Prince of Wrath (7 page)

“Now,” Astiras said, eyeing the four who were sullenly standing before him, still being held, each looking at the ground in front of them. “What are you doing here on my land?”

He got no response. He nodded to Teduskis who could speak fluent Bragalese. So could Astiras but he was damned if he would stoop to speaking a language he detested. His right-hand man repeated the question.

One of the prisoners, the tallest and with a shock of curly hair, looked outraged. Teduskis translated his response. “This is our land, our valley. You are trespassing.”

Astiras laughed. “No, you peasant, I am Astiras Koros and I own this land and all within it. If your village lies down there, then you are mine. I rule this province, whether you like it or not. Therefore you will lead me to your village.”

“Astiras Koros!” the villager looked frightened. He dropped to his knees, as did the others, and all bowed low. “We beg for mercy, lord. We did not know it was you.”

Astiras drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “You do now, so you will lead us to your village. I need to speak to your Elder.”

The four were released and began walking in front of the Kastanians. Teduskis leaned close to Astiras. “Sire, they had spears and clubs on them when they were caught.”

“Pass them their weapons back.”

Teduskis gave the Emperor a long look before complying. Astiras knew it was a risk but he was taking a calculated one. The four Bragalese looked surprised, but bowed again and continued with a bit of a spring in their step. Their landlord trusted them, which was a mark of respect. Therefore they would show him proper hospitality. They emerged from the woodland and came to a halt on the brow of a hill. Below them the valley opened out into a green bowl. A small brook wound lazily through it, and a large homestead could be seen in the centre. Even at this distance it was clear it had been burned. Astiras felt a surge of anger.

“Sire, it may have been anyone, not these villagers,” Teduskis commented, his gaze fixed on the blackened and ruined shell.

“I shall see,” Astiras said tightly and followed the villagers across the slope. The rest of the bodyguard spread out across the slope, pleased to be through the woodland. The entire upper slopes of the valley were cloaked in trees. Other growths were dotted about here and there along the valley, clearly areas that had been used for felling in the past.

They could see three villages. Two were in the distance, vague clusters of dark buildings with spirals of smoke lazily rising into the clear sky. The other was close, a haphazard collection of wooden houses, sheds and fencing that began close to the lower reaches of the nearest extent of woodland and ran along the course of a mountain stream that tumbled down from a cliff a few hundred paces away and flowed across the grassy slopes before plunging over a ridge beyond the village and dropping to the valley floor.

The village was nicely sited for protection; to one side the cliff protected it, while in front the ridge ran across, and nobody would be able to approach from that direction. Behind it rose the woodland while only to one side, the side they were approaching, was there any open land. The stream lay between them and the village and was crossed by a single span wooden bridge, slightly humped and railed.

The stream would hinder men on foot but provide no barrier to cavalry. Astiras noted all this as he approached. He recalled there had been four villages in the valley before the war, and wondered if the fourth had been destroyed. He hadn’t been too concerned about the villages back then; he’d left that to the foreman and estate organiser to recruit locals to work. He had last been there nine years ago and his memories were hazy. There had been other issues on his mind at that time.

The village had a rudimentary mill; there was a water wheel which was rotating, and a blacksmith set off to one side. The ringing of steel being hammered came clearly to all their ears. People were watching their approach, and others were coming out from doorways to see who was approaching. They hadn’t seen so many huge equines, armoured, with heavily armed riders before. Nobody in the war had possessed such men in abundance, and even the Kastanian army hadn’t been that well equipped, having put their best men up against the Tybar to the west. That was one reason why the insurrection had been so successful for so long; putting second-rate or untrained troops in the fray had been folly and more or less had been a death sentence.

They thumped their way across the bridge which shook underneath the hoofs, and then spread out on the far bank. By the time they had all crossed, the entire village had come to see the newcomers. Eyes were wide, or wary. The four who had come with them now began explaining who it was and why they were there. One fetched the Elder, a grey-haired bearded man who supported himself with a gnarled wooden staff. He stood between two younger men who supported him.

“Astiras Koros, Emperor of Kastania,” the Elder said slowly in Kastanian, his accent thick, his voice querulous. “You are welcome to our humble village. How can I be of assistance to you?”

“I have returned to my estate,” Astiras said, looking down at him sternly, “which includes all of this valley. You will know that the Koros own everything here up to the snow line. I am here to ensure that my property is intact. Yet,” and he turned to look down the valley, “I find my property burned and ruined. What do you know of this? Speak!”

