some slowly sinking to their knees, others
spinning round and crashing to the ground. Most though came onwards, grim
expressions on their faces. The archers quickly reloaded, pulled back on their
strings, and loosed another volley at the approaching men.

More fell, but most carried on. About thirty to forty of
them lay still behind them or were groaning in pain, unable or unwilling to
continue. The rest came running hard for the imperial lines, as much through
wishing to close the gap before the archers loosed off another volley as
wanting to get to grips with their opponents.

At a command from the two archer captains, the archers
peeled away and scampered through the lines of spearmen to the rear. Astiras
waved to them to reform their lines behind him. Now it was up to the three
companies of spearmen to do their bit. “Hold firm, Captain,” Astiras ordered to
Sepan, then watched the events unfolding in front of him.

Sepan cleared his throat, sword in hand, and briefly
glanced along the lines of his spearmen. “Steady boys, the eyes of the whole
empire are upon us.”

The roar of the attacking spearmen filled the air and
many of the waiting militiamen stood in terror, shields thrust forward, spears
gripped tightly. Their legs were braced as they’d been trained to stand,
waiting for the shock of the charge to hit them.

With the deep, splintering noise the two sides came
together. The militiamen gritted their teeth and were struck far harder than
they’d ever imagined. Training bouts never fully replicated what went on in a
battle. A few were almost knocked off their feet but their comrades behind them
pushed them back and kept them from falling over.

“Push!” Sepan screamed.

As one, the militiamen shoved hard. Shields were locked
against shield, spears jabbing forward, seeking a soft spot to sink into an
enemy. Spear points came through at the soldiers and suddenly it was impossible
to move as both sets of men pressed in hard. Helmets slid down noses, shield
rims caught round throats, straps bit in cruelly as the two sides pushed and
shoved, hoping to prevail.

Astiras scanned left and right, watching for any break
in the lines. The right was where the Bragalese were and they were thrusting
hard into the faces and throats of the rebels there, not bothering with
shields. They fought using their spears two-handed. It left them open to blows
but allowed them to strike harder and with more flexibility. Over on the left
the militia company there was holding its own against the untrained militia of
Duras. It was only in the centre that the battle might go either way, it
seemed.

Captain Sepan was yelling encouragement, holding his men
in a line. Astiras grunted in satisfaction and saw Duras edge round towards the
imperial right, clearly seeking a place to charge through, but equally wishing
to avoid Astiras and his bodyguard. Lancers were all very well against infantry
but useless in a melee against heavy cavalry.

Duras had left one of the imperial spear companies as a
reserve and it waited behind the front line, ready to exploit an opening. “We’ve
got to act fast, Teduskis,” Astiras said, making a decision. “If this carries
on for any time our line will collapse. Follow me!”

He peeled off to the left and led the bodyguard on a
trot clear of the melee. The archers advanced a few steps and stood waiting for
a chance to use their missiles once more, but the close fighting meant they
would hit friend as well as foe. So they paused.

Astiras waved to his front line of cavalry and they
swung round obediently, wide on the left and now parallel to the spearmen
fighting. He pointed his sword at the exposed edge of the enemy militia company
and dug his spurs into his charger. With a roar the entire bodyguard sprang
forward and came thundering in, sending clumps of dirt flying, straight for the
horrified militia company. There came a crash. Astiras saw one enemy soldier
being flung aside by his steed, and he hacked down at the back of another man
who was trying to get out of the way. The man jerked upright in agony, his
padded armour ripped open and beginning to stain red. He fell face down. His
mount trampled the body as it advanced.

All around swords were rising and falling as Astiras’
bodyguard slaughtered the militia company, and suddenly the ill-trained unit
broke in terror, scattering wide. Astiras didn’t have time to gather his wits,
as a thundering of hoofs heralded the arrival of Duras and his lancers, intent
on stopping the slaughter.

The scene became a confused mass of riders and beasts,
circling and hacking, watching their backs, then hacking down at an enemy who
appeared across their line of vision. Astiras roared in fury, and battered down
at a lancer who tried to slice across his head. The blow was blocked and the
emperor rammed the point of his sword forward and into the lancer’s throat. Blood
ran down his sword and the emperor jerked the blade free and watched for a
moment as the lancer slowly slid off his saddle to crash to the ground.

Teduskis wheeled, both fighting to keep himself free of
injury and to keep an eye on the emperor. Astiras was ploughing into the
lancers, seeking Duras. Teduskis waved two others to follow him through the
mass of madly battling men and mounts. Astiras hacked left and right, screaming
defiance to those whom he saw as lower than the slithering reptiles of the
deserts. Men who betrayed everything he saw as being fundamental to a strong
and vibrant empire.

“Die you bastards!” he roared, cutting one man almost in
two as he slammed his broad bladed sword down. The lancer fell back, his right
arm and shoulder peeling away from his neck and chest, blood fountaining up and
splattering Astiras from helm to waist.

Suddenly the lancers peeled away, having lost half their
number. Teduskis swung full cirlce and saw three of their number lying in the
churned up dirt, mixed in with the blood, urine and faeces. “They’re pulling
back, sire!” he breathed.

“Ah-ha!” Astiras growled and swung his visored helm to
look to see how the battle was progressing.

The rebel right had been destroyed – the remnants of the
militia were running as fast as they could go. Their opponents, the nearest
imperial militia spear company, were beginning to set off in hot pursuit. “Stop!”
Astiras roared, flipping his visor up, spraying still warm blood up into the
air. “Leave those cowards be! Turn right – help your comrades!”

