House of Lust

by Tony Roberts

  “So, they fight with archers, hoping to keep you off and reduce your numbers before you close with them. Use your shields in a wall before you, march, do not run, until they begin loosing – then charge up at them and smash those traitors!”

  The men cheered. Thetos rode along to Argan. “Well, young prince; now is your first test of battle. Whatever you do, don’t get mixed up in any silly business. Once they realise who you are they’ll try to cut you down. Stay clear of danger and watch your company. They are proud to be serving under you, so don’t let them down. Your orders are clear. March up the hill on the left and then wheel in on their right flank once our regulars hit their front line. Guard your own flank, as their archers no doubt will seek to shoot into them.”

  “And your role, Governor?”

  “To ride those scum who call themselves archers down.” He flexed his one gauntlet in the air. “Butcher’s work today. This should finally end any rebellion in Makenia.”

  “Good luck, Governor.”

  “And to you too, sire.”

  Argan watched as Thetos walked to his steed and vaulted up with help from a small wooden box. He made a mental note to get one himself; it would prevent any undignified slip or fall. The imperial army stood waiting on the cold, ice-rimed slope, peering across the wide, shallow valley at their foe. Argan noted how the road from Turslenka approached from the left and then turned sharp left and ran off to the south towards Bragal. The ridge the rebels were on was skirted on two sides by this road.

  “Regiments of Turslenka shall advance! Koros! Koros!” Thetos yelled, his battle sword in his hand.

  “Koros! Koros!” the two regiments chanted, then began stamping downhill, thumping their shields with their spear shafts. To Argan it felt as if the sound was vibrating up into him from the ground, shaking his very core. It was a disturbing, yet reassuring sound, for they were chanting his family name, and they were his soldiers.

  On the opposing hill, the man calling himself Slavis waited with a weary resignation. He had tried to gather more men to his banner but not enough had come. If he had been able to wait another season or two then he may have had sufficient, but somehow the Koros had found him. They must have used dishonourable means. He waved his two long lines of archers, all one hundred and twenty of them, to advance and shoot.

  The sight of four companies of spearmen coming at them was frightening enough, but he hoped their missiles could cut enough down to make things more even. “Concentrate on their regular troops in the centre,” he ordered. “Don’t waste your arrows on their militia.”

  Arrows began streaking through the air in dark clumps and the spearmen raised their shields. Shafts clattered all round them, many hitting shields or missing, but some finding their targets. Bodies fell and some crawled away, crying out in pain. Thetos roared. The spearmen broke into a run uphill, heading straight for the waiting enemy infantry, roaring their defiance and rage.

  The archers melted away, desperate to avoid the coming melee, pouring to the imperial left across the route of the approaching troops. Thetos snapped his visor down. “Let’s go get them!” he snapped, and led his heavy cavalry behind the lines of the Kastanian soldiers and past Argan. “Keep your position, sire!” he shouted as he rode past.

  Argan saw figures moving about all over his line of sight. Equines snorted, hoofs thundered, men shouted, arrows fell into the ranks of the spearmen from the mounted archers to the rear. Kerrin gripped his pommel, his mouth dry with fear. “This is so confusing, sire!” he cried out.

  “Yes, but keep an eye to our right just in case, ‘Rin.”

  Kerrin glanced in that direction. All he saw were feebly moving men, trying to crawl away from the battlefield. The ground was churned up; even the frozen sods had been ripped from the ground by the pounding of hundreds of hoofs. The smell of fresh earth came to him.

  With a roar the regulars smashed into the bracing rebel spearmen. The sound went straight to Argan’s guts and he almost threw up. Fighting the desire to retch, he kept an eye on his company, marching directly ahead, twenty paces from the melee off to their right, heading for the open flank. The archers had run well to the rear and had turned, hoping to loose missiles into the faces of the imperial troops, but saw to their horror the armoured heavy cavalry of the governor bearing down on them.

  They froze for a moment, then turned in every direction, trying to flee. Slavis saw the danger and ordered his mounted archers to angle across the slope and shoot into the flank of the heavy cavalry. Argan watched, spellbound, as the militia companies reached a point level with the furiously struggling combatants, then swing in and crash into the exposed flanks of both rebel companies.

