Prince of Wrath (46 page)

Bandir went red and struggled, all to no avail. “What are you going to do with me then? Send me to Kastan City, to put me on trial for treason? You’re nothing more than the emperor’s errand boy.”

“The emperor has many issues to address, and leaves the running of matters on the waves to me, you little turd. As long as I keep the seas clear, he’s happy to let me do more or less as I please. And right now, what I want is to hang you from the yardarm.” He waved curtly and the man was dragged off, screeching his protests, to the main deck again. Drakan now leaned on the rail overlooking the main deck at the pirates his crew had pulled from the sea. “As for you lot, you can suffer the punishment of Kastan city’s dungeons. I’ll leave your fate to Prince Elas’ mercy, only I think he doesn’t know what the word means.”

The pirates were ushered into the hold while the luckless Bandir was strung up and left dangling from the yardarm, a gruesome trophy. Both ships turned about and headed south for the Kastan Straights, their immediate task fulfilled, in the wake of the merchantman which was now far away, hull down on the horizon.

They almost caught up with by the time they reached Galan, and by-passed the port just as darkness was beginning to fall. They couldn’t see whether they were being waved at again or not, and shortly they were busy navigating the straights at night, not an easy thing, but beacons had been placed on the shoreline where rocks jutted out as an aid to sailors, another of the recent re-instalments the current governors had agreed to do that which had been sadly neglected under the previous emperors.

It was with relief that Drakan saw the flickering lights marking the entrance to the military harbour of Kastan City, and his pilot competently steered the ship through the stone arms of the entrance and into a berth close to the repair yard. Drakan liked to have his vessel looked after. The Aester Rider followed suit and soon both crews were walking onto the harbourside and exchanging tales of their voyage. The prisoners were chained together and marched off under guard from the marines to the city dungeons.

Drakan dismissed the crew and spoke briefly to the harbour guard captain whose task it was to provide ample patrols for the facility, and after making sure a skeleton crew was left aboard, made his way to the palace. The streets were dark with only an occasional light illuminating the way, but small patrols of militiamen were visible walking up and down the main street.

He made his way past the guards at the entrance and announced himself at the main hallway to one of the palace courtiers. He was left with two guards waiting for a short while, then the echoing footsteps from the right heralded the arrival of the officer of the watch. Drakan was escorted along a long corridor to one of the few rooms showing a light from within. He was shown in and sitting behind a desk was Prince Elas, flanked by two more guards and two scribes.

“Admiral Drakan, you are welcome. I understand your mission was a success?”

Drakan bowed. “Indeed, sire.” He went on to explain what had happened and the hanging of Bandir. “We safely saw the ship from Zipria dock in Galan as we passed. I was surprised at how far into the Aester Sea the pirates had dared to come this time, and my concern is that they may become bolder and begin to raid along the coastlines of Lodria and Bathenia.”

“Then your job is to ensure they do not, Admiral,” Elas replied sternly. The light from the oil lamp swinging above his head from the ceiling cast deep shadows on his face. “We have reason to believe the Duras are now ashore on Romos and may be directing the pirates with their knowledge of the region.”

“Sire I only have four ships, including the other ‘fleet’. There is very little anyone can do with such limited resources, as I’m sure you know. I have no idea at present where Admiral Fostan is, by the way. His ships are still not in dock.”

“They are currently engaged on imperial business, Admiral, do not worry unduly; they shall be reunited with you in a short time. Now, as you know we are currently lacking in maritime facilities. It may be a valid criticism of the new ruling House that very little has been spent on improving them, but you may be interested to know that I have set aside a small amount of funding for the enlarging of Kastan City’s military harbour. Work is to commence in two days’ time when the new shipwright has examined the harbour here and made his deliberations as to where the work can be done.”

Drakan looked shocked. “Sire – I had no idea that this project was even being considered! This is welcome news indeed.” He frowned. “But sire, where is there a shipwright? I know of none in these parts.”

“One arrived from Zipria this evening, Admiral; you helped in bringing him here.”

Drakan opened his mouth, then shut it. He chuckled. “You’re a crafty one, Prince Elas. Oh, begging your pardon, sire,” he added quickly, seeing the unamused stare from the Prince. “I meant no offence!”

“None taken, Admiral,” Elas said heavily. He was aware some people tried humour in conversations but such things were lost on him. “I will note your conduct in this and send a letter to the emperor in Zofela recommending a salary increase for you.”

“Why – thank you, sire!” Drakan was once again shocked.

