Prince of Wrath (16 page)

Epros was another possibility, but too close to Venn’s eyes for the moment.

He drew in a deep breath and allowed the thoughts to drift around in his head.

Teduskis checked the list he had been given by the quartermaster. The supplies were barely sufficient but they would do. Enough equines had been gathered to support the small force that would make the journey to Turslenka. A messenger had already been ordered to ride out in the morning.

It was a ten day march down the road to the Makenian provincial capital, provided no adverse weather hindered them, they did not meet anyone who wanted to stop them and nothing else unexpected reared its head. The road was dry by now rather than being the sodden mess of mud that it would have been after the ice and snow melted. That would change of course should it begin to rain, but the rainy season was not due yet for a little while. The pass through the Bakran Mountains was not a difficult one, and once they crested the top of that, which wasn’t that high or steep, they would then be in the Storma Valley, a long, gentle, wide defile that sloped gradually down into Makenia. Grazing would be good there and water plentiful, thanks to the Storma River. It was a fertile area and marching downhill for league after league would help speed them on their way. Teduskis merely planned to have enough supplies to last them until they got to the valley, then they would requisition more from the farmers there.

The other message he was sending out was to the Mazag Vogna of the Hushir riders they had bumped into in the next valley a few days ago. Astiras hadn’t mentioned they were there because he didn’t want to alarm Sepan or the others he was leaving behind in Zofela. To be honest, it had been a bit of a shock when they had encountered them on the valley floor near the ruins of the Koros estate, and it had nearly started a fight, but then they had recognised whom each other was and the Hushirs were suitably impressed at meeting the emperor.

Astiras had paid them a small amount of money which had ensured they would not raid anyone, at least for a while, and they had been permitted to house themselves in the ruins. There hadn’t been anything left there to take, anyway. Astiras had advised the Vogna, a disreputable individual with immense shoulders called Remik, to expect a summons from him in the near future. Astiras, jealous of the fact Mazag and the Tybar had such units under their control, wanted to use them, and the idea of taking on the Duras now had blossomed once he considered the addition of the Hushirs.

Mazag had no idea they were this far east or north. Teduskis guessed the Mazag were happy to patrol the borderlands and not risk annoying the Kastanians by sending troops into the interior of Bragal. Why should they? Clearly Remik and his men had ignored orders – nothing new for Hushirs – and had ridden for days and days, living off the land.

Now they were to be summoned and would arrive at daybreak if they got the message in time. They would be the advance units Astiras badly needed, and skirmishers to boot. Going through the Bakran Mountains would be an interesting test, since the locals were usually hostile to anyone they didn’t recognise. Maybe another messenger should be sent. Teduskis pondered on this, then decided not to. Where would the man go? To whom? There was no recognised single leader there, since they were to all intents and purposes brigands. Having a company of Bakran archers with them ought to be sufficient to stay the Bakran mountain men’s arrows.

The torches and lamps were lit in the castle as darkness fell and Teduskis wandered the passageways. Zofela Castle wasn’t all that impressive; it was a wooden castle, rectangular in shape, consisting of three floors and a cellar. The way in was on the first floor via a staircase, guarded, and the first room any visitor entered was the Grand Hall, a large open space that took up most of the floor. The feasting table was there, and at the rear were guest rooms. Below that were the storerooms, and below them again the dungeons.

Up above the hall were the day rooms and offices, and a guardroom, and at the top the bed chambers. The garrison were housed in a number of halls and temporary barracks, as the old one had been dismantled for firewood during the siege. Astiras’ first order for the rebuilding of Zofela had been to put up a new mustering hall on the site of the old barracks. He was damned if the soldiers were going to sleep anywhere in the town.

The ramparts were accessible from the Grand Hall level, via two doors set in the walls on opposite sides of the chamber. A small ante-chamber was sited at each of those points, usually manned, just so that entry and exit from the castle was properly guarded. The ramparts were patrolled in pairs, each pair having a section between each small tower to guard, and each pair was rotated every watch. There would be no possibility of anyone sneaking up on the garrison and doing anything unsociable to them. Astiras had passed his orders down to Teduskis and there was no possibility of them being misinterpreted. Many of them had been impressed on the retainer with a copious amount of swearing and finger pointing. Zofela was imperial again and never to be lost to anyone under any circumstances.