  He could watch no longer – the developing battle to his left was spreading far and wide as the archers scattered wildly, and Thetos and his bodyguard were going in every direction in a blood lust. Bodies were piling up across the white slope, their lifeblood draining into the soil, staining the white with red.

  Slavis saw the desperate situation developing, as he had feared. A lack of infantry was costing him. “Sir, look, there!” his aide pointed, grabbing his arm in excitement. “That group of cavalry on their left – that’s Prince Argan!”

  Slavis stared in disbelief. “You sure?”

  “Yes – his standard. A youth!”

  Slavis drew his sword. “Signal the men – we ride them down. The battle is lost but we can still salvage something out of this. Kill that boy and then we ride to safety. The way is open behind them!”

  Thetos wheeled in delight. Slaughtering panic-stricken cloth-clad archers was the stuff of dreams. His sword dripped red. He turned full circle. No live rebels in his vicinity. Thunder. Cavalry charging downhill. “Oh shit!”

  His senior guard came riding up. “Sir! The prince!”

  “Damnit – that black-hearted demon has out-manoevuered me! Forget these archers, get as many men as you can, we’ve got to save Prince Argan!” Thetos dug his spurs in and his steed leaped forward, Thetos screaming in anger, and more than a little fear, his sword high above his head. Even as his equine bolted free of the scattered bodies, he knew he was too late.

  Argan looked uphill. “Look out!” he shouted, “enemy cavalry!”

  His bodyguard moved forward, shields raised. Kerrin swallowed. Swords were in their hands in an instant. Argan’s toughened steel sword, the best the imperial armouries could make, was in the prince’s grip, a familiar feeling, but now this was real and not a training exercise.

  Slavis’ men fitted arrows to their bows and bore down on the static group of armoured cavalry. They spread left and right, their superior numbers meaning they could flank the knot of guards on both sides. Arrows loosed and flew at the group from three directions.

  Argan winced and ducked his head. One shaft glanced off his helmet, and his head rattled for a moment, then he looked left and right. Three men were down and two equines were screaming in pain as the deadly shafts found their soft bodies, spilling their riders.

  Having delivered their volley, the Hushir mercenaries now closed in, swords high. The bodyguard fought like men possessed, hacking at the enemy riders, putting their bodies in the way in an effort to protect Argan. Slavis blocked one blow and sank his blade into an exposed armpit, pushing the wounded man out of his saddle. The way in was clear to him.

  Kerrin saw the danger and moved forward, his sword raised. Slavis’ downward blow deflected off Kerrin’s blade, shaking the boy to his core, and Slavis’ follow up swipe was designed to cut Kerrin’s head off.

  Argan had seen the danger and had pushed forward, his own blade cutting down. Slavis’ second blow was blocked. Sparks flew. Argan felt as if his arm had been severed, the shock of the blow numbing his entire arm. He cried out in pain.

  Slavis roared in frustration. “Damn you children! Leave the fighting to the adults!”

  Kerrin slashed back in panic. This was so unlike any training session he’d partaken in. His blade almost caught Slavis out and the rebe
l leader dodged aside in haste.

  “That’s the last thing you do, kid!” he spat. He slapped Kerrin across the face with his free hand, knocking the boy off his saddle to lie stunned on the ground.

  Argan screamed in outrage. His numb arm was no good but his other arm was fine. His dagger was against his side and he released his grip on his reins and tore the knife out of its sheath. He ducked forward and slammed his blade up under Slavis’ helmet into his throat. The rebel leader gagged and clutched the weapon, dropping his own sword.

  At that moment Thetos arrived, sending the first Hushir he encountered off his mount minus his head. He slammed into the next few, hacking like a madman, screaming to Prince Argan to save himself. Thetos knew if Argan fell then his own life was forfeit.

  Argan had no intention of escaping. Half of his bodyguard were down, most of them to his front, and four Hushirs were smashing their way through toward him. Slavis had slid off his equine and was lying on the ground, Argan’s dagger sticking up out of his open throat. Kerrin staggered to his feet, trying to focus on what was going on.