“Lord,” the Elder bowed, and the rest followed suit, “we are but helpless peasants and villagers. Armed gangs came and burned everything not Bragalese a few years ago; we here unable to stop them. Everyone in the buildings below either fled or died in the fire. We have awaited your return. We know of the war to the west and knew that King Elmar would not win. We are keen to see a return to the old ways.”

Astiras grunted and pondered on the man’s words. “I shall need men to rebuild the estate buildings. I shall need people to work the woods and to maintain the roads. I shall bring prosperity to this valley once more, as my family did before. You do not appear to have profited during the years of the war.”

The Elder bowed again. “Lord is correct. We lost much of our livelihood and trade. Our neighbours suffered equally, even though much of the war passed us by here. We had to supply food for the rebel army but they have not been here for the past three years.”

“Yes I know,” Astiras countered. “I had them shut up in Zofela, and now they’re dead or my slaves. I shall visit the other villages and see for myself the situation along the valley floor. I shall send builders and guards. You will supply me with twenty to help in the rebuilding.”

The Elder lowered his eyes. It was a fair request. The Kastanian were shown to a large building which was explained as being the village hall and the equines were allowed to graze. Ten of the unit were left on guard while the others accompanied Astiras into the hall and were allowed to either seat themselves or remain standing on guard. Most of the village remained outside, eager to hear what was going to be said. The Elder and the more important members of the village squeezed into the hall and sat themselves down at the only table there.

Teduskis leaned close to Astiras so that he could speak softly into his ear. “Sire, what of the policy of driving the Bragalese away?”

Astiras grunted and leaned his head close to his right-hand man’s. “Nobody to work the land if we do that. There aren’t enough people in Frasia or Makenia to invite into this province.” He looked at the villagers to see if they could overhear the conversation but they gave no sign they either heard or understood them. “Now the war’s over we have to try to rebuild Bragal and we can only do that if we use these people. We can certainly stop any leaders arising amongst them, though!”

Once all were seated comfortably, or as comfortably as they were going to get in the cramped building, drinks were brought by some of the young women of the village. A couple of the soldiers eyed them with interest. Astiras watched them carefully. Bragalese women were well known for their promiscuity and sexual activities, and Bragalese men for their protectiveness and willingness to engage in feuds. It made for an interesting social situation, but one that had snared more than one unwary Kastanian in the past. Bragalese families grew at an astonishing rate, as did their inter-familial feuding as males made unwelcome advances towards another’s daughters.

“A toast,” Astiras stood, demanding and getting everyone’s attention. “To the future, and a profitable one for Kastanians and Bragalese together.”

The Bragalese villagers nodded and accepted the toast. They had kept out of the war and had waited to see who would come out as victors. They would have thrown their lot in with the rebels if it had looked like they would have won, but Astiras’ campaign had decided their loyalty. Now the Emperor was making the right noises. They cared nothing for whoever ruled them; all they wanted was to be able to live their lives in security, be able to practice their cultural ways as they had done so for many years, and maybe engage in a bit of theft here and there.

The older ones recalled the days when they had lived with the Kastanian estate in the valley, and apart from a few incidents involving theft or women, had lived in reasonably peaceful co-existence. In exchange for labour, the Kastanians had always provided security to the valley and it was something the villagers wouldn’t mind happening once more.

“We welcome the wise words of the Emperor,” the Elder said, and threw the drink back in one go, as was the custom here. The Kastanians did likewise, and Astiras felt his eyes water as the fiery liquid bit into his throat. Genuine rough Sbinka, an alcohol distilled from the pulped fruit of the Sbin tree, one of the native species of Bragal, a small tree or large bush, that produced dark blue-black berries. Foul taste if eaten raw, but mixed with sugar and allowed to ferment, it produced a heady brew.

“One drink only for my men,” Astiras said, fighting the urge to cough. “We Kastanians are unused to such a strong brew. I wish for my men to be able to sit the correct way on their saddles.”

The Bragalese laughed. They knew many could not handle the drink, and accepted the admission from their landlord.

Astiras grinned. “But I will ask for some of this for my estates. Of course, I will pay for it. We will supply the casks. I will ask for a fermentation of no less than two years.”

“Lord is generous,” the Elder said. This was very good. Their landlord could well turn out to be the best thing that had happened for a long time to the village. “What of the other two villages?”

“I understood there were four previously. What of the other?”