Teduskis knew Astiras and the way his mind worked very well. He’d been fighting for him for over twenty years and thought he knew most of the time just how the emperor was going to react. This meant that often the orders were anticipated even before Astiras had thought them up. It all helped to make things run very smoothly indeed.

Astiras had informed Teduskis that he envisioned Zofela as being a frontier fortress, a tough nut against which anyone trying to invade the Empire from the south would founder against its defences. Of course, at the moment it wasn’t that impressive looking; it was still made of wood and had just endured years of siege, so it wasn’t particularly at its best. But one day the walls would be of stone, the towers higher, the walls bigger, the garrison larger. If Mazag ever decided to try their luck then they would have to take Zofela first before plunging down into the softer heart of Frasia. At least that was how Astiras had explained it the previous few days.

Building it wouldn’t present much of a financial problem, at least in the short term anyway, if they were to keep the slave labour on that they currently had. The Emperor wasn’t in a charitable mood as far as those who had rebelled against Kastanian rule were concerned. Once they had made that step they were eternally damned, and would end their days serving the Empire that they had tried to harm. Astiras was like that; once you crossed him there was seldom a way of uncrossing him. He destroyed you, unless you somehow managed to destroy him first. Nobody had yet done that.

Teduskis yawned. It had been another tiring day. Either that or he was, like Astiras, getting too old to go charging round the countryside anymore. He rubbed the grit out of the corners of his eyes and squinted at the writing on yet another letter that had been received that day. Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations. Yeah, yeah, yeah. No doubt from the hand of one of those who had spoken out against the brutality of the war. The Bragalese had had some very good allies within Kastania during the war, most of them being soft-headed idealists who saw the world in a happy, shining light.

None of the ordinary people did; they had a tough life and it was a struggle finding money to pay for food on a good day, or to grow the food for their families. They didn’t have time to worry about the lot of foreigners or people locked in a war in a foreign land. Besides, their lives were hard and it was too bad if someone else had a war, too. So what? Moan about their own lives, yes, but damn anyone else’s.

No, those cries of opposition would have come from those who had the luxury of time on their hands to think about it and who didn’t have hardships themselves. Oh, to be sure, they complained about how hard their lives were, yes, but in reality they were trivial matters. The ordinary people would have laughed at as being problems they would readily swap for those of their own. The more someone complained about how hard their lives were, usually it indicated the opposite.

These same people – Teduskis labelled them in his mind the anti-war brigade – sucked up to whoever was in control of Kastania, looking for favours and donations in return for their verbal support. What value their verbal support? They undoubtedly were members of rich families or those aspiring to be, such as merchants or the like. They only had political sway if those in control permitted it, and Astiras certainly had no time for these weathervanes, turning their support to whoever was the flavour of the day, and then abandoning them at a moment’s notice.

Teduskis snorted with cynical amusement. The sender of this letter was asking for consideration for a sum of money to repair his estate’s roofs which had fallen into disrepair. In return he offered his support for the Koros at the next Makenian Council of Houses meeting. So what? What power did they have, or influence? What if they decided at their precious meeting to support the Duras in the insurrection? Thetos Olskan would have them strung up along the road to Frasia as an example. Did these petty nobles really believe their opinion had any value whatsoever? It may have done under the previous regime, for the old former emperor was one of them, that is one who thought along similar lines as them, and was as a result very much influenced by the smallest of protest from the poxiest committee from some dirt-hole out in the sticks.

Not Astiras Koros. A soldier, not a lawyer, or merchant, or feckless money-grabbing nonentity. He acted decisively, and with violence. He wasn’t afraid to crush toes or to inflict physical pain on those who opposed him, and so far he’d cowed the vast majority of those who had even dared to think they could browbeat him with their disapproval. The Emperor didn’t give a damn about their feelings; as far as he was concerned, and Teduskis agreed with him, they could take a long walk off a short pier. The Empire would only rise if tough people were in control and had the support of tough people, not the luxury-loving lazy money-obsessed fools who had profited under the recent rulers. They had little idea of the lives of anyone outside their small, narrow-minded circle of colleagues, nor did they care. All they cared about was their own further enrichment, whether it was achieved with material gain or by position it mattered not, as long as their personal prestige was enhanced so they could strut in society like the showy exotic fan-avians Teduskis had seen once, long ago, in the grounds of one particular rich family.

