Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  “Sire, we are on the heights! We would give up the advantage!”

  Astiras swung in his saddle and waved at the still assembling rebel army. “And they are not yet fully formed. Hit them now before they get organised!”

  Teduskis saluted. “You heard him,” he snapped to the archers, “advance downhill to arrow range and give it to them! Spears, advance three paces behind the archers and be ready to attack! Go!”

  The imperial force advanced downhill, and the Hushirs followed after a signal from Astiras. The emperor waited for the rest of his bodyguard to meet him, then he guided them to a position halfway down the slope and far enough away to be out of enemy bowshot range. To the left the Hushirs, their blood up, galloped down the slope and across it, fixing their arrows to their bows. Teduskis tutted. “The fools are going too far and too soon!”

  Astiras grunted. “Not a problem; they’re not Kastanians and if they get hit, then at least it’s not my men that’s being attacked! And the more of them that die, the less gold I have to pay out on them as a reward!”

  “True,” Teduskis admitted, then fixed his attention to the front. They had a panoramic view of the battlefield. Below them, over the heads of the front two ranks, the rebels were frantically running into their set formations, already in range of the Bakran archers who had stopped and were fitting the first of their missiles to their bows. Captains screamed orders, sergeants tugged frightened looking men into line roughly, even kicking one or two of the slower ones to speed them on their way.

  The first volley from the Hushirs came arcing down onto the deploying rebel force, striking the archer company closest to them. Men staggered, some fell onto their faces, others sank backwards to lie in the dirt. As the Hushirs wheeled to return in the opposite direction, and to loose off a second shot, the Duras archers opened up themselves. It was not an organised volley, but a staggered, hurried sequence of shots. Five equinemen fell and the Hushirs scattered widely, hoping to make themselves harder to hit. They continued loosing off arrows, but now less frequently.

  Nikos Duras waved his sword frantically. Those Koros lap-canines had no idea of the rules of war! They should have stayed where they were, but perhaps their impatience was a good thing, for it meant that now the ridge was not a hindrance to his men and they could attack at a run. “Shoot! Loose off! Kill them!”

  The rebel archers raised their bows again, some shooting to the right, the rest straight ahead. This time though, they blanched in fear as what seemed the entire sky was filled with arrows from the Bakran archers. It fell in a deadly hail and the unarmoured and unprotected rebel bowmen staggered en masse, their line seemingly melting as men were cut down in swathes.

  “Kill those damned archers!” Nikos Duras screamed. He turned to his aides. “Get the spearmen to charge their lines now!”

  As the exchange of arrows went on, it was clear that the Bakran archers had the range and the accuracy over their rivals, even though they were outnumbered. Some of the Bakran mercenaries fell to the rebel arrows, but more of the militia bowmen in the Duras army were hit. They were shooting in two directions as well, so that the exchange in shot between the two main groups began evenly, but soon was favouring the imperial force. Arrows stuck in the ground like some odd growth sprouting from the ground, and suddenly the main Duras force advanced through the lines of their own archers and advanced towards the bottom of the slope where the Bakran mercenaries were.

  “Get the archers out of there now; switch places with the spears,” Astiras snapped to his signaller. The man blew two blasts on his horn and the archers scampered back through the lines of the spearmen to safety, although a number of them lay where they had been, either still or moving feebly. The emperor fixed his teeth in a snarl. “Now, spears, advance and charge!”

  Three blasts, and the imperial spearmen cheered, levelled their weapons, and broke into a run straight at the advancing three companies of the Duras army. There came a deep crashing sound and cries of men filled the air along with splintering wood and grunts as men took hits, either from shields or spears. The archers, in relative safety, now raised their bows and began peppering each other over the melee. Heat rose from the struggling line of men, and it appeared as if it were a thing alive, writhing back and forth.

  Arrows came arcing over and began striking the Bakran archers again. Astiras made a decision. “Leave the spearmen to fight it out; we have time to finish this now. Follow me!” With a cheer, the bodyguard set off, sliding obliquely across the lower part of the ridge and round the end of the battling line of spearmen. Here men were pushing hard, trying to thrust the other back, but neither was giving way. The militia spear company saw Astiras coming and broke into rout, fear gripping them. They did not wish to face such a man and had not received sufficient training to make them confident. They flung away their spears and left their more experienced comrades to face the imperial infantry.

  Astiras pointed his sword at the archers who were reloading and waiting to deliver yet another volley. The enemy were wavering, having received terrible losses already, and a thundering sound suddenly filled their ears and the ground shook. Alarmed, they looked to the left and their hearts stopped. Astiras and his bodyguard galloped towards the archers, lances levelled, and the archers turned to flee, but had nowhere to go.

  Astiras yelled in glee as they bore down on the helpless bowmen. His sword cut down across the back of the first man he crossed, and the man crashed face-first into the earth, bouncing once before coming to an untidy halt. He guided his equine into the back of another, sending him bowling over, and with another half-circle of a blow cut through the neck of yet another.

  Nikos Duras paled as he saw his archers being butchered. “Sire, sire,” his aide asked, gripping the reins tightly, “shall we attack and help our men?”

