Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  More noise rose from the council members. Isbel tapped the table irritably. “Admiral, like the army we cannot spare any funds currently to build up our navy.”

  “That is regrettable; what if the pirates of Romos decide to descend upon the coast of Bathenia, or Makenia? They are quite capable, and with but four ships there is little we can do! Merchant Tukk here has raised concerns over trade; the pirates are strangling it between Zipria and the rest of the empire. If this continues Zipria may well decide that independence is preferable to being part of an empire that cares nothing for it. If you think I am being dramatic, then go to Niksos and listen to the people there. I have, and they are not happy.”

  Isbel tapped on the table again, but this time it was Jorqel who spoke. “Admiral. Your concerns are noted and we thank you for them. My plans are to return Romos to the empire at the earliest opportunity and to smash these pirates once and for all, but I do not have the capacity yet to do so. I know we need a decent sized navy to counter any threat from Venn, but at the moment there simply are not the funds to do that. I have heard of rumblings of discontent from the west about the naval situation, so I do know that you speak the truth. Please understand that at present there are insufficient reserves in our coffers to pay for improvements. Once there are rest assured we’ll make some available for the navy.”

  The admiral shrugged. He’d given his furim’s worth and now it was down to the ruling House to address it. If they did not then the consequences of their actions – or inactions – were down to them, not to him.

  After the Council had broken up Elas Pelgion had sought out Amne who was with Jorqel, talking at the end of the chamber. “Prince Jorqel,” he inclined his head. “I am honoured to meet you.”

  Jorqel appraised the stern-faced man. He’d heard all about him from Amne and knew of his lack of humour, but he wondered just how much of the reputation he had was from Amne’s sharp tongue. He did think the two were ill-matched but it was none of his affair really; he had enough to think of with Sannia. “Lord Elas. Are you looking forward to the ceremony in seven days’ time?”

  “It is an important moment in the lives of the Princess here and myself, and also one of great importance to the empire. I shall do my duty to the best of my abilities.”

  Jorqel was taken aback by the blandness of the reply. There was little emotion he could discern either way, no enthusiasm or dread. It was – well, just like any old thing, such as doing up one’s laces. Was he really this passionless? “I’m sure you will do just that, Lord Elas. As a brother to your future wife, I would also be reassured that you will do everything in your power to make her life a happy one.”

  “Prince Jorqel, there is more to an imperial marriage than happiness; the continuation of the dynastic line, the duty to the empire and an example to set to the general populace, to name but three.”

  “And there is more to a marriage than mere duty. I would not look favourably upon you should you make Amne’s life a miserable one. Bear that in mind, Elas. Now I must be about my duties, something I’m sure you’ll appreciate. Good day. See you later Amne,” he said and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He wandered off, hailing Admiral Drakan, leaving a thoughtful Elas alongside Amne.

  “That’s my brother,” she said to break the ice. She thought she might need a large axe to do so with Elas’ cold manner.

  “Indeed; his loyalty to you is commendable. I shall pledge my loyalty to him when the time comes, once he is emperor. You must understand that, Amne.”

  “Oh, I know that you’ll be loyal and dutiful,” the said airily, “first and foremost. That’s what you are.”

  “I detect an edge to your tone, Amne. Are you displeased with me? Was I not suitably respectful to your brother?”

  “Oh Elas! Did you not see he’s very protective of me? My happiness is his biggest concern at this moment, and it’s such a sweet thing for him to say! Aren’t your parents concerned with your future happiness?”

  “They have expressed nothing but delight and pride that we are to be wed. You will see that for yourself at the ceremony.” Elas looked sternly at Amne. “Do not concern yourself that I shall fail you in any way. I shall be a dutiful husband and serve the Koros as best as I can. Do you not see that my loyalty to the Koros is unshakeable?”

  Amne sighed. “Yes, Elas, I do see that. You will do all you can in your power to serve the Koros. But above all that I would much prefer it if you tried to please me, at least in some small way!”

