Empire of Avarice (21 page)

The men cheered.

“Now,” Astiras put his fists on his hips and looked
about. “Clear this damned mess up. I like a tidy kingdom, you know.”

The men laughed and got up, being organised into gangs
to pile the enemy in one place and to gently lay their friends in rows.

Teduskis came to Astiras a little later. “We lost
seventy-one, sire.”

“So many?” Astiras was surprised. He was seated on a
rise overlooking the battlefield, writing a letter to Isbel. Birds were
circling overhead, waiting to feast.

“Aye. Our own bodyguard lost seven. The Bragalese lost
seventeen and the rest were the militia spearmen. It could have been worse.”

“No archers were lost then.”

“No sire; they got clear before the enemy closed.”

“And how many did they lose?”

“Six hundred and forty. Nearly half of those running
away.”

“So only Duras and ten of his lancers got away then.”

Teduskis nodded. “We carry on to Bragal tomorrow, sire?”

Astiras sighed. “Yes, my friend, we do. But first I want
a monument erected here. Make it into a watchtower so it can have a function as
well as remind people that here the Koros began the revival of the Kastanian
Empire. Then organise a messenger to take this back to Kastan. I want them to
know of this victory as soon as possible.”

Teduskis grinned.

The land rose in southern Frasia to snow-capped peaks. These
were isolated mountains and marked the frontier with Bragal. The road into
Bragal skirted these to the west and this was the route that Astiras led his
army along. The land dropped again and became rolling hills. Zofela was
reasonably close to the Kastanian frontier from the Turslenka road off to the
east, but here it was much further and Astiras knew he would have to cross a
fair amount of Bragal territory before he got to the capital.

The frontier was marked with posts, but some had been
burned. The army paused and looked into what to them was a different world. It
seemed no different to Frasia, but there was something in the air that made it
feel menacing. They had noticed that the number of people they encountered got
less and less the closer they came to the border, and they hadn’t seen anyone
for quite some time. There had been a couple of abandoned farmsteads, the
fences falling apart and a building here and there a blackened shell. The
Bragalese who had been with them at the battle had melted away the following
morning, returning to their homes with the news that ‘Landwaster’ was once more
in Bragal, and this time as emperor at the head of an invincible army. Those
who had opposed them would now be the ones ejected from their homes unless they
made peace with the pro-Kastanian elements.

Astiras sat quietly on his charger for a moment. He’d
left the province nearly half a year ago, burning with anger and frustration,
but now he was back. This time he vowed he would not leave again until the war
was won. Or lost.

“Men,” he said, turning to face the sea of expectant
faces. “Before you lies the province of Bragal. It is not a separate nation; it
is our land. We are here to reclaim it for the empire. You may face great
trials and danger from the Bragal people, but remember you are imperial troops
and nobody can defeat you. Be on the watch for anyone approaching – even
children. If any of you see anybody from now on, report it. Do not ignore it. Our
destination is a village ahead, which we should reach before nightfall. Do not
enter the village unless I so order it.” He turned back and raised his arm. “Forward!”

As one, the imperial army crossed into Bragal, eyes
watchful, the men tense and apprehensive. And other eyes were watching them,
too.

The road deteriorated as they went and the wagons needed
frequent pulling out of holes. A wheel needed changing and this slowed them
down. By the time they reached the village it was dusk and a line of torches
could be seen in front of them, blocking the road. “Here we go,” Astiras
muttered to Teduskis. “I expect there’s plenty of men to either side of the
road hiding, don’t you?”

Teduskis nodded. “I’ll order the archers to the flanks.”

As the bowmen ran to the flanks, stringing their bows,
Astiras waited for the people ahead to make their move. The spearmen shuffled
nervously, their shields un-slung from their backs and a spear in each of their
hands. Most of them had never been to Bragal before and the swallowing and
shaking was rife amongst them.

“What is your purpose here?” a voice called out from the
line of torches.

