Prince of Wrath (22 page)

Jorqel bowed slightly to Isbel and waved a trembling Alenna forward. “Mother, it’s wonderful to see you again after so long. We should have weddings more often.” He grimaced at the irony of what he said. It reminded him of Sannia’s situation.

“Who is this, Jorqel?” Isbel asked, standing up.

Jorqel went through the introductions. Alenna curtseyed but had to be helped up by the Prince for her legs refused to obey her. He felt her trembling and squeezed her hand once for reassurance. “Now mother, Alenna is helping us against the treasonous behaviour of Lord Duras, so I do not wish any punishment to be placed on her head. I have given her my word.”

Isbel pursed her lips. “That remains to be seen, Jorqel. It is reckless to bring her here.”

“It is not, mother,” Jorqel countered. “Where could she go? I have a responsibility to her, since it is to me that she turned when she was put in an impossible position. The information she has provided has resulted in her being ostracised by her own House. I command it.”

“You do not command here, Jorqel, remember who I am.”

Jorqel smiled confidently. “Remember who I am, too, mother. I hold more authority in the Empire than you do.”

“I am Empress.”

“And I am heir to the throne, not some captain whom you can intimidate with your position. Father has entrusted me with the entire west and I shall shortly bring the insurrection there to a close. Where is he, by the way?”

Isbel sat down again, eyeing her stepson carefully. Four years away had built him into a very confident and authoritative man, not the same kind of person she remembered. He wouldn’t be pushed around so easily. “On his way, as far as I can tell. He should be here in a few days.”

“He’d better be or he’ll miss the wedding. Talking of that, where’s Amne?”

His reply was answered by the door opening and Amne bursting in. “Jorqel!” she shrieked in joy, flinging her arms wide. He laughed and braced himself for the running jump into his arms. The two siblings embraced and turned a full circle before he let her down. They stood there looking at one another for a moment or two.

“It’s been too long, Amne,” he said. “My, you’ve grown into a beautiful woman. Elas is a fortunate man.”

“And you – you’ve filled out, Jorq,” she said, using her favourite shortened version. “And gone hairy,” she rubbed his cheek. “Suits you, though, makes you look more – manly.”

“Well now we’ve exchanged compliments,” Isbel said acidly, “we need to talk.”

“That we do,” Jorqel agreed. “In the meantime Alenna here needs a place to stay and someone to look after her.”

“That’ll be arranged,” Isbel said. “I’ll detail Vosgaris to take care of the arrangements.”

“He’s outside, hovering like a cloud,” Amne nodded towards the door.

Isbel called out his name and within a couple of heartbeats he had appeared. He came to the desk and saluted. “Ma’am?”

“Alenna here, she’s your responsibility from now on. She needs guarding and a room. Make sure of it, will you?”

Vosgaris snapped his heels together. Isbel’s tone had been peremptory and sharp. He looked hard and long at the frightened woman. “For how long, ma’am?”

“As long as I decide, Captain. You are aware of her family name? Then I do not need to tell you, do I, Captain, that she will need extra security around her, particularly as there almost seems to be state of civil war at present with two separate Duras armies in rebellion in our lands. Since the Prince here has given his word that no harm will befall her, the security of her person is your responsibility.”

Vosgaris bowed curtly. Another hand to be held. Something he could do without, particularly with the forthcoming wedding taking up so much of his time. “Please follow me, ma’am,” he said in as neutral a tone he could muster.

Alenna looked reluctant to go, then suddenly turned and followed the palace guard captain out into the passageway. Isbel breathed out hard and looked Jorqel in the eye. “You have some nerve, Jorqel. Are there any more surprises you have in store for me?”

Jorqel briefly went over the current situation in Bathenia and Lodria, which shocked the two women. Pepil assiduously wrote everything down. At the end of it Jorqel dragged a chair over and sat in it. Amne did likewise. “Now I’ve given my appraisal of the political situation over in the West, I’d like to hear more of what is going on here. What about the two boys, Argan and Istan? How are they getting on? I’ve not seen them in a long time and I’m not sure I’d recognise either.”

