Empire of Avarice (9 page)

“Yes, the Tybar.” Theros scowled. “You’re rightly afraid
of them. They have done great evil wherever they have gone, and much of our
former land is now under their heel. We tried to negotiate with them but my
colleagues…” he tailed off and gripped the table. The memory of his friends and
compatriots being executed was still a raw wound in his mind. “They were
hanged,” he said abruptly. “The Tybar are a collection of tribes from far to
the west. Where they come from is not known, but thirty years ago they first
appeared and carved out a domain for themselves in the land of the Two Rivers,”
he pointed to the far western edge of the map, “then moved close to our
frontier. That was when the fatal day came,” he said, “when the emperor and his
army perished in the biggest disaster ever to befall our empire, and we were
plunged into civil war and chaos.”

“Do you know what happened, Theros?”

“Alas, I do not. Your father would know; he was in the
army at that time, and the details would be known to him.”

“He refuses to talk to anyone about it,” Amne said,
pouting.

“Then I think it be best you don’t approach him about
it, ma’am. But the Tybar are consolidating their hold on the regions they took
from us and for the moment we are safe, but I think it won’t be long before
they are strong enough again to move east and we had better be ready for them
should that day come or else we will all fall under such darkness that we may
never see the light again. There’s no point in sending a diplomatic mission to
Imakum, their new capital, as they tend to hang diplomats. They are a savage
people!” Theros ended angrily.

Amne was shocked. A diplomat should remain calm no
matter the provocation. She folded her hands in her lap. “Then we are fortunate
we are to go to Mazag.”

Theros looked at her for a moment, then relaxed. “Yes,
we are.”

The army reached the frontier with Lodria towards
midday. The scouts returned with the news that the province frontier posts were
still in place and hadn’t been defaced, which was good. They also reported a
few people were gathering on the road, armed with rudimentary weapons. Jorqel
snorted with amusement. “Farmers? Peasants?”

“Possibly, sir,” the sergeant in command of the scouting
party nodded. “But they look as if they mean business.”

“So do I,” Jorqel growled. “Gavan, my armour! Everyone,
get your best battle gear on! Shiny weapons drawn! Trumpeters, I want a fanfare
to wake the blasted dead when we arrive!”

The men burst into action. Cloths covering metal were
hauled off and stuffed into back packs and thrown onto the wagons, revealing
bright, shiny blades and armour. The men tensed; the long period of inaction
was about to be replaced with what they had joined the army for.

Jorqel patted his charger on the neck. It, too, sensed
the excitement and was blowing, tossing its head. “Now listen,” Jorqel raised
himself in his saddle and addressed the men. “This isn’t Bragal, so no burning
villages or chopping anyone’s head off, clear? If someone makes the first move
then hit back, but these people are untrained and likely to be our people after
this nonsense has been sorted out. Look big, look mean, look like their worst
nightmare, but don’t lose your head or I might take it off, got it?”

“Yes, sir!” the men chorused. They grinned. Jorqel was a
good general. He mucked in with them and swore as good as any of them. He took
no messing about, and had been known to flatten someone for wasting his time. But
he was fair, honest and popular. These men would die for him.

Gavan trotted his mount alongside his commander. That’s
where he would be if things got tough; his remit was to protect Jorqel with his
body, even unto death. “Is it wise to announce our arrival so much, sir?”

“Oh yes,” Jorqel bared his teeth. “These flat-footed
farmers ought to know who their correct liege is. It’s me and my father, not
that pant-wetting talentless swine-humper in Slenna.” The men close by grinned;
their commander was getting himself into the mood for a fight. He always spoke
like this immediately before action. “I want my trumpeters to blow so hard it
blasts these peasant’s clothes off.” He looked around. “Everyone ready?”

The men nodded. The company captains stood stiffly at
attention; Jorqel nodded in satisfaction, slammed down his visor and drew his
battle sword, adorned with a skull where the blade met the hilt. “For-ward!”

The army tramped forward, a company of the famed
imperial archers in front, swaggering with the confidence they felt. Their bows
were better than any others known, even better than those of the Tybar who used
the bow en masse. Each archer had his wooden bow, made from two types of wood,
a dense tree called the Awle that grew in abundance to the south west. This
formed the heart of the bow. Then a second wood was glued to it, from the Spal
tree, a much more common type. The more flexible Spalwood allowed the bow to
bend to greater extremes. The force it exerted was tremendous and gave the
imperial bowmen a far greater range.

