Prince of Wrath (76 page)

Instantly the three squadrons of the RIMM switched their target and began pouring a hail of arrows at the militiamen. They swung their shields up in desperation but now the riders were all round them, shooting into exposed sides and backs. Bodies tumbled to the ground.

Lord Duras screamed at them to attack, but there was nowhere for them to go. Instinctively they formed a circle and thrust forward their shields, desperately trying to protect themselves. In a fury, Lord Duras turned a tight circle and saw Jorqel, staring at him, thirty paces away. The prince was alone, the rest of his bodyguard chasing the broken archers across the ground. Even his personal bodyguard was occupied, beating down a panic-stricken militiaman.

“Koros!” he growled, brandishing his sword. He dug his heels into his mount which responded, nostrils flared, ears pricked.

Jorqel saw Duras begin his attack and hefted his axe, dripping blood. He also sprung into motion, coming at his enemy.

Gavan swung round and saw the two charge towards one another, screaming. “Oh, by the gods,” he said under his breath, and forced his equine round to gallop to his master’s side, but knowing even as he did so he would be too late.

Jorqel swung hard as he reached Duras, ducking under the blade of the nobleman as it flashed close past his vision. Both hit.

The prince felt a solid impact on his armour from shoulder to stomach and he had a curious weightless sensation as his backside left the saddle. It lasted for perhaps three heartbeats before he crashed heavily to the ground. He saw stars and the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He lay there for a moment, then instinct took over. If he remained there he may well be ridden over or skewered like some roasted dinner.

He rolled onto his elbows and knees and looked around.

Not ten paces away Lord Duras was leaning forward, still in his saddle, but with a grimace of pain etched across his face. He was holding his side. Blood was seeping through the armour and Jorqel could see that his blade had split it open at that point. He also realised his axe was still looped round his wrist.

Gavan came skidding to a halt by Jorqel’s side, his sword raised. “My lord – I-I’m sorry!”

Jorqel waved his protests to silence as he painfully got to his feet. “It doesn’t matter! Save it until after the battle. This filth is mine. Go secure the victory. I want his offspring brought to me. Go!”

Gavan hesitated, then swung round and thundered off. Jorqel breathed in hard, flinching with the pain it brought. Falling off one’s beast at full gallop wasn’t good for the body. He slowly, stiffly, walked over to Duras. “Get off your mount, you kivok!”

Duras glared balefully at him. “I do not obey the commands of one unfit to give them!”

Jorqel took hold of the man and dragged him from the animal which trotted off, scared by the noise of its rider striking the ground. Duras’ sword lay on the ground a few paces away. The prince ignored it. It was irrelevant now. “Kneel at my feet.”

“I shall not!” Duras spat. He was holding his wounded side. He got to one knee and tried to get up.

Jorqel sent an armoured foot into his face, sending him flying backwards. Blood coated Duras’ mouth and he groaned, lying on the grass, one hand to his side, the other clutched to his shattered mouth. Jorqel looked about. The two militia companies were being shot to pieces, unable to move in any direction. The RIMM were riding round at twenty paces completely at will, sending shaft after shaft into the huddled mass, hitting something with every shot. Shields sprouted arrows in profusion, but very often one would get through, hitting one of the poorly protected men.

“You won’t stop us revolting against your rule,” Duras said thickly. He was almost unintelligible.

“At least I can end your foul campaign today,” Jorqel said. He unfastened his helmet and dropped it to the ground, glad to have some cool air play against his face. It had been getting hot inside it. He went to pull Duras up but suddenly the nobleman had a dagger in his hand and was thrusting up.

Jorqel leaped backwards and the small, pointed blade glanced off his thigh plate. The axe swung and Duras screamed, a high-pitched bubbled sound spraying through the blood over his lips.

Duras’ hand went flying, to land harmlessly ten paces away.

“Treacherous canine,” Jorqel said, taking the sobbing man by the throat and hauling him to his knees. Duras knelt there, curled up with his head almost touching the ground. “You’re a dead man, Duras,” the prince said evenly. “But first I want you to see the deaths of your sons. I want you to know that your line is extinguished.”

