by Tony Roberts
Lalaas got Amne to drawl her words, almost mixing them into one. Amne stumbled over these, but slowly got the hang of them. Lalaas insisted they no longer spoke the clipped accent of Kastan, but spoke instead the Turslenka common vernacular. Amne had difficulty in understanding some of the words, but after a while got her ear in. Lalaas deliberately didn’t use long words, as landspeople wouldn’t use them as a matter of course. He kept it simple.
“Wha’ sorta slave collar shoul’ thee ‘ave?” Amne asked.
“I’ll get ‘un when we ge’ ta Bukrat,” Lalaas replied, proud that she should pick up the slangish way of speaking so fast. “You got’a look down, like, when any man comes by. No lookin’ a’ their eyes, yeah?”
“Ri’” Amne replied. “Sorta like this?” and she looked down, at Lalaas’ feet.
“Grea’!” Lalaas nodded. “Now, we’ll be a’ Bukrat in abo’ two days. Enuf time ta teach ya t’ get by.”
They laughed and carried on, alone and unnoticed in an alien land.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The air was charged with excitement, anticipation and fear. The avians and animals had gone silent, as if they, too, knew something was about to happen. The flags fluttered from the silent lines of men, all still, waiting for the moment.
Jorqel sat upon his equine, watching the gates of Slenna. He hunched forward in his saddle, tense and expectant. Now was the time he could show all he was a proper prince of the empire. Here, at last, was the opportunity he had waited for all winter and spring. The garrison of Slenna was sallying out. That morning they had made a last desperate appeal for the siege to be lifted, but Jorqel had stayed firm in his terms. Surrender. Alfan Fokis had rejected it out of hand and then warned Jorqel that the time for talk was over, and now he would have to show his prowess on the battlefield.
By his side waited Gavan, still, poised, confident. These men were the best that the empire had. Perhaps a force to be laughed at by emperors and imperial generals of times gone by, but here they were with what they could afford. Two companies of imperial spearmen, standing in the centre, spears ready, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, releasing tension that was building up. To the flanks stood the feared imperial archers, all armed with their Taboz composite bows, deadly weapons of death. They were lightly armed so that they could use both their bows without hindrance, which meant they could flee from danger as fast as their legs could carry them.
At the rear waited the bodyguard heavy cavalry, lances raised. This was the shock weapon, the one to be used to swing the battle their way. Six hundred men stood or sat, waiting, praying to their gods, or muttering some wish or good luck phrase.
Within Slenna the noise was building. Pennants and flags had been unfurled from the ramparts and now they could hear the chanting of men psyching themselves up for battle. Their numbers had been estimated by the imperial spy inside the town as being around the same as the imperial force. They had more spearmen and similar numbers of archers, but no cavalry.
“Good luck, sire,” Gavan muttered.
“And to you,” Jorqel responded. He’d already ridden out in front of his men a short while ago, exhorting them to great shows of bravery and strength in the name of the empire; that they were the best Kastania had, that they were the true heirs of the magnificent leaders of their past. These rebels were foul traitors who deserved nothing but death. It had been an aggressive, brash and forthright speech, and the imperial troops had cheered, relieved at last that this boring siege was coming to an end. They all wanted a proper billet and rest and the comforts that living in a town would give them.
Jorqel had ended by saying the town and populace were not to be harmed. Just those who raised weapons against them.
With a creak the twin gates opened inwards, and the first of the Slennan garrison appeared, spear and shield bearing soldiers, their shields small and round, their spears slightly shorter. More men were seen crowding behind them, eager to get out. “Captains!” Jorqel roared to the spear company commanders. “There are your enemy. Charge them and pin them against that wall! Go!”
The two captains roared at their men who broke into a fast run, yelling wildly at the startled rebels who had believed the imperial force would be gentlemen and wait for them to line up neatly before the day’s proceedings began. But Jorqel and his men had fought in Bragal where there were no rules or politeness. They were used to fighting dirty.
