Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  Eventually he pulled away, his face wet with tears but beaming the biggest smile ever. “You’re just the most wonderful sister ever!”

  “Well, I’m your only one.”

  “You’re still the best.” Argan wiped his tears with the back of his hand, then sniffed loudly. Mr. Sen tutted from across the room.

  “Princes use their cloth to blow their noses, young Argan.”

  Argan mouthed Mr. Sen’s words in a wildly outrageous mime, pulling a very funny face. Amne giggled and buried her face in her hands. Mr. Sen looked at the pair in a confused manner, not having seen Argan’s imitation of him.

  Amne passed Argan her cloth and he loudly blew into it. When he went to return it Amne shuddered. “Oh keep it, Argan, I’ve got many more where that came from. I don’t want it back now you’ve used it anyway.”

  “Oh yes. Not with my nose-runnings in it.”

  “Ugh! Argan!” Amne said in dismay. “Do you have to be so disgusting?”

  “Sorry,” Argan stuffed the cloth into his pocket. “So what did mother say?”

  Amne smiled. “She didn’t like it but agreed to write to father and await his reply. I said that if she didn’t write I would.”

  “Oh Amne, you’re so good.”

  “Mother needs to understand she can’t just go ahead and bully everyone like she has. She’s the same with my wedding, so busy organising it I don’t know the half of it, I’m sure. But I wanted to see if you’re fit to come. I wouldn’t want you to miss it for anything.”

  “I won’t. Just as long as I haven’t got to sit next to Fantor-Face.”

  “Call him Istan, for Kastan’s sake, Argan. Mother would be scandalised to hear you call him that!”

  “Sorry. It’s just that he’s such a Fantor when it comes to eating!”

  “He does eat very quickly,” Amne conceded, “but please call him Istan in front of everyone.”

  Just then the door opened and Isbel appeared. She saw Amne and her face clouded. “Oh, you’re here,” she said curtly.

  “Am I not supposed to be, mother?” Amne asked in an overly sweet way.

  “Amne, a word please, in private.”

  Amne sighed and stood up. “The wedding’s in thirty days. The Spring Equinox. You get yourself fit, Argan, because I want to see you as the smartest one there, you understand?”

  Argan nodded and picked his book back up again. He waved to Amne who walked to the door, then hesitantly at his mother. Isbel smiled briefly at Argan, then shut the door behind her as she followed Amne out and down the corridor to the first room on the left.

  It was one of the other study rooms but not being used that day. Amne swung her bottom onto the top of one of the tables and sat facing Isbel who remained standing. “Well, mother, speak.”

  Isbel’s teeth were set on end by the tone in Amne’s voice. “I’d appreciate a bit more respect from you, Amne Koros, when you speak to me. Your attitude is beginning to bore me, and get on my nerves.”

  “Mother, of late you’ve become quite the bossy type; you really don’t allow anyone to have any say in anything. You bullied poor Argan over the Kerrin thing and as for my wedding! It’s like you were getting married, not I!”

  “That’s because you don’t appear to take anything seriously anymore.”

  “Rot! I do, but I don’t have your humourless approach. It’s my wedding and I ought to have at least some say in the colours or the flowers or who I would like to be present.”

  “Amne, I really don’t know what happened to you on your journey to Bukrat but you’re far too frivolous these days. You really should be a lot more serious about such matters. And, may I say, your behaviour around the young men is quite….inappropriate!”

  Amne made a show of being surprised which fooled neither of them. “Mother, you do say the most hurtful things!”

  “You’re going to be married soon. You’re one of the ruling family and I’d like you to conduct yourself in a more dignified manner. Flirting with the men in the palace is certainly not the behaviour I’d expect from a princess who is about to wed. Please remember who you are and who you represent.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me remembering who I am. I know very well who and what I am. Anyway, it’s all very well you telling me to be serious; I’m about to marry someone who takes seriousness to an art form. I’d have more fun with a corpse.”

