Empire of Avarice (40 page)

The roar of approval went up from the crowd. It was an
uplifting experience for Evas who, for the first time he could remember, was
praised and cheered as he made his way down the corridor through the crowd,
kept open by two lines of guards, to his equine. Mothers held their children up
to see the man who had suddenly swooped on the enemies of the empire and taken
them off the streets so that everyone’s lives could be made that much safer. Evas
raised his arm once more which got more applause, then rode off with his escort
of militiamen back to the governor’s residence.

Watching this from a window on the other side of the
street was Demtro. He’d hired out this particular building as it was close to
the garrison, and accordingly cheaper to rent, and it gave him a place to
operate from some distance from both the city square and his business premises.
He didn’t want to be seen by Evas from his office or be associated with any
non-business activity. He wanted to keep his dual lives apart.

“The crowd is itching to get their hands on a Tybar
spy,” he commented, turning to face the girl who he’d taken captive that very
morning. Finding her had been a simple task, thanks to the efforts of Renet,
who had tracked her down to an old neglected house in the poorer western
district. A woman who had recently arrived, was young, dark and spoke with a
foreign accent wasn’t that usual and people had been very helpful, especially
when it was said she may be a Tybar spy, which in fact it was very likely she
was. As it was, Renet and Demtro had only just been one step ahead of a
personal lynching mob, alerted by street gossip. The woman had been
ignominiously bundled into a hay wagon and trussed up like a fowl and carried
off almost from under the baying crowd’s nose.

“Wonder what would happen to you if I handed you over to
them?” Demtro addressed the bound and helpless woman.

The girl glared back at him, her dark eyes flashing
furiously.

“What, nothing to say? You had plenty to say the other
day to your – ah – late colleague in the other house where you had me bound and
gagged.”

“You killed him, you animal!” she spat.

“What else could I do?” Demtro asked reasonably, “he had
knocked me out and was likely to cut me up. I retaliated before he got his blow
in first.”

“You joke about killing! You are heartless!”

“It has been said,” Demtro shrugged the accusation off. “I
don’t really care if I’m heartless or not. My quandary is what do I do with
you? If I’m heartless I’ll hand you over to that lot outside and watch and see
how long it is before they tear you to pieces.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” she replied, “you need me for
something, or you would not have done all this.”

“You’re right. But this leads to the problem I have, and
that’s will you give me the information I need or not? I want to know the exact
set-up you have here in Niake, and all other intelligence on Tybar plans for
Bathenia. If you keep silent I’m afraid you have no value to me and I’ll drag
you out there. You’re clearly not Kastanian and you’ll have – I’ll estimate –
the time it takes to eat a cake before they bludgeon you to death.”

“If I talk they’ll kill me,” the woman said.

“Who, your friends? Not if you tell us where they are
and we can get to them first. Then who will know who betrayed whom? You’ll be
safe with me.”

“You’ll get what information you need and then you’ll
kill me,” she objected.

“Rot. I’m not that type of person. You tell me
everything and its proven, and I’ll arrange a safe place for you to go and
live. Away from Tybar eyes. Zipria if you like, or Pelponia. I have the ear of
the empress, Isbel.” He smiled reassuringly, then looked back out of the
window. “But you’ve got to make your decision now.”

“You lie. You’re like all Kastanians, liars and
weaklings, all of you!”

Demtro turned round, walked up to her and slapped her
hard across the face. “Don’t confuse me with those idiots who ran this empire
before the recent coup. I’m a determined fellow and will get what I want. Don’t
confuse me either with the governor here. I’m more decisive than he is. I’ll
count to five, then open this window and call that crowd over here. By the time
they get here and see you, I’ll be gone. It won’t be a pretty sight so I won’t
stay to witness it. I’ll call the guard but not until I’m certain they’ve ripped
your head off.”

The woman struggled against her bindings. “You foul
beast! You have no honour!”

“Whatever,” Demtro said indifferently and returned to
the window. “One.” He unfastened the lock and tested the latch. It moved. “Two.”

“You’ll never find them all! One or two will escape!”

“Three.”

The girl gasped in desperation and her efforts succeeded
in unbalancing the chair and she and it fell over together to lie helplessly on
the floor.

Demtro made no effort to help her. “Four.” He jerked
open the window. “Five.”

“I’ll tell you, you horrid bovine dung heap!”

Demtro shut the window and folded his arms. “’Horrid
bovine dung heap’? That’s a new one. I’ll have to remember that. Now, talk.”