  “Please you? I shall of course do that! Do not think of me as a cruel man, for cruelty is not my way. I serve the gods and the empire in equal measures. You represent part of our future, and you have no idea, do you Amne, just what a proud moment it was to me that you accepted my offer of marriage to you. That is my one regret in all of this; one day, hopefully, you will come to recognise just how much your hand is marriage means to me.” He took her hand, kissed it, then bowed and walked away, leaving Amne a very thoughtful woman indeed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Lorrus Ridge was a slight rise in the land that ran across the main road from Turslenka to Frasia. It rose the height of three equines in a definite ridge across the lay of the land. Far to the right lay the Aester Sea, out of sight from the road at that point, while to the left, in the distance, the terrain gradually rose in a series of hills, mostly covered in trees or scrub. The road itself climbed the ridge without deviating and then crested the top before running down the other side to the relatively flat ground beyond.

  There had been recent rain and the grass glistened with moisture as Astiras and his army took up their positions along the ridge top. His Hushirs were out ahead, constantly sending back reports of the advancing Duras force, while the rest were fully refreshed and prepared for the battle. In the front were the two companies of Bakran archers, dressed in cloth or leather armour or without any armour at all and merely wearing their mountain clothing. There was no uniformity to their attire, except they all had a sash of white and purple to denote whom they were fighting for.

  Behind these stood Astiras’ imperial spearmen, the backbone of his force. These were whom he was relying on to keep his line together, to face down whatever Duras would throw at them. They were dressed in the white and purple of Kastania and had imperial issue shields and spears, and cloth livery that overlaid their padded armour. Behind them Astiras and his bodyguard waited, the tactical reserve, ready to issue their shock charge whenever and wherever it was required.

  From the reports of the Hushirs, it seemed the Duras army outnumbered the imperial force. They had the usual squadron of lancers, that unit being under the direct control of Nikos Duras, and three companies of archers. These archers probably weren’t elite soldiers such as Kastania had in their armies, but were dangerous enough if massed and placed properly. What he did have were two companies of spearmen comprised of former soldiers and professionals, and were probably equipped similarly to Astiras’ two spear companies, and there was a third rebel spear company, made up of recent recruits so that they wouldn’t be that hard to face. However with a 3 to 2 advantage in both archers and spearmen, it was clear Duras had the edge in foot soldiers, whereas the emperor had better cavalry.

  Astiras also had chosen the battlefield and his men were rested, while the rebels were not.

  The emperor stood on the ridge in between the two lines of men, eating a light lunch. He’d expected the rebels to have been there by mid-morning but they had been delayed, most probably by the harassing Hushirs. He wasn’t worried; the longer they waited, the better his men were rested. They’d marched hard from Turslenka and had reached the ridge the late evening before, tired but pleased they’d done so. Teduskis scratched an itch under his arm. He disliked the waiting, it made him nervous. “Hope they hurry up and get here so we can teach them a damned lesson,” he grumbled.

  Astiras grinned. “Patience, Teduskis; they’ll be here soon enough. See the dust on the horizon? I’m willing to bet that’s them or our Hu
shirs. Won’t be long now, mark my words.”

  “Aye, sire, but it’s the waiting I can do without. As I get older I don’t seem to get any better at it!”

  “I can’t see you retiring,” the emperor commented. “You’d be intolerable. Lucky you’re not married or I’d pity your woman.”

  “I may need one not long into the future, sire, to look after me in my old age. Perhaps some fresh eighteen year old.”

  Astiras chuckled. “And the best of luck in that! Find some attractive forty-year old widow who would jump at the chance to have a man again, especially one as celebrated as General Teduskis, imperial army of Kastania!”

  “They don’t grow on trees, sire, especially one with the right attributes for me.”

  “Yes and we all know what they are!” Astiras said acidly. “Tell me, what is the nearest village to this place?”

  Teduskis looked round to the group of aides and assistants who accompanied them. “Any of you know this area?”