  “Amne! Don’t you ever call your future husband a corpse!”

  Amne folded her arms under her breasts. “I didn’t. But now you mention it…”

  “Don’t!” Isbel snapped, pointing a shaking finger at her step-daughter. “You may be able to wrap your father around your little finger but I’m not that easy to manipulate. You try to throw your weight around with me and you’ll come unstuck. Now go get yourself to the dress-maker. They want you for another fitting session.”

  “Oh, not another! I might as well wear the wretched thing I try it on that many times!”

  “Oh do stop grumbling, Amne. You’re becoming worse than a petulant child.”

  Amne huffed and flounced out, muttering under her breath. Isbel remained in the room for a few moments, then sighed and followed her out into the corridor. Vosgaris was standing by the door to the study where Argan was still reading. She looked at him for a long moment and he locked eyes with her, then looked away and stood straighter.

  Isbel shook her head, more to herself, and walked back to her office where the administration of the empire was done. So many pieces of paper, requests, policies, things to do, repair, consult, change, bring in, abandon, modify, research, command. It tested her to the limit and she could do without her step-daughter behaving in an unfit manner. That Lalaas had much to answer for, so it would seem.

  With the ending of winter, much more would now come in. Roads would need repairing. There was the new year budget to work out. The major works currently going on had drained the treasury’s profit and it looked like they were going to have to accept over a thousand furims of loss. The port that served Kastan City, Galan, was now undergoing an expansion. Trade was vital and the port clearly too small and inadequate for what was expected to flow to the empire, so extra warehouses, jetties and shipbuilding facilities were being constructed. Niake had just had its official temple finished and now was going to begin the building of a new town hall. Kornith was having a new small temple built within its walls while Jorqel was constantly begging for more funds to expand Slenna. To be honest, Isbel wanted to help him more than any other but she had to be seen to be fair, so Jorqel was only given half of what he’d asked for. Slenna was transforming but much more slowly than the prince desired.

  In Turslenka, the crusty veteran Thetos Olskan was overseeing the building of their town hall and in far-off Zipria they were even more ambitious. A stone castle was well under way and would be finished within the year. It was a lot of expenditure but it was more symbolic than practical, for it gave a clear message to the Ziprians that the Koros were not going to neglect them. They may be far away but were regarded clearly as a vital part of the empire.

  Isbel took her seat and looked at the mass of documents on her desk. The two clerks in her office were industriously writing away, processing the requests, complaints, submissions and all other letters that came to the palace. It seemed everybody wanted something. Isbel’s mind wasn’t really on those; rather it was far away in Bragal. It was on her husband and the siege. She fervently hoped it would soon end.

  ____

  Astiras Koros was thinking much the same thing at that moment. He was dressed in full battle armour, standing on the wooden platform outside his headquarters, watching the approach of the Bragalese contingent who were wading through the sea of mud that stretched to the walls of the town. Teduskis stood next to his emperor, holding the imperial flag. More soldiers stood nearby, weapons bared, presenting a tough, unyielding front to the visibly thin and suffering rebels who finally came to a halt thirty paces away, their own flag hanging limply on the rude pole t
hey had hacked from a dead tree.

  The two parties faced one another in silence. Eventually, tired of waiting, the Bragalese spokesman cleared his throat. “Lord Koros, I bring a message from my master King Elmar of Bragal.”

  “I do not recognise that title. I therefore refuse to hear you. Go away.” Astiras turned away and began walking to his quarters.

  The Bragalese party looked at one another in despair. “Please Lord, we ask for just a moment of your time.”

  Astiras halted but didn’t turn round. He beckoned to Teduskis. The commander stepped up to his master and listened to Astiras’ words, and nodded. He went back to the rail and looked down at the three rebels standing forlornly in the mud. “My lord, the emperor Astiras the First of Kastania had little time for your excuses or pleas, or your leader’s false title. Either surrender unconditionally or be destroyed. This he swears.”

