Empire of Avarice (36 page)

She felt sad. Sad that the empire should be in such a
perilous state. It had been so great in the past, so brilliant, so magnificent.
Its people were proud of the past and were now bitter at how low the Empire had
sunk. They looked to their leaders to give them victories, and in the recent
past all that had been reported were defeats and losses. Nobody had any faith
in the leadership any more. Even the current war in Bragal was looked upon with
indifference; everyone expected it to result in yet another ignominious defeat.
The surprise was that so far no imperial defeat had been reported.

She walked around the table, looking at the contours and
lines that marked rivers, great roads, boundaries and mountains. What would the
man who had carved this think today? She looked up at the half seen pictures of
former emperors, and found she was staring directly at the legendary Junos, a
man who had brought the empire almost to the heights of its old original
boundaries before it split. Was Astiras hoping to emulate him? That was
impossible, for there were too many organised and efficient kingdoms in the way
these days. But Junos had behind him a formidable empress, Tabria, and some say
it had been she who had been the real ruler. Isbel smiled self-indulgently. Would
people say that of her in centuries to come? What would they say of her? She
sighed and looked back at the map. Talia, that was the key. The long finger of
land that had given birth to the old empire so long ago. If only they could
regain that – surely there were too many enemies to defeat to enable it to
happen?

Isbel recalled the fate of the empire in the wake of
Junos. His successor had made too many errors in policy and much of what had
been achieved was undone. Isbel vowed to continue in her role after Astiras had
gone. He was much older than she and it was almost accepted she would survive
him and live into the reign of his successor, earmarked as his son Jorqel. Isbel
tapped the table thoughtfully. Jorqel and she had not always seen eye to eye;
they often clashed on matters. How the two would regard one another would
remain to be seen, and of course Jorqel would – or should – be married by then
and have children of his own. He would wish his wife to take over the palace. Would
Isbel be banished? She knew she would have to give up the reins of power when
her husband died, but she was equally determined that her policies would not be
dashed to pieces the moment someone else took over. She would have to try to
make Jorqel see the benefits of a consistent policy, both at home and abroad.

And what of Amne? Or Argan and Istan? All three would
have a stake in the future of the empire. Would they, once they began families,
co-operate or compete? Would all this hard work fall under an internal family
squabble? She would have to get them all to agree to work together when they
were all old enough to understand. That way she hoped the Koros would continue
to rule the empire and to bring it once more to greatness.

____

The transition to consciousness was a painful one for
Demtro. What made it worse was that he was tied and gagged. His head ached and
he felt sick. In fact he’d felt much better in his life. It was dark so he
couldn’t see much but was aware of light beyond the shuttered window in the
room. He appeared to be lying on a bunk, his feet bound together and his hands
tied behind his back. His clothing felt loose and he surmised whoever it had
been who had hit him had searched him rather thoroughly. How rude, without even
asking permission first!

He groaned but nobody told him to shut up or threw water
at him or anything, so he writhed and struggled and eventually rolled off the
bunk onto the bare floorboards. He was on his knees and staring at the floor. Planting
his forehead on the floor he jerked his knees up and managed to plant his feet
on the ground, then bent his knees and threw himself upright, an effort, to be
sure, but he managed it.

Breathing hard through his nose he looked about. One
door, shut. One window, shuttered. One bunk, messed up. Unimpressed, he hopped
towards the door. It had a handle. He turned round and depressed it, finding to
his surprise it opened the door. The door opened inwards so he hopped back,
used his head to prise the door fully open and hopped out onto the landing. It
was silent and nobody moved. Along the corridor were two more doors. The first
opened into a dark small room with nothing at all in it, but the second was a
surprise. It was a woman’s room, clearly, and used very recently. There was some
furniture. A bed and a dresser with a mirror standing upon it. There were also brushes,
a comb, soap and scented oils in bottles on the dresser. Demtro hopped onto the
rug covering the centre of the floor and stood over the piece of furniture.

No blade to help free his bonds, but maybe the mirror
might do? He gripped the top of the frame in between his lower jaw and chest,
turned round and hopped to the bare floorboarded section, then dropped it. It
shattered with a satisfying crash and pieces of glass scattered across the
floor. Now for the hard bit. He lowered himself onto his knees and looked at
the pieces. One piece was fairly large and he turned round and fumbled with his
fingers, brushing pieces of glass and cutting himself on one occasion. Finally
he gripped the glass and held it awkwardly, placing it against the twine that
bound his hands, and began slowly sawing, using the tiny amount of movement his
binding allowed.

His fingers were aching, joints complaining and sweat
was beading his brow, lip and neck, but he carried on. Whoever it was who had
done this to him may come back at any time. Suddenly the twine snapped and his
wrists felt free. In relief he dropped the glass, tugged and pulled with his
hands and suddenly the twine was falling away and he brought his arms round,
examining his swollen and reddened hands.