“Help me up first! I can’t think lying like this!”

The spy-merchant pushed himself away from the wall and
strode over, pulling her up sharply and placing her once more upright. She spat
in his face. Smiling, Demtro wiped it off slowly with his hand, then smeared it
over her face. “As it’s yours, you can have it back.”

The girl began shaking. “There’s a man called Habnas.”

“We know about him,” Demtro nodded. “Go on.”

“He arranged for our entry into Niake. He’s a lawyer or
diplomat or something. I don’t know. He introduced two priests to us…”

“Who is ‘us’?”

“The tribe of Musnat, we come first, it is our right by
tribal law! We pave the way for our brother tribes. Once we are established in
an enemy land we spread chaos, destroying crops, buildings, roads, animals. We
destroy the ability of the enemy to resist.”

“And how many of you are there in Niake?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t!” she shrieked, seeing
Demtro move towards the window. “There are five of us – or were five of us I
should say – here. You killed one. Habnas is the leader. The two priests are
the others.”

Demtro thought about what the woman had said. “And your
name is?”

“Leiala. I am high born.”

“Means nothing to me, sweetheart,” Demtro replied
indifferently. “It may mean a lot amongst your people, but to us you’re just
another Tybar woman.”

“I demand you treat me with respect my status deserves!”

Demtro slapped her across the face. “That what you want?
Carry on like that and you’ll get another.”

Leiala hung her head and sobbed. Demtro looked out of
the window again. The crowd were still there and baying for blood. “I think the
governor’s going to have to bow to public pressure and hang a Tybar or two. Want
that to be you? We have Habnas, but I think the priests ought to be ours too,
don’t you think? So talk, Leiala, in return for your life and a passage to the
east, talk.”

So Leiala talked.

The new day was bright and fresh, and the soil smelled
good. The avians sang and the sun shone brightly. The two riders crossed the
damp countryside, tiny dots in the wide, empty expanse of Valchia. The woods and
the village were far behind and ahead only the flat horizon existed, dotted
here and there by growths of shrubs or tall reeds and grasses, showing that
here the land was wet and marshes lay here and there.

Lalaas’ shoulder had settled down to a dull ache, and he
was able at least to use it, although if he did too much it sent shafts of pain
down his arm. Amne rode alongside, looking carefully to her left, ahead and
sometimes behind, nervous about being seen. At Lalaas’ suggestion, she no
longer washed, but allowed the accumulation of dirt to cloak her skin, giving
her more of an appearance of a country girl than a princess. Also Lalaas
remarked that morning that the outside life of the last few sevendays had
tanned her skin and she no longer had the pale complexion of an indoor
noblewoman. Amne had smiled faintly at that; partly she was pleased because it
helped to disguise her, but partly she was upset because it now meant that when
she arrived in Branak, and for that matter returned to Kastan, she would be
looked down on. Pale skin was preferred by the upper classes as it was
fashionable and showed they did not have to live outdoors working off the land.
A tan was so common.

Their clothes were dirty and stained with water and
their body salts. Amne felt terribly uncomfortable but Lalaas insisted they
keep the same clothes on, no matter they smelt bad and looked as if they’d been
mucking out bovines with them. It all helped to make them appear as people of
the land, which is what most of those here were. They still had their change of
clothes in the packs and these would be used once they got to Branak.

They also were taking a different path. As dawn had
broken they had set off, heading south west instead of south east. The
villagers would spread the word they were heading for Mazag, and all routes
there would be watched, so Lalaas was taking them in a huge loop away from that
route and around Bukrat. Instead of approaching that town from the north, they
now would come upon it from the west.

Lalaas had a plan forming in his head. “We can hire a
room in an inn and stay there a few days. We can rest and recover there, and
find out when the next slave auction will be. I would guess they’re once a sevenday
or once a season.”

“Won’t it be dangerous staying that long there?”

“Possibly; but we need the rest and to buy things. We’re
running low on quite a bit and the equipment is falling apart. Bukrat may be in
the middle of a wilderness but it’s a town and there’ll be leatherworkers,
carpenters and food sellers there. And a blacksmith. These equines need new
shoes.”

“So what should I do?”

“Play the part of my woman. That way nobody will look at
you for a profit. I don’t want people taking undue interest in you, Amne. You
may look like a landswoman, but the moment you talk its clear you’re educated
and have had a good upbringing. Not good for the disguise.”

“Then teach me to talk – common.”