  “Lord, we are starving. Have pity on us. Our women and children are dying.”

  Astiras whirled, his face twisted in fury. He strode rapidly to the rail, gripped it hard and leaned forward. “Now listen to me you filthy murderers. I don’t want to hear any of your bleeding heart tales of women and children dying. How many of our countrymen, women and children have you Bragalese slaughtered for no other reason than they had Kastanian blood in their veins? You killed and slaughtered and butchered, but the moment we fought back you all screamed about our brutality and the injustice of oppressing you, and may the gods forgive them but your lies and deceptions were listened to by the fools, the naïve and the weak-minded amongst us and they tried to undermine our efforts to protect our own families.

  “But I had heard enough. I took power and got rid of the weak fools amongst my own people who supported you. And then I took the war to you and burned, destroyed and slaughtered your people until now only Zofela here remains. And today it ends. So go back to your coward of a leader and tell him to come forth and do battle with real men, Kastanians who wish to get revenge for all the blood of their friends, families and compatriots you Bragalese have spilled these past eight years.”

  The Bragalese backed away slowly. The steel in the eyes of ‘Landwaster’ told them everything. There was no pity to be found there. “Very well, Lord. Our garrison will come forth, for there is nothing left within the walls of Zofela. If we are to die, then we will do so with swords in our hands.”

  Astrias sneered. “You think that will earn our respect? No. All you and your kind are fit for is to be sacrifices for a united Kastania that includes Bragal. Now go and prepare for your final battle. You will receive no mercy from us.”

  As the rebel detachment trudged back towards the black settlement, Astiras filled his lungs. “Now, gentlemen, let us end this long war this day. Go rouse the companies. Form up halfway to the walls. Let us go with the blessing of the gods today!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The sky was dark, full of racing clouds, borne on a chill wind that still spoke of the winter now gone. The sun was hidden and would not show its face that day, perhaps not wishing to look down upon the scene unfolding on the Bragalese plains outside the stricken city of Zofela.

  Black banners drooped forlornly from the battlements, torn and shredded by the long gone winter gales, and the walls were almost as dark, blotched with refuse and ordure that had been thrown over the sides, and at their foot lay the remains of those who had perished that long, cold and seemingly unending season.

  The Bragalese had held out despite their privations, the hunger, death and knowledge that outside their walls stood an implacable enemy determined to finish off their bid for self-rule and their independence from Kastania. But now, with all hope gone and all food exhausted, they had no choice but to emerge and fight the Army of the East and the emperor. If, by some miracle, they endured and beat the Kastanians, then they would be free to rule themselves and make of whatever they would of Bragal. Astiras would almost certainly be deposed and put to death by the rival factions who would then place a puppet of their own on the throne and confirm the independence of Bragal. But to do this they would have to beat the seven hundred or so soldiers facing them, having a hundred less than that themselves. They were outnumbered but they had the desperation of having nothing to lose with them.

  Astiras had mounted up along with Teduskis and his elite bodyguard, and were now making their way to their position, immediately behind the infantry and just ahead of the two archer companies he had. That morning they had ripped up the wooden fence opposite the main gates and formed up facing them, just out of bowshot range, and waited.

  Astiras checked the line of his men. Off on the two flanks were the spear militiamen, and in the middle the Bragalese levy mercenaries, those Bragalese who had sided with him against the forces of Elmar. Behind him were the imperial archers and the Bakran mountain archers. Their task was to avoid trouble and loose over everyone’s heads into the rear of the Bragalese lines.

  It wouldn’t be long now, the movement that could be seen on the battlements and the banners waving behind the low wooden gates showed that there was a gathering of men behind the shut gates. Astiras clucked his tongue and, gently jabbing his equine’s flanks, guided the stallion out in front of his men. Teduskis followed him, along with two others. “Men of Kastania,” Astiras said clearly to his men, “today we see the final act in the long war that has taken so many lives and wrought so much destruction on our people and property. Today, you have the opportunity to end this fight. At last, you can avenge all the wrongs inflicted on your people by these beasts, these animals, these uncivilized monsters who murder women and children and would readily take for themselves that which others had worked hard at creating.”