“Ah, Lord, that is a tragic tale,” the Elder said. “They were very protective of your estates and tried to protect it. The rebel army destroyed their village and all that lived in it. That act showed us not to resist. We are humbly sorry but as you see, we did not have the capacity to defend your estate or ourselves.”

Astiras grunted. “In your place I would probably have done the same, but it is regrettable that such an act took place. No matter, from now on I shall send inspectors to all three villages and work out either a tithe or free labour to my estate. That shall be determined at that time. In return my estate will provide protection for the villages here, and allow a trade in furnishings at a lower rate than with villages outside the valley.”

The Bragalese looked at each other and slowly nodded in approval. They could trade some of their products and who knew, maybe develop better links with Zofela? It would bring wealth to the village and they could perhaps improve their buildings and acquire better tools. It was good.

As Astiras and his men rode away from the village towards the burned out buildings at the bottom of the valley, Teduskis turned to his master. “They were very accommodating, sire.”

“Just like all villages were before the war.”

“Yes, and look what happened then!”

Astiras agreed. “We need more armed men in places like this just to make sure they don’t get any ideas like that again. When the estate is rebuilt I’ll want proper stone towers dotted along this valley with store and supplies in them to be able to hold out for a couple of days if anything happens. Make them three-man stations. I want the villagers here to know we won’t let any silly business happen here again. Oh,” he thought of another thing. “Bring some of the slaves from Zofela here to work on the rebuild. I want these peasants to see what I do with those who oppose me.”

Teduskis grinned. That was more like it.

The shouts echoed along the corridor of Kastan’s palace, turning heads. It was yet another vocal disagreement involving Princess Amne, but this time rather than it being the Empress on the other side, it was Elas Pelgion, her betrothed, who was on the receiving end. He wasn’t meekly taking it and saying nothing, he was giving back as good as he was getting. Their voices were rising, too.

“You will not disobey me, Amne! I forbid it!”

“You forbid it? Forbid it? Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do, Elas Pelgion?” Amne stood toe-to-toe with her betrothed, her cheeks stained red, her lips compressed. Elas was a head taller than she, but she was not intimidated by the height difference. She looked up into his face, defying his will. “You are not yet a prince, and neither are you yet my husband, so you cannot forbid me anything! I am a princess of the ruling House and outrank you, Elas, so do not presume to rise above your station!” Her voice was almost a scream.

Elas, by contrast, was to all appearances calm. His face betrayed no emotion, but his clenching and unclenching hands revealed his agitation. “Keep your voice down, Amne, do you wish the entire palace to hear of our disagreement?”

“I don’t care!” she shouted, her eyes wide with anger. “If it means everyone here learns that you are a despotic dictator, then so be it! I will not be stopped from going outside of Kastan City, and I will visit my administrative region personally. I am doing so to see better for myself the situation that has been reported, rather than relying on courtiers who censor everything down to a watery blandness! These are people under my care and I want to see what exactly their complaints are!”

“They are doing their job, Amne, and you do not need to go visit every peasant of Kastania. Your place is here in the palace. There is danger outside.”

Amne began stamping down the marbled corridor, flanked with statues of former rulers set on pedestals of columns in alcoves. “Don’t speak to me of the dangers outside these walls,” she snapped, Elas following her hurriedly. “I have been to places you have never seen and witnessed things that you have only read about. I have Lalaas to guard me, and he can take care of both of us very well thank-you.”

“That man is not invincible, and he’s only one man. There are limits to his abilities, and I doubt he could deal with a mob if one decided to gather and attack! I do not trust the situation beyond the walls of this city; I should know, my estates are out there and we have recently seen an increase in banditry.”

“Then it is even more important for me to go out there and see for myself, Elas! I’m not a luxury to be kept safe indoors and wheeled out on important occasions or when visitors arrive for you to show me off like some prize! I am my own woman and I decide what I do with my life! When we marry do not try to control me or you’ll be faced with an insurrection that will make the Bragal War look like a child’s game!”

Elas stopped and his arm flapped uselessly against his side. He breathed in deeply, which for him was the equivalent of screaming in frustration. “I can see our marriage will have to have some work done on it. Very well, if you insist on throwing yourself in danger at least allow me to send a bigger escort.”

“Of whom?” Amne whirled, her hair flowing. She was wearing her riding clothes, close fitting leather breeches, long boots, a jacket of dull red wormspun material over a wool shirt. Small leather gauntlets were gripped in one hand. “There are none spare. Everyone is out patrolling the roads, looking for these bandits. That should make my journey that much safer, incidentally.”

