Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  “Shut up Demtro,” Zonis snapped, “your sneering attitude has no place here. If you’ve just come to gloat at me, then you can get lost. Go sneer at some other poor soul lost to society.”

  “Oh, I’ve come to give you a job, brother,” Demtro said, looking up and down the street again. “Something that may give you a purpose in life, and maybe to give you some self-respect instead of feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Zonis swore violently. “You know how to put the boot in, don’t you?”

  “I should know my own elder brother, shouldn’t I? Father would turn in his grave if he saw you.”

  “Don’t you speak of father, you insect! Who was it who buried him? You were gallivanting in Kastan City while I had to take care of his affairs, and to sort out his debts. This is part of the reason I’m here today, and what did you do to help? Nothing!”

  Demtro waved Zonis’ words aside irritably. “Do you want my money and help or not? Or are you going to go over ancient history and try to feel even more sorry for yourself? Be a man and get off your rump!”

  “How dare you!” Zonis staggered to his feet, glowering. “You think you can buy anyone with anything? You can’t buy the past, and that’s something you will have to learn. You can’t pay to change what you didn’t do at the time you were needed.”

  “Alright, alright, enough of this, Zonis. I have a job for someone who loves taking huge risks, facing danger and possibly death. I thought of you, since that’s what you did before your fall from grace.”

  “It was the blazing Duras who were responsible for this!” Zonis shouted, spittle spraying from his lips, “as you well know! They didn’t want successful generals winning battles, they wanted fawning sycophants who lost whole damned regions!”

  “Then show them, and everyone else, that Zonis Kalfas is still around and a man to reckon with. Get rid of that mind numbing rubbish and smarten yourself up. My house is the first along Aconia Street, with the white painted support beams.”

  “I need this mind numbing rubbish, as you call it,” Zonis waved the pipe, “since my lungs are infected with the coughing disease. I won’t have more than a year left!”

  Demtro’s face went still. “Oh, Zonis, I’m sorry to hear that – are you serious?”

  Zonis nodded.

  Demtro’s head went down. His elder brother was going to die. He sighed and looked up. “Very well. You then can at least live your remaining time in my house. And maybe do this job for yourself if not for me, and for the Empire.”

  “For Kastania?” Zonis sneered. “What has it done for me? The Duras sacked me, the Koros have changed nothing.”

  “Lombert Soul.”

  “What of him?” Zonis demanded, sucking on the pipe. He coughed as the smoke reached his lungs, but the pain that was flaring up again was lessened. It didn’t go away, but it made the discomfort bearable.

  “It’s a mission to find his camp. Moves are afoot to destroy him.”

  “I’d be careful what you say around here, little brother, he’s gaining quite a following in this district. They see him as someone to end people’s sufferings under the Koros.”

  “Who will change this cess-pit? Nobody cares about this district, and Lombert Soul certainly won’t should he take Niake. There’s no money to do anything here, nor in any of the poor quarters of every city in Kastania.”

  Zonis grunted. At least that was true. “I think Lombert Soul is an opportunist, and has little chance of succeeding. Word is that he’s getting financial backing from someone high up in society.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Zonis. Come on home and meet someone I want you to work with. We’ll stop by a clothier I know and kit you out properly. If you are going to die, I want you to dress properly for the gods.”

  Zonis grimaced. “Don’t make fun of it – I have no wish to waste away to nothing. I’d prefer to die with a sword in my hand. I trained for that all my childhood, as you well know!”

  “Then maybe you will, if you take this mission. I need someone to liaise with my agent, and a fighting man is perfect for the job. What say you?”

  The ill-dressed man thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure, why not? I was getting tired of the leaf sellers muscling in on this patch anyway. Someone ought to take them out.”

  “Perhaps you could?” Demtro grinned, and took Zonis’ arm, leading him away from the narrow street. He so badly wanted to help his brother, now he knew there was so little time left for him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The pounding on the door was becoming insistent. Thetos Olskan was beginning to surface from a very deep sleep, groaning as consciousness began to impinge on a particularly lurid dream. He shook his head slowly, hoping the noise would go away, but it wouldn’t. There was also an urgent sounding voice accompanying it, and he muttered to himself that he would perform some dark deed upon whoever it was.