Jorqel nodded to the archer captains to commence shooting. The bows were raised and then over two hundred arrows arced through the air to land amongst the milling soldiers trying to get out as fast as they could before the imperial forces hit them. Men spread out rapidly underneath the walls and a few staggered as arrows hit them, but most got out through the gates before the two imperial spear companies crashed into the front units.
Men collided, struck out at each other and cursed one another. Shields were used as battering rams and spears jabbed forward, trying to seek out vulnerable spots in an enemy. The sound of shields and weapons clashing filled the air. The lines of men writhed together as two companies of imperial spearmen battled three companies of rebels. They were outnumbered but holding their own. The Slennan archers fanned out behind with difficulty, and Jorqel slapped Gavan on the shoulder. “Over there,” he pointed to the left. “Let’s get that company of archers forming up before they let loose on our men. C’mon!”
Visors were slammed down and Gavan yelled the order to start up. Slowly at first the fifty-six riders began to move towards the forming archer unit, and lances came down to point at their quarry, busy opening quarrels and testing bowstrings. Then the equines broke into a trot and the drumming sound filled the air, above that of the shouting men and ringing of steel upon steel. The archers spotted the danger and, caught out in the open with no protection, blanched in fear. They turned and ran, but the thundering cavalrymen had broken into the charge and closed them down. Jorqel rode straight into a knot of fleeing men, impaling one man with his lance through the back, and then releasing the weapon and hauling out his sword.
The rest of his unit had crashed into the helpless archers and many were sent flying through the air with the impact. They were poorly armoured, or not even armoured at all, and the keen blades of the bodyguard sought out and found soft flesh time and time again. Jorqel wheeled and a man came running past, wild-eyed and terror stricken, and the prince slashed down hard, catching the man across the neck and shoulder, sending him spinning round to fall onto the churned up earth. He glanced through the sides of his eye slits and got a brief flash of a confusion of arms, blades, equines and shields, then checked left and right, turning his mount round sharply and flailing at another luckless archer who tried to dodge past on his terror-stricken run to somewhere.
Suddenly there were no more archers. They had either been killed or had fled back into the town. Jorqel made sure his men were all there and they were, then waved them to follow him. He’d seen the second rebel archer unit, standing just behind the furious melee in front of the gates, and had an idea. “If we hit that archer unit we cut the lot off from the town, including those spearmen!”
“It could be risky, sire,” Gavan shouted, his voice muffled by his closed visor, “if those spearmen turn on us. We’d be caught!”
“They’re busy fighting our spearmen – and losing!” Jorqel yelled, noting the piles of bodies mounting, and many more were on the enemy side. But now was the time to help his hard working infantry. The imperial archers had ceased shooting for fear of hitting their own side and were standing watching developments.
“Charge!” Jorqel roared, raising his sword. Blood, guts and glory! He led his muddied and bloodied men on towards the reloading archers, and struck them hard on the right flank. The gap wasn’t wide enough to squeeze them all in and those on the right began hacking at the unprotected backs of the Slennan spearmen, sending them into a panic.
Alfan Fokis was standing by the gates, screaming encouragement, and he suddenly noticed
the danger as the cavalry began cutting a swathe through the dissolving archers. The prince noticed him and slashed down at an archer in his way, cutting through the upraised bow, an arm and much of his side. The archer fell away with a scream. Jabbing his heels into his mount, Jorqel charged forward and then around, closing in on Alfan Fokis. A spearman cut across his path and was sent flying as the weight of his equine knocked him clean out of the way. Jorqel backhanded a blow into the chest of another spearman who had turned to deal with the danger, then he looked round to see Alfan Fokis sliding down the wall, leaving a bloodied smear as he fell. Someone had got him with a fair old blow, as much of his tunic was ripped open and his torso was already soaked with red.
The spearmen, surrounded, tried to form a defensive circle but there was no room to move. The imperial infantry at the front and the cavalry at the rear effectively crushed them into a mass and bodies fell to the merciless swords or the thrusting spears, and suddenly they’d had enough. Men threw their weapons down and fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.