  “Ah,” Duras hesitated, watching the butchery unfold, “n-no, we must flee!”

  His aide looked aghast at him. “Sire, you would not leave your men to die like this? We must charge, now!”

  Duras turned his mount round, his face twisting with fury. “You have all betrayed me again, you traitors! Giving me cowards for soldiers, failing to train them sufficiently, picking the wrong place to fight! I should have you all put to death!” He jabbed his spurs into the flanks of his beast and it galloped off away from the battle.

  The aide grimly looked to his lancers. “We have been let down by our so-called leaders. I do not expect mercy from the emperor. Scatter and good luck to you all – may the gods look after you! Go!” Even as the lancers broke to flee in any direction away from the fight, the Hushirs closed and began sending arrows into their ranks. Three lancers cried out and toppled from their saddles, encouraging more of them to gallop away as fast as they could.

  Astiras was in his element, hacking down time and time again at the wildly fleeing archers. Equines circled the terrified men and the body count grew. Blades were covered in blood and there was no thought of surrender, for the confusion of men and beast made the possibility of being able to stand still and be seen to surrender impossible. The Bakran archers had ceased loosing arrows and now were watching as the lines of spearmen pushed and shoved at one another, still straining to better the other.

  Then, almost like a spreading fire, the spearmen in the rebel force realised all was lost and they had been abandoned by their cavalry and leader, and began peeling away from the melee, unravelling like a ball of wool. The spearmen in the imperial force cheered and began chasing their adversaries, trampling over the bodies of the fallen, leaving the dead and wounded to the others to check over.

  The surviving archers fled into a nearby wood and Astiras called his men to order, realising the battle was over. He raised his visor and looked around, breathing heavily. “Well? Where is that porcine Duras?” he bellowed. “Has he fled yet again?”

  “Aye, sire, he ran like a whipped canine,” one of his captains said, saluting. The man was covered in sweat and blood and was sucking in deep lungfuls of air. �
��He abandoned his army to your mercy and his lancers scattered across the land in his wake.”

  “What route did he take?”

  “The Kalkos road, sire.”

  “Damn his black heart,” Astiras raged. “Teduskis, gather a squad of thirty of my men and ride them to Kalkos! Arrest or kill anyone supporting the Duras, and if you can get hold of that cur, then I want his head. Understand me?”

  “Sire,” Teduskis nodded and began shouting out names to accompany him on the chase. Astiras lowered his dripping blade and looked at the bodies lying all over the ground. They were in clumps and groups, and here and there an equine lay. He waved to one of his men who was remaining with him. “Go find from the captains how many we lost. Organise a gathering of the bodies; usual thing, burn the traitors in one pile, separate graves for our men.”

  The man saluted and moved away. Astiras caught sight of one of his bodyguard lying on the ground, his equine standing over him, head down in an almost mournful manner. An arrow protruded from the man’s throat. He must have been taken out during the chase by a desperate archer. He shook his head sadly and began cleaning his sword. Now the adrenaline of battle had gone, he noticed his back was stinging. Sweat was soaking into those damned scratches that witch Metila had left. He felt a twist of worry in his guts; if he still had those marks when he got to Kastan City, he’d have to plead tiredness or pain or some other damned excuse not to make love to his wife. He wondered again why he had so readily succumbed to the temptation. Perhaps the witch had placed a spell on him?

  The Hushirs came up to him, their faces grim and drawn. Remik came up to the emperor, a look of bitterness on his features. “Our losses have been high, Landwaster. Placing us in such an exposed position drew the enemy to us like insects to the flame!”

  “You charged too soon, Vogna. In doing so you made yourselves the prime target. Your task was to cover the flank, not to get involved in a shooting match with an enemy four times stronger than you! Let that be a lesson to you and your men.”

  Remik waved curtly in the air, his hand cutting down sharply. “Bah! We do not care for Kastanian rigid tactics! Our time with you is at an end; if you wish to keep your throne any further then you can do it without the blood of my men! Where is our gold?”

  “Gold you received in Bragal, remember? It was for the campaign. The campaign is at an end therefore I release you from your contract. You are free to return to Mazag. You can go south-west into Bragal and then take the Bukrat road.”

  Remik bunched his fists. “You promised us gold in defeating the enemy! Are you a man who goes back on his word? Do we return to Mazag and tell everyone you are not a man whose word is to be trusted?”

  “I care not,” Astiras said harshly, waving his remaining bodyguard to close in. The Bakran archers began to gather, too, sensing something was not right. The remaining fifty Hushirs nervously shifted in their saddles and eyed the gathering crowd around them. “Take your fallen – they should be given the appropriate burial of your customs rather than that of Kastania. You have been paid well in advance – do not give us a wrong impression that Hushirs are brigands and thieves.” He knew too well, as did everyone there, that the Hushirs were just that.

  Remik snarled and gestured angrily to his men to pick up their fallen. Those equines that were still in a fit state to move were gathered and the Mazag irregulars gathered one last time behind him. “Do not count on hiring any more of us in your empire. We return to Mazag where we will be better treated with gold! