by Tony Roberts
Second up was Istan himself. She sat in her chair, guards to her sides. This needed a resolution. Istan walked up to her reluctantly, and bowed stiffly. He looked at her without any affection. “Istan, your tutoring from Gallis is now finished. He has retired.”
“Good, the old fool was useless,” Istan snapped. “I want to be a warrior, not a scholar.”
“Warriors have to know about mathematics and physics, and biology and history.”
“I don’t see why! All you need to do is to kill your enemies and that’s it. Why bother with stupid numbers?”
Isbel drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “The best generals know the number of their enemies, know how many arrows their troops need, how many tubers that have to be carried in their supply wagons to feed their soldiers for a moon’s period, know how many wagons they require and how many beasts to pull them. They know the past battles and why they were won – or lost.”
“Oh I’ll leave that to the stupid generals under my command!”
“Then you won’t be in command; your generals will be.”
“They’ll do as I tell them or I’ll kill them!”
“I doubt you’ll have anyone left to follow you if you carry on like that, Istan. A good general will attract followers to him; a bad one will lose them.”
“They’ll be too scared to leave me. If they do I’ll….”
“Yes, you’ll kill them,” Isbel sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, maybe I can help you in your ambition. You want to learn how to be a soldier? Then I’ll send you on a long training exercise with one of our militia patrols. We have thirty men who have volunteered to scout the southern region of Bragal which is still wild and untamed. No Kastanians have been down there in years, and we expect there to be bandits, brigands and rebels there as well as Bragalese who think the war is still going on.”
“Really? You’re serious?” Istan showed interest and his face brightened up.
Isbel nodded. “You will be third in command, under the command of a Sub-Commander Prochis, and a Sergeant Brablin. They are both very tough and experienced men and you will follow their commands.”
“I am a prince!”
“With no experience, and you are twelve. You have no command knowledge, and you will learn from these men. You will have one personal servant to look after your needs. They are going to be out in the wilds until the end of spring. I didn’t really want to have you out there in winter, but it’s a good way of toughening you up, giving you practical experience and hopefully, making you a better warrior for the empire.”
“Was this your idea or father’s?”
“Your father’s.”
“Yes, I thought so. No woman would be able to think of such a good thing.”
“Istan. You are going to spend the next three nights in a cell in the dungeon.”
The boy looked incredulously at Isbel. “What?”
“You have just insulted the empress of Kastania. As a punishment you will spend three days and nights locked away. Maybe when you come out you’ll change your attitude. If not, then I’ll put you back for ten. I’ll carry on until you treat me with the respect that I, as your mother, a woman and the empress, deserve. I will not have you speak to me or any woman like that!” She waved to the guards to escort the shocked boy out.
“You can’t do this to me! I’m a prince!! Take your hands off me!” he screamed to the guards as they took hold of his arms.
Isbel stood up, her expression severe. “Istan, I am empress and outrank you. These guards are under my command. You see, your rages and temper has left you with nobody to support you. Carry on the same and you’ll never have anyone to stand up for you. You need to do some serious thinking. Take him away.”
Istan’s protests and outrage was heard for some time as the two guards wrestled with him but they took the boy down, finally by lifting him off his feet. He kicked, spat and tried to bite, but it was to no avail.
She sat down and put her head into one of her hands. Perhaps it was the right thing to do. Astiras had yet again avoided dealing with him, and she wondered why he was so adept at being somewhere else when Istan had to be disciplined. So. “Who’s next?” she asked her scribe.
“Ma’am, Ambassador Ganag Meri of Mazag.”
“Oh, yes. Please have him sent in.”
The ambassador arrived, bowed with a flourish and stood expectantly. “Ambassador, a welcome sight indeed. How was Bukrat?”
The ambassador inclined his head. “Always a delight to see you in person, your highness. Bukrat is very much changed. It is a bustling town, so different from a few years ago. I was summoned there as you know by my master. It appears the Talian kingdoms are trying to put diplomatic pressure on my liege to sever ties with Kastania.”
“Oh? In what way?”
Meri waved his hands out briefly. “Mazag’s frontiers are with Kastania along the Ister, and then Venn on the Kral borderlands. Elsewhere we have frontiers with Almania to our east and Litania to our south. Both of these have sent letters to my king in Akinkum requesting our alliance be terminated. Of course, we are not going to do that – our war with Venn would continue regardless and we have no wish to have a hostile neighbour to our north. Therefore we are ignoring these letters, but I think it is right to advise you of these diplomatic moves behind the scenes.”
“And what of this Holy War proposed by the Regal Holder? Are we still going to have the prospect of foreign armies marching through our lands?”
“Not at present, for Venn and Zilcia are to clear the way by conquering Bragal, Makenia and Frasia. That is what this war is about – we have no wish to see Venn or Zilcia ruling Bragal and the lands to the north.”
“Yes, Mazag is protecting its interests. Our alliance is, after all, a mutually beneficial situation only because Venn wants Bragal. Should the Talians change their view and offer you Bragal, then what?”