  He waved behind him at the still shut gates. “In a moment those gates will open and out will come those who are less than the beasts. Your task is simple. No prisoners. Kill them all. Slaughter every last one of them, and then you can plunder all within that city you see there before you – but leave the buildings. Those are mine. The rest is all yours – the possessions, the people. I have no use for either. End this war by total victory. You are the men who can do this for me. Win, and you can have houses and land in Bragal, even in Zofela here. What say you?”

  The men roared, raising their shields, bows and spears high into the air. They would fight for what they saw as a future for themselves. Their emperor had spoken. Land was more than any of them could have hoped for, even the mercenaries. The Bakran archers, used to struggling in the mountains, were not farmers, and they were more interested in what lay in the city. The Bragalese ‘loyalists’ were pleased they would get lands and property. They would form the hard core of the ‘new’ Bragal should they win this day. When the rebels were gone, the city would need people to get it back onto its feet. Those in charge within Zofela at this moment would be swept away and into their place would come the loyalists. This is what they were fighting for.

  The Kastanian soldiers couldn’t wait for the fight. Victory this day would make them richer than they could have ever dreamed of; Zofela was not the biggest or richest city but still there would be enough in there for them to become wealthy. Astiras had already assured them he was not interested in what possessions the Bragalese had. Those were theirs to take. And they would. And the houses within – they were going to be given out by a grateful emperor afterwards. So the occupants currently living in them would have to be removed. They would ensure that happened. And then there were those amongst them who looked forward to the slaughter and rapine. Their blood was racing through their veins. All they had to do was to kill those men coming out now through the opening gates.

  Astiras returned to his position and watched as the defending force began flooding out, men dressed in a variety of colours, most of whom had little or no armour. They were a motley collection of poorly armed townsfolk pressed into service, either as infantry or archers, while he did see some better armed levies, equal to his levies here. There were also two units of mounted Mazag-style cavalry, armed with b
ows. These would be Elmar and his elite guard, and most loyal supporters. That was where he would go.

  He nodded to Teduskis. Teduskis drew his sword. “Sound the attack,” he snapped to the hornsman, the man in the bodyguard responsible for sounding the commands. Three short blasts, repeated thrice, was the sound for the infantry to attack.

  The Bragalese were still coming out of the gateway, trying to form up into their units, but the three untrained companies were being very slow and getting muddled up. Astiras caught a final glance at a new unit he’d overlooked in his first assessment. A group of black-garbed tall-hatted bowmen. He grimaced. Brigands. They were a scourge. They cared not who ruled Bragal; they would fight no matter what, and if someone wished to pay them for it, so much the better. Excellent archers, they were best dead. The emperor slammed his visor shut. “Let’s go!” he shouted, his voice turned into a distorted metallic sound.

  Already the imperial army was surging forward, yelling wildly, spears pointed straight at the enemy. Behind them the archers were shooting up into the air, the arrows arcing up and then down into the massed Bragalese trying to get free of the gates and get some semblance of order into their ranks.

  As the shafts began finding their targets, Elmar screamed at his mounted archers to scatter left and right, in order to get free of the infantry before they got tangled up in the general melee. But it was too late. The spear militiamen on the imperial left flank, the Dirt Eaters, bore down on the cavalry trying to ride free, and roared in glee at attacking unprotected equines. The cavalry tried to reach for their arrows but the spearmen were upon them before they could do so.

  The other spear militia company and the levy ran hard for the horror-stricken rebel infantry and crashed into them, trampling men into the soft, yielding mud before the gates. Spears broke against shields, and bodies pressed against each other. With no room to use their spears, men resorted to clawed fingers, seeking out soft eyes, teeth, knees, feet. Anything. One side fought hard to win riches, the other to survive.