He had seen that his centre was beginning to edge
backwards, pushed by two companies of rebel spearmen. In moments they would
most likely be split apart and then the imperial army would be cut in two. Duras
could then finish off the exposed right at leisure. He roared again and the
spearmen, cowed by their emperor’s voice, turned and ran at the melee in the
centre of the battlefield.

Sepan’s company was battling hard. Men were falling on
both sides and to the raw inexperienced men’s credit, they were so far holding
their own. But now they felt the sheer weight of men pressing against them and
they were edging backwards. Their faces were showing strain and anxiety as well
as determination. They would hold as long as they could but if they were split
apart, they were unlikely to hold their own in individual fights; they simply
did not have the training to deal with it.

The impact of their comrades on their left suddenly
changed this and the rebel centre halted, confused as to where to push now. Their
front and right were being assailed and now it was them who were being pushed
hard. Sepan sensed the mood change. “That’s it, lads! You’ve got them worried
now! Go on, you’re winning!”

Astiras sat up straighter in his saddle. Over on the
right the Bragalese mercenaries were striking at their opponents with such
savagery that the rebel spear company had lost a third of their number, and
they didn’t fancy the fight any longer. As one they turned and fled, leaving
the embattled centre to cope with the sweating, blood-soaked mass of men
pushing at them.

Nikos Duras cursed. These weak and cowardly so-called
soldiers were letting a rabble defeat them! Sensing the battle was on the edge
of a sword’s blade, he called his lancers to him and pointed at the Bragalese
mercenaries who were regrouping and preparing to swing in and attack the
centre. If they did that the battle was as good as over. Digging his heels into
his mount, he led his men forward to plug the gap and to send the hated
Bragalese back to the kennels they crawled out from.

“Sire – our mercenaries!” Teduskis said with concern.

“I can see,” Astiras grunted and slammed his visor back
down. “Come on, hit that traitor in the back!”

The bodyguard rumbled after their commander, wheeling
round behind the melee in the blood-soaked field and bore down on the rear of the
lancers, now fully occupied with slashing down at the unsupported Bragalese. The
mercenaries were standing their ground, striking back, but a few of their
number were down. Astiras whooped in delight. The lancers couldn’t disengage in
time. His shock charge smashed into the rear of the Duras bodyguard. A score
toppled in the first strike and Astiras ran one man through his back, almost
throwing the man off his saddle as he pulled his blade free.

A second man tried to turn but was only able to get
halfway. It helped the emperor who hacked down twice, cutting deep into the
man’s armour and flesh. With a cry of despair and pain the lancer fell. Equines
were getting in the way of the battle, most of them riderless. Then Duras
hacked clear and, assisted by ten of his men, galloped clear of the fight. Astiras
whirled his sword above his head. “After them!”

Both groups of cavalry thundered off the field, the
lancers fleeing in dismay. At least here they had the advantage over their
heavily armoured opponents. The distance widened with every heartbeat and
Astiras realised with fury that Duras was going to get away. He came to a halt,
flipped his visor up and screamed in frustration at their backs. “I’ll find you
one day, Duras, and when I do I’ll flay the skin off your back!”

He turned about, followed by Teduskis and the other
riders. They saw the remnants of Duras’ force running as fast as they could,
hotly pursued by the spearmen and Bragalese. The riders stopped short of where
the main part of the battle had taken place, easily identifiable by the pile of
bodies in a line. Astiras groaned, slipped off his equine and walked stiffly
over to the men lying on the ground. Teduskis came with him. Their beasts were
tended by two of their men as each took the opportunity to stretch or take a
drink. Thirst was always worse after a battle.

“Congratulations, sire,” Teduskis said, “a victory. A
crushing one, too, by the looks of things.”

“Bah!” Astiras snapped, “that foul creature escaped,
damn his black heart!”

The soldiers were beginning to check the fallen. The
dead would be sorted – the enemy in one pile, their comrades neatly side by
side. Those on the imperial side who were wounded would be tended and checked
to see if they could be saved, while an enemy wounded would be finished off. The
enemy dead would be looted; such was the remit of the victors.

“Take a count of the fallen, Teduskis,” Astiras said,
surveying the scene of his victory. “We will camp on the ridge over there
tonight. Burn the enemy dead. Bury ours.”

“Sire.”

The men who had chased the fleeing rebels were
returning, red-faced and running with sweat. Fighting in open terrain under a
hot sun sapped the energy fast. Sergeants were running round shouting at the
soldiers to regroup and to take a roll-call. The Bragalese were already
celebrating and were cheering ‘Landwaster’ Koros. Yet another victory. To the
Bragalese, he was invincible. This triumph was proof of that.

The Bakran archers came walking up as one and stopped,
raising their right fists in the air and cheering at Astiras. Cupran bowed. “My
Lord, we salute you. A fine victory indeed. You have proved to our people you
are a warlord worth fighting for.”

Astiras grinned, his face, Like Cupran’s, streaked with
sweat. “I can guarantee, Captain Cupran, that under the Koros your people will
not be persecuted.”

Cupran nodded, pleased. “And then you may well find my
people willing to serve in your armies. Provided, sire, that you give us plenty
of enemies to slaughter.”

Astiras chuckled. “I’ll see to it.”

The two tired companies of spearmen sat in a group,
rubbing aching muscles, taking deep draughts from their water skins, tending
wounds or bruises, or throwing up with the shock of having been in battle. Sepan
thumped his chest. “Sire. We fought hard. And we stood.”

“That you did,” Astiras acknowledged, removing his helm.
“You fought well this day, all of you,” he nodded to the exhausted and shaken
men. To nearly all of them it was their first taste of battle. “You can be
proud of the fact you took part in this victory. I am very pleased with you.”