Prince of Wrath (21 page)

Tunsec came up, his chest heaving. The run was been hard but now it was done, and he could relax for he was back in his familiar home territory. “Lord, if you will permit me to open negotiations?”

“Go ahead, Captain. We wish for lodgings for the night, and I wish for an audience with the village leader, which you are to attend.”

Tunsec bowed and walked to the near end of the bridge, which was in reality a tree trunk that had been split in two lengthways and laid parallel across the chasm. He stood facing the village. “I bring greetings to you, men of Bakran. I, Tunsec of the Mountains, have returned, bearing good tidings and friends.”

Slowly, gradually, some of the dark shadows began to move, coming closer, men with still faces, eyes like stone and loaded bows. The Kastanians looked round in alarm, for others were coming at them from the forest behind them. Astiras grinned to himself. A perfect ambush, one he knew was there. “Hold, men of Kastania. These are friends.”

The cavalrymen kept their hands on their saddles, waiting. The archers called out to the approaching men, and suddenly there were cheers and greetings and men were clasping arms and chattering excitedly to each other. Teduskis, one hand drifting down towards his sword hilt, relaxed and glanced at the Emperor. Astiras nodded and indicated to remain in the saddle.

At the rear the Hushirs huddled, uncertain, unsure. Some of the Bakranian mountain men had approached them and looked up in curiosity at the foreigners. The Hushirs, under orders from their Vogna, remained in the saddle and made no quick move. Tunsec was surrounded by a group of men and after a quick conversation, led them over to where Astiras waited for them.

They all bowed respectfully, but not overly so, for this was their land, their territory. They may pay fealty to Kastania and its Emperors, but they were fiercely independent and proud. As long as the Kastanians left them to carry on their lives without interference, they would respect the words of their overlords. Tunsec stood aside and held out an arm, indicating the men in turn and introducing them to Astiras one after the other.

Astiras looked down upon the Bakranians. “It is good to meet the proud men of the mountains,” he said. “Your people here have shown me just how valorous and brave you are, and I am proud to have men from the Bakran in my army. With your people with me, no enemy can withstand us.”

The village seniors inclined their heads. Such a speech was obligatory, but at the same time it still was pleasing coming from the leader of the Kastanians. Their spokesman, the so-called Feltar, which was an honorary warlord, stepped forward. “We in turn, are honoured to host the illustrious Emperor, Astiras ‘Landwaster’. Tales of your prowess in battle against the scum of Bragal have been told and retold around our fires on many a long night. We are pleased to receive you and your men. You are welcome to stay this night, for you have brought back to us many of our sons who, I can see, are eager to reacquaint themselves with their own people and to tell many tales. This indeed calls for a feast.”

Astiras chuckled. “Now you have interested me, Feltar.”

The Feltar looked at Astiras for a long moment, then his face creased into a myriad of crinkles and he roared with laughter. The other Bakranians joined in, and the archers in Astiras’ force all began crossing over the bridge, arms linked around the locals’ shoulders, deep in discussion. Astiras dismounted, waving the others to follow suit, and all began gingerly leading their mounts across the bridge to the village, one after the other.

Later that evening, after they had eaten their fill and drank far too much of the local spirit, a drink distilled from the local tubers that left a burning tinge in the windpipe and gut, Astiras negotiated with the villagers for a second company of archers to help in his battle to free the lands from those who wished to change things for the worse. He assured the Bakranians that as Emperor, he and his descendants would continue to honour the local customs and lives of people like the Bakranians, but those who opposed him, the Duras, cared little for that.

Tunsec added his support for Astiras, retelling the Battle of Habrin, which fascinated those listening, Astiras also showed them a bag of gold furims, which definitely helped. By the end of the evening Astiras had his second company of archers.

Pleased, he relaxed and leaned back, enjoying the dancing of the local girls, accompanied by the flute, a local instrument made from the trees that grew there, which had a high pitched trilling sound. Teduskis tapped his feet along with the tune and Astiras looked in surprise as two of the young girls sat on his knees. Teduskis, almost as old as Astiras, shrugged and grinned. Perhaps they saw that he was unmarried and wished to do well for themselves.

