Prince of Wrath (47 page)

Finally as one of the long days of travelling came to an end, they rolled the wagons into a circle and unhitched the beasts of burden which were allowed to drink from the river and eat the grass that grew in clumps away from the road. Panat Afos stretched his aching limbs and walked a few paces from the wagons, pleased to be away from those mobile torture racks. In days gone by, when he was younger and in full health, he would have happily ridden on an equine all the way to Zofela, but not now. His head throbbed but that was nothing new. He was tired and his one good eye felt gritty. He slowly turned full circle and surveyed the surrounding countryside.

The heat of the day was fading and the sun had sunk below the hilltops off on the other side of the river. A few carrion avians floated lazily overhead, catching the last of the thermals that rose up from the slopes of the hills, their sides carpeted in trees. It was time to teach the two boys the next lesson in warfare. He was proud that his son had formed such an attachment to Prince Argan; it should guarantee a future for the boy once he grew to be a man. It was normal for a general, noble or ruler to have a lifelong bodyguard, and as long as both Argan and Kerrin enjoyed full and healthy lives, there was no reason why both shouldn’t have a long and fruitful friendship.

The drovers were tending the beasts down by the river and the guards spreading out across the road to the bottom of the rocky cliff that ran up to the ridge above the road. Trees sheltered the wagons and the servants were already starting to get a camp fire organised.

A cry from the front turned everyone’s head. One of the guards was slumping to the ground, an arrow sticking out of his chest. His spear clattered to the stones. “Ambush!” Panat shouted and backed towards the wagons, his sword in his hand without him really thinking about it.

Isbel gasped and dragged a dumbfounded Argan behind one of the wagons, and Kerrin followed, his eyes wild with fear. People scattered and dived for cover behind trees or under the wagons.

Panat crouched behind the rearmost one and scanned the top of the ridge. “Do you see anything?” he called out to the sergeant in charge of the guard detail.

“No, sir. Looks like they loosed from forward. Likely they’re behind those boulders over there,” he waved his blade in the direction of a jumble of large rocks by the roadside.

“Damn them, whoever they are. They’ve got us pinned here.” He looked back down the road and saw dark shapes sliding down the hillside. “They’re behind us, too. Got us trapped good and proper.”

Isbel wrapped her arms round Argan, shaking with fear. “Sergeant, who are they?”

The Sergeant shook his head. “Sorry ma’am, they’re likely to be brigands; either a remnant of the Duras army or Bakran Mountain men.” He had a thought. “Thindroc, can you identify that arrow type?” he shouted to one of his men.

Thindroc, grasping a spear, edged his head round the corner of one of the wagons, then jerked back as an arrow narrowly missed him and hit a tree, vibrating as it expended its energy into the trunk.

The sergeant eyed the arrow. “No need now, man. It’s Bakranian.”

The empress sucked in her breath. “How do you know?”

The sergeant nodded at the now still missile. “Black feathers, white tips. Comes from the Bakranian Avian of Prey that inhabits these parts, the Fawkon. Big creature, fearsome beak and talons. Those flying up yonder – they’re Fawkons.”

Everyone gave the circling avians a look, then resumed their watch of the hills around them. Panat slid into a more comfortable position. “Nobody stray too far from the wagons; their elevation means they can shoot down onto us if we leave the wagons’ sides. The drovers will have to stay where they are down by the river. I suspect the brigands will want those beasts, and will kill us all first before having them.”

“This is intolerable!” Isbel declared angrily. “In our own lands, subject to these people! Aren’t they allied to us?”

“Against the Bragalese, yes,” Panat grunted, “but now the war’s over they have no further need to side with us. They’ve gone back to their old ways. Even so, I must admit I’m surprised they have, since they signed an agreement, didn’t they?”

“My husband will have something to say about that!” Isbel said, then clutched Argan tightly. “Can we negotiate with them?”

“If we spoke Bakranese or Bragalese. I don’t know if any of these speak Kastanian. We can try.” He snapped his fingers at one of the cowering servants. “You, there. Get me a white sheet. Make it quick!”