Damn them all to the Pit of Fire. Astiras would carry on working to halt the decline and then, once that was done, begin the harder part.

To restore the lands they had lost.

Lalaas took great care to open the door to Vosgaris’ room quietly. The new day had dawned but the palace was only just waking up. The imperial family would be getting ready for breakfast, their maidservants and manservants dressing them. The night shift had just gone off duty and the day shift had taken up their posts, and Lalaas had gone along to the guard captain’s room before anyone had really got settled in.

The room was dark. No candles or lamps flickered, and the shutters were closed. Faint cracks of light filtered in around the edges here and there, but it was very dark in the room and Lalaas stood by the door, having closed it softly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. He knew where the bed was, but the floor was still too dark to see if anything – or anyone – was lying on it. He had no wish to trip over one of the occupants. Slowly the shapes took form. The bed had a number of people on it, all sleeping. Arms and legs were entangled, and some out-flung with careless abandon. The blankets were untidily strewn over part of the sleepers, and partly draped down onto the floor. A bare arm lay out near the foot of the bed, next to a half exposed back, but of a different person.

Further up two shapely smooth legs lay bent and uncovered, up to the thigh, before the blanket concealed what lay further up. A head rested in the upper centre, peeking out of a particularly untidy region of blanket and body, hair lying in a very tangled manner, covering the face. At the top, resting on the pillows, was Vosgaris, fast asleep. Flopped across his chest was another arm, and Lalaas’ eyes traced the arm back to a female form half exposed, sleeping next to him. On the other side of the captain, a pair of smooth buttocks peeked out at him on the very edge of the bed.

Lalaas slowly surveyed the rest of the room. He identified the three cloaks with hoods, and picked them up, draping them on the single chair that stood off to one side of the room. The hunter sighed and leaned forward. He could not allow these women to remain here, lest one of the less humorous people happened upon them. A scandal like this would not go down well. He stroked the bare bottom and squeezed it gently.

A murmur came from underneath the blanket. Lalaas gently peeled the covering away and found a dark haired mass. An ear met his gaze. He leaned forward and whispered. “Time to wake up.”

He had to repeat it twice more before a moan of protest came forth. Lalaas put his finger to the woman’s lips as her head turned, and her eyes opened in surprise. Lalaas grinned and mimicked silence. The woman nodded sleepily and slowly slid out from the blanket and onto the floor, utterly naked. Lalaas handed her one of the cloaks and she got up, with his help, yawning. As she began to dress, the hunter took hold of the tangled mass of hair on the bed and blew into the woman’s ear that was now exposed.

As the woman began to moan, Lalaas covered her mouth with his hand. She opened her eyes in alarm, but Lalaas stroked her cheek and grinned at her, and she got up on all fours and crawled off the bed. Her companion, now dressed, handed her the second cloak.

The last girl, the fair-haired one, was woken by Lalaas peeling the bed covers off her body and running his hand up and down her side, buttocks and legs. She looked at him in surprise, then smiled coquettishly and smoothly climbed over the comatose Vosgaris and used Lalaas as a support to gain her balance, somewhat unnecessarily, getting a good feel of him before she accepted the cloak offered her.

Lalaas grunted and pretended nothing had happened. He surveyed the unconscious Vosgaris. “Good work, girls,” he said in a whisper, and beckoned them out of the room. Once outside, he passed them each a small cloth bag of coins. “As promised, your reward. He looks like he’s been in the mother of all battles.”

“Oh, it was a real pleasure,” the fair-haired one giggled. She was the bright and wide-awake one. The other two were still half asleep. “He had the strength at first to rise to the occasion, but we drained every bit of energy from him in the end.”

“I bet you did. He’ll be dead to the world for half the day, I would wager.”

“For an extra few coins, I’ll do the same to you, darling,” she eyed him up and down very obviously, running her tongue over her teeth.