Astiras was untouchable, being emperor, and there was a clear space around him. He noticed that and guessed the Bakranians were in awe of him; after all, he was ‘Landwaster’, a reputation that stood this side of the mountains. Over the pass the name would mean nothing. In fact, he noticed now that everyone was giving him a clear space, even Teduskis. Why was that? Had it been like this for some time and he hadn’t noticed it? The more he thought on it, the more he realised that he was being given a wider berth than he had been before.

Was this the lot of being an emperor? Was this what it was to be ruler? He slowly sipped his drink and surveyed the assembled people around him. They were all seemingly having a relaxed evening, talking amongst themselves or to one another, sharing tales or something, but nobody was daring to approach him and engage him in conversation. What did one speak to an Emperor about, anyway? Astiras swallowed his spirit and put his beaker down. To be the ruler of an empire meant loneliness, being apart from everyone.

He looked to the door. He wished he was merely a general once more. Being emperor was not what he really had wanted to be, but the desperate situation at the time had compelled him to take the step, for his family and for the Empire. So now he was stuck with the position, for life. One simply did not become emperor and then step down and forget about it. Once an emperor, always an emperor, and your supporters would always treat you as one, and come to that, Astiras mused wryly, so would your enemies. They would not rest until you had been eliminated, therefore ending any potential threat to the one they saw as Emperor.

Astiras sighed. Better he was Emperor than the Duras, or the Fokis, or even the Kanzet. The other Houses didn’t seem to have anyone able to take up the reins of power effectively enough to return Kastania to where it rightfully belonged, so it was Astiras’ lot – and that of his descendants – to rule from now on.

All he really wished for at that moment was to be with Isbel.

___

Night had fallen in Turslenka, far to the north. The street lamps had been lit by the militia and they were now patrolling in pairs, making sure law and order prevailed. At least along the main streets and in the districts of those wealthy enough to warrant the extra effort to ensure nobody bothered them.

Thetos Olskan, governor of the city, sat in his study, peering at the message brought to him by a tired looking rider who had come north from Bragal. He was a burly, grizzled veteran of the Bragal war, retired due to a wound received that had resulted in the loss of his left hand. In its place there existed a stump, with an attachment that allowed a removable hook to be clicked into place.

Standing by his side was his mistress-cum-housekeeper-cum-slave, a Bragalese woman by the name of Metila, a short, dark woman of indeterminate age. She was certainly much younger than Thetos. She was fiery, wild, passionate and often extremely outspoken. Thetos had to slap her down, both verbally and physically, to keep her in her place on many occasions. Metila, an enigmatic woman, appeared to enjoy being physically dominated by the former Kastanian army commander and demanded more whenever he did.

The other members of the governor’s inner circle were wary of the mercurial Metila; she, in turn, despised them as being weak. They saw the Bragalese woman as being without any culture, manners, etiquette or civilised upbringing. She was, in their eyes, the archetypal barbarian. Metila cared little for their attitude; they were the soft, privileged result of a noble upbringing, without any hardships or what she referred to as being taught how to live in the proper world. When she stated these educated, luxury-loving young officers wouldn’t have lasted a day in Bragal during the war, Thetos knew she was right.

The other gripe the officers had was they believed Metila was only there because she had a sexual hold over Thetos. Many times she had been the result of the governor being late for an appointment or meeting because she required him to sate her needs, and she often ‘spiced’ up the situation with herbs and other such enhancements. Metila was one of those Bragalese women who knew much about the properties of plants and used them.

Whispers also filtered down the corridors of the governor’s residence that she was a witch.

Thetos slapped the message down on the desk and looked up at the messenger from under his bushy eyebrows. “When was this written?”

“Sir. Five days ago in Zofela.”

“You’ve got here in five days?” Thetos was amazed. He looked at the letter again and saw the date at the top. He often overlooked such small details, wishing to go straight to the message in the first instance. “Unbelievable. Did you fly?”

“No, sir. The Emperor has set up relay posts in Bragal, and wishes to extend them throughout the Empire. In Bragal we’ve done them at a day’s ride from each other, setting up small army posts with a tower, stables, storeroom and a fence. The Emperor decreed it would help to keep Bragal under control better as well as provide relay posts for us messengers.”

Thetos grunted. He slapped the message with the flat of his palm. “So how far behind you is the Emperor?”

