by Tony Roberts
The anticipated easy attack had already gone wrong, but the men of Purfin pressed home, one remaining on the balcony with a crossbow. He aimed down and shot into one of the guardsmen, pinning him through the neck. The man went down, clutching his wound, blood flowing through his fingers. Lalaas cursed and stepped over him to meet the downward blow of one of the attackers’ axe. His sword deflected the blow and Lalaas cut back upwards with a short jabbing motion. His blade sliced across the axe man’s throat, opening his windpipe, causing blood to spray out.
Next to Lalaas the other guardsman cut down another attacker but then received a spiked mace across the face and he fell like a stone. Immediately Lalaas swung his sword and struck the mace wielding man across the neck and chest, cutting him down. Bodies were mounting up, but it gave the captain more space to properly wield his sword. Two men remained on the staircase, one holding an axe, the other was the crossbowman. As the axe man struck, Lalaas gave ground so the blow passed harmlessly in front of him. Lalaas smashed his forehead into the man’s face, splintering his nose.
The axe man cried out and clutched his ruined face, blood fountaining from his nose. Not waiting for a moment to pass, Lalaas slid the three foot length of steel into the man’s stomach and held him against the wall, feeling the tremors of pain ripple through the blade into his hand.
Releasing him Lalaas stepped onto the staircase. The crossbowman was frantically reloading. Lalaas had no time to reach him, so he grabbed hold of his dagger in his belt, raised it hurriedly and threw it just as the crossbowman was raising his weapon. The dagger took him full in the chest and he cried out, falling backwards, dropping the crossbow.
The palace captain swung round, hearing the struggles of the men in the room. Two of the attackers who had survived the initial exchange were down but the remaining one was still fighting hard, and had cut one of the guards down. The luckless man was lying across the floor with a huge red stain spreading across his tunic. The other two guards were pressed back by the desperate man for a moment, until one managed to evade another wicked looking swing from the man’s spiked mace and ran him through the side. The man sank to the ground and lay there, shaking in pain, clutching his wound.
Lalaas breathed out hard and looked about. Three of his men were either dead or out of action. The two remaining men wiped their swords and looked to Lalaas for orders. “Sir?”
“Check our men. If they’re alive see what you can do for them. Check the others too, make sure those still alive are not able to get away. I’ll check the rest of the house upstairs.”
He negotiated the stairs, climbing over the sprawled figures of the fallen. He glanced at them as he passed, just in case they were feigning unconsciousness. The only one who appeared to be still alive was one who had received a crossbow bolt through the side. The enemy crossbowman lay on his back at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. Lalaas tugged his dagger free and wiped it on his boot, grimacing at the red stain on the blade.
The staircase led to a landing and off that were a couple of doors and a side passage. The floor was warped and sloping and one or two of the doorways not upright; they leaned at a jaunty angle. A couple of doors were shut, and he pushed these open slowly, not going into the room. In the last room the window over on the far side was open and he went to it and looked out. Beneath the window was a pile of refuse and beyond were a maze of back streets. The thieves’ quarter was not too far, and the servant who had opened the front door clearly had escaped that way. No chance of finding him.
Disappointed, Lalaas returned to the hall. The two unhurt guards had dressed the wound of the one guard who was still alive. The henchmen of Dragan Purfin were all dead. Lalaas didn’t ask any questions; it was clear they had been dealt with in his absence. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s search the rest of the place. I doubt there’s anything we’ll find, but we’ll do it anyway. Then let’s take him back to the palace,” he waved at the pain-wracked guard sitting by the front door, “and send the militia to clean this mess up. Our fallen will be brought back to the palace. Those canines,” he indicated the fallen henchmen, “can be buried in the grave-pits outside the city.”
They made their way through the dark streets, the two men carrying the wounded guard, who was handed over to the overworked apothecary. The healer complained. Lalaas stared at him sternly. “Save this man, to the pit of the underworld with those carrion feeders.”