Lalaas grinned. “Common Kastanian or Bragalese? Or maybe
Turslenkan? Turslenka has a different accent. We tend to roll our ‘r’s’ and have
longer drawn out vowels. And we talk lazy; we drop the final letter in many
words. Such as, ough’ a’ instead of ought to.”

“Oh, I see. Well I must try!”

“Right, or should I say, ri’.” He began talking, waiting
for Amne to copy him, then go on. Then he’d go back to the previous word and
ask her to repeat again, then without his prompting. They did this for most of
the day, passing through the flat, devoid land. Sometimes they saw some wild
animal scuttling away from their path, or an avian flying up above, but mostly
they were to all appearances the only people there.

Lalaas got Amne to drawl her words, almost mixing them
into one. Amne stumbled over these, but slowly got the hang of them. Lalaas
insisted they no longer spoke the clipped accent of Kastan, but spoke instead
the Turslenka common vernacular. Amne had difficulty in understanding some of
the words, but after a while got her ear in. Lalaas deliberately didn’t use
long words, as landspeople wouldn’t use them as a matter of course. He kept it
simple.

“Wha’ sorta slave collar shoul’ thee ‘ave?” Amne asked.

“I’ll get ‘un when we ge’ ta Bukrat,” Lalaas replied,
proud that she should pick up the slangish way of speaking so fast. “You got’a
look down, like, when any man comes by. No lookin’ a’ their eyes, yeah?”

“Ri’” Amne replied. “Sorta like this?” and she looked
down, at Lalaas’ feet.

“Grea’!” Lalaas nodded. “Now, we’ll be a’ Bukrat in abo’
two days. Enuf time ta teach ya t’ get by.”

They laughed and carried on, alone and unnoticed in an
alien land.

The air was charged with excitement, anticipation and
fear. The avians and animals had gone silent, as if they, too, knew something
was about to happen. The flags fluttered from the silent lines of men, all
still, waiting for the moment.

Jorqel sat upon his equine, watching the gates of
Slenna. He hunched forward in his saddle, tense and expectant. Now was the time
he could show all he was a proper prince of the empire. Here, at last, was the
opportunity he had waited for all winter and spring. The garrison of Slenna was
sallying out. That morning they had made a last desperate appeal for the siege
to be lifted, but Jorqel had stayed firm in his terms. Surrender. Alfan Fokis
had rejected it out of hand and then warned Jorqel that the time for talk was
over, and now he would have to show his prowess on the battlefield.

By his side waited Gavan, still, poised, confident. These
men were the best that the empire had. Perhaps a force to be laughed at by
emperors and imperial generals of times gone by, but here they were with what
they could afford. Two companies of imperial spearmen, standing in the centre,
spears ready, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, releasing
tension that was building up. To the flanks stood the feared imperial archers,
all armed with their Taboz composite bows, deadly weapons of death. They were
lightly armed so that they could use both their bows without hindrance, which
meant they could flee from danger as fast as their legs could carry them.

At the rear waited the bodyguard heavy cavalry, lances
raised. This was the shock weapon, the one to be used to swing the battle their
way. Six hundred men stood or sat, waiting, praying to their gods, or muttering
some wish or good luck phrase.

Within Slenna the noise was building. Pennants and flags
had been unfurled from the ramparts and now they could hear the chanting of men
psyching themselves up for battle. Their numbers had been estimated by the
imperial spy inside the town as being around the same as the imperial force. They
had more spearmen and similar numbers of archers, but no cavalry.

“Good luck, sire,” Gavan muttered.

“And to you,” Jorqel responded. He’d already ridden out
in front of his men a short while ago, exhorting them to great shows of bravery
and strength in the name of the empire; that they were the best Kastania had,
that they were the true heirs of the magnificent leaders of their past. These
rebels were foul traitors who deserved nothing but death. It had been an
aggressive, brash and forthright speech, and the imperial troops had cheered,
relieved at last that this boring siege was coming to an end. They all wanted a
proper billet and rest and the comforts that living in a town would give them.

Jorqel had ended by saying the town and populace were
not to be harmed. Just those who raised weapons against them.

With a creak the twin gates opened inwards, and the
first of the Slennan garrison appeared, spear and shield bearing soldiers,
their shields small and round, their spears slightly shorter. More men were
seen crowding behind them, eager to get out. “Captains!” Jorqel roared to the
spear company commanders. “There are your enemy. Charge them and pin them
against that wall! Go!”