“Sir, he will take two days to march down the Storma Valley; I believe he will be in the Bakran Mountains by now.”

“By the gods!” Thetos exclaimed, “he must be riding the winds. Thank you, you may refresh yourself.” He looked at Metila. “The Emperor will be here in two days. We had better prepare a suitable welcome. I want this place tidied up and fit for the man, do you hear, you Bragalese witch?”

Metila’s eyes widened. “He is coming here, Landwaster?”

“Yes, Landwaster. The Emperor! You shall not disgrace me in front of him, you understand?”

Metila smiled. “I shall make best food for Landwaster. I show him I good servant of governor.”

“You had better, you Bragalese whore, or there will be the demons of the abyss to pay.”

Thetos held his forehead with his one hand. Astiras Koros wanted two companies of imperial spearmen to accompany him westwards after he got there, which meant only one thing.

He was going after the Duras.

The wind blew through Jorqel’s hair as he stood at the prow of the ship that was carrying him over to Kastan City. It had been a long time since he’d been in capital and he was eager to see what changes his family had made in the time since he’d last been there. His eyes were fixed firmly on the growing details of the walls, roofs, spires and towers of the city. His cloak billowed out behind him, and the wind blew hard into his face, yet he appeared not to notice.

Alenna, huddled behind him miserably, felt the wind and the cold, but she said nothing. Her life was nothing but misery. She sat on the steps that led up to the forecastle deck, arms round her body, deliberately not looking at the capital. It held unknown fears for her, for her family’s enemies ruled there, and she didn’t know what her fate would be.

Jorqel’s eyes roamed over the stone walls of Kastan, noting the weeds that still grew from the mortar in between the stones, and his mouth tightened. Things hadn’t changed that much, so it seemed. What were they doing? True, there didn’t seem to be such a dark tinge to the buildings, and there was more trade plying to and fro between Aconia and Port Kastan, the harbour that served the city, but the superstructure of the city appeared not to have been altered one jot. Ships went to Galan from Aconia, too, the port just down the coast that could handle greater ships and merchantmen. The harbour in Kastan was mostly there for the navy, but at present only two ships were berthed there, half of the total naval strength of the Empire, so there were jetties and berths available for traders or ferries.

Jorqel had passed himself off as a nobleman with his sister and paid for a one-way passage for both Alenna and himself. There was no indication on him as to whom he was, and his face wasn’t that well known about Kastania, being the son who had yet to make an appearance in the capital as heir to the throne. That would change today. No doubt the Duras had spies there who would send back their message that Jorqel was in the capital, and within a couple of days his subterfuge would be discovered, but it would have given him over a sevenday’s grace.

His mind drifted back to the previous day when the Duras had turned up outside Niake. It was fortunate indeed he was still there, for he was able to provide the governor with moral support to resist the demands of the traitorous nobleman.

The exchange had taken place over the walls. The outraged Lord Duras had been refused entry and he and his sons had waited on the saddle outside, demanding to speak to the governor. Evas Extonos had made his way to the walls close to the gate, Jorqel and Alenna close behind. Jorqel ensured he himself was out of sight, for if Lord Duras had caught sight of him it would have ruined everything. Extonos had been told in no uncertain terms to refuse Duras everything. Jorqel had stood on the wooden steps below Extonos, his sword in his fist.

“You will allow us entry, Governor!” Duras had yelled up after catching sight of the moustachioed man, whose hair was turning grey but still in that basin haircut he favoured. “You risk my wrath if you continue to insult me, the head of the House of Duras, in this manner!”

“You’ll have my wrath to endure if you don’t tell him to go away, Governor,” Jorqel had said softly, only loud enough for Extonos to hear.

“I regret, Lord Duras, the gates are barred to you and your House. I have an edict from Prince Jorqel to prevent you from any access to my city. I believe he is seeking an Imperial Seal to have you arrested along with your sons. If you step inside Niake I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you up.”

Lord Duras had gnashed his teeth. “Damn you, Extonos, and damn the rabid filth that call themselves Koros. There is coming a time very soon that will teach you and all who lick the backsides of that foul family a lesson. Within a sevenday you will learn to your cost what it is to refuse me. Your city will be plunged into a nightmare from which it will never recover. I shall destroy the minds of every inhabitant here, and once that is done there will be nobody left to resist the attack of my army. We will tear the walls down and burn this place to the ground. There will be no survivors, I promise you this!”