Meri shrugged. He paced back and forth for a few moments. “My understanding would be that you would then have a problem.”
“We are of one mind then, Ambassador. We Kastanians are not foolish; we know Mazag would dearly love to own these lands, and it is only your rivalry with Venn that is keeping your armies from invading us. So we are building up our armies, as you have seen.”
“Yes, ma’am, something that I wish to speak of. My liege is alarmed; some in our court say it is a precursor for invasion of Valchia, and they urge an increase in our forces there. Please understand I am only passing on what some say, not all.”
Isbel nodded. “We are in no position to invade anyone. These are a defensive measure, to enable us to stand on our own feet rather than keep on asking our gallant allies to shed blood in our defence. Spearmen are good for keeping hold of something – they are not really there to invade and conquer other lands.”
“You know that; I know that. My liege knows that, but some powerful people in court say otherwise, and they do have influence. I trust sense continues to rule. In the meantime, I also have to advise that bandit raids in the south of Bragal continue, spilling across the border. We have garrisoned the crossing points but we are having difficulties. If your majesty could…..”
Isbel smiled. “Don’t worry – I am even as you speak gathering a force to take care of the situation. They will set out shortly and spend the winter clearing out many of the bandit camps.”
The ambassador bowed. “Your majesty is most wise. I am indeed fortunate to be appointed here.”
“Flattery, Ambassador, will get you nowhere,” she smiled. “Thank you for your messages. I shall bear them in mind.”
Meri left. Isbel breathed out. “Next?”
“Messenger from Niake, ma’am.”
“Oh? Send him in!” She sat as relaxed as she could but she couldn’t stop a frisson of excitement. Vosgaris?
The messenger approached, bowed, and presented a scroll. “Your highness, message from Governor Extonos.”
Isbel felt deflated. “Ah. Thank you.” She ind
icated for the scribe to take it. “And what does this message say?”
The messenger bowed again, this time in regret. “I’m sorry ma’am, the governor did not indicate the content of his message.”
The scribe passed it to Isbel who noted the seal of the City of Niake emblazoned across it. She broke it and read the message. She frowned, then looked up at the messenger. “The governor will require an answer. Please wait in the ante chamber for my reply. You may then return to Niake in your own time.”
“Thank you ma’am”, he said, bowed, backed away and then left.
Isbel re-read the message. Evas Extonos was complaining at length about the heavy-handed approach of Commander Vosgaris, his brutal programme of knocking down old housing estates and the suppressing of any sign of dissent. He also regretted not being able to leave Niake at such a delicate time but his presence was clearly needed to calm the bubbling resentment of the Koros-backed programme of making the people of the city homeless.
She rerolled the scroll and curtly gestured the scribe to take it. “Have it copied and then stored as per normal.” She pondered for a moment. A reply had to be sent to the governor who was refusing an imperial command to come to Zofela. Astiras would explode. She decided to write three letters. All three would be sent at the same time. “What of my other appointments?” she asked.
“Ma’am, two appeals for land disputes in Zofela, boundary arguments over properties as usual. Also a request for a new contract for marble deliveries to Zofela from the Anglis family.”
“Really? And who is presenting that petition?” She already knew the answer.
“Fostan Anglis of your own court, ma’am.”
“Show him in. I’ll deal with this first.”
Fostan Anglis showed the correct deference and stood before her, his soft cap in his hands. “My father is as you know a very well-known supplier of marble, having one of the imperial contracts. What is a surprise to my father is that at present there is no contract with the imperial court here in Zofela.”
“There is no need for marble here, Fostan, as you well know. Zofela is not a city, it is a garrison fortress. We need tough, hard stone, not decorations.”
“Nevertheless, ma’am, interior décor is as important. It provides visitors with the impression that the empire is a wealthy, luxuriant entity, and that raises status, especially in the eyes of the barbaric kingdoms to the east and south.”
Isbel regarded Fostan coolly. “There is no need for marble here. The Anglis have contracts to Turslenka and Kastan City. You have enough wealth from those contracts, or at least that is what anyone would think. Is there a need for a new market?”
“There is always need. To be completely honest with you, ma’am, the war has closed our routes to Kral. Their capital at Zaros was a good source of trade, but that has now ceased. We need a new route to replace lost revenue.”
Isbel smiled and looked at her scribe, faithfully scribbling down the conversation. “It is a fact, is it not, Fostan, that the costs of transporting marble to Zaros are prohibitive? You needed to sell all your goods to make a profit. Now you do not have to travel overland all that way, so you are not incurring costs.”
Fostan wrung his cap. “The teamsters will still have to be paid, the animals fed and stabled.”
“You lay teamsters off at the drop of a hat when it suits you – all the Houses do – and animals are sold or slaughtered if they begin to cost more to keep. I would surmise that this is what you have done already.”
Fostan slapped his thigh irritably. “Ma’am, the trade to Bragal is open and somebody has to secure it, and would you rather a trusted and known supplier like the Anglis be the ones, or an unknown like the Mirrodan and the risks that they will bring?”