The two captains roared at their men who broke into a
fast run, yelling wildly at the startled rebels who had believed the imperial
force would be gentlemen and wait for them to line up neatly before the day’s
proceedings began. But Jorqel and his men had fought in Bragal where there were
no rules or politeness. They were used to fighting dirty.

Jorqel nodded to the archer captains to commence
shooting. The bows were raised and then over two hundred arrows arced through
the air to land amongst the milling soldiers trying to get out as fast as they
could before the imperial forces hit them. Men spread out rapidly underneath
the walls and a few staggered as arrows hit them, but most got out through the
gates before the two imperial spear companies crashed into the front units.

Men collided, struck out at each other and cursed one
another. Shields were used as battering rams and spears jabbed forward, trying
to seek out vulnerable spots in an enemy. The sound of shields and weapons
clashing filled the air. The lines of men writhed together as two companies of
imperial spearmen battled three companies of rebels. They were outnumbered but
holding their own. The Slennan archers fanned out behind with difficulty, and
Jorqel slapped Gavan on the shoulder. “Over there,” he pointed to the left. “Let’s
get that company of archers forming up before they let loose on our men. C’mon!”

Visors were slammed down and Gavan yelled the order to
start up. Slowly at first the fifty-six riders began to move towards the
forming archer unit, and lances came down to point at their quarry, busy
opening quarrels and testing bowstrings. Then the equines broke into a trot and
the drumming sound filled the air, above that of the shouting men and ringing
of steel upon steel. The archers spotted the danger and, caught out in the open
with no protection, blanched in fear. They turned and ran, but the thundering
cavalrymen had broken into the charge and closed them down. Jorqel rode
straight into a knot of fleeing men, impaling one man with his lance through
the back, and then releasing the weapon and hauling out his sword.

The rest of his unit had crashed into the helpless
archers and many were sent flying through the air with the impact. They were
poorly armoured, or not even armoured at all, and the keen blades of the
bodyguard sought out and found soft flesh time and time again. Jorqel wheeled
and a man came running past, wild-eyed and terror stricken, and the prince
slashed down hard, catching the man across the neck and shoulder, sending him
spinning round to fall onto the churned up earth. He glanced through the sides
of his eye slits and got a brief flash of a confusion of arms, blades, equines
and shields, then checked left and right, turning his mount round sharply and
flailing at another luckless archer who tried to dodge past on his terror-stricken
run to somewhere.

Suddenly there were no more archers. They had either
been killed or had fled back into the town. Jorqel made sure his men were all
there and they were, then waved them to follow him. He’d seen the second rebel
archer unit, standing just behind the furious melee in front of the gates, and
had an idea. “If we hit that archer unit we cut the lot off from the town,
including those spearmen!”

“It could be risky, sire,” Gavan shouted, his voice
muffled by his closed visor, “if those spearmen turn on us. We’d be caught!”

“They’re busy fighting our spearmen – and losing!”
Jorqel yelled, noting the piles of bodies mounting, and many more were on the
enemy side. But now was the time to help his hard working infantry. The
imperial archers had ceased shooting for fear of hitting their own side and
were standing watching developments.

“Charge!” Jorqel roared, raising his sword. Blood, guts
and glory! He led his muddied and bloodied men on towards the reloading
archers, and struck them hard on the right flank. The gap wasn’t wide enough to
squeeze them all in and those on the right began hacking at the unprotected
backs of the Slennan spearmen, sending them into a panic.

Alfan Fokis was standing by the gates, screaming
encouragement, and he suddenly noticed the danger as the cavalry began cutting
a swathe through the dissolving archers. The prince noticed him and slashed
down at an archer in his way, cutting through the upraised bow, an arm and much
of his side. The archer fell away with a scream. Jabbing his heels into his
mount, Jorqel charged forward and then around, closing in on Alfan Fokis. A
spearman cut across his path and was sent flying as the weight of his equine
knocked him clean out of the way. Jorqel backhanded a blow into the chest of another
spearman who had turned to deal with the danger, then he looked round to see
Alfan Fokis sliding down the wall, leaving a bloodied smear as he fell. Someone
had got him with a fair old blow, as much of his tunic was ripped open and his
torso was already soaked with red.

The spearmen, surrounded, tried to form a defensive
circle but there was no room to move. The imperial infantry at the front and
the cavalry at the rear effectively crushed them into a mass and bodies fell to
the merciless swords or the thrusting spears, and suddenly they’d had enough. Men
threw their weapons down and fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.