  His dream broke but the lurid sensation persisted, and he realised he was being ridden very enthusiastically by Metila. Memories of the preceding evening came to him, hazy and indistinct, but he recalled taking a very big drink prepared for him by the Bragalese woman, and it was after finishing it that things began to happen. He’d been drunk many times in his life, and some of the sensations he’d felt was similar to that, but there were other things – the pounding of blood in his head, the distortion of his vision, the clarity of hearing, the feeling of rising lust unbidden that had overwhelmed all other feelings, and the feeling of strength racing through his veins.

  Metila had clearly dosed him with something and it had consumed him all night. He felt awful, beat up, drained. Yet the object of Metila’s attention was still aroused and showed no sign of fading. What in the name of the gods?

  The banging on the door came again. “Governor! Governor! Please open up – there’s an emergency! We need you, urgently!”

  “Oh for Kastan’s sake,” Thetos groaned and pushed his arms underneath his torso, fighting his lethargy and weakness, and managed to half sit up. Metila snarled and pushed him back onto the bed. She continued writhing atop him, uttering animalistic noises of pleasure. Thetos sucked in deep lungfuls of breath. This was not good – he was damned if he was going to allow this woman to dictate when she pleasured herself against him. He was governor, he said what went and when.

  He roared in frustration and rolled over onto his side, throwing Metila off who landed on the floor with a cry of dismay. The scent of her excitement filled the room, an almost overpowering smell of pheromones. Thetos got to his feet and glared down at her. “What did you do to me, witch?”

  Metila crouched on the floor, utterly naked, her mouth fixed in a rictus of fury. “You took potion of love, last many watches.”

  “How am I meant to carry out my duties as governor with this like it is?” he demanded, pointing to his engorged organ. “It’s hardly acceptable, is it?”

  Metila shrieked with laughter. Thetos backhanded her, knocking her to the floor. “Next time just do one to last the evening, not all night and the day afterwards! I want to be awake to enjoy it, not lying there like a corpse!”

  Metila snarled, licking the blood off her lips. “You fall asleep after three times, I want six, seven, ten times!”

  “You want a damned good whipping, witch!”

  “You give me? I enjoy!” Metila rolled her hips whilst on all fours. “You know how to make me feel good!”

  “May the gods have mercy on my health,” Thetos grumbled, tugging on a pair of hose, fighting it over his loins, swearing continuously. “Look, I can hardly get these bloody things on! What was in that drink? Iron ore?”

  Metila slid onto the bed, opening her mouth. “Want attention from me?”

  Thetos kicked a lump of clothing up into the air, seeking for his jacket. Somehow it had been torn off his body the previous evening. “No – if you did that it’d usually mean I could get these hose on afterwards! I doubt a bucket of freezing cold water would dampen this down at the moment!”

  “Yo
u could try snow outside,” Metila suggested, rubbing herself against the bed post lewdly.

  “Get dressed, witch! I’m going to let those people in and see what in the fires of the underworld is going on!” He slipped on his jacket, expertly doing up the buttons one-handed, as he’d learned to do these past few years.

  Slamming the bed chamber door shut behind him, he stamped through his day chamber towards the door that was still being assaulted. He was aware of pains beginning all over his body and realised Metila had scratched him all over his arms, legs and body during the night. Cursing, he flung open the door and was confronted by three men, all armed and dressed for battle.

  “What is going on?” he demanded.

  “Governor – we’ve got a full-scale insurrection in the city!”

  “What? How?” Thetos roared, then turned about. He didn’t want to stand there with his excitement fully evident. He went to his desk and sat down gingerly behind it. The three men followed him in and stood before his desk. Thetos relaxed slightly; at least here there was no way they could see his discomfort. “Tell me all.”

