Empire of Avarice (26 page)

The screams began, for even if those hit were not struck
a mortal blow, the burning missile caused clothing to burst into flame or
wounds to be made worse by the heat, fire and flammable oil. Men twisted in
agony, frantically trying to beat out the flames, or fell to the ground, dead
or dying, or not even knowing what had happened.

The night lit up with fire. Now nobody could hide. The
imperial archers reloaded and this time loosed without having to use fire. Figures
scattered in all directions but the arrows flew after them and cut down scores.
Curses, screams and cries for help echoed through the night.

“Let loose the mercenaries!” Astiras shouted.

With a roar the Bakran and Bragal mercenaries broke into
a run, an odd assortment of weapons to hand, straight past the archers who
stepped back, their work complete. The attackers, or those that remained, took
one look at what was coming towards them and broke. The chaos of the last few
moments died away and the Kastanians slowly walked over the dropped fencing and
surveyed the night’s work. Bodies lay everywhere, cut down in swathes. Not one
had managed to get closer than ten paces. Some were still burning and the smell
of burned flesh filled the air, making many wrinkle their noses in distaste. Astiras
waved men to the perimeter to make sure nobody was out there, then stepped over
a couple of corpses and took a good look around.

It hadn’t been a battle; it had been a massacre. But
then, he’d perfected the art of fighting these irregulars over the past five
years. The mercenaries would do their butcher’s work and finish off what the
archers had begun. “Throw these bodies into a pile and burn them all,” he
ordered tonelessly.

“Sire,” the men answered and bent to their task. The
spear militiamen came out, gaping in horror. Apart from holding the fencing,
they had done nothing. They were quickly ordered into gangs to drag off the
dead, and Astiras accepted a hot drink from one of his bodyguard. He would await
the return of the mercenaries and assess their report. “Teduskis!” he called.

His faithful retainer came loping over. “Sire?”

“Count the dead.”

“Sire!”

A short engagement, but one that showed he and his men
hadn’t lost their edge. It was a good omen.

The next morning the final tally was presented to him
over breakfast; a hundred and eighty two dead. The mercenaries had pursued for
some time, killing as they went, but even they had to give up and return to
camp. They reckoned some forty or so had got away, but the terror they had
endured would be told and retold, getting more and more horrible with each
telling, so that soon it would assume the proportions of a monstrous slaughter.
Astiras wasn’t worried; it helped promote an image of mercilessness and this
would help cow the rebellion. A few more such incidents and his name would be
used to frighten children into obedience by their mothers.

The village was deserted; many of those who had fled the
massacre at the camp had gone into the village, pursued by the mercenaries, and
the slaughter there had been particularly brutal. The spear militiamen were
deliberately kept away from it as the corpses of all the villagers were pulled
out of their homes and piled into one big group before being set alight. Another
village destroyed. The mercs were pleased; they had looted and were much better
off as a result.

Astiras got the men to fortify the village and to move
in. Now they had a base for the rest of the winter. From here he would ride out
and spread terror to the rest of the district. By the end of the winter and the
melting of the snows his army should have a free passage to Zofela.

In contrast Prince Jorqel was becoming frustrated. The
interrogating of the farm hands had revealed nothing new. The woman had been
hired at short notice in Slenna and had been accepted by a desperate farmer,
knowing he needed replacements for those who had refused to leave the perceived
safety of the town walls. The winter was well established and the besieging
army settled uncomfortably in the farmsteads outside the town. There was
nothing much that they could do except wait. Wait for the town to surrender, or
for the food to run out for themselves which wasn’t likely. They were receiving
constant supplies from the port of Efsia and words of encouragement kept on
coming from Kastan.

The two things that worried him were that his father had
returned to Bragal and that Amne had undertaken a journey through Bragal
despite knowing that someone was seeking her out, very much in the same way
that he had been. He had been fortunate; he hoped to all the gods his sister
would be. As for his father, he had seen him at work in Bragal and the
slaughter had sickened even him. No doubt the emperor would resume where he
left off, reducing the Bragalese to whimpering terror before long.