Isbel and Amne gave him brief details, and then Pepil was dismissed as Isbel didn’t want any real personal issues to be recorded or heard by the man. He was sent to oversee the decorating progress in the banquet hall for the wedding.

Jorqel stretched his arms and unfastened his tunic. He wanted to change out of his travel clothes and have a bath. His clothes were still in Slenna and his equine in Aconia, but he was confident his instructions sent to Slenna would be obeyed and a package would be brought to Kastan within a few days. Travel by water was so much faster than by land. “All we need now is for father to arrive and we’ll all be back together again for the first time in ages. It’s been too long. Running the Empire has broken us up.”

Amne nodded. “I know what you mean, Jorq. I can’t recall a day when I’ve been able to relax and lie there without a care in the world. So much to do and so on! I think I’m going mad at times.”

“You ought to sit in my seat, Amne,” Isbel said sharply. “Then you’d be busy! I’ll be glad when Amne’s married and Elas takes up the governorship of Frasia. He’ll halve my workload.”

“What’s he like?” Jorqel asked, curious.

Amne looked at Isbel who frowned in warning. “Oh, very dedicated to doing things correctly,” Amne said airily. “Doesn’t laugh much.”

“There isn’t much to laugh about at the moment, sis,” Jorqel said. “I hope to the gods my Sannia is unhurt and that she’ll be free soon. The longer she’s in the hands of those creatures the greater the danger becomes. Your man Demtro, by the way, mother, seems to have slipped a couple of spies into Lombert Soul’s camp.”

Isbel looked pleasantly surprised. “He’s a good man, Demtro.”

“Full of himself,” Jorqel countered. “Too damned cocky by half. I’d’ve slapped him down if he hadn’t been your agent.”

“Go careful with him, Jorqel, we don’t have too many good people working for us. There aren’t many to trust fully.”

Jorqel pulled a face. “That’s the trouble with palaces and governor’s residences; always full of intrigue and backstabbing. I hate that.”

“You’ll have to get used to it come the day you become Emperor,” Isbel pointed a warning finger at him, the finger extended by a long manicured nail. “You ask your father. Or maybe it’s best not to,” she frowned. “He never seems to spend any time administering the Empire; he’s always looking for a fight.”

“That’s my old man,” Jorqel grinned and looked at Amne, smiling. She chuckled briefly.

“Less of the disrespectful titles, Jorqel. He’s Emperor, remember that,” the Empress chided him.

Jorqel tutted at Isbel. “I know who he is and what he is, and I’ll address him appropriately. Don’t tell me what to do, or I’ll start insisting you address me properly. See how you like it.”

The Empress pursed her lips in annoyance. “Is it a family trait to be so damned defiant? You’re as bad as Amne here!”

“I doubt I’m as bad as Amne,” Jorqel said lightly, “she’s always been the naughtier one of us.”

Amne gasped and punched him in the arm. “You’re a fine one to talk, Jorqel Koros! Remember how you fed the poor equines those bad fruits that time? They were poo-ing for days!”

Jorqel waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t you start or I’ll tell mother about all your misdemeanours! You may look innocent but by the gods you’re anything but, you wicked girl.”

Amne poked her tongue out at Jorqel. “Tell-tale. Mother’s pet!”

Jorqel grinned briefly, then his face became serious. “If I were not so worried about Sannia I’d respond to that, sis, but my mind is full of concern for her welfare. To think she’s in the hands of those…..” he clenched and unclenched his hands helplessly.

“It’ll be fine,” Isbel said. “Demtro’s people will make sure no harm comes to her.”

Jorqel clenched his teeth together. “If she is harmed in any way, I’ll wipe the Duras off the face of the land, so I swear by the gods.”