“But–“
“But nothing, healer. The lives of my men are of more importance than those of traitors. I won’t look favourably upon you if you allow him to die while trying to save the life of those who would have killed us all in the palace, including the prince and princess. Now tend my man and these scum can receive your tender ministrations once he is dealt with. Stop your complaining; I have a sword.”
The healer sagged and turned away to tend the wounded guard.
“Idiot,” Lalaas muttered. Idealists; they hated being corrected. He left the temporary hospital. The groans and cries of the wounded were not for his ears, neither was the smell of alcohol, blood and urine. He sought out Fendal who was trying to placate a very anxious Amne. Both looked relieved to see him, for different reasons.
“Oh, you’re safe! Thank the gods!” Amne breathed, a beam the size of Romos across her face. “The coup has been destroyed, then?”
“In the city, yes,” Lalaas nodded. “All go well here, Lieutenant?”
Fendal saluted. “Sir. The ambush worked perfectly. Her Highness here was in no danger.”
“Excellent. Go clean up, Lieutenant, you’ve earned it.” He turned to Amne who was looking a little tired and unkempt. “Now we wait on the prince and the KIMM. What they do against Purfin’s army is out of our control; we’ve done our bit here.”
“I’m going to recommend a reward for you, Lalaas,” Amne smiled, taking hold of his arms. “You’ve saved me yet again, and my children.”
“Only doing my duty ma’am,” Lalaas rolled his eyes sideways. A couple of guards were still present.
“Of course, but saving the life of one of the imperial family is above one’s usual duty!” She took him by the arm and led him along the corridor towards the staircase. “I’ve been walking on hot cinders waiting for news of you – I was so worried!”
Lalaas didn’t know what to say. As far as he was concerned he was doing what was expected of him and didn’t want praise for merely following his remit. It all seemed so disproportionate. Protesting though was a useless exercise, particularly when it was in the face of someone who simply was not going to listen and, to put a hat on it all, was a member of the ruling House. Goodwill only lasted as long as a good mood.
He accompanied her, therefore, knowing it was going to be a long time before he could get any long deserved sleep. At least he had the warm comfort of knowing she cared for him.
___
The new day dawned slowly, peeking out from under lowering clouds, as if it were reluctant to show itself. Prince Elas sat on his steed peering without blinking at a spot ahead of him, watching as it slowly took form and depth as the night retreated.
Deran Loshar, the swarthy, hook-nosed and moustachioed ex-Tybar tribesman turned Kastanian officer, sat quietly close by. He still wore the coloured cloth around his helmet denoting him as an officer, something he had kept from the days in the saddle riding for his tribe. A blood feud had caused him to flee into Kastanian territory, and now he had settled into his role as trainer and commander of the newly formed KIMM, the Kastanian Imperial Mounted Militia, the often derided mounted archer regiment based in Kastan City.
Having been on the receiving end of a sequence of military defeats over the past few decades, mostly at the hands of the fast-moving and mobile Tybar tribes, Kastania’s leaders had finally seen sense and adopted the new arm to their military forces. Prince Jorqel had led the change in Slenna, creating the first mounted archer regiment, and now Kastan City had followed.
There were not yet any f
unds available to train up more, but the KIMM were useful as a swift reaction force based in the capital, and already had won one victory, destroying the rebel Lombert Soul in Bathenia three years previously. Many of those sat in their saddles behind the two men that morning were veterans of that battle. Now they were here, twenty leagues from Kastan City just outside a village called Filpik, a small collection of white stone houses, wooden shacks and hovels, and a few bigger buildings.
Elas could call upon his own personal guard and three squadrons of the KIMM, totalling four hundred and forty-one men. His scouts had revealed that Dragan Purfin’s men, assembling just in front of the village, numbered some three hundred and sixty, mostly made up of hastily gathered militiamen, either archers or the dregs from the back streets of cities. What he did have, though, and this surprised Elas, was a squadron of what was reported as mounted archers. How he had come to have them and who from was anyone’s guess. Elas decided he would have to discover this for himself.