They each carried a quiver with sixty arrows in them,
and on their left arm a small buckler shield to give them some small
protection. They all had wide shoulders, stout arms and wore little armour,
save head protection and maybe a thickly padded jacket. In a melee they got out
of there. Having said that, all carried a sword just in case. Behind them came
the first of the spear companies, the mainstay of the imperial armies, these
were the backbone around which the archers and cavalry operated. Trained to
stand and fight, each had a long overcoat that reached to their knees, coloured
with the imperial purple and white, and underneath this they wore chain mail,
or thick leather armour. Each sported a spear that stood just taller than a
man. On their heads they wore a cap under a metal helm to stop their heads
being chafed.

Then came Jorqel and his heavy cavalry. Big, well
armoured and deadly. Not many could withstand an imperial heavy cavalry charge.
The trouble was it cost so much to train and equip a troop that there were few
these days. However, if there was a battle, then it was almost accepted that
the heavy cavalry would be the arm that won it. The spearmen would make sure
nobody got to them at the same time, protecting them.

Behind Jorqel walked the other spear and archer
companies.

It wasn’t long before they spied the frontier. Imperial
policy had been for many years to denote the boundaries of each province, and
therefore the governorship of each region, with a series of markers. Usually
these were of wood, which were replaced every so often when the weather had
taken its toll. But in some places, such as in this spot, they were of large
stone pillars. The imperial symbols were carved in the faces of the stones, and
they were still fairly visible, despite the weathering of the years. Standing
alongside these, blocking the road into Lodria, were a number of men.

Jorqel smiled behind his visor; these were farmers
alright, country folk who jealously guarded their homes. Proud people, tough
people. Many good soldiers had come from places like this in the past, and
maybe they would once more. The soldiers took up their positions, the archers
to one side of the road, ready to string their bows if needed, but this hardly
seemed the situation for this, and they had their swords ready just in case. The
spearmen lined the road, stopping just short of the boundary, and Jorqel and
Gavan rode through the corridor of men and halted at the boundary. The trumpets
blared and the farmers almost jumped out of their skins in surprise.

One of the farmers, a barrel-chested man with a thick
bushy beard, then stepped forward. He was holding a long handled scythe. Behind
him other men were wielding pitchforks, rudimentary spears and other bladed
farming implements. “Who are you and why are you here?” the farmer demanded.

Jorqel flipped up his visor and stared down at the man. “I
am Prince Jorqel. What my business is here is none of your concern! To whom do
you swear allegiance?”

“I know of no prince by the name of Jorqel,” the farmer
said.

“There is a new emperor, my father. He is Astiras Koros;
perhaps you may have heard of him?”

The farmers muttered to each other, nodding. Sure they
had heard of him. There were few in the empire who hadn’t. A famed soldier. “Yes,
certainly we have; a good man and a brave one. But isn’t he fighting in
Bragal?”

“No longer. The previous emperor treacherously withdrew
the army from Bragal and was about to surrender it to the rebels. That is why
my father is now emperor and intends continuing that war, as well as bringing
those regions of the empire that have foolishly decided to go their own way
back into the imperial fold – including Lodria!”

“Lodria is under the rule of Alfan Fokis, Duke of
Slenna. He has declared no taxes shall go to Kastan and that we are to swear
allegiance to him – or he will burn our farms.” The other farmers nodded,
muttering.

Jorqel felt a surge of anger. He kept his voice calm,
however. “Rest assured, good people, I shall not take such steps. I am the
rightful governor of Lodria, and when Slenna falls to my force here, this –
Alfan Fokis – shall swing from the highest tower. You will pay your tithes to
me – a fair and equitable tithe. One fourth.”

The farmers broke into an excited chatter. They were
being asked to pay one half at the moment. Jorqel sensed their mood. “When
Slenna falls I shall send out patrols around this province to ensure all are
protected. While Lodria stands isolated as it does now, the Tybar lick their
lips with anticipation. Between the frontier and here is nothing. With Kastan
as your overlords, you can enjoy the protection of the whole of the Empire. This
I swear.”

“Sire,” the farmer’s spokesman bowed and knelt before
Jorqel. The rest followed suit. “We swear allegiance to you and to Emperor
Astiras.”

Jorqel smiled. “Stand. Be heartened, good farmers. Continue
with your work and grow your crops and tend your beasts. Send your tithe after
harvest to me outside Slenna. I shall be besieging it.”

“Sire.”

“A few things before we go on our way; how far is it to
Slenna, and what other villages stand in our way? Are they loyal to the emperor
or have they turned traitor?”