Duras looked up, his eyes sick with pain and horror. “You wouldn’t! Not even you wouldn’t do that!”

“And your wife will spend the rest of what life she had in my dungeons.”

“My-my daughter?”

“Is no longer your concern. She is somewhere else, serving one of my followers. Willingly.”

Duras sobbed aloud. His wrist was gripped tightly but blood was still oozing out onto the ground. His face was a mask of red, his mouth smashed, and the wound in his side was agony. “Please,” he looked up at the man standing over him, “spare my sons.”

“No,” Jorqel replied coldly. “You and your seed have done so much harm to the empire and the longer you survive, the greater the threat. I have not forgotten your part in the kidnapping of Sannia. You have caused me trouble and pain for the last time.” He took the wounded man by the collar and dragged him towards the shrinking circle of men. The RIMM were still riding round in a huge circle, shooting into the pack of men at their leisure. It wasn’t a battle, it was target practice.

Jorqel dropped Lord Duras at his feet and called Gavan over. The bodyguard rode to him and dismounted. “Make sure this piece of offal causes no trouble,” he said curtly and strode towards the galloping archers. He waved them to stop, and Captain Hammarfall gestured to the men to halt.

The sound of hoofs died away until only the cries and groans of the wounded and dying could be heard. Jorqel stepped through the cut up earth and grass to the other side, closer to the trembling survivors. They stared in desperation out at him. Men lay everywhere, some still, others slowly moving in pain. Arrows littered the ground.

“I call upon you to surrender,” Jorqel called out. “None of you, save the two Duras will be harmed, this I swear.”

The men looked to one another. One of the Duras captains swore and threatened to kill the first man who gave in.

“If you do not I shall order my men in to finish you off. You have no chance of survival. You are surrounded, cut-off and outnumbered. You have until I count to ten.”

Three soldiers on one side glanced at the two Duras captains, and, seeing they were out of reach, threw their shields down and ran out of the pile of corpses, hands held high. Jorqel signalled to Hammarfall to round them up and put them under guard. Other men were now throwing their weapons down and walking out, hands held up.

One of the Duras screamed in fury. He struck the nearest man down and was turning on a second when the militia crowded him and beat him to the ground. Jorqel ran forward, bellowing. “I want them alive! I command you to bring those two to me alive!”

The militiamen pinned both Duras to the ground and called out they had complied. They also asked for mercy. Jorqel nodded to the RIMM to bring the Duras prisoners forward and keep the rest in a circle.

The two captains were dragged over to where their father knelt. Gavan stood over him, sword edge against the nobleman’s throat. The two sons were forced to their knees, facing him. Jorqel waved to two of his bodyguard, two of the toughest and meanest amongst them, to stand behind the sons. He then turned to Lord Duras. “Witness the end of your sick line, foul traitor.” He cut his hand down and the two sons were run through the back.

“Noooo!” Lord Duras screamed in dismay.

“Now you,” Jorqel said, his face red with anger. “My pleasure is to finish you off.” He swung his axe, and Lord Duras caught it under the chin, knocking him over onto his back. His eyes stared up at the sky, wide with terror. His throat had been opened up and his lifeblood flowed out onto the earth. He shivered once, then lay still.

Gavan grunted and slid his sword home. “Now this had been done, sire, what is your pleasure?”

“Captain Hammarfall, go secure the gates and send your men to take the harbour. Leave a dozen men to guard the prisoners.”

“Sire,” Hammerfall saluted and ran to his men, shouting orders.

“Gavan, we go to the fort. Get the men to ride.”

“Sire,” Gavan grabbed the reins of his mount and climbed up.

Jorqel Took his own equine’s reins from one of his men and got into the saddle and looked down at the crumpled remains of the Duras. It had been about time he’d settled with him. Now maybe his personal demon could rest. He waved his men to follow him and made for the gates, already being pushed open by the RIMM.