The servant gibbered in terror but Isbel waved an impatient hand to support the order and the servant scuttled off to one of the wagons and fumbled over the side. An arrow arced close to him and the man squealed, then grabbed a sheet, a blanket, and crawled hastily to Panat’s side. Mr. Sen was sat on the ground against another wagon, his eyes shut, muttering prayers to the gods over and over. Panat brusquely ordered one of the spears to be handed to him and he began wrapping the blanket around the shaft.

“Here goes; wish me luck,” he grunted, and raised the spear, waving it gently to attract attention. “Halloo up there,” he shouted, “we wish to parley for our lives!”

“You die, Kastanian porcines,” came a heavily accented voice. “We will have your beasts and belongings. We wait till dark, then come for you. You die.”

Panat sighed. “That answers that, ma’am. I guess we’ll have to fight our way out of this situation.”

Isbel closed her eyes in despair, then felt a rising anger in her. To die at the hands of such low scum was beyond words. “Let me talk.”

“I wouldn’t try it, ma’am, they’re fairly ruthless men.”

Isbel waved his protests aside. “I am Empress Isbel Koros of Kastania,” she shouted, “and I have here Prince Argan Koros of Kastania, a mere boy. Are you murderers of women and children, especially of imperial standing? Do you know what will happen to you if you kill us? My husband, Astiras Koros, will come here and lay waste to you and your villages.”

There was a long silence. Panat looked thoughtful. “Perhaps they realise what they have done? They may be arguing as to what to do. We can only wait.”

A few moments later the same accented voice floated down to them again. “We do not believe you – it is a trick.”

“It is not a trick. I shall show you,” Isbel shouted back. “I’m going out to show them,” she said to Panat. “If anything happens to me, save my son, whatever you do.”

“Ma’am,” the old warrior protested, putting out an arm, “they’ll most likely kill you!”

“We have little option. It must be done.” She got up, dusted herself down, and walked out slowly from the shelter of the wagon onto the road. She felt utterly defenceless and vulnerable, but she would not skulk behind a measly wagon and wait to die.

Behind her, Argan whimpered in fear, being held back by both Kerrin and Panat. “I want to be with mother,” he said in a shaky voice.

“Young Prince, it isn’t safe for both of you to be out there!” Panat responded.

As Argan struggled with his mind and will, Isbel took three more paces and stopped. Two men had appeared before her, rising up from boulders a little way off, both carrying bows, fitted with arrows and pointing at her. Other shapes moved now, twenty, thirty, or maybe more. They were all round the hills, above and level with the trapped party. Isbel stood still on the road, watching the men as the two slowly walked towards her. The air was heavy and still, as if nature had stopped to watch the tableau unfold at this place.

Panat gripped his sword tightly and crouched low, ready to spring forward. He knew it would be suicide but he had to try. Suddenly Argan was up, breaking free of Kerrin’s grip, and ran round the wagon to the road. Instantly bowmen swung their aim to the small figure emerging from behind cover and strings quivered. The boy ran to his mother’s side and gripped her arm, pressing close to her.

Another man appeared, a tall man with a beard and long hair down past his shoulders. He carried a war club which was resting over one shoulder. He was confident that his archers would cover any foolhardiness from the people by the wagons, and he had little fear from the woman and child before him. He walked slowly up to the two and stopped, surveying the pair slowly.

“The empress and her son?” he queried, his accent clearly not that of Kastan. “With no escort? I do not believe that.”

Isbel placed an arm around Argan protectively. “We are who we say. Why do you attack travellers on this road?”

“We own this land. Nobody passes without my permission.”

“This is Makenia, and you certainly do not own it!”

The brigand laughed. Two more men came up, carrying axes and wearing a mixture of padded and leather accoutrements. He spoke to them rapidly. One of the newcomers replied briefly.

Isbel frowned. “What are you saying?”

Argan stirred. “They want to see evidence that you are empress, mother.”

Isbel slowly looked down at Argan in shock. “How-how did you understand them? You have not learned Bakranian!”