“Think nothing of it; good acts and loyal service should be properly rewarded. Your execution of the traitor Bandir sets a good example to both loyalists and rebels alike, for differing reasons. You may go now, Admiral, I have a report to write.” As Drakan turned to go after saluting, Elas called his name softly.

Drakan turned. “Sire?”

“Next time you capture a pirate captain, perhaps you may consider bringing him here for interrogation. We may learn something useful from them. Who knows?”

“Indeed, sire. I’ll do that next time.”

Elas nodded and then bent his head and proceeded to write on a parchment on his desk. Suitably dismissed, Drakan left the room and blew out his cheeks in relief in the corridor. That was one stone-faced man! He would not like to get on the wrong side of him!

Back in the room Elas stopped writing and leaned back. He pondered long on the news of the pirate incursion. That was unwelcome and unexpected. It was fortunate that the tiny imperial navy still had competent and loyal men serving it; he was of the opinion that the Koros were wary of the remaining navy since most of their colleagues had defected to piracy some years back. That was one reason why Kastania had such a small navy. He knew that it was no good concentrating on having an efficient army if one neglected the navy. Both had to be built up, and an enlarged military harbour would be the first step in ensuring this. Bigger boats could be built; more could be berthed. Better facilities would attract more men. It was simple, really.

He would write a long message to Astiras. Thankfully the emperor was not one given to overly flowery prose, something he agreed with. One must get down to the point at once and not waste time on flattery or unnecessary procrastination. Efficiency was his by-word. His thoughts turned to Amne. She would be returning to Kastan in the next day or two by sea. He worried that pirates may attack, but Admiral Fostan would be escorting her; Elas had made sure Fostan knew his duty, and if he failed and anything happened to Amne, then Fostan was to jump overboard at sea and not be seen again. Grunting, he resumed his letter. No rest for the diligent.

The journey up the Storma Valley was a delightful one. On both sides of the river the fields were in full bloom and in the distance the hills rose in waves of blues and purples, their detail lost in the heat haze rising off the land. Trees were decked in leaves and avians flew overhead in huge flocks, great black swarms suddenly veering off in a random direction, then back again.

The three wagons rumbled along the single military road that ran from Turslenka to Bragal, the beasts of burden ambling along at no great pace. Isbel was in no hurry; she was enjoying herself, being away from the responsibilities of helping to run an empire and dealing with the intrigues at court. For the next few sevendays she was going to be here with her son, Argan, and just a few others. Her’s was the middle wagon, in which sat Argan, Kerrin and Mr. Sen. At night both the latter left to sleep elsewhere, but during the day and whilst they were on the move, both would sit with Argan and talk. It was not good if he sat alone and brooded; he needed company and stimulating company. Isbel knew that she could only speak with him for so long. What he needed was to keep up with his tuition and Mr. Sen provided that for both boys. That way neither would get up to any silly stuff.

The other two wagons carried the guards and supplies. Each wagon had a drover and guard, and two more guards rode in the front wagon.

They had been sent off from Turslenka by a happily waving crowd, pleased that Prince Argan had recovered enough to ride in the wagons to Zofela. It was such a relief to have a prince of the ruling House recover from what seemed a life threatening illness. The governor, Thetos Olskan, and his body slave Metila had said their own personal farewells inside the residence. Isbel was glad to be away from there. There was something she didn’t quite like about the place.

Once away from Turslenka her mood had lightened and now she was quite cheerfully looking at the countryside pass by. It was a glorious late summer day, and soon the leaves would begin to turn and transform this place into a colourful exhibition of nature’s beauty show. In a way it was a pity they weren’t coming up here then. No matter, she would maybe commission an artist to paint the valley at that time and have it hung on her wall in the castle in Zofela. She sighed slightly. She hoped the castle was going to be good enough for her and her family. She didn’t wish to spend the winters especially in some draughty austere barracks.

Argan was happy to be moving as well; he had become bored with life in Turslenka, and it was all so stuffy there. It was still stuffy here because his mother would not let him out of her sight, but at least there was something different to see every time he looked up from his books. Kerrin was good company, though, and they talked a lot about the different military units and their strengths and weaknesses, and invented a game. They would count down from three to one, then shout out a unit type, either spearmen, cavalry or swordsmen. If it was swordsmen and spearmen, then the swordsmen would win; if it were cavalry and swordsmen, then the cavalry would be the winners, and finally if it were cavalry and spearmen, then spearmen would win. That way nobody was sure as to who would win until both shouted out their choice. Sometimes both shouted out the same, and then Mr. Sen declared it a draw.

“What happens if a battle is a draw?” Argan asked, puzzled.

“Nobody wins, and nobody loses, young Prince,” Mr. Sen said smiling.