At the harbour, the lookout had called out the course of the battle. Nikos Duras cursed and snapped his orders quickly. “Cast off, get us out of here!”

The ship exploded into action and the ropes were cut, the gangplank hauled in and the sails dropped. The vessel slowly pulled away from the jetty and headed for the gap in between the two arms of the harbour wall. As they began to pick up the pace, they heard the sound of galloping equines and turned to see the mounted archers spreading out along the jetty.

Even as they came to a halt, they were fitting arrows to their bows.

“Take cover!” Nikos screamed and flung himself down behind the rail.

Arrows struck the ship or hissed narrowly past. Two sailors were hit, crying out as they were pitched to the deck. The ship carried on, however, passing through the opening, a matter of a few paces ahead of the archers riding along the wall trying to cut them off. The ship was shot at for a few more moments but it had escaped.

Captain Hammarfall punched his saddle in frustration. “Go secure the other vessels – none are to escape!”

His men rushed to comply, but they found nobody aboard the others. All those who wanted to flee had been on the one ship. All they found were the hanging corpses of those loyal to their pirate commander, and who had died as a result.

Jorqel, meanwhile, had ridden to the fort entrance. Kiros Louk appeared, his sword sheathed. “Sire, there are a few die-hards up in the keep. They are the sworn bodyguards of Lord Duras.”

“Then they shall die,” Jorqel said, dismounting. “Is there anything else that I need to be aware of?”

“No, sire,” Louk smiled in a half-mocking manner.

“Then you may step aside; we will do what is necessary to finish this matter. Come to me in three days’ hence.”

Louk bowed and slipped away, sheathing his sword. His work was done. He would return to his room and throw out the plant samples he’d collected over the time he’d been there. He just hoped the girl was still alive.

Jorqel eyed the corpses of two guards lying just inside the entrance to the fort. Louk clearly had dealt with them, but hadn’t gone any further. The prince pointed to five of his men, standing expectantly in a group behind him. “I want the stairs cleared to the top. Kill anyone who resists, arrest those who do not. I shall decide tomorrow whether they will lose their heads or not.”

They bowed and moved past the open doorway into the hall. Jorqel, Gavan and four others followed, all cautious lest someone spring out from an unexpected direction. The hall was roughly square with posts supporting the roof. At the rear were two exits, one a door to the rear of the fort, the other a stairway leading up. The floor was littered with carelessly abandoned items – flasks, extinguished torches, bones, broken pots and trash. Jorqel pulled a face. The people who had been here were animals. They would clean the place up if they surrendered.

“Check that door,” he commanded two of the men with him. They clanked over to it, their armour sending echoes up the stairwell. Eyes roved round the interior, which slowly revealed itself as they got used to the gloom. The smell of unwashed and uncleaned objects assailed their senses. Someone had neglected to keep the place clean. Well, that would change.

“Where are they?” Gavan muttered, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly.

“Hiding,” Jorqel said, his axe swinging slowly. “Go on,” he urged the knot of men ahead of him, “get up and clear the landing.”

The five men slowly moved up the stairs which turned twice to the right before ending on a narrow landing surrounded by a rail. Suddenly an arrow flew through the air and struck one of the men in the shoulder. The missile stuck, puncturing the metal, and the man cursed, gripping the shaft.

Instantly the others rushed up past him and charged the archer. Jorqel lost sight of them but he heard the sound of men fighting and someone dying – quite loudly in fact. He glanced at the two men who had opened the ground door to the rear. They shook their heads. “The dungeon, sire.”

“Go secure it and see if anyone is down there. Bring them up.” Having passed his orders on he took Gavan and the two others with him up the stairs. He glanced at the wounded man who was grimacing in pain, having broken off the shaft at the point where it had pierced his shoulder pauldrons. “Go get that seen to.”

The man nodded and slowly made his way down painfully.

Jorqel looked round on the landing and saw one man lying in a doorway, blood seeping from his chest onto the floor. The walls were stained and uncared for and free of any tapestry or ornament. One of his men was standing over the corpse peering into the room beyond. “What is it?”