He breathed out long and hard, his breath clouding before him in the chill air. “Very well,” he said calmly but clearly. “Let us advance.”
Deran bowed and flicked a finger to his three squadron captains, all with coloured cloths wrapped over their helmets. Deran had red, denoting his seniority, while the others had yellow, blue and green. Their squadron monikers were also of those colours. Alongside Deran was a flag officer, carrying four slim poles, each with a different coloured pennant on top. These were signal flags. Red was for the attack, yellow to withdraw, green to circle the opposition and blue to return to their start positions.
Elas’ personal bodyguard were heavily armoured shock cavalry, all covered head to foot in plate armour and bristling with a wide range of weaponry. Their intent was to deliver a killing blow to the enemy. They would not be used to start with, but to engage should the battle be turning against them, or to finish off the opposition.
Today would be the KIMM’s battle, to coat the enemy with arrows and then close in and finish them off with the sword.
The camp of Dragan Purfin was before them, a haphazard collection of rudimentary tents and fires. Men were stirring, relieving themselves or chasing some of the more dedicated female visitors to their camp away back to the village. Some were taking a hasty last drink or snatching a quick bite to eat before they were to be lined up and then marched into the distant city to officially install Dragan as the new governor and consort of Princess Amne and to fortify the city against any possible counter by the Koros.
Dragan Purfin, the tall, good-looking leader, looked up at the shout of alarm from a sentry. He dropped his flask of water in shock. “What in the name of….?” He didn’t finish his sentence, but ran to his steed being patiently tended by his groom. He roughly pushed the man aside and vaulted up into the saddle. He demanded and was given his sword. He hadn’t even dressed in armour. He waved to three of his men to follow him.
Racing out from the camp, Dragan assessed the approaching group and realised that this was the party that was supposed to have been taken out the previous evening. Something had gone terribly wrong. How wrong he needed to know. He spotted the imperial flag fluttering in the lead and knew it to be Prince Elas. Cursing, he rode on an intercept course, one of his men flying the parley flag of white.
He came to a halt right in front of the imperial force, compelling them to stop. “So,” Dragan said, eyeing the determined men before him. “You’re here. Someone talked.”
“Your spy,” Elas said coolly. “She was one of our agents.”
Dragan thought hard for a moment. Everything whirled in his head, then he burst out laughing. “Oh that’s absolutely fantastic! What a family you are – knowingly allowing your wife to sell her body for information. Ha ha ha, you absolute user, Pelgion. Didn’t think you had it in you, I had you as a cold unimaginative type.”
“Explain yourself, Purfin,” Elas snapped, glaring at the mocking nobleman.
“I thought Amne was really selling you out but in reality she was doing your bidding. Well, she was damned good, pretending to enjoy the whole thing. Well, that’s messed up my plans to have a Koros by my side ruling Frasia, hasn’t it?”
Elas was silent for a moment, then he set his lips in a thin line. “So it was Amne who got the information about your treachery, not some cheap whore. It seems you were not the only one thus deceived.”
Dragan looked surprised, then slapped his thigh hard. “Well, well. The she-canine has fooled all of us. Your faithful guard captain knows, of course. He deserves to lose his head.”
“Silence. I shall decide who loses their head, not you. For one, your head is forfeit. Your rebellion is over. Look at my men, trained professionals. Your rabble has no chance against mine. They don’t even have a uniform or flag. Surrender now, and the only man I shall execute is yourself. At least die honourably.”
“No chance of that, you idiot. If you can’t even trust your own wife to behave behind your back, then you’re no leader of men. You don’t deserve any respect, and you don’t get any from me.”
Elas nodded slowly. He eyed the line of mounted archers waiting at the front of the assembling rebel force. “So who are those people? They’re not imperial troops, and you haven’t got the facilities or funds to train them up.”