Next the gag was hauled off and thrown onto the bed, and
last the twine around his feet cut. Now he could move around freely. He began
to go through the old shop room by room, wasting no time. It was still dark but
in the early watch before dawn. He had just about finished when he heard
voices. He dashed back upstairs and grabbed the gag, twine and the biggest
piece of glass he could find, then slipped into the wardrobe and shut the door.
There were plenty of clothes here, many of wormspun, and he rubbed his face
against them. Now now, he chided himself, no time for fetishes. Maybe later.

The voices came clearly to him and were getting closer. A
man’s and a woman’s. What they were saying he didn’t know because they spoke in
a foreign language. He gripped the piece of glass in his hand, cushioned as it
was against his skin by the gag so that only the wicked point was uncovered,
the size of his palm. The door to the room opened and the voices, jabbering
away rapidly, suddenly sounded as if they were right next to him. Demtro held
his breath and held himself absolutely still, then the male voice began
shouting angrily and footsteps ran to the room where he had been held. Clearly
his escape had been detected.

The jabbering and arguing – or so it seemed to him –
came closer again and this time the woman shrieked and began babbling even
faster. Demtro guessed the broken mirror had been discovered. The male voice
tried to speak over the woman but it was an impossible job. Both wouldn’t shut
up, clearly neither was listening to the other. It sounded like a flock of seed
eating avians in a tree that Demtro sometimes heard in the trees in Niake.

Finally he heard the woman go out into the corridor. She
was still jabbering away as she went downstairs. The male was grumbling to
himself and began moving furniture. Suddenly the door to the wardrobe was
hauled open and Demtro came face to face with a burly, swarthy character with
big white teeth and a hooked nose. “Hello,” Demtro said pleasantly, before
slamming the glass point into the surprised man’s throat, slicing open the
flesh and biting deep into the cartilage. The man choked and staggered back,
clutching his fountaining wound, and fell backwards with a loud crash.

Demtro skipped out of the room, brushing away the flecks
of blood that had struck his face, and slithered down the stairs as fast as he
could go. The woman could still be heard at the rear of the building,
chattering away angrily. Demtro slipped quietly to the front and prised open
one of the windows, pulling free the lattice work with some effort, then slid
out onto the street.

Dawn was just breaking.

The mighty Ister River marked the traditional southern
boundary of the empire and had done so for most of its thousand year history. It
was a wide fast flowing watercourse and could only be crossed in a few places. It
flowed from mountains far to the east, across the wide plains of Mazag and
through the narrow defiles and valleys that separated the plains from Valchia
and Kral, and indeed Bragal. Further to the west, close to the mighty estuary,
the land was swamp and marsh, but here the flood plains were rich with
vegetation and the hills on the other side rose with thickly forested slopes
into the distance.

“Is this it?” Amne asked unnecessarily.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lalaas said, looking at the rapidly
flowing river, swollen with meltwater from the hills and mountains. Later, in
late summer, it would be lower and more benign, but now was perhaps the worst
time to think of crossing. At least in winter it was possible to walk across on
the ice. “This is the boundary of Bragal. Over there,” he pointed, “is Valchia.
Our route is in that direction,” and he swept his hand off slightly to the
left.

“How do we cross?” Amne asked, frowning. It looked too
dangerous to try a crossing by swimming.

“The bridge over there,” Lalaas nodded to the left. In
the distance a single bridge could be seen, a multi-piered stone construction,
built centuries ago by the imperial armies, and used to carry out campaigns and
raids south of the river. No imperial force had been across into Valchia in
many years. There were a few small buildings visible on either side, and
figures could be seen moving about.

“Who are those people?” Amne peered, a hand shading her
eyes from the sun.

“Opportunists,” Lalaas said scathingly, “toll
collectors. They will ask for a fee to cross. Probably on both sides,” he
added.

“Can we pay?”

Lalaas smiled without humour. “Who knows what they’ll
charge? I suspect it varies according to what they believe the traveller can
afford. Robbers and thieves.”

“Are they Bragal rebels?”

“Yes, on this side at least. On the other side? Well,
Valchian tribesmen; slavers perhaps. If you don’t pay you get enslaved. Probably.”

Amne shivered. “What are we going to do? I don’t want to
end up a slave!”

“I’ll sort these brigands out, ma’am. Hopefully on this
side of the river there won’t be any trouble, but you can never tell.” Lalaas
strung his bow and loosened his blade in his scabbard. “This won’t be easy,
ma’am.”