The word had reached Nikos Duras in Kalkos. A messenger arrived via the sea, brought to Kalkos by a merchant vessel owned by the family. The order was from Lord Duras and ordered Nikos to mobilise his army and send them towards Turslenka within a sevenday.

Nikos read the message and wordlessly passed it to his aide-de-camp. He looked out across the rooftops of the port and out to sea. His position was secure there in Kalkos; he was supplied by sea and used the port as a focal point for shelter, provisions and recruitment. To march out into the countryside was risky. He had no idea as to imperial armed forces dispositions, or if in fact there were any. There was a map resting on the table in his day room and he turned to it, looking at the region in detail.

To the west was Frasia. This area was not to be approached for two reasons; firstly to march into Frasia would run the severe risk of provoking the Kastan City garrison to come out and take him on in battle, and he was not certain that he could do that as yet. He could also not besiege the city with what forces he had either, as the city walls were too big and Kastan could be easily supplied by sea. A siege would last years and years and he just couldn’t keep an army in the field that long. Additionally, the Fokis traditionally ran Frasia, and they had made it clear that in the event of the Koros being toppled, for their support, Frasia was to be theirs. No Duras force was to enter Frasia without their express permission.

Nikos looked south. The land ran inland, climbing gradually to the hills and mountains that bordered Bragal. He had no idea whether a Koros army would march down from there and threaten his rear should he march on Turslenka. He had around six hundred men, but not all were fully trained or familiar with combat; they were disgruntled peasants and farm folk fed up with not getting heard by the ruling House, and who had listened to the Duras propaganda and had decided to fall in with the only armed band of people in western Makenia.

So to the east. The rest of Makenia was dominated by Turslenka and the garrison there. Since Thetos Olskan’s victory a little while back over a scratch force outside the city, Nikos had been reluctant to move in that direction, but now the Lord of the House had commanded him to move. It was to distract the Koros from events in the West, and Nikos wasn’t stupid; his was a sacrificial move. There could be no assistance from his House should things go wrong, so he had to make sure things were right.

His agents from within Turslenka told him the garrison was smaller than his force and included two companies of militiamen, comparable to his trained farmers. He was confident of beating them. But he worried about the two companies of imperial spearmen and the bodyguard of Thetos. They were much tougher and in a battle they would have to be overcome if he were to prevail.

He had a definite advantage of having missile troops, plenty of them, in fact, and planned to use them. It all depended on whether he could entice Thetos out into the countryside and then bring him to a place of Nikos’ own choosing to slaughter the Koros army and then Turslenka would be his. The route to Turkslenka was straight forward, along the single military road that ran from Kastan City all the way to distant Epros. It wound its way in and out of hilly valleys and was often prone to attacks by banditry these days, so he would have to make sure the road was secure for him to use.

All through the winter he’d built up food supplies and equipment for his army for the campaign, and now would be the test to see if it was enough. His stomach churned; going to war with an enemy who would give and receive no quarter was always nerve-wracking, but to the winner the rewards were enormous.

“Get the men ready to march,” he said at last, staring down at the map.

His army commander straightened to attention. “Sire, the men need a day to gather and equip. What is our destination?”

“Turslenka,” Nikos said, jabbing down on the map. “Send out the riders to make sure the road is clear. Burn any farmsteads you come across and put the villages to the sword, but make sure enough escape to spread the word we’re on the move.”

“Yes sir!” the commander snapped his heels together and left.

But what Nikos didn’t know was that the Emperor was only four days’ march away and getting closer all the time.

Astiras and his army reached Turslenka that very evening. The Bakran archers threw themselves down along the roadside that led into the city and lay there as if dead. The forced march down the wide Storma Valley had exhausted them, even the ones fresh from the villages. The cavalry were much less affected, but even so they were looking forward to a night of rest in much more comfortable surroundings than they’d endured the preceding few.