  “’Rin, get behind me!” Argan yelled, his sword arm now not so numb. He slapped his steed with the flat of his blade. The beast leaped forward, and Argan raised his shortsword, intending to save his friend.

  The four Hushirs were almost on him, but not moving very fast. The fight to get through the bodyguard had killed any momentum and one was flailing at the dying efforts of a bodyguard who was trying to stop them getting past.

  Argan assessed their armour and weaponry. Light cavalry, built for speed and agility. Light armour, leather, padded or cloth. Swords, not heavy, slightly curved in the manner of such skirmish troops. They had longer reach than Argan but Argan was covered in decent armour and his equine was heavier. The years of learning how to avoid the combat training devices came to him.

  The first Hushir raised his sword high, his intention clear. Argan was to lose his head. The Koros prince was not in the mood to co-operate, however. He had no shield, but he now had his sword arm back in commission. The Hushir swept down, his teeth bared. Argan slapped the blow to one side with a gasp of effort, then backhanded his blade across the enemy’s throat. A splash of blood erupted from it and the mercenary twisted in his saddle and slid off onto the ground.

  The second came at him from Argan’s left. The now dead first Hushir’s equine was in the way and the man had to press past to get at Argan. The prince regained his balance and dug his spurs in. His beast leaped forward and Argan ducked as the swipe passed by his head. Hauling hard on the reins he brought the steed to a halt alongside the grunting Hushir and rammed his sword point through the man’s heart. As the Hushir grimaced and fell forward, Argan grabbed the man’s secondary weapon from his saddle holder, a long pointed dagger.

  The third came at him from behind and Argan wrenched the reins over, forcing his mount to turn side-on. The Hushir chopped down and Argan met the blow above his head with his sword and thrust forward with the stolen weapon, piercing the man’s throat.

  Kerrin stumbled groggily in his wake, trying to avoid the equines and falling men. Argan was a whirling storm, leaving destruction and devastation in his wake. One man crashed to the ground in front of Kerrin, his throat opened. Kerrin screamed, then jumped over him. He grabbed the man’s fallen sword and staggered towards his master who was trying to turn to meet the fourth and final attacker but he was too late, too tired and too far over to one side to effectively block the attack.

  A hefty blow to his side pitched Argan out of the saddle and the prince struck the ground with a numbing crash and he lay there winded. The Hushir wheeled, his swarthy, unshaven face twisted into a mask of hatred. He spat a torrent of Mazag at Argan and moved to finish off the helpless boy. Kerrin jumped forward and stood over Argan, sword in hand. “Try it, you filthy peasant!”

  The Hushir didn’t know what was said but he got the idea. Hacking at Kerrin he knocked the boy to his knees and with the third blow sent the sword flying off to one side. Smiling in triumph he brought his sword back for the final delivery.

  A battle sword flew through the air, wheeling lazily, and impacted on the Hushir’s back, shaking the man, halting his intentions in mid-blow. The first two handspans of steel protruded through his ribs out the front, and the man stared stupidly at it, before pitching off to lie alongside his intended victim.

  Kerrin, already on his knees, sank onto all fours and sobbed. All around there were bodies, mostly dead but some groaning in pain. Equines twitched here and there, some whinnying. The smell of spilt fresh blood was sickingly overpowering.

  Argan groaned and slowly rolled over onto his side. The Hushir lay quite dead alongside him, his eyes wide and unseeing, the sword a grotesque extra limb. An equine slowly walked up to him but all Argan could see were the black legs and hoofs. It snorted and the smell of the beast washed over Argan.

  “Are you alright, sire?” Thetos’ voice floated down to him.

  Argan looked up to see the concerned visage of the governor. “Yes, Governor, apart from an aching side. Thank you for saving my life.”

  Thetos dismounted. He planted a foot on the back of the man he’d cut down and pulled his sword free. It came out with a sucking noise. “Best I could do, young prince. They were on you before I could reach you. I apologise in leaving you undefended. Your guard acquitted themselves well, though.” He extended his gauntleted hand to help Argan up.

  The prince got to his feet, felt dizzy, then a flush of heat rose up and he bent over and vomited over a dead Hushir.

  Thetos slapped him on the shoulder in sympathy, then moved to help Kerrin up. “Brave move there, young Kerrin. I saw you stop his first two attacks.”