“To reclaim this land for the empire,” Astiras replied. “I
am Emperor Astiras of Kastania, and I am here to finish this revolt. All of
Bragal is mine by right and I demand you swear fealty to me.”

“Astiras? The governor of Zofela that was?” the voice
mocked.

“Show respect, you eater of dung,” Teduskis snarled.

“The only respect you’ll find is at the point of an
arrow,” the voice snapped back.

“Or my sword,” Astiras replied. “Is that Spetar? You
still sound like a whelp.”

A figure came forward, a torch in his hand. The sound of
a hundred bowstrings being tautened came to everyone’s ears. “Careful, relax,”
Astiras muttered.

Teduskis waved the archers to lower their bows. A man
materialised into the flickering light of the torches carried by the imperial
soldiers. A man hard-faced, swarthy, suspicious and hook-nosed. He was holding
a sword in his other hand. “Emperor Astiras, is it, now?”

Incredibly, Astiras was grinning. “And you still a lowly
village idiot, Spetar.”

Spetar squinted up at Astiras, then chuckled. “You’re as
disrespectful as ever; what fool made you emperor?”

“I did,” Astiras answered, then slid off his charger,
handed the reins to one of his men, and stepped forward to face Spetar at an
arm’s length. “I just wanted to come here to remind me how ugly the Bragal
people are.”

Spetar guffawed. “At least Kastania now has a leader
with balls! And men! Ha ha! This calls for a feast!! A feast!!” he yelled,
waving both arms high. Men stood up from either side of the roadway and
relaxed, lowering their bows, and the torch carriers by the village broke into
excited chatter.

Astiras stepped forward and clapped the Bragalese leader
on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, you ugly bovine.”

“And you, you madman!” They embraced and the imperial
soldiers gaped. Teduskis sat smiling with relief. He remembered Spetar now, a
brigand, a bandit and thief, but a pragmatic man knowing his village was close
to the Kastanian border.

The soldiers were told to stand easy and make a camp and
start brewing up drinks and make fires for a meal. Teduskis also advised each
unit to post guards to make sure nothing got stolen. The villagers would steal
a man’s leggings given the chance, even if were wearing them at the time. “And
none of you are to go into the village, even if one of their young ladies
entices you to do so!”

“Are there some there, sir?” one of the soldiers
inquired.

“Yes, and all have big ugly fathers with big ugly blades
waiting to cut off your bits and pieces if you mess with them!” The men
laughed. They were in good spirits; they’d been told of the horrors of being in
Bragal yet this village was a pleasant surprise.

Astiras welcomed Spetar and the other village spokesmen
to his tent. Teduskis remained outside arranging the guard. Two guards were
allowed inside just for decorative purposes, as were their unsheathed swords,
of course. Two Bragal villagers, armed with their own swords, were permitted to
stand outside as a gesture of trust. Teduskis didn’t trust them for one moment,
and got five of the Bakran mercenary archers to wait quietly in the shadows
just in case. He had the impression the mercenaries wanted something to start.

Astiras shared his cup with Spetar, as was the custom in
Bragal. Spetar nodded to acknowledge the correct etiquette and drained the cup.
He wiped his lips, belched loudly and handed the empty vessel back to the
emperor. “Foul. Got any more?”

“A couple of barrels for your village, if you wish. And
I have some gold.”

Spetar’s ears pricked up. “Gold? Ohhhh, you want some
work, do you? Some of us to do your dirty work ahead?”

“Would I ask priests or children to do so? I think not. To
do dirty work needs dirty warriors, and I can’t think of better people than
you.”

“Hah,” Spetar scoffed. “Those nasty looking men you have
with you, those Bakran mountain men, they look as if they’d rape grandmothers
and bovines for fun.”

“They probably do as a matter of course, Spetar.”

The Bragal leader roared with mirth. “A dirty task with
a dirty leader! Hah! You’re the best man I can think of to lead mountain men,
Bragal brigands and ugly Kastanian soldiers into Bragal! Yes, but let me see
the gold first.”