The fighting stopped and the soldiers looked to Jorqel for a command. The prince slowly came up to the knot of men trembling on their knees and gazed down at them. He lifted his visor so that they could see his face. “Men of Slenna,” he said sharply, “you are defeated. You fought hard, but were led badly. Now you must make your choice to either pledge for allegiance to me and my father, the emperor Astiras, or die. What say you?”
“We promise to faithfully serve you, lord,” one of the sweating and desperate looking men, a sergeant, spoke up. Others nodded and said ‘aye’. “We plead for your mercy, lord.”
Jorqel looked round at the battlefield. Bodies lay in groups where the fighting had taken place. Sadly, some were his own men, spearmen, who had fallen in the vicious hand to hand melee in front of the gates. He turned to Gavan who had come up, blood flecked on his armour but looking unhurt himself. “Who killed Alfan Fokis?”
“Landec got him.”
“Two gold coins to Landec then. Very well,” he turned back to the waiting prisoners. “I will hear your pledge of allegiance now.”
The men bowed and vowed to support, obey and protect Prince Jorqel, the rightful governor of Slenna, and pay homage to the emperor, Astiras the First of Kastania. Satisfied, Jorqel leaned back. “Very well. You may return to your homes once the grisly task of identifying and then burying the fallen has taken place. You are to dig the graves as punishment for having the temerity to fight my men.”
The imperial troops lined up for a head count which their captains quickly completed, and gave the figures to Gavan. While this was happening the townsfolk had begun to drift out, both to identify and mourn their loved ones, and to plead for food. Many were starving. Jorqel commanded the archer captains to organise a supply of food and water into the city, since they had not suffered any losses nor had been involved too much in the fight and therefore were the freshest of the soldiers.
Gavan presented the casualties. “Sire, fifty-six dead. All from the spear companies.”
“I see. One in eleven or so. Quite a heavy price. Their losses?”
“Two hundred and fifty-seven dead, three hundred and fifty-two taken captive.”
“Fairly comprehensive. Let’s get into the town, then. After all, it’s what we came for. Arrange for our dead to be buried separately from the rebel dead and given full battle honours. They died for a worthy cause.”
“Sire,” Gavan saluted and moved off. Jorqel guided his mount under the gatehouse, through the open gates and into the town. Ahead stood the wooden castle atop a large earthen mound. That would be his residence in the immediate aftermath of the retaking of Slenna. Beyond that a proper governor’s residence would have to be built. He looked at the sadly neglected buildings and the piles of refuse and bodies lying in the streets. They would have to be cleared up fast before disease broke out.
People lined the main street and watched silently as Prince Jorqel, accompanied by his bodyguard, walked their mounts into the town and took command. They were apprehensive lest looting or pillaging would be permitted, but Jorqel soon assured them that there would be no enduring punishment. Slenna had suffered enough. Now the time was here to rebuild and turn Slenna into one of the jewels of the empire.
That evening an exhausted Jorqel sat in a high backed wooden chair in a chamber that overlooked Slenna. Lights were coming on in the streets, lit by soldiers, the first night lights for some time. The dead had been buried in two graves; the rebels in a mass grave off to the north while the imperial dead were all laid in individually marked plots in another, this one to the south. He was now at his writing desk, or what he had appropriated as his own, and was composing a report to the palace of the day’s events. Above the castle roof, on the flagpole, fluttered the imperial two circles and bar once more.
On the desk rested a steaming cup of klee. Two guards stood on duty by the door that led to the outside corridor, while the only other door led to his private bed chamber. Gavan sat sprawled in the other chair opposite, and both were grateful at last to be indoors in a spacious, dry and comfortable place. Farmhouses had their limits. Three candles gave off enough illumination to see by, and over in the far corner, against the outside wall, stood a huge fireplace. In winter this would be essential.
“Thank the gods our work is done,” Gavan said with feeling.