He had no intention of doing the same here. Besides,
these were Kastanian people. Only those responsible for the revolt would be
punished.

He was interested in the council workings. He should be
on it, but the revolt in Lodria had called him away. He would, however, write
and address the council personally. Perhaps they would consider his
recommendations and act accordingly. He sighed. Everything seemed chaotic. The
depths to which the empire had sunk were seemingly limitless. No sooner had one
problem been solved then another reared its head. No matter, once he was
governor here he would work hard to put the province back on its feet.

He knew that there were no trade goods created in
Lodria. Other provinces had mines – Makenia was blessed with both sulphur and
marble, for example – but here there was little. Half of Lodria was a coastal
plain criss-crossed with rivers, and the rest a series of rising mountains that
got higher the further into the interior one went, until the border with the
province of Kaprenia. Kaprenia was now under the heel of the Tybar, and Lodria
would need to be ready if and when the Tybar decided to push east once more.

His mother had put an intriguing proposition to him in
her latest letter. She had suggested that he ought to consider raising troops
of mounted archers, similar to those that the Tybar used. Jorqel sat and rubbed
his bristly chin. Ah, he needed a shave! He thought over the problems of
setting up a training centre. One would need archers, obviously, but also
equine beasts suitable for the type of warfare mounted archers practiced. Not
chargers, no. Chargers were big and powerful, whereas mounted archers used the
breeding equines as they were more nimble and manoeuvrable. He thought some
more on the matter. Someone would need to be adept at two skills; riding and
archery. That would take years to perfect. Shooting a bow at full gallop
required guiding a mount with the legs and not hanging onto the reins. Oh, what
a task! He would turn Slenna into a centre of training for mounted archers,
yes. He would sponsor it himself. He would write to his mother and tell her he
would take up her suggestion here in Lodria. The empire needed something with
which to fight the perfidious Tybar with, and why not use their own tactics
against them?

He needed to put his energies into some project, if only
to get rid of some of the frustration he was feeling. Once the snows melted he
would send men out to find herds of equines and capture them, bringing them to
the outskirts of Slenna and set up a training school. In fact he would get the
men started on building one now. He had to occupy them and it would also keep
them warm.

He stood up suddenly and made his way out of the farm,
followed by his surprised personal guard, who had been caught napping. Jorqel
sought out Gavan who was busy supervising the building of more shelters for the
men. “Gavan, I’ve got a project I want you to take charge of.”

He explained what he wanted. Gavan looked bemused. “Sire,
this would take up much raw material, material we don’t have here.”

“I’ll order some, don’t worry. It’ll arrive by ship. But
I want you to find men amongst us who can design and build stables, a corral,
an archery range, barracks and support facilities all in one. Here, somewhere,”
he looked about. There was an open space beyond the farms. “There. Get it
sketched out and the dimensions dug by hand so we know what we have to do. Once
the materials arrive the men can get to putting the walls and buildings up.”

Gavan scratched his head. This was insane. “It will take
these men an awfully long time to complete, sire.”

“It doesn’t matter. We start it, Gavan, and the town
completes it once we take it.”

“May I ask, sire, what you have in mind for this –
school?”

Jorqel explained, and Gavan looked thoughtful. He
pointed out that it would take a long time to train people up to the standard
needed, and Jorqel told him not to worry as time was no object. This was a
school for the future.

“The army will look down on these new units, sire,”
Gavan pointed out.

“Gavan, just think of the advantages; greater distances
could be travelled; the army would be much more mobile. And we could take out
an enemy before they closed in on us. We suffer because we’re slow moving and
not all that mobile. We also do not have that many decent infantry units any
more. How are we to defend ourselves when we can only stand and wait for the
enemy to choose when and where to strike?” The prince tapped Gavan on the
chest. “It is my wish to get this school started and by the gods it shall be
done. Find the men with the skills – the army always has such men within their
ranks, and come to me with sketch plans. We will plan for the future of the
empire here.”

