Prince of Wrath (12 page)

The officers looked confused. Zonis and Kimel carried on walking along the tangled line, slapping them on the head.

“Dead, dead, dead,” Zonis said in a monotone. He even slapped those still battling in the melee. “Battle over. Defeat.”

The men were told to gather round Zonis. He waited until all were silent. “I did this to show you that you have to have discipline on the battlefield. You must move as one, act as one, and do it without thinking. The force that stays together generally wins the fight. Most losses come when one side breaks and flees, and then the real slaughter begins. And you can run as fast as you like,” he pointed round at the men, “but you won’t be able to flee from an equine and a murderous armoured man on its back, believe me.”

The soldiers, and even the two officers, nodded in understanding. Zonis breathed in slowly. To do that too fast got him coughing in pain. “So in the next few days we’re going to learn how to move as one, marching in formation, turning in formation, so that if you’re attacked on the flank or in the rear, you can turn and meet the attack quickly enough to present a solid protective front. If you can do that you’ll cut down your losses enormously. Get it?”

The men nodded. Zonis felt a glow of satisfaction rising inside his gut. Once more he would do what he enjoyed the most, teaching men to be warriors. Shame, he reflected as he faced the eager looking soldiers, that he’ll work hard to undermine their campaign. Still, it was good to feel part of something again.

He’d do it one last time before he died.

The eleven men looked down on the neatly tended vinefruit orchards and ploughed fields. Everything seemed so orderly, so peaceful. Jorqel scowled. The Duras were filth that needed eradicating, and if he found any evidence that they had been involved in the abduction of Sannia, or that they were assisting Lombert Soul, then he’s personally take Lord Duras’ head and mount it on a pike.

The time for social niceties was over.

Waving his men on, he led them down the slope through the leafy woods bordering the Duras estate, through small glades and over narrow, chuckling brooks. All was neat, orderly and well-tended. Jorqel recognised what that meant; there were sufficient workers on the estate to keep everything in order. An estate the size the Duras held meant hundreds of workmen, and that meant lots of money. There had been no indication the Duras has enough resources for that, but the evidence was clear to the prince as he rode along the neatly tended woodland track with its newly repaired fencing and tidily stacked logs off to the side of the road.

They emerged from the woods and thundered past startled people who were setting out from blockhouses and barns with pitchforks, spades and other farming implements in their hands. Jorqel skidded to a halt and glared down at the people. There were three armed guards overseeing them, and the workmen were roped together in groups. “What is this for?” he demanded, pointing at the rope.

“Who’s asking?” one of the guard demanded, advancing in a threatening manner, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

“Draw that and you die,” Jorqel warned him, his gauntleted finger pointing directly at him. “Can’t you recognise my coat of arms?”

The guard’s eyes shifted to the embroidered badge sewn onto the saddle cloths, and to the pennant being held by one of the ten bodyguards. The blue and white quartered background with, set in the centre, a bare bladed sword, upright, and to either side the wings, rampant, of a hunting avian. It was the Koros House crest, an unmistakable moniker. The guard paled and dropped his hand. His legs began shaking. “My-my lord, I apologise! I didn’t see who you were!”

“Down! Kneel, canine! All of you, kneel!” Jorqel’s temporary aide, a man called Reptac, snapped.

The group sank to their knees, heads bowed.

Jorqel leaned forward, his hands grasping the pommel of his saddle. “Why are these men roped together?”

“L-Lord Duras’ commands, sire!” the guard replied, hesitantly.

Jorqel growled. He looked at the nearest workers. “Tell me, you, why are you roped like this?”

“Sire – we – we are refugees from Izaras who fled the Tybar years ago…. the Duras took us in but enslaved us. There are hundreds of us here, sire.”

“What-at?” Jorqel bellowed, his face suffused with rage. “Are you telling me Kastanian refugees fled here to escape and were forced into servitude on this estate?”

“My son was taken away, sire,” the worker looked up, pleadingly, “to work on another of their estates. Whole families have been separated by the Duras and put on separate estates, and we were all warned that should any of us try to escape, then all the same family would be executed.”

Jorqel gasped in outrage. He looked at his men. “Free these workers. They are to come back to Slenna.” He looked back at the worried looking men. “Fear not. I am Prince Jorqel. I swear that your families will be freed. You will all leave the servitude you have been forced into and find new homes in Slenna, my town to the north. You will be housed and fed, but you will have to swear to me to serve on my estates until you can find employment of your own. Until you do you will exchange rent and food for free work on my farms or building projects. What say you?”