Extonos had turned pale and shook. Jorqel had then seized his ankle. “Stand firm, you coward!” he hissed.

“Lord Duras – you may threaten us, but it is you on the outside and we on the inside. My gates remain locked to you and your so-called army. I see only twelve with you – is that the total strength of your force?”

“Hah! Brave words from a poltroon, but I shall personally have you strung up from the ruins and left as a reminder what happens to those who are foolish enough to oppose me! Farewell Extonos – the next time I see you will be at the end of my blade.”

With that the men had ridden off. Extonos had turned, sweating. “Why didn’t you wish to arrest them now, sire? It would have made things easier, surely.”

Jorqel had waved the governor to precede him. On their way back, Jorqel had explained that he was yet ready to move, wishing to allow the Duras to implicate themselves fully in the plot. What Jorqel hadn’t said, though, was that he didn’t trust Extonos to keep the Duras out once his back was turned, nor did he wish to imprison the Duras while Sannia was a prisoner of his allies. It may be a fatal move to make. Jorqel wished to kill the vile traitor, but the time had to be right.

Now, closing in on Kastan harbour, he thought on his next move. His last bodyguard, Maddick, had taken a different vessel north to Efsia with another order from Jorqel. This one would, so he hoped, catch the rebels by surprise.

So now only he and Alenna remained of the travelling group. The harbour was reached and the ship passed in between the two harbour arms and out of the strong current. It took a good pilot to steer the ship across into Port Kastan without striking the stone harbour walls. There were a few small vessels moored alongside the stone quays but there was a space for their ferry to berth. The captain, a weather beaten old soul who’d seen more winters than he cared to remember, took the payment with a bow and was quickly away even as Alenna and Jorqel stood there, allowing their legs to once more get used to solid ground.

Two guards stood at the end of the quay, on either side of a stone archway that preceded a flight of stone steps that led up a cobbled passageway into the city. There were gates ready to be closed and the passageway passed under a gatehouse with its murder holes and arrow slits. Anyone trying to attack the city from this position would have to overcome some formidable defences.

The naval building was off to the right but Jorqel had no interest in that. He wanted to get to the palace as soon as possible, so he waved Alenna to follow him. “Isn’t there a carriage or the like to transport us?” she asked querulously.

Jorqel smiled briefly. “Whatever for? Better to walk. Exercise is good for the body. Besides, don’t you think having servants to transport you is somewhat indulgent, given these days of austerity?”

“But-but you’re the Prince!” Alenna pointed out. “Surely you should ride through the streets!”

“Who knows we’ve arrived?” Jorqel asked reasonably, passing through the archway. The two guards clearly had no idea who he was for they merely gave the two an incurious glance before resuming their sentinel positions. One armed man presented no danger to the city. “It isn’t too far to the palace, if my memory serves me correctly,” he added, climbing the street.

Alenna had difficulty in keeping up with him. She was much more used to a sedentary life, and her legs and lungs were aching by the time she got to the top as the street levelled out through another archway. Her cheeks were red and she was puffing a fair bit. Jorqel grinned and then looked both ways along the street that crossed their path. People were walking along both sides of the street, most ignoring the two.

“The people of Kastan City are so disrespectful!” Alenna said in disgust. “No-one bows to the heir to the throne!”

“Be reasonable, Alenna,” Jorqel replied, “I’m not that well known to people here. I was merely the young son of a general when I was last here and I’ve been in the West ever since. I doubt my portrait has been circulated around this city, and to be honest, who would care that much? People have suffered enough recently. All they wish for now is to be able to live in peace and prosperity. Both are threatened still, so we have to be strong and decisive in our actions. This is why I cannot allow your father to carry through with his evil plans, you understand?”

Alenna bowed her head. She was ashamed of the awful things he had promised Niake; it had finally brought home to her just how twisted his mind was.

Jorqel sensed her discomfort. “Come on, let’s find the palace. At least there you can have a bath and a change of clothing. Sounds good, eh?”

She smiled wanly and nodded. “And a decent meal.”