Gavan saluted and strode off, shouting orders at the
groups of soldiers standing around watching.

Jorqel smiled and returned to the farm. Now he could
actually do something rather than sitting here on his behind getting bored all
winter. He began to write.

The winter coated the buildings of Kastan in a shroud of
white. The streets became slippery with ice and one had to walk with care. Snow
and ice was piled up on the sides on top of last summer’s refuse and left there
as there was nobody to clear them. They would melt in time once the winter was
done, but in the meantime the people had to vie with carriages and wagons and
take their chances as they went from their homes to buy goods, or go to work,
or visit friends or go on any one of a number of errands.

Vosgaris normally left it until the late afternoon to go
out. The mornings were taken up with the daily meetings in the council chamber
and then he had his paperwork to do. On this particular day, the air was sharp
and cold but the sky clear, for once. Since the arrest of Sereth the number of
arrests of illegal trading had been largely constant, but of late they had died
away as the criminal element either had been driven out or had become more cautious
and were lying low. Probably a combination of the two, Vosgaris surmised.

Frendicus was happy; his tax collectors had been
merciless on the arrested and many of these people had been stripped of their
possessions and thrown into prison. The treasury was healthier than it had been
for many years, but expenses were rising as more and more projects that had
been suspended were now revived. Roads had to be maintained, ports repaired,
public buildings kept clean and functioning, and men and women paid for their
employment.

One prickly subject had been avoided for the moment, and
that was the matter of the size of the army. This always cost plenty of money
and in times gone by the empire had needed plenty of men to defend its huge
borders, but now it had shrunk the need for a large army had passed. Frendicus
had argued against enlarging the army, citing the need to improve the public
buildings and facilities in the five provinces first. Vosgaris was ambivalent
in this matter; although technically a military man, he served the public
offices and so had a foot in both camps. Pepil was a courtier and was anti-army
while Isbel had to negotiate a tricky path between following her husband’s
martial wishes, running an efficient bureaucracy and rebuild the infrastructure
of the empire.

Far-off Zipria was told to maintain its small garrison
of two companies. What money it requested must go on new public projects, and
they had asked for land worker wages and equipment in order to clear the
farming land of growth, since a decade of neglect had caused a shortage of food
on the island. The province of Pelponia had been given funds to improve the
roads, and now a request had come for the port facilities to be made good. The
garrison in Kornith was of three units and they had been told this would have
to do for the time being. Thankfully the unrest that had been reported shortly
after the Koros had come to power had died down and now people there appeared
fairly content with matters.

This left the three provinces closer to the core of the
empire. Frasia was busy having all its roads paved which was a long term
project. The city of Kastan had new militia forces to patrol the streets and
suburbs. The Koros had to be visible, if only to remind people they were being
protected by an emperor who actually cared about them. Makenia with its
provincial capital, Turslenka, had a few spear companies and the governor,
Thetos Olskan, had received money to repair the port in the province. He also
had to watch the borders to the south and east, so there were extra funds
needed there.

Evas Extonos in Niake had been efficient with the road
repairs and now was asking for treasury funds to enable him to build a grain
exchange, both in order to store food better and to keep a better eye on
merchants who would use such a building. Licences could be issued there,
similar to those in Kastan. Isbel and the council had discussed it and agreed
on the funding. Evas appeared to be running things pretty smoothly there.

But Vosgaris was acutely aware that the empire was
vulnerable and open to anyone who cared to invade. They had little in the way
of defences and few men to defend them anyway. What armies they did have were
busy fighting rebellions and wouldn’t be able to come to the help of the empire
should an invasion come.