  The guard commander put his helm under his arm and stood stiffly to attention. “Sir. Last night a riot broke out in the eastern quarter and spread rapidly through the city until the entire place was up in arms. Our guard contained the fighting until this morning when we had to give ground. Our men are tired and are facing a mob who wish to burn this place to the ground. They want the Duras back to run Turslenka.”

  “Are they insane?” Thetos asked sharply. “And who exactly are those demanding this?”

  “A range of people, mostly the lower classes. There’s a few ringleaders armed but most of the rioters are carrying clubs and stones. The usual type of rioters, sir.”

  Thetos growled, then looked round as Metila came out of the bedroom, dressed, but her hair was still wild and unkempt. She walked slowly to his side and gave the three men a look of utter contempt. “Klee, you whore, and nothing else, you understand?” Thetos demanded.

  “You say, I get. You man, you master.”

  “Don’t ever forget that, woman.” Thetos saw the expressions on the three men and grimaced. “So, we must end this insurrection. Any ideas as to who began it and how?”

  “Sir – it would seem the Duras are behind this, spreading propaganda against the emperor and you. They blame the shortages here on your misrule and the emperor’s war in Bragal.” The officer saw the thunderous expression on Thetos’ face and hurriedly continued. “That’s what they are saying, sir! Of course it’s all lies.”

  “Of course,” Thetos growled. He saw Metila leave the room and caught a glance of a group of heavily armoured guards outside his door. Things were serious. “Get my battle armour,” he said.

  “Sir?” the second man asked, surprised. “Full battle armour?”

  “Yes! Bring it here at once! I shall face the crowd myself.” Thetos didn’t say that his full armour had a metal skirt that went down to his thighs and therefore would hide his swollen manhood. It was damned painful which added to his bad temper. Damn that witch!

  There was something else he needed. “Bring my hook case over,” he barked, pointing at the glass-topped wooden display case resting atop a side table. “I need an appropriate hook.”

  One of the officers struggled over with it and planted it on the table top. Thetos opened the glass lid and peered down at the gleaming hooks and attachments resting there. There were five, all arranged in order of size and wickedness of hook.

  “Hmmm, let’s see.” Thetos glanced at the first. “Ceremonial. No way. Too small.” He looked at the second, one with a blunt tip. “Social gatherings. Too decorative. Not the right one for this situation.” The third was bigger and had a very sharp point. “Battle hook. Hmmmm……”

  The fourth and fifth were much bigger. Thetos smiled. “First Date Hook. Always good to impress the ladies, don’t you think?” he asked the standing trio, indicating the fourth hook. “Size matters.” He picked up the fifth and biggest one of all, a monster. “One to face rioters. I could hang a herd beast on this bastard. A rioter or two would be child’s play.” He clicked the cylindrical base into position set in his left forearm and twisted it a quarter turn. There came a click and he flexed his arm, getting used to the weight. “Ahhhh. Yes.”

  The door opened and Metila came in, a tray in her hands, a steaming cup resting in the centre and a plate of mixed cheeses and eggs next to it. She handed it to Thetos and picked up the display case, grunting with effort, and took it back to its place by the window. One of the three men, the youngest, tried to help but stopped when he got a look that could have shrivelled him to the spot. He stood still, abashed.

  Thetos chuckled, putting his breakfast tray on the table. “Don’t ever try to help her,” he advised, spearing a chunk of cheese with his hook and popping it into his mouth. “She’s Bragalese. Very independent-minded. Just like her people. Why do you think it’s taken so long to subdue them? Bandits, thieves and whores, the lot of them.”

  “Sir, that’s racist!” the middle officer objected.

  “So what?” Thetos snapped, chewing on the cheese. “You want to go serve there?”

  “Uh, no sir.”

  “Then shut up bleating about them. If you’re lucky your throat will be slit by the first eight year old you come across. If not you’ll suffer years of abuse, hatred and fear of being murdered in the night. Don’t give me any bleeding heart manure about the poor Bragalese.”