Astiras leaned over and picked up an identical leather
bag to the one Teduskis had passed the Bakran mercenaries. Spetar weighed it,
then upended it and dropped a few coins into his palm. His eyes widened. “Oh,
for this I’d sell you my daughter; she’s a nympho. She needs an army to service
her, the slut. I’ve had to kill three men already for screwing her out of
wedlock, did you know that?”

“No, but I’m not surprised. Get her married fast, my
friend, or you’ll not have any men left in the village.”

“Good idea. You have anyone here in mind? I wouldn’t
mind her marrying one of your men; it’d get the silly girl out of my hair and
then all the village could relax around me. The way all the men look at me I
think they’ve all had a turn at her. You know our laws.”

Astiras did. Bragal local law held that sex outside
wedlock was banned. Once wed, then anyone could have affairs. It kept marriages
spicy, or so Spetar averred. Divorce was banned, and marriages were well known
in Bragal for their arguments and tempestuousness. Quite often the married
couple ended up living apart with other people, but to only those who also had
been married and separated. It was a baffling local custom and often Kastanian
soldiers fell foul of it and were hunted to the death by vengeful fathers – or
husbands. “I’d best make sure the lucky husband to be knows what he was getting
into.”

“Hah – she’d service an entire company by the time the
honeymoon was over. She’s just like her late mother – can’t keep her legs
together!”

“And you, my friend? How many maidens have you
deflowered?”

“Ah, that I’m not saying. Want me to fall foul of their
fathers?” Spetar winked, nudging Astiras. The emperor grinned. No wonder the
Bragal had so many children.

“Spetar, I have need of a company of your men or men
from this district; they will be fighting the rebels, and fighting for me. You
understand?”

“Oh yes. Give them gold and they’ll be fanatical
defenders for you – until the end of the winter anyway. Keep them in gold and
you’ll have no better soldiers; they’ll fight to the death.”

Astiras smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. Get me a
hundred and twenty men; that’s all I need.”

“A hundred and twenty it shall be. They’ll each get
three coins. I’ll keep the rest, of course.”

“I didn’t think it would be any other way, you bandit. Just
make sure my supply lines are kept open.”

Spetar nodded, eyeing the gold again in wonder. Astiras
felt satisfied. Spetar would make sure the road into Frasia was kept open and
so his rear was secure. In addition he’d have more mercenaries fighting for
him, men who knew the area and knew what they were fighting. Things had started
off well.

But in the morning Teduskis brought him some disturbing
news. One of the spear militiamen had vanished, and a search revealed he had
been seen with one of the villagers during the night. The villager had gone,
too. Spetar said that the missing villager was likely to have taken gold and
gone with the militiaman; to what purpose nobody knew, but it was a known fact
the villager was a hunter and the militiaman had asked around beforehand for
such a man. Astiras was troubled; it would seem the mysterious contracted
killer had made his move and had decided to find Amne using a local guide. He
hoped Lalaas was as good as he’d been told. But there was nothing he could do
now. It was out of his hands.

____

The first snows of winter had fallen, blanketing the
ground and buildings, softening the hard lines. The sea was an iron grey and
the wind whipped the waters into spume-topped chaos. Jorqel stood for a while,
sucking in the chill air and exhaling great clouds of condensation. Winter was
always the worst season; food was scarce and the men’s comfort at its lowest
ebb. If desertions were to come then it would be now. The one thing in his
favour was that there wasn’t much encouragement for anyone to desert; east was
the sea and that was impassable; West the frozen mountains and, beyond that,
Tybar. Nobody with any sense would go there. To the north were more of the
plains of Lodria, and then the sea. Not much to run to there. That left the
south and the route back to Bathenia. Jorqel had sentries posted there to make
sure nobody slunk off, but with just a snow-covered frozen plain for miles
before safety, it was unlikely anyone would leave.

Gavan stamped his feet and flailed his arms. His nose
was red. “Cold enough to freeze my balls off,” he commented. “Your majesty,” he
added as an afterthought.