  “Sir,” one spoke, slapping his chest, “the village of Ipilli lies over the ridge to the left about four stadia away.”

  “Ipilli, eh?” Astiras said softly, “then let it be known that today is the Battle of Ipilli. Write it down,” he commanded the two scribes with him, messengers who would ride to Kastan City and Turslenka with the battle reports, no matter how the day went. Astiras wanted everyone to be informed of the battle as soon as possible. If it went his way, then it would be another victory to add to the glory of the Koros, which was something that couldn’t be said of his immediate predecessors. If things went badly he hoped a rapid message to his wife and Thetos Olskan would give them a head start in dealing with any pro-Duras or Fokis move in the wake of a Koros defeat, and more unthinkingly, his own death. Jorqel would take over at once and hold things together but it would be essential to get a message to him as soon as possible before the Duras got their supporters to act.

  Defeat, however, was not in the mind of Astiras. He’d won repeatedly with no matter how few men he had, and he was one of the best generals the empire had ever seen. It was one thing to win with countless hundreds of men, and another altogether to win with few. Nothing brought out the best in a general than adversity. Once more he and his force were outnumbered but that was nothing new. The biggest advantage he had was that he was facing a Duras, a House that had raised incompetence to an art form; Nikos, if he were a typical Duras, would have the tactical ability of a pile of equine droppings. He was amazed just how this family managed to keep going, given they had a touch that turned everything to shit.

  Teduskis slapped his gauntlets against his thigh and Astiras stole a fond look at his right hand man. All through those dark days of the aftermath of Zerika, Teduskis had been by his side. He really ought to reward him with something suitable, such as a farm or a small holding, or even an active nubile young woman. He needed something to look forward to in his latter years. Like Astiras, he was getting grey and old and it wouldn’t be too many years in the future that he would have to hang up his sword. Astiras would have to continue, of course, as a warrior-emperor people expected him to fight on, even if were too old to see further than his equine’s muzzle, but he would need a much more vigorous and stronger young bodyguard. Teduskis’ days on campaign with him were drawing to a close.

  “I see our Hushirs, sire,” Teduskis said suddenly and Astiras cursed, not having seen them before. Was his eyesight going, or was it he’d been too distracted by his thoughts to pay proper attention?

  “Get them to gather to the left,” Astiras said, throwing down the remnants of his lunch and making for his mount. He’d put the irregular mounted archers on his left flank to cover that vulnerable spot, so as to leave the flatter and more open terrain of the right free for him and his bodyguard to ride round and dominate that flank. It would be no good trying to gallop into a charge if one had to negotiate a more broken terrain.

  Astiras climbed into his saddle with a grunt of effort, and saw indeed the Hushirs riding hard for the ridge. Teduskis was waving at them to ride to their right, the imperial left, and they complied, their mounts blowing hard. Astiras trotted behind the lines to where the mercenaries were gathering, breathing with the effort of the hard ride. He sought out their Vogna, a fierce looking man called Remik, and spoke to him. “How many do they number?”

  Remik swilled his mouth out with water and spat it onto the ground, grimacing. “Over eight hundred of the fools. Nearly half are foot archers, peasants with little training and no armour. You should be able to put them on a spit for supper without trying!”

  “And the infantry?”

  “As good as your own infantry. Spears.”

  “No swordsmen, Remik?”

  “None. Just spearmen.”

  Astiras nodded in satisfaction. “And their leader, this Nikos Duras?”

  “Riding with lancers. Bad cavalry for my men but your guard should be able to rape them without any effort.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Vogna Remik. I thank you. Now you guard the flank here and stop those fools from trying to get round my infantry.”

  Remik grinned. “We shall send a cloud of arrows into their behinds.”

  “Good killing,” Astiras said and rode back to his own men, standing much more tensely now that the Duras army was coming into view, a long, straggling line of men moving along and to either side of the road. The first troops who came into view were Duras’ lancers and they stopped, regarding the line of men blocking their way to Turslenka with surprise.