And what if there was another revolt somewhere else? This
was Vosgaris’ main worry, and any whisper of unrest caught his attention. Which
was why he was making his way that afternoon through the streets towards the
city square with two bodyguards. He had learned of a move to burn down the city
hall that stood on the west side of the square, and that ‘evidence’ would be
left there that implicated the Koros as being behind the attack. The city hall
was not being used at present, the lack of funding from the imperial treasury
and the fact the councillors were all nobles who had decided to concentrate on
other means to gain income has resulted in the council dissolving four years
ago. This of course meant that petitions had to go directly to the palace but
as most of these were ignored and money dried up, the people had despaired of
ever getting a council back.

Vosgaris knew Isbel had the resumption of the council as
one of her plans but it was a case of ensuring loyal and dedicated people sat
on it rather than those noble families who opposed the rule of the Koros, who
would look to suck the life out of it for their own gain. Her intention was a
radical one; to allow non-nobles to sit on the council. So far this had been
resisted by the palace council but the time was coming when the city council
would have to be restored no matter what. Isbel was making plans to control the
city council with a restricted level of funding designed to make them compliant,
but whether this would work was another matter. No matter what form it would
take, the council would have to resume soon for works needed in Kastan were becoming
urgent and the palace couldn’t handle all the requests and paperwork needed. Also
the increase in work now meant that some of the people that had been laid off
or sacked would now be asked to return, paid out of the taxes collected by
Frendicus and his clerks.

The square was busy as usual, even in winter, and people
stood talking or trying to sell goods, or doing deals or whatever. Vosgaris and
his two guards stepped carefully along the swept but still icy paving towards
the wide stone steps of the hall. It was an ornate building, constructed many
years ago, and had a high front held up by pillars. It dominated one side of
the square.

Vosgaris had the key to the front door, which had been
given to him by Pepil before he’d set out, and now he used it to gain access to
the cavernous building. Their footsteps echoed around the chilly interior and
an air of neglect pressed down on them. “Go search the ground floor,” he said
to his two men. “Anything suspicious, come fetch me. I’ll be up there,” he
pointed up the staircase to the first floor.

Alone, he climbed the marble staircase, reflecting on the
times when it had been built. Surely a much happier and more affluent time, so
different to now. He slowly reached the top, ears pricked, and made his way
along one of the three long corridors that led from it. Doors along the
corridor lay open, either wide or half closed, and he took time in peering in
at each, marvelling at the furnishing and décor, and surprised that nobody had
ransacked it. Maybe respect for the place was the reason? There again, the
chairs and desks were functional rather than ornate and no nobleman would think
of having them in his home.

The windows at the rear that overlooked the housing
district beyond were grimy and ice encrusted, and although he peered through
one and rubbed hard at removing the ice, he could see little.

A shout brought him round and be broke into a run,
dragging his sword out of his scabbard. He ran to the hallway and leaned over
the balcony. “What is it?” he bellowed.

“Down here, sir!” one of his men shouted back.

Vosgaris came bounding down the stairs, nearly losing
his balance, but he managed to stop himself falling, then he clattered across
the floor and along to the rear of the building underneath where he had just
been. The large room off to one side at the back was occupied, one of his men
was sat nursing a bloodied forehead while the other was standing over another
man, his sword at the stranger’s throat. Beyond him, one of the windows lay
open and it had clearly been broken for shards of glass lay on the floor below
it.

“Report,” Vosgaris snapped, eyeing the stranger.

“Sir. We entered this room hearing a noise and found
this individual and another bringing in those packages,” and the unhurt guard
waved at a number of small boxes lying on the floor close to the windows, “and
when we challenged them this man struck my colleague here and the other man
made his escape through the open window, although he did cut himself. This man
I arrested.”

“Good work,” Vosgaris said and looked at the hurt guard.
“You alright?”

“Yes, sir, a cut forehead that’s all.”

“Very good.” He stood over the apprehended man. He was
of indeterminate age, dark haired, unshaven for a few days and wore rough cheap
clothing. “Your name?”