They slowly rode across the fertile soil towards the
crossing point. As they neared, the bridge came into full view, a wide,
completely stone built affair that could take two equines abreast. There were
ten piers of stone, rising out of the river, and Amne could only marvel at the
building skills of those who had put it up all those centuries ago.

On the Bragal side of the bridge there were three
buildings; all wooden huts. One was clearly a rudimentary lavatory, and one a
storehouse. The third, the closest to the bridge, was the accommodation of
those who had taken up residence there. There were four men, all filthy,
unshaven and unkempt. They sported spears and bows and stood across the roadway
that led to the bridge.

Lalaas motioned Amne to wait and slowly rode the last
fifty paces alone to speak to the tollmen. “Hail and well met,” he greeted
them, palm up. “A fine morning, is it not?”

“Your intention, stranger?” one of the men barked, his
expression suspicious. This man was better armed than many who came this way.

“To cross.”

“Your business?”

“Is mine.”

The tollman snorted in amusement. The fee was going up
in his mind. “Four equines? A woman? Your bow looks good quality. Kastanian
army issue, is it not?”

Lalaas slipped the bow onto the pommel of his saddle. “It
is. A gift.”

“You Kastanian army?”

“No,” Lalaas shook his head. “A hunter. I work for
myself. This is my woman,” he jerked his head at Amne, waiting quietly with the
two spare equines.

“She looks a pretty one. Carries herself well, too. No
peasant, that one. You can afford a high fee.”

“Which is?”

The tollman rubbed his bushy beard. “Fifty gold.”

Lalaas stared incredulously at the man. “And where am I
to get my hands on that extortionate fee?”

“That is not my concern; no fee, no cross.”

Lalaas hauled out his sword and sprang down to the left,
putting two of the men on the other side of his beast. As he landed, bending
his knees, his sword was already sweeping down in a murderous arc. The tollman
never had time to react, his neck being neatly severed by the keen blade of the
sword. The second man alongside the tollman pulled back on his bowstring but
Lalaas was already moving, sweeping up as he stepped forward, the steel blade
entering the bowman under the ribcage and sending him staggering back, a mortal
wound spreading across his torn jacket. The two remaining Bragalese moved out
to get a clear shot at Lalaas, ignoring Amne who was staring, open-mouthed, at
the entire scene. They moved to either side of the animal and Lalaas ran to the
rear of his beast, sword dripping red. The tollman nearest Lalaas came face to
face with him and received the length of the hunter’s sword through his guts,
the blade exploding out of his back, and Lalaas held the man close to him and
pushed him back, into the line of sight of the remaining man.

The bowman panicked and let loose, the arrow burying
itself in the back of his dying comrade. Lalaas pushed the man off his sword
and saw the Bragalese frantically grabbing a second arrow from his belt pack. With
no time to close on him, Lalaas seized his knife, dropping his sword onto the
ground, and sent the smaller weapon blurring through the air at waist height. The
blade sank into the chest of the last man and he coughed in pain and fell back,
clutching at the weapon ineffectually.

Lalaas retrieved his sword and stood over the scene of
carnage. The four had been outclassed, none having had any military training,
unlike himself. He slowly wiped the blade and checked the bodies. Nothing of
use on them.

Amne came up slowly, her eyes wide in her face. “How did
you do that?” she asked in awe.

Lalaas shrugged. “I was better than they were; they got
greedy. If they hadn’t been, they would still be alive. Now for the other
side.”

“What about these people? You can’t leave them here like
this.” She looked away from the headless tollman, shuddering.

“I’ll take care of it,” Lalaas grunted, reaching down
and tossing the severed head into the river. “The accommodation hut there,
perhaps they have something of value inside?”

Amne was glad to get off her mount and go indoors away
from the scene of butchery. She heard Lalaas pulling the bodies away from the
approach road and throwing them into the river. The river fish would enjoy
them. She found a wooden box under a roughly cut table and opened it. Inside
were coins and gems and other small valuable objects. Lalaas came in, wiping
his knife blade, and nodded at the box. “Ill-gotten gains, no doubt. I wonder
how many of their former owners were allowed to cross?”

Amne pursed her lips. “Well they won’t rob any more of
my people.”

Lalaas smiled. “Now you’re starting to sound like a real
princess, ma’am.”

Amne ruefully returned the smile. “I must start acting
like one, too. The sooner we’re in civilised surroundings the better.”

“For you, yes, ma’am. I prefer this lifestyle.”

Amne stood up. “And never the twain shall meet,” she
said, remembering something she’d been taught in her childhood.

Lalaas chuckled. “Indeed, ma’am. Now, those robbers on
the other side will have seen me take care of this lot, and they won’t be happy
to let us in. Time for my other skill to be used. But first, I think we ought
to take this box. You never know when it may be of use.”