  Nikos Duras sat in his saddle in dismay. “Where the demons of the underworld did these spring from? That’s the emperor’s banner! Is that Astiras Koros there?”

  His senior aide came up alongside and scanned the fluttering pennants and flags flying above the double line of men on the ridge top before them. “Yes, sire, I’m afraid to say it is he, with what looks like some of the Turslenkan Regiment and mercenary archers.”

  “Mercenary archers?” Duras snorted in disgust. “Dung dwellers from the Bakran Mountains, I’ll wager. They will flee as soon as we approach, the useless peasants. Remind me to burn their homes once we take control of Makenia.”

  “Yes sire. What of those irregulars who shadowed us? They stand off to the right.”

  Duras slapped his saddle in irritation. “I can see that, dolt! Paid lackeys who will flee once their paymaster lies dead at my feet. Arrange the archers to advance once they are here and lay down a curtain of shot to cover the advance of the spearmen. Send the spearmen in one mass up that ridge. One good charge should throw them back and then Astiras will be mine!”

  The aide looked doubtfully at the twin lines. “Sire, perhaps a frontal charge up the slope into their lines might not be the best…”

  He got no further. Nikos Duras snapped at him angrily. “Do as I say! Have I not trained these men all winter to defeat these canines? They have two companies of spearmen to our three, and two archers to our three! Numbers alone are on our side! All they have is that accursed bodyguard of that Koros fool, and once he is engulfed by my spearmen we shall sweep round to hit him in the rear and end this once and for all. Then I shall take the credit for ending the curse of the Koros, not my imbecile uncle!”

  The aide sighed and nodded heavily. It appeared that the defeat they had suffered three years ago on the road to Bragal hadn’t given the young Duras nobleman any caution or respect for an enemy. Still the same thoughtless head-on attack. As Duras rode out with two escorts, the aide turned to his men. “Be wary, men, we may be heading into a fool’s charge. Shields out front.”

  The slow approach of the rebel leader was watched carefully by the Kastanian army. Astiras snapped his fingers and one of his bodyguard produced the white parley flag. “Let us meet this vile piece of filth in front of our army. The rest of you,” he raised his voice, “keep a careful watch on the rebels as they arrive. I do not want any nasty surprise attacks.” He made his way through the archers who stepped aside respectfully, more out of a wi
sh not to get trampled on by the big heavy male equine he was riding than anything else. Twenty paces before the bottom of the slope he stopped and raised his visor, fixing the approaching trio of men with a contemptuous look.

  Duras stopped and regarded his old adversary. “I am disappointed you still live, eater of dung,” he said. “But there again, it would have meant I was denied the pleasure of slitting your ugly throat.”

  Astiras growled deeply. “You have a nerve, Duras, to speak to me such. I who have won more battles than you can count. It seems the hiding I dished out to you at Habrin has not been heeded. No matter, today I shall do the same and have you put on a leash and dragged all the way to Kastan City. You shall be my wedding gift to my daughter; no doubt she will find an appropriate kennel for you to snivel in for the rest of your hopefully short life.”

  “Your daughter, Koros, will be my personal slave, attending all my needs. She will come to learn that it is a Duras who is a real man,” he clutched his crotch as he spoke emphatically, “and not a pre-pubescent eunuch such as any Koros is! She will cry out for my touch at night, and I shall decide whether she be worthy of my loins or not.”

  Astiras’ face went red. “That does it, you feckless traitor. You shall be emasculated here on this battlefield. I shall feed you your manhood and you can wash it down with your own blood!”

  Duras sneered and spat on the ground. “I do not think there is any further point in exchanging pleasantries. Say what you wish you your men; they shall be corpses in a matter of moments. Good day.” He turned away, contemptuously turning his back on the emperor, a deliberate insult, and Astiras gestured angrily to his men to return to the top of the hill. As he passed Teduskis he stopped. “As soon as the men are ready, advance to bowshot range and begin shooting.”