The empress shook her head. “No marble trade Fostan, for your House or any other. We do not need marble.”
He angrily stepped back one pace. “Then, ma’am, there is no further need for me to make this petition. I beg your leave.”
“Granted,” she waved her fingers lazily. Fostan stamped out, his back stiff with outrage. Isbel looked for a long moment at the closed door, then made a mental note to tell Astiras of the Anglis’ desire to muscle in on the Bragal market. Let the other Houses trade where they want, Bragal was the Koros’ stronghold and they had invested too much in the province to let any other in. When all were prepared to abandon the region, only the Koros had fought on, finally having to take the throne itself in order to get the strength necessary to achieve it.
The other two petitions were minor arguments and sorted out, to neither’s satisfaction, but Isbel really wasn’t that interested in petty squabbles. If arguing over a minor detail as to where a fence was to stand was the only thing the two parties had to complain about, then there was precious little amiss in their lives.
She retired to her chamber and composed the three letters. To Evas she informed him that the emperor would be responding in due course, and that the governor’s complaints would be looked into and a proper response would be sent thereafter. All couched in as bland and inoffensive a term as possible. She knew if Astiras knew of Extonos’ refusal to the summons he would send an armed force to take him and drag him all the way to Bragal. That may not be the best course of action, so she wanted to gauge the wisdom of such a move.
The second letter went to Demtro. She asked if what the governor had complained about was true. Short and blunt. The third was to Vosgaris. Coded. This one took the longest, but she had to be sure about her wording and of course, it all had to be hidden in their secret way of writing to one another.
She wondered if Vosgaris was really becoming too powerful. He would have to be brought down if that were the case. It saddened her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Thetos walked along the rows of soldiers in the freezing cold of winter. His breath clouded the air before him. His boots crunched through the frost-rimed stalks of grass, and his nose was red with cold. His beard was frosted too, from his breath, and he looked like one of the gods of the afterworld, where souls were tormented either in fire or in freezing temperatures.
Behind him, silent, on equines, sat Argan and Kerrin, swathed in furs laid over their armour. With them were the twenty men of his embryonic bodyguard. Their remit was to protect the prince no matter what. Today would be the first battle he took part in. Argan sat still but his heart was pounding away with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He had been told in no uncertain terms by Thetos not to get involved in any melee, but to watch from the left flank. His small unit was nominally the reserve shock force, and he was also the commander of the left flank, under the overall command of the governor.
Standing in rows before them, cold, were the two Turslenkan regiments. Four companies totalling five hundred and fifty spearmen, a mixure of militiamen and regulars. In total the imperial force stood at six hundred. Standing across the valley on the opposing slope, stood the five hundred men under Slavis. So much work had been done to unearth the rebel leader, and finally they had their breakthrough when a message had been intercepted and the messenger allowed to flee. He had been trying to pass on a new order to the traitors working in the council, and it had been then that Thetos’ and Argan’s men had swooped, arresting all except the contact who had been chased but of course, not caught.
Metila’s magic had been used to track him, and he had ridden to a camp in the hills out of sight of anyone, tucked neatly away in a small glade, close to the road to Bragal and Frasia. Thetos had sent an ultimatum to Slavis, telling him to meet him at the roadside valley in battle, or be chased throughout Kastania. His units had closed in and Slavis had no option but to turn and fight.
The imperial force was bigger and better armed. Slavis knew it too, and had been using fear and underhand tactics to try to loosen Thetos’ grip on power, so that when the time was right, he would strike, using murder as a means to take over.
Slavis was at the rear of his force, commanding a force of mounted archers. Bef
ore him were two companies of spearmen and another of foot archers. He was not tempted to parley or speak to Thetos. His message had been clear; come and take me if you dare.
Thetos eyed the ranks of the rebels and snorted. “Over there stand the enemy,” he roared, his voice carrying clearly in the chill air, “men who have no honour. They would rather rally to the standard of a traitor who hides away using the ways of a thief and murderer to try to achieve his selfish aims. You clearly outnumber them; you are twice their number in spears. Close with them and you will prevail; they will crumble before you and melt away, like the very frost under our feet when the sun’s rays strikes it. Be as the sun, blind them with your brilliance.”
He looked along the rows of men. They had been arranged so that on the left flank were militiamen, in the centre both companies were regulars and to the right the other militia. Their lines were twice that of the rebels, and the plan was to engage the rebels with the centre, and then fold the flanks in on them, crushing them. The only problem were the archers. Yet again he had none, and it seemed every time a rebel force assembled, they had some. Where the mounted archers had come from only the gods knew, but he suspected they were Hushirs from Mazag. Those carrion feeders would come to any fight provided they had the opportunity for plunder and glory.
Today they would only find death.
Argan had the left flank militiamen. Their morale would thus be higher with a prince of the ruling House commanding them. Leading the militiamen on the right was Captain Durok, given the honour of the dominant flank. Kastanian tactics always held that the right flank was more important than the left. Durok had accepted the command with a pleased look and a bow of gratitude to Argan who had nodded once. Thetos had listened to the prince.