House of Lust (61 page)

She wondered if Vosgaris was really becoming too powerful.  He would have to be brought down if that were the case.  It saddened her.

Thetos walked along the rows of soldiers in the freezing cold of winter.  His breath clouded the air before him.  His boots crunched through the frost-rimed stalks of grass, and his nose was red with cold.  His beard was frosted too, from his breath, and he looked like one of the gods of the afterworld, where souls were tormented either in fire or in freezing temperatures.

Behind him, silent, on equines, sat Argan and Kerrin, swathed in furs laid over their armour.  With them were the twenty men of his embryonic bodyguard.  Their remit was to protect the prince no matter what.  Today would be the first battle he took part in.  Argan sat still but his heart was pounding away with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.  He had been told in no uncertain terms by Thetos not to get involved in any melee, but to watch from the left flank.  His small unit was nominally the reserve shock force, and he was also the commander of the left flank, under the overall command of the governor.

Standing in rows before them, cold, were the two Turslenkan regiments.  Four companies totalling five hundred and fifty spearmen, a mixure of militiamen and regulars.  In total the imperial force stood at six hundred.  Standing across the valley on the opposing slope, stood the five hundred men under Slavis.  So much work had been done to unearth the rebel leader, and finally they had their breakthrough when a message had been intercepted and the messenger allowed to flee.  He had been trying to pass on a new order to the traitors working in the council, and it had been then that Thetos’ and Argan’s men had swooped, arresting all except the contact who had been chased but of course, not caught.

Metila’s magic had been used to track him, and he had ridden to a camp in the hills out of sight of anyone, tucked neatly away in a small glade, close to the road to Bragal and Frasia.  Thetos had sent an ultimatum to Slavis, telling him to meet him at the roadside valley in battle, or be chased throughout Kastania.  His units had closed in and Slavis had no option but to turn and fight.

The imperial force was bigger and better armed.  Slavis knew it too, and had been using fear and underhand tactics to try to loosen Thetos’ grip on power, so that when the time was right, he would strike, using murder as a means to take over.

Slavis was at the rear of his force, commanding a force of mounted archers.  Before him were two companies of spearmen and another of foot archers.  He was not tempted to parley or speak to Thetos.  His message had been clear; come and take me if you dare.

Thetos eyed the ranks of the rebels and snorted.  “Over there stand the enemy,” he roared, his voice carrying clearly in the chill air, “men who have no honour.  They would rather rally to the standard of a traitor who hides away using the ways of a thief and murderer to try to achieve his selfish aims.  You clearly outnumber them; you are twice their number in spears.  Close with them and you will prevail; they will crumble before you and melt away, like the very frost under our feet when the sun’s rays strikes it.  Be as the sun, blind them with your brilliance.”

He looked along the rows of men.  They had been arranged so that on the left flank were militiamen, in the centre both companies were regulars and to the right the other militia.  Their lines were twice that of the rebels, and the plan was to engage the rebels with the centre, and then fold the flanks in on them, crushing them.  The only problem were the archers.  Yet again he had none, and it seemed every time a rebel force assembled, they had some.  Where the mounted archers had come from only the gods knew, but he suspected they were Hushirs from Mazag.  Those carrion feeders would come to any fight provided they had the opportunity for plunder and glory.

Today they would only find death.

Argan had the left flank militiamen.  Their morale would thus be higher with a prince of the ruling House commanding them.  Leading the militiamen on the right was Captain Durok, given the honour of the dominant flank.  Kastanian tactics always held that the right flank was more important than the left.  Durok had accepted the command with a pleased look and a bow of gratitude to Argan who had nodded once.  Thetos had listened to the prince.

“So, they fight with archers, hoping to keep you off and reduce your numbers before you close with them.  Use your shields in a wall before you, march, do not run, until they begin loosing – then charge up at them and smash those traitors!”

The men cheered.  Thetos rode along to Argan.  “Well, young prince; now is your first test of battle.  Whatever you do, don’t get mixed up in any silly business.  Once they realise who you are they’ll try to cut you down.  Stay clear of danger and watch your company.  They are proud to be serving under you, so don’t let them down.  Your orders are clear.  March up the hill on the left and then wheel in on their right flank once our regulars hit their front line.  Guard your own flank, as their archers no doubt will seek to shoot into them.”