Elas fumed inside. This headstrong woman needed controlling. She had no concept of danger or decorum. He would have to teach her how to behave in a socially acceptable manner. “The palace guard are here.”

“And are they equipped to come out on equine back? They have none! They are to guard the palace, not to go riding out in the countryside. I have Lalaas – he is enough! I will not say any more on this subject Elas, it is finished.” She turned from him and brushed past a couple of open-mouthed domestics who had been dusting the statues. They bowed automatically but got no acknowledgement from Amne.

She pushed the door to the courtyard open roughly and came across the green, her body radiating fury. How dare that man try to tell her what to do! The bare-faced cheek of it! Lalaas was waiting at the stable entrance, two equines ready. “Trouble, ma’am?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, Lalaas,” she snapped. “Just Elas trying to put me in a box and keep me there.”

Lalaas nodded. He was armed with his Taboz bow and had a quiver of sixty arrows hanging from the saddle, and his battle sword hung from his belt in its sheath. Tucked in his left boot was a dagger in a specially fitted groove. He was taking no chances. He was wearing a light brown and dull green set of clothes, topped with a chainmail hauberk that was sleeveless and reached to his waist. Wordlessly he passed Amne her reins and mounted up on his equine, settling into the saddle. He waited till she was seated, then followed as she led him along the path that ran along the edge of the grassed area.

Here the new unit in the Kastanian army spent their time training. It was the idea of the Koros, who wished to be able to take on the Tybar with a force that gave them a chance. Up to now the footsoldiers of Kastania had been easy meat for the mounted raiders and archers of the Tybar, so now Kastania were training mounted archers of their own. There were two separate areas that they were being trained. Here, in secret, and over in Slenna under Jorqel’s tutelage. It wasn’t a secret in Slenna both for the reasons that there was nowhere to be secretive there, and it wouldn’t hurt to let the Tybar know that at last Kastania was trying something to counter the fast, mobile missile troops that had swept the cumbersome infantry from every battlefield up to now.

Here in Kastan City it was going on in secret mostly because the trainer was a renegade Tybar by the name of Deran Loshar. That wasn’t his real name of course, since his original Tybar name was best not used both to conceal from the ordinary Kastanians his true identity, and to keep from any spies the fact a Tybar was training up the army. He had taken a number of young men under his wing to teach them how to ride and shoot arrows. The older men weren’t as flexible in mind to adopt such un-Kastanian tactics, while with younger people it was always much more possible.

Amne and Lalaas looked at the cantering equines with their riders for a moment, sending their shafts into the straw targets at the end of the green. Many had missed but a fair number had hit. It was an on-going process and hopefully one day they would be ready for battle.

The two then left the palace courtyard, passing through a narrow passageway that ran under one wing of the building to a stout wooden pair of doors that opened inwards, allowing egress to the road beyond. They trotted out onto the paved road and made for the eastern gate, called the Turslenkan Gate. Amne received a salute from the guards as they passed out into the farmland of Frasia, and then they were galloping away from the city.

After a short while they came to a halt at the top of a rise. Far off to the north the Aester Sea glittered in the sunlight while behind them, beyond the city, the sea curved round through the Straights that separated Frasia from Bathenia. To the south and east only rolling farmland existed. Amne’s administrative region ran from the paved road to the north as far as the sea, but not including the port of Galan. The farms and land in this part of Frasia were her responsibility.

“Where lies the farm that reported bandits, Amne?” Lalaas asked, peering across the countryside.

“Off in that direction.” She pointed off slightly left of their route. “Their last letter was pleading for us to do something about it. Let’s go see.”

Lalaas grunted. Bandits could mean an isolated group preying on the helpless farmers, or a group belonging to the rebel Duras army further west that was controlling the Makenian port of Kalkos. It was a long way but with no army outpost between Kalkos and Kastan City, there was nothing to stop some of the Duras troops from riding this far east, although they ran the risk of running into the city garrison.

They trotted across the plains, enjoying the sun and being out in the open away from the oppressive atmosphere each felt in the palace. Lalaas was no courtier; he was a scout and hunter, and was at home best in the country. Amne disliked the restrictions of the palace after her two years away on the diplomatic mission to Mazag, and much preferred riding to sitting in her room or an office.