“Oh, of course, that too. Leave the talking to me, though. Your family name isn’t popular with us, as you may well have gathered. I will speak for the two of us.” He led her along the street, then turned left at the first major junction. The road led to the square and, on the other side, stood the palace. He walked boldly up to the gates and inspected the two palace guardsmen on duty there.

“Smarten up,” he snapped, “you’re guarding the Koros family, not an army camp.”

The guards looked at him with surprise and a slight tinge of annoyance. Who was this man, dressed in expensive armour and speaking well? He was clearly nobility, so best to defer to him. The senior of the two straightened, pushing his chest forward. “Sire. Who, may I ask, are you?”

“Prince Jorqel Koros, Commander of the West. I am here for my sister’s wedding celebrations.”

The guard felt his knees weaken and his bowels turn to icy water. “Uhh…s-sire. My apologies; I didn’t recognise you!”

“Fear not,” Jorqel replied mildly. “But you will from now on, will you not?”

The guards nodded vigorously. Jorqel passed through, crossed the stone courtyard and walked up the wide stone steps to the front doors. More guards stood here, and Jorqel formally presented himself once more, eliciting a series of bows and salutes. One guard opened the door for him and Alenna, and the Prince waved the men back to their positions, stating he would find his way to the Empress.

Jorqel walked down the marble corridor, looking with interest at the busts of emperors of times long past. Would his bust be here one day? Would he be remembered as a great emperor, or a fool? Greatness was usually associated with conquest and victories, not laws or buildings. He would have ample opportunity to earn that respect, he guessed, once he became Emperor. There was a desk at the end of the corridor and a man in armour sat behind it, staring at the two as they approached.

A staircase wound its way up to either side of the desk, and cross passages ran to either side. More guards stood on duty here. The man stood, looking at Jorqel closely. “Welcome to the palace, sir, ma’am. May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

Jorqel was getting tired of the repeated questions, and the repeated answers. “I’m Prince Jorqel. Who are you?”

The man opened his mouth, gaped for a few moments, then snapped it shut. “Prince Jorqel?” he looked him over closely.

Jorqel noted the rank insignia on the chest strap. “Captain….?”

“Uh, Vosgaris, sire. Palace Guard commander. We weren’t expecting you so soon!”

“Oh yes, Vosgaris, I’ve heard all about you. Where are my sister and the Empress?”

Vosgaris cleared his throat. His gaze switched briefly to Alenna. Young, noble, short. Not bad looking, although the mouth was a little big. “Sire, I’ll go take you to the Empress.” He walked along one of the side passages and indicated the two to follow. Jorqel stepped in line alongside Vosgaris and studied him as they went down the corridor. “You’ve had an entertaining few years here, haven’t you?”

“Sire. We’re coping well, though. Big day coming up soon.”

Jorqel grunted. He recognised someone trying to switch the subject readily enough. “How are the Empress and my sister?”

Vosgaris glanced at the Prince. He hadn’t referred once to the two young princes, which was interesting. “They’re doing fine, sir.” He glanced behind him. “And the lady is?”

“Oh, forgive me,” Jorqel stopped and held out an arm. “Alenna Duras.”

Vosgaris’ face reflected stunned disbelief. “Duras?” he echoed in amazement.

Alenna stepped sideways so that she could be closer to Jorqel. The reaction to the name by the captain had confirmed her worst fears. She began shaking.

“It’s alright, Captain, she’s under my protection. She’s helping us against her father who’s proving to be something of an unpleasant fellow. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

Vosgaris nodded and resumed, his mind full of thoughts. He stopped outside a door with two guards standing smartly to attention. “Here we are, sire. Ma’am,” he added, bowing formally to Alenna. He opened the door and poked his head round, spotting Isbel talking to Pepil, the major domo. He stepped back and allowed the two to enter. He shut the door and stepped away, rubbing his chin. He decided to remain there, in case he was called.

Isbel looked up and sat still in surprise as she recognised the smiling face of the newcomer. “By the gods!” she breathed out. “Jorqel!”

Pepil’s eyes narrowed and he stepped back automatically, appraising the man. He’d never met the Prince before and so he watched very carefully how he conducted himself and spoke. Would there be a way of finding a weakness in him?