“Mercenaries from Mazag and elsewhere,” Dragan smirked. “They wanted a piece of the action, and to strike at the arrogant House of Koros. There are many people around whom you know, who dislike you and your families. It’s a shame so far the only organised opposition has been Fokis and Duras fools. I was hoping that my coup would have been without a hitch and I’d’ve been able to call those people to my banner. Shame,” he sighed. “I shall have to do it the hard way now,” he said.
“I see,” Elas said. “So you’re not surrendering then.”
“I’d rather die in battle than bow my neck meekly to a man who isn’t good enough for his passionate wife. She’s fabulous in bed, you know; knows how to excite a proper man.” He gripped his groin and smiled again. “Still, I believe that doesn’t interest you.”
“Insults can do me no harm, traitor. Now go prepare for battle.”
“Will you at least allow us to dress for what is undoubtedly our last fight?”
“What, and allow you the honour of fighting like a proper army? Not a hope, traitor. Go back and prepare to die.”
Dragan smiled, bowed mockingly and turned about. Everything had gone wrong. He damned his own blindness to Amne’s duplicity. If someone was prepared to betray her own husband and family, it should be no surprise that she would just as easily betray her lover. He wondered how much of her passion had been genuine; he was a good judge of women, having bedded many, and he gauged much of her behaviour had been genuine. Shame she hadn’t then had the courage to jump across to him fully. He supposed she knew which side of her bread was moistened. He sighed to himself.
“Captain, ready the men,” he said dully. “We may as well charge those people.”
“Sir,” the captain, a junior member of a disaffected minor House saluted. He turned to speak to the mounted archers behind them. The rabble were still being ordered into a semblance of a line but they weren’t trained – they were merely there as dressing for the march into the city. The better warriors had been in Kastan City and now it seemed they were dead.
Elas waited till Dragan had reached his men before nodding to the flag officer. The red flag was raised and the KIMM fitted arrows to their bows and slowly spread out, one squadron moving forward through the lines of the heavy cavalry, the other two spreading out wide to the flanks.
Dragan, though, was not waiting to be scythed down. He nodded abruptly and there came a barked command, and the foot archers raised their bows, standing just in front of the long line of militiamen. Arrows darkened the sky and fell amongst the walking KIMM squadrons. Men screamed as arrows struck them, and a few fell from their saddles. Elas gripped his reins tight. It galled him that trained men were being cut down by traitorou
s scum.
Now the KIMM let loose their first volley and the shafts fell amongst the reloading archers. Men staggered as they were struck, and figures were seen to fall and stagger away, clutching wounds.
The KIMM’s equines were now moving faster, two squadrons swinging wide, so that the foot archers could only now target one group. The men in the imperial centre moved towards the enemy mounted archers and Dragan swore as the mercenary unit retreated. They were supposed to charge, but their instinct was to avoid a melee. They loosed off their missiles and galloped to a point behind the confused line of militiamen who themselves were now coming under attack.
Prince Elas remained away from the conflict, watching emotionlessly as the three squadrons of his imperial mounted archers targeted different enemy units; the unit directly ahead were sending shot after shot into the helpless militiamen, sending bodies to the churned up mud of the campsite. Men fell into tents, onto fires or tried to shelter behind some object, all to no avail; they simply didn’t have the training or knowledge of how to cope with such an attack.
The right hand unit were forcing Dragan’s mounted archers further back, duelling with the mercenaries. The more disciplined KIMM squadron were having the best of the exchange, and only a couple of their number had been hit. Two lay still on the ground, their mounts standing forlornly by their riders, nuzzling their bodies. A couple of others were pulling away from the fight, clutching wounds, trying to pull the wooden shaft of an arrow from their shoulder or arm.
The left hand squadron had ridden wide and up a slight incline, sending more shafts down onto the second militia company which was advancing in a line, masking the militia archers. Someone there was organising them because their shields were up in a wall, blocking or deflecting most of the arrows. Still, a number of them had been hit and their route was marked by a number of figures lying in the mud or grass, some moving feebly, others not at all.
The archers were concentrating on the left hand KIMM unit, and arrows were beginning to strike more of them down.