  The officer went red and stood stock still, his hands clasped behind his back. Metila sneered at him. “He won’t last one day in my country. Too weak. No – what you call them?” she flexed her hands beneath her crotch.

  “Balls,” Thetos said, picking up his mug of steaming klee.

  “Yes. Balls. You have no balls. Only men with balls survive in my country.”

  The officer gave Metila the benefit of an unfriendly look.

  Thetos decided to stop the superior attitude of what was clearly a newly appointed officer, probably from a middle-class Kastanian family. He knew the type, thought themselves as morally correct and looked down on the lower classes and patronised everyone except their superiors. “Metila, show him how a Bragalese woman treats an enemy.”

  In a flash Metila sprang over the table, screaming in fury, a knife in her hand, and took the officer by the throat, knocking him to the floor. The man, stunned, lay there, Metila straddling his stomach, her thighs clamped hard against his ribs, the knife to his throat. The two others were still standing by the table, mouths open in shock.

  Thetos smiled. “You understand now?”

  “Sir,” the senior officer said, his face white.

  “If this was Bragal, your lieutenant would have his throat open, and you two would be dying. That is what we had to face in Bragal every day. That’s why we wiped out whole villages. Kill them. Kill them all. Either that or we would die. You’re too comfortable here, so that’s why I’m going to get you three pretty boys to stand alongside me on the steps of this building facing the crowd. This is a child’s party compared to what I faced, saw and dealt with in Bragal.”

  “Sir!”

  “Metila, off that boy. He’s learned what it is to face a Bragalese woman.”

  Metila slowly got up, her face displaying loathing for the fearful young officer. Her eyes bored into his and he shook, his bladder emptying. She saw it. A sneer replaced her look of contempt. “You lucky you work for him,” she nodded at Thetos. “If not, I kill you. You herd beast.”

  “Enough, slut!” Thetos barked.

  Metila smiled, sliding her knife back into its sheath on her belt. “Later I pleasure you. Now you kill those fools outside. Show them you strong. I watch.”

  Thetos slapped his hand down on the table. “I’ll decide whether to kill them or not! You shut up.”

  Metila turned around and swayed off to the bedroom, her rump rolling. The two standing officers watched her, unable to say anything. The junior officer was h
elped up, still shaking in fear. Thetos watched him with growing impatience. “Is this how you are facing a tough situation, like out there? I’ve warred in Bragal under Astiras Koros and learned the hard way how to deal with insurrection. You enter a Bragal village and you’re approached by a group of villagers waving sticks and carrying stones, you kill them. You’re approached by women screaming at you, you kill them. You’re approached by children – you kill them.”

  The three young Kastanian officers went white with shock. “B-But sir….children?”

  “They’re the worst, Captain. Because you don’t think they’re capable, when they drive knives into the groins of my men it’s doubly shocking. After I lost twenty men to women and children, I learned to strike first.” He looked at the junior officer again, shame written all over the young man’s face. “You no doubt were one of the people who shouted out against our war of extermination against the ‘poor, helpless, defenceless Bragalese’, mm?”

  The officer said nothing. He was feeling extremely uncomfortable, the wet patch in his hose turning cold. He remained standing however, at attention as he’d been taught in officer classes.

  Thetos smiled without humour. “While you were living your comfortable lives on your family estates I was in the thick of it, dealing with the murdering lot of them. They slaughtered any Kastanian they came across, and none of us in the army heard a squeak of protest from you bleeding heart brigades, but when we fought back, then up you lot got on your hind legs and howled about the outrages we inflicted on the freedom loving helpless Bragalese.” His voice grew hard and bitter. “Did you not think that if you had your way and they got independence, that they would then cross the border, burn to the ground all Kastanian villages in Frasia and Makenia, move in, build new villages made entirely up of Bragalese, and spread further and further north until they dominated both regions, then demanded they join Bragal and expected weak naïve brainless fools to take up their cause elsewhere?”

  The three men said nothing, standing with their helmets under their arms.