Jorqel looked up and smiled ironically. “Gavan, my old friend, its only just beginning. We have to restore this town to normal very quickly. The populace is starved. We need a quick and plentiful supply of food. The farms can do some of this but we need supplies by sea. I want riders sent out with requisitions to all farm holdings throughout the province, starting tomorrow, to demand one tenth of their available food for Slenna. Then we need to get the streets cleaned up.”
“The bodies have been removed, sire.”
“But not the rubbish. There’s muck and filth everywhere. I won’t have that in my town. We need to get people to clear their streets, and then organise a system where we can employ gangs to go round once a sevenday and clear up. How many streets are there?”
Gavan shrugged and glanced out of one of the narrow oblong openings that acted as windows. As it was late spring the shutters were wide open, to allow the sea breeze to cool the chamber. “Twenty or so, sire. Two main ones and a load of small side streets.”
“Then there’s that mounted archer training school outside the walls that needs to be manned, completed and kept in good condition. And the land around Slenna; our army has left quite a mess and that needs tidying up. Maybe replant with crops?”
“Yes, sire.” Gavan sipped his hot drink. “And the rest of the province to administer, too.”
“Indeed. I’ll need an administrative office somewhere to run the more mundane things. That needs setting up and people found to work in it.”
“Oh, by the way, the captains of the spear companies have written letters of condolences to the families or relatives of the dead. We’ll send them with your report on the morrow to Kastan.”
Jorqel grunted in acknowledgement. “The sooner we get people and goods moving around Lodria again the better. I also want a building programme planned. Get someone to do a survey of Slenna and present it to me within five days. I want to know what needs repairing and what needs replacing. In time I want this town defended better. We need better ramparts and walls.”
“Are we really staying here, sire? For good?”
The prince gave Gavan a long, measured look. “Not us, no. For the next couple of years, yes. But once I’ve done my job here in getting this place back up on its feet and running along nicely for someone else to take over, then I’ll go. You with me. The spears and archers will form the core of a permanent garrison and probably won’t ever leave.”
“That’s good,” Gavan said before he could shut his mouth. Jorqel looked up at him in surprise, and Gavan shrugged.
“Don’t like it here, Gavan?”
“It’s not that, sir
e, it’s just I prefer to be out in the field campaigning. The settled life of a townie isn’t my idea of fun.”
Jorqel chuckled. “When I become emperor you may have to endure the palace life.”
Gavan looked as if something had bitten him on the backside. “May the gods strike me down dead if that’s my future.”
“Don’t say such things,” Jorqel admonished him, “they may hear you. I’ve an idea; to celebrate our capture of Slenna we ought to hold a celebratory banquet, and street parties. Set them for, say, two sevendays’ time so that the populace have got used to eating again. Have the Lodrian nobility attend a ball here in Slenna – there must be somewhere suitable – and the rest of the town can party in the streets. Call it a return to the empire celebration, mm?”
“A ball?” Gavan looked as if a dog had messed on his shoe. “You mean, smart outfits, hob-nobbing with the upper classes and watching your language?”
“That’s the one.”
Gavan rolled his eyes. “Sire. Permission to attend the street party.”
Jorqel laughed, his body shaking. “See to it and make sure every nobleman in the province comes if they have a young, eligible daughter.”
“Ahhh,” Gavan wagged a finger knowingly. “Now I see the real reason!”
The prince shrugged. “I need to look for a wife and it’s expected of me. I’m twenty-four and not getting any younger. The sooner I wed and start producing heirs of my own the sooner the imperial line is secure. What better way of looking for one than at this sort of thing? You might even spot a choice girl.”
“What, from the nobility? Perish the thought, sire. I’d rather have a full bodied common wench.”
Jorqel grinned. “Not many here full bodied at present. Wait until they get used to eating again. Now get to it and let me dictate my report in peace!”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” Gavan jumped to his feet and bowed extravagantly. He left the room, leaving the prince to resume his report by candlelight. One thing still bothered the prince; where was that spy Kiros Louk?