The cool sea breeze blew into their faces and the smell of the sea filled their nostrils. Turslenka was sited on the Storma River mouth where it emptied into the Aester Sea, and the deep indigo of the water stretched to the horizon as the night fell. Astiras tugged off his gauntlets and stretched his arms. It had been a hard march down to the city, but they had made it on time. Two nights rest here and then they’d advance on the rebels.

“Teduskis, get the mercenaries to set up camp here.”

“Sire. None are to enter the city?”

“No. I don’t want those half-civilised brutes messing up one of my cities. Don’t worry about them going without; the merchants and whores will do a roaring trade.”

Teduskis chuckled, saluted, and moved off. Astiras checked the two standard bearers with him had both the imperial and the Koros standards high and clear before waving his unit forward. Sixty two men, heavily armoured, riding big strong steeds, advanced towards the Storma Gate. Fluttering above the squat gatehouse were the flags of Kastania and those of Makenia, a simple blue and green design, the bottom half blue, the top half green, and inset in the middle a spoked wheel. The origin of this had been lost to memory but some said it was symbolic rather than literal, referring to the unity of the province which before being conquered by the then young Somorran Empire had been made up of various tribes.

Others averred it was a symbol of the mining that went on in the province. Whatever the reason, it was readily identifiable. Astiras took the lead and proudly led his men up to the wooden gates which swung inwards, allowing him ingress, the guards snapping smartly to attention. Inside the main road was thronged with the populace, all eager to catch a glimpse of their Emperor. Astiras took the cheers and waved a couple of times, his face deliberately stern. One had to maintain the image of a serious, strong man who protected each and every one of the people.

Teduskis caught up as they swung round the gradual bend to the city plaza, a large square set before the governor’s residence. There, in the middle stood on the stone dais, was Thetos Olskan along with his lieutenants, all military officers of the militia or regulars. Thetos had a medium sized hook on but had covered it with a leather sleeve. He was not going to war or wishing to impress anyone. His Emperor knew him and he knew Astiras.

Astiras dismounted stiffly. His thighs, legs and arse hurt. He mouthed an obscenity as he stood upright as the pain shot up through his body. Gods, he was far too old for this riding business. Damn ageing, why couldn’t one stop growing old at thirty? He tried to relax his muscles and walked out from behind his equine, walking towards Thetos.

“Governor Olskan,” he said in a loud voice, coming to a halt ten paces from the gruff, rugged former general. “It is good to see you once more. We are pleased with what you have done here both for the people and ourselves. Long may it continue.”

“The gods bless you, Astiras, Emperor of Kastania,” Thetos knelt, accompanied by his officers, advisors and the populace.

Astiras counted under his breath up to five, then raised his arms. “You may all stand. Well met, Turslenka!”

The people applauded, pleased they had been visited by their leader. It wasn’t often that an Emperor was seen outside Kastan City these days, and many who had ascended to the throne had died before they’d been in power for less than three years. Astiras stepped up to the dais and Thetos stepped alongside, introducing the various officers. Astiras acknowledged each and then turned to his governor. “My army is camped outside, some rather uncivilised elements. I trust your merchants and ah, other trades people, are ready to go service them?”

“Indeed. The trade will be welcome,” Thetos nodded. “Please, come to my quarters. You and your officers will be billeted there. Your guard can use the barracks down the road.”

“Good, good,” Astiras nodded to Teduskis who indicated to the men to follow one of Thetos’ captains to their barracks. Astiras had four of his men accompany Teduskis and himself into the governor’s residence.

With the four guards taking up their posts outside the main rooms, Astiras and Teduskis were shown into the inner sanctum. There, Metila stood waiting for them, dressed in a long flowing black dress, the lower part split at the sides, showing her long legs. It was gathered in at the waist, tied by a simple rope belt which had grey stones for tassels. The top went above her breasts before parting, not showing too much, and was sleeved all the way to her wrists. Behind her neck it went up in a high collar from ear around to the other ear.