“Lord, it sounds like what we are suffering now.”

“With the difference you’ll have houses to live in and the freedom to find your own jobs. I shall draw up a proper document to agree this for each and every one of you. I shall also work hard to free your loved ones who will rejoin you in Slenna. In the meantime, I shall deal with this Duras myself personally!”

“What of these guards, Lord?” the workman asked, pointing at the three trembling men at arms. “They beat us and readily killed a number of us for not working hard enough.”

“We were forced to do so by Lord Duras!” the senior guard shrieked, seeing heads turn in his direction.

“Enslaved, were you?” Jorqel asked, menacingly.

“No-no, Lord, but we had no option – we had no other livelihood. Our employment in the army was finished with the disbandment of our regiments and it was either starve, banditry, or employment for a meagre wage under Lord Duras. Nobody else took us on.”

“Tie them up and lead them back to Slenna. I shall decide what to do with these carrion eaters later,” the Prince ordered two of his men. “Escort these people back to Slenna. We shall rejoin you later.”

Jorqel led the eight remaining men after him, galloping hard for the Duras family home, sited in a dip in the land, surrounded by trees and fed by a small stream that meandered lazily through the grounds. A fence stood in his path, so he vaulted it and thundered on, rage in his mind. The Duras had gone too far. The house came into view and figures stopped and stared in amazement as Jorqel came galloping across a neat, manicured sward of grass, sending clods of earth up behind him. His men followed, ruining what was left. Clattering onto the hard-packed earthen road that served the house, Jorqel came to a halt and leapt from his mount, dragging his war sword out of its sheath. He was ready to dish out Koros justice.

A neatly attired man with a shock of black hair came running over, concern on his face. “What is all this? What do you want?”

Jorqel back-handed him to the ground and stamped up the wide wooden steps to the doors. Two guards appeared, swords in their hands, and attacked. Jorqel slashed sideways, knocking the first one’s blade aside, and the guard cannoned into the second. Jorqel swung his two-handed sword in a murderous arc. The heavy chunk of steel bit through the first man’s neck and continued, slicing through the spinal cord.

With a wet, soggy noise the decapitated head struck the top step and rolled down to the next. The headless torso collapsed in a heap by the door. The second guard avoided the bloodied blade cutting through the air and countered, hoping to send the point of his sword up into the exposed armpit of the Prince, but Jorqel was moving, turning. One foot moved sideways and he bent backwards as the guard’s blade passed close, brushing his armour. Jorqel planted his feet firmly on the ground and struck back, opening the guard’s throat. The man fell to the ground, dying, and Jorqel reached for the door, his face set like stone.

“Get round the rear,” he snapped to his men. “Stop anyone leaving! Reptac, with me!”

With Reptac in his wake, Jorqel kicked the front door open. Inside, the hallway met his eyes with its neat, marbled floor and stone staircase leading up to the first floor. Like all Duras property, it was large, ostentatious and grand. “Duras!” he yelled in anger. “Come face your Prince now!”

There was no answer. Muttering in frustration he moved to the left. “Take the right,” he ordered to Reptac, “and arrest anyone you find.”

Jorqel stood at the foot of the staircase. If anyone was up there they could wait until more of his men arrived. He just didn’t have enough to check everywhere at the same time. Off to the left was a long passageway, segmented into sections separated by white painted arches. Marble columned plinths stood in alcoves with stone busts of people on top. From his previous visit here he knew them to be Duras family heads of times past.

Along this passageway were doors to the study, day room and office of the Duras. Lord Duras often worked there, and it was likely if he was present then he’d be there. Two men came running into the house from the front. Jorqel turned. “Yes?”

“Sire,” one of his bodyguard bowed. “Regretfully Lord Duras escaped. He was in the stables and used an equine to flee. We have arrested the stablehand and estate manager.”

“And Lady Duras and sons and daughter?”

“We have yet to find them, sire.”

Jorqel looked up the stairs. “One of you come with me, the other check along there,” he waved in the direction of the left hand corridor. Leading his remaining bodyguard, he climbed to the first floor. The passages were empty but slightly threatening. He looked left and right. Slowly he made his way along to the right, looking at the doors closely. He sniffed the air. Perfume. Slowly he turned the handle and it gave, allowing entry to the room.

He had guessed correctly. This was Lady Duras’ chamber. Two women cowered away from him, handmaidens. They stared wild-eyed at him as he advanced through the plush room to the far door which was slightly ajar. The bodyguard followed. “Wait here,” Jorqel said, “and make sure nobody leaves.”