“And your role, Governor?”

“To ride those scum who call themselves archers down.”  He flexed his one gauntlet in the air.  “Butcher’s work today.  This should finally end any rebellion in Makenia.”

“Good luck, Governor.”

“And to you too, sire.”

Argan watched as Thetos walked to his steed and vaulted up with help from a small wooden box.  He made a mental note to get one himself; it would prevent any undignified slip or fall.  The imperial army stood waiting on the cold, ice-rimed slope, peering across the wide, shallow valley at their foe.  Argan noted how the road from Turslenka approached from the left and then turned sharp left and ran off to the south towards Bragal.  The ridge the rebels were on was skirted on two sides by this road.

“Regiments of Turslenka shall advance!  Koros!  Koros!” Thetos yelled, his battle sword in his hand.

“Koros!  Koros!” the two regiments chanted, then began stamping downhill, thumping their shields with their spear shafts.  To Argan it felt as if the sound was vibrating up into him from the ground, shaking his very core.  It was a disturbing, yet reassuring sound, for they were chanting his family name, and they were his soldiers.

On the opposing hill, the man calling himself Slavis waited with a weary resignation.  He had tried to gather more men to his banner but not enough had come.  If he had been able to wait another season or two then he may have had sufficient, but somehow the Koros had found him.  They must have used dishonourable means.  He waved his two long lines of archers, all one hundred and twenty of them, to advance and shoot.

The sight of four companies of spearmen coming at them was frightening enough, but he hoped their missiles could cut enough down to make things more even.  “Concentrate on their regular troops in the centre,” he ordered.  “Don’t waste your arrows on their militia.”

Arrows began streaking through the air in dark clumps and the spearmen raised their shields.  Shafts clattered all round them, many hitting shields or missing, but some finding their targets.  Bodies fell and some crawled away, crying out in pain.  Thetos roared.  The spearmen broke into a run uphill, heading straight for the waiting enemy infantry, roaring their defiance and rage.

The archers melted away, desperate to avoid the coming melee, pouring to the imperial left across the route of the approaching troops.  Thetos snapped his visor down.  “Let’s go get them!” he snapped, and led his heavy cavalry behind the lines of the Kastanian soldiers and past Argan.  “Keep your position, sire!” he shouted as he rode past.

Argan saw figures moving about all over his line of sight.  Equines snorted, hoofs thundered, men shouted, arrows fell into the ranks of the spearmen from the mounted archers to the rear.  Kerrin gripped his pommel, his mouth dry with fear.  “This is so confusing, sire!” he cried out.

“Yes, but keep an eye to our right just in case, ‘Rin.”

Kerrin glanced in that direction.  All he saw were feebly moving men, trying to crawl away from the battlefield.  The ground was churned up; even the frozen sods had been ripped from the ground by the pounding of hundreds of hoofs.  The smell of fresh earth came to him.

With a roar the regulars smashed into the bracing rebel spearmen.  The sound went straight to Argan’s guts and he almost threw up.  Fighting the desire to retch, he kept an eye on his company, marching directly ahead, twenty paces from the melee off to their right, heading for the open flank.  The archers had run well to the rear and had turned, hoping to loose missiles into the faces of the imperial troops, but saw to their horror the armoured heavy cavalry of the governor bearing down on them.

They froze for a moment, then turned in every direction, trying to flee.  Slavis saw the danger and ordered his mounted archers to angle across the slope and shoot into the flank of the heavy cavalry.  Argan watched, spellbound, as the militia companies reached a point level with the furiously struggling combatants, then swing in and crash into the exposed flanks of both rebel companies.

He could watch no longer – the developing battle to his left was spreading far and wide as the archers scattered wildly, and Thetos and his bodyguard were going in every direction in a blood lust.  Bodies were piling up across the white slope, their lifeblood draining into the soil, staining the white with red.