  Kerrin nodded, his face white. “But I couldn’t defend him properly, Governor.”

  Thetos eyed his arriving bodyguard. “Go make sure nobody comes our way. Check Captain Dukos is alright. The battle is over?”

  The bodyguard saluted. “Sir, they are fleeing, what’s left of them. We smashed them.”

  “Good work. Let’s clear this mess up.”

  Argan straightened, sniffing and spitting the acid taste out. “Ugh. Horrible.”

  Thetos passed him a water bottle. “That’ll help, sire. Rinse, spit, then swallow the next few mouthfuls. One always gets a thirst after a battle.”

  Argan nodded and complied. The soldiers were gathering around the piles of dead. Ten of the bodyguard had fallen but the others were gathering round and guarding the shaking prince, who was now sitting on an abandoned saddle. Kerrin groaned and sat on the ground by his side.

  Captain Durok turned up and saluted. “Sir. Our losses from the spears are forty-two.”

  “Very good Captain. Add five of my bodyguard and ten of Prince Argan’s. Their losses?”

  Durok turned to survey the scene of carnage. “I’ve done a quick totting up and it seems they lost about a hundred and forty dead, and over that number taken prisoner. More again fled.”

  “Let them go. Herd the prisoners together and get them to dig a grave for their soldiers. We’ll carry our fallen back to Turslenka. It’s only half a day’s march.” He looked at the two fifteen year olds. “Well, you’ve had your first battle. You both did very well indeed, and you survived. Learn fast, fight hard. Its nothing like practice, is it?”

  Argan grinned and shook his head. He grasped Kerrin’s shoulder. “C’mon, ‘Rin, let’s get our equines and weapons and mount up. I need a nice relaxing bath and massage.”

  Kerrin flexed his right arm. “It’s so painful when you block a blow!”

  “Indeed, young Kerrin,” Thetos nodded. “Remember, and learn to ride the blow, deflect rather than meet it straight on, at least until you’re as big as I!” he roared in mirth.

  Leaving the clearing up to the prisoners and a handful of men, the rest slowly made their way back to the city. Tired, bloodied and nursing a range of injuries, wounds and aches, the victors marched in and dispersed to their barracks.

  T
hetos went to his quarters to be tended to by Metila and to write a report for Astiras. Kerrin went to his quarters for a rest and clean up, and Argan opened the door to his own room. Amal was there, tidying up. She saw him leaning against the door frame, bloodied, sweaty, his hair loose and unkempt. “Oh! My lord! Are you hurt?” she came running over.

  The door closed behind him, blocking out the view of the two guards on duty. He allowed her to lead him over to the bed. Sitting down he began shaking. Amal unclipped the breastplate and it slid off along with the back. She ran her hands over the leather undertunic. “Argan – are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. “We were victorious – but it was brutal.” He shakily told her of the melee. His side did in fact hurt and when the tunic was removed and his wormspun undershirt dragged up over his head, there was a huge red and purple welt over his ribs. She unbuckled his boots, tugged them off, then untied the leather leggings and pulled them down and off his feet.

  Argan took hold of her wrist and pulled her up to him, then he lay down and pulled her close to him and he broke down, sobbing, the day’s emotions finally getting too much for him. Amal stroked his hair. “It’s alright, Argan, I’m here,” she kissed his wet hair.

  He pressed his face against her throat. “I don’t ever want to be without you, Amal. As I lay there on the ground I thought of you, and how devastated you would be if I died. And when I realised I had survived, my first thought was that I would be back here and holding you.”

  She smiled and pressed her cheek against his. “You are safe, and we are together, my lord.” She kissed his lips, then wiped away his tears. “You need a lot of care and attention. I shall get your bath, then I will take care of that,” she pointed to the bruise.

  “Nobody is going to separate us, Amal,” Argan said, looking into her brown eyes. “Nobody!”

  “And nobody will,” she nodded, smiling.

  ____

  The news of the victory near Turslenka was sent around Kastania, and a day of celebration was announced. Astiras granted Thetos two more bodyguards as a reward, a veteran warrior from the Bragal wars, and a shield bearer. The governor would now have a very special elite core of men with him.