Her hair was piled high and curled, held in place by a bone hairband and silver earrings with skull designs at the end dangled down from her lobes. A necklace of silver orbs hung over her dusky skin. Her face had been darkened by eyeliner and shading, a material dug out of the nearby hills that darkened the skin when rubbed in. It wasn’t gritty provided one blended it with melted animal fat and scented to hide the smell of the fat.

“Who is this?” Astiras exclaimed, taken aback.

“Oh, yes, excuse me. This is Metila, my – housemaid and secretary. She’s Bragalese.”

“So I can tell,” Astiras said, looking her up and down very carefully. “Very beautiful, in fact. Where did you find her?”

“After I was wounded, sire, she helped me recover. Took away the infection I got from the poisoned blade. She’s something of a healer.”

“Indeed? Knows her herbs and potions, does she?”

Thetos held his breath. Astiras had never been happy about the legend of Bragalese witches and was expressed his desires to burn them on more than one occasion. “Maybe, sire. She’s very useful and I rely on her to keep this place in check. She’s a pretty good organiser too – runs the men around ragged!”

Astiras grinned. He formally addressed Metila. “Pleased to meet you, Metila. You look stunning.”

Metila lowered her eyes. She had enhanced her lashes with hairs she had left over after cutting her own hair that afternoon. She fluttered them. “To meet Landwaster is an honour,” and she knelt at first, then prostrated herself before him. “I am yours to use how you wish.” Her voice was slow and husky and Astiras was excited by her.

“A typical Bragalese act of accepting a superior,” Thetos said, “as you well know, sire.”

“And I know what that generally leads to,” he looked long and hard at the governor.

Thetos bowed. “If you excuse me, I have other issues to attend to. These quarters are yours for the night.” He bowed and left, his heart pounding. He had no idea what Astiras would do; he hoped he would accept the gift of Metila, or else the woman was in deep trouble. With Astiras one never knew how his mood would swing.

Teduskis looked about, then saluted. “I’ll be in the room next door sire.”

Astiras waved him out, then examined Metila once more. “Are you a witch, Metila?”

Metila slowly got to her feet and hung her head. “Landwaster not like healers?”

“I didn’t say that, I asked you whether you were a witch or not? It will be bad for you if you lie to me.”

Metila was silent for a moment, then she slowly slid the knife she always carried out from its sheath strapped to the inside of her left thigh. She showed Astiras a lot of her leg as she did so. Astiras reached for the hilt of his own sword and began drawing it as Metila raised her knife, then paused as the woman reversed her grip and presented the hilt to him. “Take it, Landwaster. My life is yours. Cut my throat if it pleases!”

Astiras let his sword drop back into the scabbard and considered the hilt of the knife, held out to him. Metila looked down, not daring to look the Emperor in the eye. Slowly, he took it and held the weapon. It was beautifully balanced, the hilt narrow and covered in a soft material, which Astiras thought could be the skin of some creature. The blade was also slim, but hard and sharp, and narrowed evenly to a keen point, the total length the same as from his finger tip to his wrist. Small but deadly, perhaps like its owner. He moved the knife forward and pressed the blade against Metila’s throat, and the woman arched her neck, presenting it to him.

“Take my life if you wish,” she said, closing her eyes.

Astiras rested the blade against her throat, and slowly rotated it, fascinated how her skin flexed with the pressure. He could see her pulse, throbbing away, and his gaze moved up to her earrings. Morbid yet beautiful in their own way, it must be Bragalese in origin; no Kastanian jeweller would have made such objects. Her hair lay in curls behind her ears and he could smell the oils she had put in them, and her skin was lightly oiled, too. The scent of her was quite strong.

Her mouth was parted and her eyes shut and he pulled her against him. There was no resistance, and the knife dropped from a hand that no longer wished to use it. His head span and desire filled it. Desire to couple with this woman.