The man glared at him but said nothing. The guard cuffed
him round the head. “Talk, you vagrant!”

The man winced. “Dregas.”

“Dregas, eh?” Vosgaris said. He’d never heard of him
before. “Who do you work for and what were you doing here?”

Dregas said nothing. That elicited another cuff but this
time he still said nothing. Vosgaris sauntered over to the boxes and peered
inside. There were cloths that smelt of oil. Clearly there to start a fire. He
returned to the man. “Burning down public buildings your speciality, eh, you
slave?”

Dregas sullenly refused to rise to the insults.

“Very well. You’ll be sent before the public order
committee to determine your sentence. The evidence is fairly clear to me. I
expect you’ll be sent to the sulphur mines of Turslenka.”

Dregas shuddered. Those mines were notorious around the
empire. There had been two but the ones in Kaprenia province had recently been
lost. Sulphur was dug out of the ground by gangs of slaves or prisoners and
their life expectancy was low, mainly due to the choking sulphur that clogged
their lungs. Many died within five years, suffocating from illnesses that
stopped their breathing. Over the past few years the mines had become
incredibly unsafe due to a lack of upkeep but the mining went on. Being
sentenced to the sulphur mines was akin to a death sentence.

“The Kanzet paid me to burn this place down,” he said
reluctantly. “They said I should leave one of the Koros family crests on the
front steps and then spread the rumour they had done it.”

“Where is this crest you speak of?” Vosgaris asked,
angry at the duplicity of one of the more ancient families.

Dregas pulled out from his tunic a small crumpled length
of cloth. When Vosgaris opened it he found it to be a napkin with the Koros
crest, an avian’s wings on either side of an upright sword, probably stolen
from one of their houses. Vosgaris slapped Dragas hard across the face. “Traitor!
Working against the emperor is treason, do you know that?”

“I needed the money!” Dragas whined. “The Kanzet paid
well, and said I would be rewarded with a job when they took over the empire.”

Vosgaris snarled. “The only job you’ll have now is to
dig for the empire. Take this creature away to the garrison.” The two guards
took Dragas off, protesting, leaving Vosgaris to drag the boxes out of the room
and along the corridor to the steps outside. He relocked the doors and made his
way back to the palace, sending a squad over to the city hall to tidy up and
guard the place until he had arranged for a glazier to repair the broken
window.

Then he decided to check up on the known activities and
premises owned by the Kanzet family.

____

Argan was excited. His birthday had come and he was sitting
at the table with a pile of presents in front of him. All were wrapped neatly
in parchment with red ribbon around them. His mother sat close by supervising
and Istan was safely wrapped in Rousa’s arms so that he couldn’t get to them
and rip the wrapping off himself. He was making it clear he was unhappy and
would not shut up.

Argan ignored his younger brother’s tantrum. He was used
to them anyway. It was more a matter of note when he was quiet. Argan was only
sad that his father, Jorqel and Amne were not there to wish him happy birthday,
but there were other people there to sing to him and clap when the cake was
brought in – not by a servant as he had expected, but by Vosgaris the guard
captain, dressed in his smartest uniform.

The cake was placed before him with five candles upon
it, one for each year. Argan clapped, his face shining with delight. “Can I
blow them out, mother?”

“After we’ve sung to you, dear.” The chorus, sung by ten
people, was terribly off key and harmonised, if one could describe it as such,
by Istan’s high pitched screams of outrage.

Argan looked at Isbel who nodded, and he blew
ferociously at the candles. Four went out but one stubbornly resisted, and it
took two more blows to extinguish it, and Argan was feeling dizzy by the time
it had surrendered. “You can open your presents, now,” Isbel said.

The fact she had wrapped them up the night before meant
she knew what all of them were, but most of those who had sent the gifts were
not there, or they were, like Mr Sen and Vosgaris, men who were incapable of
wrapping presents neatly. It always looked like two felines had been fighting
by the time men had finished trying to wrap presents.