“But that would be silly,” Argan said, frowning. “Surely someone would win eventually!”

“Ah, but would they fight until someone finally came out on top? Sometimes both sides agree to withdraw, because both sides fear that even if they finally do win, their losses are so bad that both sides would be defeated. So they tactically withdraw.”

“Tactically? What’s that, Mr. Sen?” Kerrin screwed his face up.

“Tactics, young man, is the art of fighting with your brain in any given battle. Then on top of that is the strategic way of fighting. You can theoretically lose a battle but win a war, or lose the war even though you win all the battles.”

Both boys looked lost. They stared at each other in consternation, then at Mr. Sen who was sitting with a smile on his face. “Please tell us, Mr. Sen, what you mean?” Argan asked, eager to know.

“Very well. Let me see how I can explain this. Tactics are the small details in battle, who to put where, when to use your reserve, when to know to advance, or retreat, which piece of ground to use, where to fight your enemy. Strategy is the long-term big thinking,” he waved his arms wide. “For example, allowing your enemy to advance through your territory and not offering battle. Will you fight, knowing he has a stronger army, or letting him march and march and march while his soldiers get tired, hungry, maybe affected by disease? Also remember this well, young Prince. War is expensive. It costs lots of money to keep an army in the field, and the longer it is in the field, the more money it costs. Also, an army will be made up of people who will wish to return to their families and homes after a while. If they stay in the field too long, they may mutiny and go home anyway. That way you can win a war without fighting a battle.”

“So would that be the best thing if the Tybar invaded?”

Mr. Sen looked thoughtful. “The Tybar fight by raiding first, to weaken their enemies; their cavalry ride in and burn farms, destroy crops, take people back to their slave markets, leaving behind a burning wasteland. Would you allow them to do that without trying to fight them?”

“Never!” Argan was vehement. It caused Isbel to look up from her tapestry work. She smiled with approval. “I’d rather fight than let them burn my farms! Those poor animals.”

“And the farmers. Without farms everyone would go hungry, and hungry people are dangerous. Keep the people fed and entertained and all will be well.”

“Entertained?”

Mr. Sen shrugged. “Races, fairs, theatres. That sort of thing.”

“Oh. So they would be happy as long as they had full tummies and saw funny shows?”

The tutor chuckled, his ample stomachs shaking which fascinated Argan. “Something like that, yes.”

“However, be aware that the Tybar fight differently from those of the east, such as the Venn or Zilcia. Your army would have to be adaptable, to know how to fight against any enemy. In the past our armies have beaten that problem by staying either in the east or the west, but now I’m not sure whether we can afford to do that. Currently your older brother is commander of the Army of the West and is changing the way it is made up to include mounted archers. He won the battle against Lombert Soul using them, do you remember me telling you? But your father has the Army of the East in Zofela made up in the traditional manner, where he is likely to face armies similarly designed.”

“What about me when I grow to be a general? Where will I go?”

“I don’t know that one, Prince Argan. You will have to ask your father.”

Argan pondered on that, and when they stopped at the end of the day he chatted to Kerrin about his possible posting. “Will I be given father’s army? Or Jorqel’s? Gosh, I’d be sent to Slenna if that happened!”

“And me, too, ‘Gan?”

“Oh yes, you’d come with me; I’d make sure of that!”

Kerrin beamed and squeezed Argan’s hand in pleasure. “Do you think we’ll be able to ride once we get to Zofela? I mean, surely you’ll be fit to ride now you’re on the mend. Father thinks you’ll be able to ride, anyway.”

Argan nodded. His headaches were a thing of the past and he was feeling stronger every day. He could now walk a short distance and was practicing jumping and short bursts of running, overseen by Kerrin’s father when they had the time. He didn’t want Argan to develop flabby limbs as that would take more time to work off. Argan wondered if he could get Mr. Sen to exercise like that, but thought it might be too much to ask the elderly large tutor to do. He might shake the ground and people might think a fantor had arrived. He put a hand to his mouth in amusement. Would Fantor-Face Istan have to do this? That would be funny to watch. Bounce, bounce, wobble, wobble. CRASH! He giggled.

“What’s funny, ‘Gan?”

“Fantor-Face exercising,” Argan grinned. Kerrin giggled, too. Isbel heard them and sighed. No matter how much she tried, the two would act like silly wool-beasts when together. The sooner they grew out of that habit, the better. It was not dignified for a prince of the House of Koros to giggle like that constantly.

Panat Afos had the two boys running up and down a slope before supper, standing there watching them sternly, his hands on his hips. “Come on, Prince Argan, this isn’t a gentle walk in the country; this is to build up your legs and lungs.”