Slavis saw the desperate situation developing, as he had feared.  A lack of infantry was costing him.  “Sir, look, there!” his aide pointed, grabbing his arm in excitement.  “That group of cavalry on their left – that’s Prince Argan!”

Slavis stared in disbelief.  “You sure?”

“Yes – his standard.  A youth!”

Slavis drew his sword.  “Signal the men – we ride them down.  The battle is lost but we can still salvage something out of this.  Kill that boy and then we ride to safety.  The way is open behind them!”

Thetos wheeled in delight.  Slaughtering panic-stricken cloth-clad archers was the stuff of dreams.  His sword dripped red.  He turned full circle.  No live rebels in his vicinity.  Thunder.  Cavalry charging downhill.  “Oh shit!”

His senior guard came riding up.  “Sir!  The prince!”

“Damnit – that black-hearted demon has out-manoevuered me!  Forget these archers, get as many men as you can, we’ve got to save Prince Argan!”  Thetos dug his spurs in and his steed leaped forward, Thetos screaming in anger, and more than a little fear, his sword high above his head.  Even as his equine bolted free of the scattered bodies, he knew he was too late.

Argan looked uphill.  “Look out!” he shouted, “enemy cavalry!”

His bodyguard moved forward, shields raised.  Kerrin swallowed.  Swords were in their hands in an instant.  Argan’s toughened steel sword, the best the imperial armouries could make, was in the prince’s grip, a familiar feeling, but now this was real and not a training exercise.

Slavis’ men fitted arrows to their bows and bore down on the static group of armoured cavalry.  They spread left and right, their superior numbers meaning they could flank the knot of guards on both sides.  Arrows loosed and flew at the group from three directions.

Argan winced and ducked his head.  One shaft glanced off his helmet, and his head rattled for a moment, then he looked left and right.  Three men were down and two  equines were screaming in pain as the deadly shafts found their soft bodies, spilling their riders.

Having delivered their volley, the Hushir mercenaries now closed in, swords high.  The bodyguard fought like men possessed, hacking at the enemy riders, putting their bodies in the way in an effort to protect Argan.  Slavis blocked one blow and sank his blade into an exposed armpit, pushing the wounded man out of his saddle.  The way in was clear to him.

Kerrin saw the danger and moved forward, his sword raised.  Slavis’ downward blow deflected off Kerrin’s blade, shaking the boy to his core, and Slavis’ follow up swipe was designed to cut Kerrin’s head off.

Argan had seen the danger and had pushed forward, his own blade cutting down.  Slavis’ second blow was blocked.  Sparks flew.  Argan felt as if his arm had been severed, the shock of the blow numbing his entire arm.  He cried out in pain.

Slavis roared in frustration.  “Damn you children!  Leave the fighting to the adults!”

Kerrin slashed back in panic.  This was so unlike any training session he’d partaken in.  His blade almost caught Slavis out and the rebel leader dodged aside in haste.

“That’s the last thing you do, kid!” he spat.  He slapped Kerrin across the face with his free hand, knocking the boy off his saddle to lie stunned on the ground.

Argan screamed in outrage.  His numb arm was no good but his other arm was fine.  His dagger was against his side and he released his grip on his reins and tore the knife out of its sheath.  He ducked forward and slammed his blade up under Slavis’ helmet into his throat.  The rebel leader gagged and clutched the weapon, dropping his own sword.

At that moment Thetos arrived, sending the first Hushir he encountered off his mount minus his head.  He slammed into the next few, hacking like a madman, screaming to Prince Argan to save himself.  Thetos knew if Argan fell then his own life was forfeit.

Argan had no intention of escaping.  Half of his bodyguard were down, most of them to his front, and four Hushirs were smashing their way through toward him.  Slavis had slid off his equine and was lying on the ground, Argan’s dagger sticking up out of his open throat.  Kerrin staggered to his feet, trying to focus on what was going on.

“’Rin, get behind me!” Argan yelled, his sword arm now not so numb.  He slapped his steed with the flat of his blade.  The beast leaped forward, and Argan raised his shortsword, intending to save his friend.