“Sire.”

Jorqel pushed the door open with the tip of his sword, leaving a mark on the fine panelled wood. Beyond was the bed chamber, and, seated in two upholstered chairs, were two more women. The daughter, Alenna, drew her breath in sharply, her eyes wide and fearful. To her right sat her mother, Lady Kelsi Duras. She was more composed and regarded the prince coolly. “Is it usual for a man to enter a women’s chamber?” she asked.

Jorqel glanced round the rest of the chamber, but nobody else was present. He turned his attention back to Lady Duras, a slim, pale figure with overly coloured dark hair gathered into a high style and held in place with an aquabone hair band. Aquabone was expensive and rare. It was found in southern climes in the frozen seas, and carved from the tusks of ferocious sea creatures. “Stand up,” Jorqel snapped. “I’m not here for pleasantries.”

Lady Duras rested her hands in her lap. “If I refuse?”

“Then I shall take you downstairs by force. Your choice.”

“It appears we were right,” she addressed her daughter, “the Koros are nothing but common rabble and thieves.”

“And the Duras are traitors, murderers and slavers. Your estates are sequestered to me. What happens to your House remains to be seen, but I doubt you’ll ever return here ever again. Now get going before I forget who I am.”

“Oh, I doubt you’ll ever forget who you are, Jorqel Koros,” Lady Duras said, standing up. “The heavens will fall before that ever happens. Come on Alenna, at least we can show these peasants how nobility behave. Perhaps they will learn from us.”

Jorqel’s lips twisted. “Nobles do not behave in the way the Duras have, turning on their own people for petty profit. We are freeing all those refugees you enslaved.”

Lady Duras laughed. “Oh, come now, Koros, do you think we’re the only ones to have done that? Ask all the other Houses with estates in Bathenia and Lodria! If word gets out you’re acting against us because of that, the other Houses will act before you come for them, too! My husband is no doubt riding to tell them all at this moment. You’ll be faced with a rebellion throughout the two provinces. Not even your precious army will be able to hold that!”

Jorqel took her by the arm but she threw it off angrily. “Do not touch me! I shall make my own way downstairs.”

Jorqel allowed her to walk past, and he glared at Alenna who looked frightened. Jorqel raised his sword. “This came from your guards. I’m still in the mood to use it!”

Alenna whimpered and hurried after her mother. The two handmaidens followed, holding onto each other, and Jorqel ordered the other man to check the rest of the upstairs. At the bottom of the stairs three bodyguards were waiting, including Reptac. They stepped aside as the woman came down.

“Sire, we have found more refugee slaves on the estate and have freed them. Lord Duras and his two sons have fled. They were helped by their retainers who we had to kill. They bought their masters’ flight with their lives.”

Jorqel growled. “Cowards fleeing justice, as usual.” He turned to Lady Duras. “Please lead me to the study. I wish to draw up some documents there.” He gestured to both mother and daughter to precede him. “Reptac, my ‘box’.”

“Sire.”

With the bodyguard patrolling the house and the immediate surrounding area, Jorqel set up a temporary office in the Duras study. Lady Duras sat by one of the windows and looked out, feigning disinterest. Alenna was ordered to sit next to Jorqel. The desk was a large piece of darkwood, one of the slow-growing, heavy trees found further west. It probably had been looted from Imakum or maybe even further west than that; it looked old. Jorqel spread his papers on the top and placed his writing utensils and ink very carefully. Reptac and two other men stood in the room, making sure nothing untoward happened.

Finally Jorqel laid his sword on the table, still streaked with blood. Alenna jumped at the sound of it striking the heavy wooden surface and stared at the stained blade in horrid fascination. “The sight of blood disturbs you, Lady Alenna?”

“Of course it does!” Lady Duras answered from the window alcove, her voice coloured with hatred. “It would any young woman! Of course, a ruffian and uncultured boor like you would know nothing of that!”

“Uncultured boor?” Jorqel echoed. “Lady Duras, you must have me confused with someone else.”

“Like father like son. Scum begets scum!”

Jorqel’s cheek stained red. He picked up the sword and tossed it to Reptac. “Clean it will you?” He then sat on the desk and looked down at the diminutive Alenna. “I am looking for someone, Lady Alenna. Someone dear to me, a lady called Sannia Nicate. I believe that your father was connected with her abduction, and it is possible she is being held by some of your father’s men somewhere nearby. What do you know of this?”