Argan coughed and reached the top of the slope, his cheeks red with effort. “Phew! Why is that, Panat?”

“If you’re in battle and fall off your equine and you’re thirty paces from your spearmen, what are you going to do? Complain about the heat?”

Argan grinned. “If it’s hot, yes. Oh, I see, I have to run.”

“Indeed! Stout legs and good lungs may save your life, Prince Argan, so its my job to make sure they’re like iron, not soft as a fat woman’s stomach.”

Argan laughed, doubling up. Kerrin grinned and put his hands to his mouth when he saw the empress glaring at them both. Panat nodded and decided enough was enough. He didn’t want the boys throwing up just prior to a meal. “Alright, that’s it for today; go and wash and be ready for supper. I think it’s not far off being ready.”

Argan skipped over to Isbel who thrust a severe forefinger into his face. “Princes do not skip, Argan. What should they do?”

“Oh, ah, walk,” he panted, still out of breath. “Sorry, mother. What’s for supper?”

“Be patient, Argan,” his mother said. “Can’t you smell what cook’s preparing?”

Argan sniffed the air. Sure enough, the aroma of something being roasted on the camp fire came to him. “Oh, that smells lovely! What is it?”

“Wait and see,” Isbel said with great patience. Children! “Now go and wash. I won’t have you smelling like an old canine in front of the fire sat next to me while I eat.”

Argan grumbled but did as his mother bid nonetheless. It wasn’t long before they were presented with supper, just as the sun began to set to the west over one of the set of hills that bordered the valley. It was a selection of boiled and roasted vegetables and a spit-roasted hunk of bovine. Mr. Sen practically drooled as the meat was cut by the cook, a squat, heavy-fleshed woman of indeterminate age.

They sat on the rugs that had been brought out from the wagons, since there was no real room for tables and chairs, and ate off the metal plates that had been packed with them at Kastan City. Each had the engraving of the Koros crest on them. As they ate, Argan looked at the deepening colours of the hills with fascination. “Does it always look like this, mother?”

“What does? The countryside here?”

“Mmm,” he nodded, taking a sip of spring water which was cold and fresh. “It’s so warm here and so leafy! I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere.”

“I don’t know, Argan. Perhaps Mr. Sen might be able to answer you.”

The tutor looked up from his mouth watering plate. “I understand it is the valley’s orientation, or so I’m led to believe. I was once told – or I read somewhere, I can’t rightly recall, I’m sorry – that because the valley runs north to south the weather does not rush up or down the valley, since it normally comes from the east here. If the weather comes from the north, then its normally from the warmer climate and won’t be cold, and the Bakran Mountains block most of any southerly wind that may be coming from up in the direction of Bragal. So we might find Makenia frozen in winter, but here it rarely snows. This is indeed a fortunate valley. It supplies most of the region with food because something grows here all year round.”

“I’d like to live here,” Argan said, nodding with emphasis.

“There’s no town or city, so it wouldn’t be a sensible spot, Argan,” Isbel commented. “You could only have a palace where there was one already, and a prince could only rule from a provincial city.”

Argan pouted. “So have we always owned the Storma Valley?”

Mr. Sen got another nod from Isbel. He settled himself more comfortably on his behind. This was a subject he did know. “Ah, well, in centuries long gone, this was the homeland of the Makenians, a tribe that lived in this area, and they seemed to enjoy raiding out from this area against the other tribes, until they built a city somewhere in the hills around here. Nobody knows where exactly, as it was destroyed when the Somorrans arrived, but having a capital city made them much better organised and they dominated this region, until, as I mentioned, the Somorrans came to this region and conquered it.

“They made all the tribes here their subject and made them people of the empire. This was, oh, around twelve centuries ago.”

“Oh, long before Kastania, then!” Argan said, his eyes round with fascination.

“Of course, young Prince. We may well be descendants of those early Makenians, or Frasians who were another tribe here. So by the time the Somorran Empire split into two warring halves, of which Kastania was born from the western half, this area had been part of this empire for five hundred years. And since Kastania was formed, it’s been part of our empire for seven hundred.”

“And long may it continue,” Isbel said.

The others agreed.

They carried on south up the river valley. The hills gradually got higher and steeper and the valley narrowed and the river became smaller and flowed faster. There were more rocks that it foamed over and the ground all round became stonier and less densely vegetated. Rock outcrops were more and more frequent and the road began to wind its way through a narrow space in between the river bank and the rocks of the nearest ridge. Ahead the jagged peaks of the Bakran Mountains came closer and closer, marking the end of the Storma Valley, and the province of Makenia.