She felt the weights on her shoulders slough away and she breathed in deeply. This was what she wished for! Laughing, she urged her mount to gallop off ahead. Lalaas clucked at his equine and chased her, not wishing for his charge to get too far ahead. He had his orders and his pride. They thundered through the Frasian countryside, lone riders in the vastness of the wheat bowl of the Empire.

Finally Amne came to a halt, breathing hard. Sweat filmed her face and neck, but she was smiling. Lalaas grinned as he came up alongside. “Feel better, now?”

“Oh, yes! That Corpse is like a pair of manacles on me, Lalaas. If I ever start getting like him, please tell me; I’ve no wish to become another in his image.” She referred to Elas as ‘The Corpse’, despite her step-mother’s horrified opposition.

“I’ll do that. Meanwhile, let’s find this farm. We don’t want to be here at night, especially if bandits are at large.”

They walked along a small track they came across that seemed to go in the right direction, and when they reached the top of yet another gentle rise, they could see the farm below them. It had been burned.

Amne gasped in dismay. Lalaas frowned, studying the buildings. Something wasn’t right. “Tell, me, Amne, would you say this farm had been burned in the past few days?”

The princess looked again at the blackened shell of the farm buildings. The land immediately around the house and outbuildings was also burned. “I don’t know,” she said, uncertainly. “How would we tell?”

Lalaas took a firm grip of his reins. “There’s only one way to find that out,” he said and began urging his mount down the slope towards the destroyed buildings. Amne followed, her face reflecting dismay and outrage. They were halfway down when a movement off to Lalaas’ right caught his attention. He looked up to see a number of riders appearing on the horizon. He stopped and whipped his head to the left. More were there. He twisted in his saddle to look up behind. More there. “It’s a trap, Amne.”

Amne gasped and looked round fearfully. “What are we going to do?”

“Only one thing to do, Princess. Ride hard to the farm. Go!”

Lalaas urged his equine forward, but made sure Amne was close to him. Even as they began to thunder down the lower reaches of the slope into the shallow valley, the unknown riders were beginning to canter down off the hilltops. Lalaas did a quick mental calculation. There were about twenty-five of them, all armed. He could see swords or other weapons being wielded, and it was clear they weren’t there to exchange pleasantries.

Lalaas allowed Amne to edge ahead, looking left and right anxiously. The riders were closing fast on them, but the farm was close. “Get to the main building,” Lalaas ordered, taking hold of his bow and pulling it off his back. He was no expert in the saddle but on the ground he knew all that was necessary. He guessed the riders were the same. None were carrying bows.

They clattered across stone, the remains of a yard or floor of a now vanished store. The smell of burned wood was still faintly detectable, but the fires had extinguished themselves some time ago. Amne reached the biggest part that remained, a stone wall with blackened and charred beams piled against it. She dismounted and cowered in the lee of the wall with her equine next to her.

Lalaas urged his beast across the yard, three of the riders no more than ten lengths behind. The hunter sprang off his animal as he hauled on the reins, bringing it to a halt, and grabbed a handful of arrows from the quiver. He jammed two into his mouth, crosswise, threw the rest but one onto the ground at his feet, and fitted the last to his string, all in one movement. He turned to face the attacking trio, all wearing nondescript leather or padded vestments.

Without even having to aim properly, he loosed the first arrow. The Taboz bow he used was a devastating piece of military hardware. Comprised of bone, animal horn and glue, it was stronger and larger than many bows found in Kastania. It took some strength to use one, and a lot of skill. No beginner could hope to use one with any degree of accuracy, and it took years to fully master it. Lalaas had over ten years of experience of using one under his belt. The arrow blurred in the air and impacted fully in the chest of the central rider, skewering him up to the feathers, and punching out of his back in a shower of blood. The force of the impact threw him off the saddle and he was pitched into the ground and tumbled into an untidy heap.

Even as the man was flying through the air Lalaas had grabbed the second arrow from his mouth and slid it across his left fist, gripping the centre of the bow, and fitted the neat, small groove set in the rear of the missile to the string. He pulled hard with his right, taking up the strain and swung the bow round to the right. The second rider was vaulting a pile of charred wood, no more than ten feet from Lalaas. The arrow flew up into his ribcage and catapulted him off the saddle to send him crashing off to one side, his arms and legs failing. The third raised his sword, his face a mask of hatred. He was swinging in behind Lalaas, a few heartbeats from cutting him down. Amne screamed.