They carried the box out and tied it to one of the pack
animals, hiding it under a blanket, before Lalaas picked up his bow and tested
the string. He gauged the distance, then slung the quiver over his shoulder and
led his mount onto the bridge. “Stay a few paces behind me, ma’am.”

Amne followed in his wake, also on foot. A rider would
make an easier target, so Lalaas had told her. They began to make their way
across slowly. Figures appeared at the far end and they were holding bows. Lalaas
stopped and tied the reins to a projecting stone in the wall. He took three
paces forward and stopped, then filled his lungs. “We demand passage. Step
aside!”

“Go back, Kastanian scum,” a heavily accented voice
responded. “Or you die.”

“Try it, wool beast molesters,” Lalaas called back and
placed an arrow against the string of his bow. The imperial Taboz bow was
easily the best bow in Kastania, and it had a longer range than most ordinary
bows. The tribesmen would not have anything other than the normal short or
medium bows and their range was therefore much less. Lalaas had stopped just
short of what he judged was their effective range. They would not know the
weapon he carried. It was going to be a rude shock to them.

He saw five tribesmen, all shouting obscenities at him. Picking
the man on the extreme left, he sighted, drew the string back, held his breath,
then released. The steel-tipped arrow shot forward and tore through the air,
burying itself half its length into the luckless man’s chest, sending him
staggering back and then falling flat out, his eyes staring in shock at the
sky, unblinking.

“What…?” the leader of the tribesmen asked, swinging his
head round in disbelief. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes. Neither could his
comrades.

Lalaas had nocked another arrow to the bow and swung the
weapon to the right, targeting the man on the other end. This one had brought
up his bow and had released his arrow. The missile arced through the air and
died, falling to the bridge ten paces ahead of Lalaas and clattering into the
stone wall. Lalaas’ face betrayed no emotion as he paused, then released. The
arrow ripped across the distance in the blink of an eye and took the man
through the left shoulder, sending him spinning round, screaming in pain and
terror.

“This is mad!” the tribesman in command exclaimed, his
eyes wide. “What has he got there?”

“I’m not staying to find out!” one of the other two said
and took off as fast as his legs could take him.

“Come back, coward!” the leader yelled. It was no use;
the man was off as though all the demons of the underworld were on his heels.

Lalaas had another arrow ready and targeted the leader. The
man turned round to face Lalaas just as the third arrow arrived, impacting his
chest and hurling him back. The last man had seen enough; he threw his bow away
and fled, wanting to be as far from this madman and his evil bow as possible.

Lalaas lowered the bow and breathed out in relief. “The
way is clear, ma’am.”

“Is there anything you can’t do, Lalaas?”

Lalaas turned round and smiled. “Of course, ma’am, but
I’m not going to tell you what that is.”

Amne giggled. “You must remain secretive and mysterious,
is that it?”

“That’s right.” He mounted up and slung his bow around
his back. “We’d best be out of here as soon as possible before their friends
arrive. Not even my bow could hold that many off.”

Amne mounted up too and they trotted along the bridge,
over the bodies of the fallen and stopped as the remaining man, the one with
the shoulder wound, staggered away from them. “Go tell your friends not to
interfere with us or they shall suffer the same fate,” Lalaas warned him.

The man whimpered and slumped against the side of the
small communal hut they had been using. Amne gave him a pitying look before
following Lalaas onto Valchian soil and along the mud track that served as a
road. The terrain was hilly and in the distance snow peaked mountains rose high
into the sky. Lalaas nodded towards them. “We have to cross them before we get
to Branak. Branak is on the other side of those. That’s Mazag over there.”

“Is it close?”

“A few sevendays travel. Depends on what we meet and how
difficult it is travelling through this lawless land. It’s tribal, so don’t
expect any organised system here; no roads, laws, water supplies or town guards
to protect you.”

“What about Bukrat?”

“Ah yes, Bukrat. The only place of note here. A slave
trading centre.”

Amne came alongside. “I want to see it.”

Lalaas pulled a face.

Amne confronted him, riding ahead and then blocking his
path. “I said I wanted to see it, Lalaas. I know why you don’t want me to, but
believe me, I must see it for myself, so I know what I’m to fight to stop it. It’s
a terrible degrading thing and I won’t have it going on in my lands.”

“Valchia is not Kastanian, ma’am.”

“You know what I mean, Lalaas,” Amne snapped, her eyes
blazing. “Slaves are taken from Kastanian soil and brought there, to Bukrat. We
must stop this awful thing!”

“I agree with you, ma’am; the trouble is there’s a
chance we may be caught and end up in the pens ourselves.”

 “How could we be caught? By looking like this?” she
asked, waving her hands at her clothes. They were showing the signs of wear and
tear and had been repaired in a few places already. Amne would throw them away
once she got to Mazag.