“Sire, it is a sevenday’s march to Slenna. There are
three such villages on this road, and five or six off side roads. A day’s march
from Slenna you will cross the Mendar Bridge. If the rebels know of your
approach they may attempt to block you there.”

“Thank you for your assistance. I shall remember your
help in time to come. Now good day to you all; we have work to do!” Jorqel
raised a hand in farewell and the farmers bowed once more, then stepped aside
as the army marched across the frontier into Lodria.

____

Teduskis was busy that day; the delivery of former
Captain Mercos to the town militia barracks had gone smoothly before dawn, and
he’d managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep before breakfast. Now he was on his
way back to the barracks to speak to the new captain there, Vosgaris Taboz. Taboz
was a young, eager man with bright brown eyes, a shiny clear skin that made
Teduskis envious and resentful, and an uncluttered mind clear of any
deviousness that Teduskis actually found refreshing.

There was also the matter that Taboz was a candidate to
replace Mercos. Teduskis was welcomed to a messy, chaotic office full of papers
and objects lying or standing all over the small room. Vosgaris apologised,
explaining that his predecessor who had died in recent disturbances had left
the place in a mess and that it would take some time to sort out what was
supposed to go where.

Teduskis had appraised the town guard on his way to the
barracks. This was yet another sign of the competing factions within the empire;
instead of one unified regime, there were small factions all vying with one
another for an advantage. The Imperial Guard, the Palace Guard, the Town Guard.
The gods alone knew how many more guard factions there may be! But while the
former two were professional units, the town guard were merely militia,
part-timers who trained a few times a sevenday and rotated on duty. Some were
those who could find no work elsewhere, others were old men on their way down
from former army positions, others again young men wishing to have a career in
the army but as places were full they bided their time in the militia until an
opportunity to progress presented itself.

A right mixed lot, Teduskis decided. It showed in their
appearance and conduct too. Some were sloppy, others smart. Vosgaris rummaged
on his desk and dragged from a pile of papers one particular parchment. “Mercos
is secure. The man who was in his cell has been released and is being smartened
up prior to you escorting him to the palace. I understand he was a former
advisor to one of the previous emperors and was jailed when one of the coups
toppled his master.”

“As is the custom,” Teduskis said darkly. “Your name has
been mentioned by the new emperor and empress, by the way.”

“Oh?” Vosgaris looked alarmed. In these days of
uncertainty, it was not wise to antagonise or be noticed by the imperial
families.

“Nothing to worry about, lad,” Teduskis grinned. “They
think you might be a worthy successor to Mercos. They want a reliable loyal
type.”

“Well, my family knows the Koros, and we’ve been
friendly in the past. It’s an honour to be considered, that’s for sure.” Vosgaris
pondered on the matter for a moment. He looked at the papers on his desk, then
switched his attention to the window that looked out onto the inner courtyard
where a couple of men were practicing with the shield and counterweight device.
He winced as one of them was struck by the weight, not ducking out of the way
fast enough. “Palace guard? It would be a step up and my family would be
pleased. It would be good to gain favour with the new regime.” He sounded
uncertain.

Teduskis knew why. “Worried that our regime may not
last? And if it doesn’t, you’d be dragged down with it?”

Vosgaris nodded. “Mind if I think on it a couple of
days? I want to gauge the mood in the city first. My predecessor was killed in
a riot and I want to see if another is brewing. Hard to tell at the moment;
there are rumblings but these happen most of the time, or so those who’ve been
here a long time tell me.”

“If there’s trouble we’ll stamp it out,” Teduskis
growled. “They’re not dealing with puling weaklings anymore; my men are
veterans of the Bragal war. They’ll eat any rioters for breakfast.”

“Yes,” Vosgaris pulled a face. He’d never seen action
before and the thought of it made him nervous. He didn’t want to let his
family’s reputation down, but he worried he wasn’t up to the task. “My men
would assist, of course.”

“I’d expect it,” Teduskis said. “Right. I want to see
this former advisor. I’ve got a busy day and they want this fellow back in the
palace fairly quickly. He’s still being cleaned up?”

“Yes,” Vosgaris stood up and led Teduskis over to the
door. “Poor fellow was here for two years. Bad diet, rodents and filth. You
know the sort of thing.”

“I can guess,” Tesduskis commented as he was led out of
the door, along a passageway, then into a guard room and down a flight of steps
and through a barred gate, unlocked by a guard. The smell of unwashed people
and damp came to them as they entered a world of darkness, illuminated only by
torchlight, and the thick stones of the walls and floors glistened with damp. The
bars of the cells stood along one wall and emaciated and listless faces stared
at them as they made their way to the end.