Lalaas chuckled. “You’ve got to be gone from here right now. My job wouldn’t be worth a bent coin if you get caught here. Come on.”

The fair-haired whore pouted, then followed him, looking at the way he walked and looked, and wondered if offering herself to him for nothing would change his mind. She wouldn’t mind one bit. She’d made enough money that night for a normal sevenday’s work. The other two held onto one another and stumbled in their wake, tired but happy.

The trade entrance was guarded by two new soldiers, but they had been prepped by their comrades and opened the door fast as they approached. Lalaas gestured for them to go quickly. The two sleepy ones did, but the fair-haired one lingered in the doorway. “If you change your mind, I’ll do it with you for free. You’re delicious.” She swiftly kissed him on the lips and ran off, giggling.

Lalaas shut the door and sucked on his lips thoughtfully, then caught the expressions of the two guards. “Not one word, yes?”

“You got it,” the first guard nodded, laughing. “But you’re on a promise there!”

“Hmmm…. I can do without that. You never heard a thing.” He returned to Vosgaris’ room and shut the door. He located one of the lamps and lit it, bringing a soft glow to the room. He sniffed. The room stank of sex. That would have to be eliminated. He went to one of the windows and unlatched a shutter, opening it a fraction, then flicked open the catch on the window and opened it a tiny bit. The fresh air would seep in and slowly disperse the smell. He closed the shutter and rearranged the blanket, covering up his friend. Vosgaris mumbled in his sleep and turned over. Lalaas smiled and left, wondering when the man would surface. Ah well, duties called. He’d done his bit, and hoped it was for the best.

It was breakfast time, and Argan couldn’t wait to get to the table. The smell of eggs cooking reached him as he hobbled down the stairs as fast as he could. His leg was very stiff and bruised, thanks to Fantor-Face, but it wasn’t hurting as much as it had been yesterday. He still had to use a stick to get around, but it was getting easier and maybe very soon he would not have to use the stick. When that happened, he was sure that he will be allowed to start riding lessons. Kerrin’s father Panat had told him once he was strong enough he would start to ride. Panat himself would not be able to ride due to his old injury, so another tutor will be found to teach him to ride. What was really great was that his friend Kerrin would also learn to ride at the same time, and Argan was very excited by this.

Voices came to him from the dining room and he could make out Amne’s voice as well as his mother’s, and they appeared to be arguing over something. The seemed to be always arguing and Argan wondered why this was so. They had argued over Amne’s wedding plans, over Kerrin and his father Panat, over Fantor-Face’s behaviour, had even over the way Amne dressed. It seemed to Argan that they would argue over whenever there was something to argue about. It was all very boring, and very silly too. If it was Amne’s wedding then surely it was up to Amne as to what happened, or what she wore. But since Fantor-Face was his mother’s son, then his mother should say what happened about him and not Amne.

Argan thought that both the women were quite nosey at times, sticking their noses in other people’s business when it was none of theirs. He wondered if they carried on being so nosey, would their noses grow long? They would look silly with big long flappy noses, but that would teach them to be so nosey. Perhaps it would teach them a lesson. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he shook his head. No, it wouldn’t be right for them to have long floppy noses, it will be horrible. Imagine if they had colds! All those nose runnings everywhere! Yuck! And when they sneezed it would be such a big one that it would cause a big strong wind to rush down the corridors. They would have to have cloths the size of bed blankets. No, it was best they both stayed as they were.

He smiled at the thought and was still smiling when he entered the room. Lots of people were standing around or walking about, as was usual. Guards stood still, silently watching everyone, again as usual. Fantor-Face was sat not in usual seat, however, but in Argan’s! Argan stood still in surprise, and then annoyance. How dare the horrible boy sit in his seat! He gripped his stick hard and limped over to Istan who had his back to him and so couldn’t see him approaching.

“Ah, there you are, Argan,” his mother said suddenly.

Argan ignored her and stepped up to Istan, intent on pulling him off his seat, but his mother intervened, taking him by the upper arm.

“No, Argan, you’re sitting over where Istan used to sit. I’ve swapped you round.”