The fighting stopped and the soldiers looked to Jorqel
for a command. The prince slowly came up to the knot of men trembling on their
knees and gazed down at them. He lifted his visor so that they could see his
face. “Men of Slenna,” he said sharply, “you are defeated. You fought hard, but
were led badly. Now you must make your choice to either pledge for allegiance
to me and my father, the emperor Astiras, or die. What say you?”

“We promise to faithfully serve you, lord,” one of the
sweating and desperate looking men, a sergeant, spoke up. Others nodded and
said ‘aye’. “We plead for your mercy, lord.”

Jorqel looked round at the battlefield. Bodies lay in
groups where the fighting had taken place. Sadly, some were his own men,
spearmen, who had fallen in the vicious hand to hand melee in front of the
gates. He turned to Gavan who had come up, blood flecked on his armour but
looking unhurt himself. “Who killed Alfan Fokis?”

“Landec got him.”

“Two gold coins to Landec then. Very well,” he turned
back to the waiting prisoners. “I will hear your pledge of allegiance now.”

The men bowed and vowed to support, obey and protect
Prince Jorqel, the rightful governor of Slenna, and pay homage to the emperor,
Astiras the First of Kastania. Satisfied, Jorqel leaned back. “Very well. You
may return to your homes once the grisly task of identifying and then burying
the fallen has taken place. You are to dig the graves as punishment for having
the temerity to fight my men.”

The imperial troops lined up for a head count which
their captains quickly completed, and gave the figures to Gavan. While this was
happening the townsfolk had begun to drift out, both to identify and mourn
their loved ones, and to plead for food. Many were starving. Jorqel commanded
the archer captains to organise a supply of food and water into the city, since
they had not suffered any losses nor had been involved too much in the fight
and therefore were the freshest of the soldiers.

Gavan presented the casualties. “Sire, fifty-six dead. All
from the spear companies.”

“I see. One in eleven or so. Quite a heavy price. Their
losses?”

“Two hundred and fifty-seven dead, three hundred and
fifty-two taken captive.”

“Fairly comprehensive. Let’s get into the town, then. After
all, it’s what we came for. Arrange for our dead to be buried separately from
the rebel dead and given full battle honours. They died for a worthy cause.”

“Sire,” Gavan saluted and moved off. Jorqel guided his
mount under the gatehouse, through the open gates and into the town. Ahead
stood the wooden castle atop a large earthen mound. That would be his residence
in the immediate aftermath of the retaking of Slenna. Beyond that a proper
governor’s residence would have to be built. He looked at the sadly neglected
buildings and the piles of refuse and bodies lying in the streets. They would
have to be cleared up fast before disease broke out.

People lined the main street and watched silently as
Prince Jorqel, accompanied by his bodyguard, walked their mounts into the town
and took command. They were apprehensive lest looting or pillaging would be
permitted, but Jorqel soon assured them that there would be no enduring punishment.
Slenna had suffered enough. Now the time was here to rebuild and turn Slenna
into one of the jewels of the empire.

That evening an exhausted Jorqel sat in a high backed
wooden chair in a chamber that overlooked Slenna. Lights were coming on in the
streets, lit by soldiers, the first night lights for some time. The dead had
been buried in two graves; the rebels in a mass grave off to the north while
the imperial dead were all laid in individually marked plots in another, this
one to the south. He was now at his writing desk, or what he had appropriated
as his own, and was composing a report to the palace of the day’s events. Above
the castle roof, on the flagpole, fluttered the imperial two circles and bar
once more.

On the desk rested a steaming cup of klee. Two guards
stood on duty by the door that led to the outside corridor, while the only
other door led to his private bed chamber. Gavan sat sprawled in the other
chair opposite, and both were grateful at last to be indoors in a spacious, dry
and comfortable place. Farmhouses had their limits. Three candles gave off
enough illumination to see by, and over in the far corner, against the outside
wall, stood a huge fireplace. In winter this would be essential.

“Thank the gods our work is done,” Gavan said with
feeling.

Jorqel looked up and smiled ironically. “Gavan, my old
friend, its only just beginning. We have to restore this town to normal very
quickly. The populace is starved. We need a quick and plentiful supply of food.
The farms can do some of this but we need supplies by sea. I want riders sent
out with requisitions to all farm holdings throughout the province, starting
tomorrow, to demand one tenth of their available food for Slenna. Then we need
to get the streets cleaned up.”

“The bodies have been removed, sire.”