Argan shrugged. “I don’t know, mother, but I understood them. Bakranian? Is that what they were saying?”

“No, Young Prince,” Panat said, leaning forward from the nearest wagon, “that was Bragalese. I know a few words.”

“Bragalese…..” Isbel turned back and stared at the leader. “You’re not Bakranian! You’re….”

She got no further as the leader grabbed her. Isbel screamed. Argan cried out and ducked away from the outstretched hands of the second man who went to take hold of him. Panat snarled and ran forward, his sword raised. The third man stepped forward, his axe swinging, and struck. Panat met the blow, knocked it aside and slashed hard across the man’s neck, almost cutting his head off. The man staggered, clutching his injury, which was spurting with blood, and fell to his knees.

Men stood on the hill-top, bows raised, but the closeness of the group of people meant they could not shoot for fear of hitting their leader who was trying to pull Isbel away, but Panat was moving fast. The second man caught hold of Argan who kicked out in terror, catching the man on the knee, and the brigand yelled in pain. Panat dodged the man’s legs, kicking out and catching him painfully in between them, so he was too busy for the next few moments to worry about Argan, and wrapped his arm about the leader’s throat and pressed his blade against it. “Now, let go of her, you filth!”

The leader squirmed but the veteran had him pinned and held fast, his sword to the throat and one arm pressed against his own back. He released Isbel who gasped in relief and ran to Argan who was shaking by the roadside. Panat backed away towards the wagons, keeping the grunting leader between the nearest archers and himself. “Stop, all of you, or I cut his throat!”

They halted, unsure of what to do. “You let him go and we leave you in peace,” one of the others said haltingly.

Panat shook his head. “And I trust the word of a Bragalese murderer? No chance. The moment I let him go we’re all dead. Back to the hills. We ride off, and I let him go.”

“I do not trust your word,” the man replied, backing off all the same.

“Don’t judge me by your own sordid standards. I promise to release this man once we are past those boulders.” He jerked his head at the sergeant. “Get those beasts yoked up again and get us out of here!”

Isbel placed Argan in their wagon and covered him with a couple of sheets, but Argan wished to see what was going on. He was frightened, but fascinated all the same. Kerrin, goggle-eyed at his father, meekly slipped into the wagon and awaited events. Mr. Sen, trembling, unsteadily clambered into his wagon and the servants followed suit.

The drovers had to be persuaded at spear point to hitch the beasts back up, and they climbed aboard, eyes wide with fear, and goaded the unconcerned animals back into movement. The guards clutched their spears tightly, waiting for the inevitable attack, picking up their fallen comrade, and watched as they rounded the curve and the brigands were lost to sight.

Panat whispered into the ear of the brigand leader. “You had best get going because the army are coming for you and they won’t rest until your heads are mounted over the gates of Turslenka.” He swung the man round to face him and sent a full-blooded head butt into his face. The Bragalese bandit pitched off the wagon and crashed to the road, dazed. Blood poured from his broken nose and he rolled about feebly as his men came running up in a group to surround him.

By the time they had got their leader to his feet, the wagons were too far to chase on foot, but they didn’t scatter into the hills. They continued on in pursuit of the vehicles, knowing that soon they would have to stop for the night.

Panat slumped wearily against the side of the wagon. Kerrin stared in wonder at him; never had he seen his father do that before. He was a little frightened to say anything. Panat was looking tired and drawn, and the action had taken a lot out of him. His reserves of energy were not what they had been before his injury.

Isbel cuddled Argan close to her, trying to bring her heartbeat under control. “Panat Afos, we owe you our lives,” she said softly. “The Emperor will no doubt wish to reward you suitably.”

The old man sat there and smiled briefly, then his face flickered with pain. “Ah, that took me back to the Bragalese War. Thank you, ma’am, but I merely was doing my duty. I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”

Kerrin hesitantly reached out his hand and brushed his father’s, then Panat smiled and brought his son close. The boy wrapped himself tightly around the tired man and placed his head against his father’s chest. Argan looked up at his mother. “Were they Bragalese?”