“Why, mother?” Argan asked, still outraged. Istan had turned round and pulled a horrible face at Argan, a mixture of triumph and malice.

“I’ve decided to, so that’s all there is to it,” she said curtly, and guided the reluctant Argan away from his brother and up to Amne who was already seated and smiled at the upset boy, patting his new place. It was further away from his mother, which in one way he objected to, but in another he didn’t mind.

“Come on, grump,” Amne said with a good natured smile, “it’s not so bad sitting next to me, is it?”

“I was sat next to you anyway,” Argan said, not in the least mollified. He was now round the corner of the table, in what he saw as a less honoured position. Was his mother cross with him? Why?

“Oh, cheer up,” Amne said, helping him up into his seat. “We’ve got those big avian eggs you like and fruits to follow.”

“Don’t know if I want them, now,” Argan sulked. He was aware of Istan’s triumphant gaze and that was as off-putting as anything.

“Well if you won’t eat yours I’m sure Istan will have them.”

Argan looked at Amne aghast. Istan was always having everything of his, from his seat to his food. It was so unfair! And yesterday Fantor-Face kicked him and made him feel so unwell. Now he was being rewarded with his seat. Why were grow-ups like this, so unfair? It seemed the more horrible you were the more the grown-ups made a fuss over you and did more to help you. It only made the horrible people more horrible as they saw the rewards of being like that.

Amne leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “You wouldn’t want Fantor-Face taking your breakfast, would you?”

Argan cheered up and grinned. He looked at Amne and shook his head. He leaned close to her and she bent her head to listen. “If I was old enough I’d marry you, you’re the bestest ever.”

Amne looked surprised, and her eyes crinkled in amusement. She put her hand to her mouth for a moment. “Oh no,” she said in a low voice, “you could never marry me, we’re related. It’s not allowed! Best not say that out loud, it’d upset people.” She winked at him, though, and that made Argan feel better.

Isbel cleared her throat and looked at the two. Such unbecoming behaviour at the table. Amne should know better. Amne looked at her and assumed a wounded expression. “Mother, I’m telling Argan why you’ve swapped their places. Argan is clearly upset.” She turned away from Isbel, ending the conversation, a deliberate insult. Isbel’s lips tightened.

Amne leaned close to Argan again. “Mother feels that Fantor-Face would be better behaved sat next to her. That’s why. Anyway, we can have more fun together, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Argan agreed. He did feel much better now, come to think of it, and mother and Fantor-Face could sit next to each other and be grumps or horrible or whatever. Amne and himself would have fun. She was the best sister anyone could have, and he didn’t know why mother didn’t get on with her. Everyone seemed to like Amne, except maybe Elas, which was very strange, since he was going to marry her. Argan thought people got married if they loved each other, or so he’d been told. Elas was a very funny man. Not funny as in fun, funny. No, funny as in strange. He never seemed to smile and was always very serious and was always cross with people, even more than mother. Why Amne was going to marry such a grump her didn’t know. Maybe he should ask Amne.

Istan tried to grimace again at Argan but it no longer was putting him off and Argan made a show of enjoying his egg when it arrived, which made Istan scowl. Argan put on a tremendous expression of utter bliss at eating his egg, very slowly showing Istan that it was the best thing ever, and his younger brother went red with fury. Istan was so upset at Argan’s enjoyment – even though it was all faked, but he wasn’t old enough to understand that – that he smashed his spoon down onto his own egg so hard that it burst asunder and splashed the table, himself and his mother with yolk. All yellow and dripping.

Argan almost choked in hysterical laughter. Amne had to pat his back, desperately trying not to join in, but her eyes betrayed her amusement. Isbel was furious, and spent a few moments trying to clear up the unclearable, until two servants waded in, mopping up the worst of the mess. Istan raged, his fists clenched, and it was all too much for him. He burst out crying and pounded his fists on the tabletop, oblivious to his mother’s efforts to stop him. “Istan! Stop it, now!”

“Horrible Argan! He did this! I hate you!” he bawled across to his brother.

Argan continued chewing, pulling an exaggerated face of pleasure.

“Argan, stop that right now, do you hear me?” Isbel was almost hysterical herself. The rest of the diners were all watching with amazement at the tableau.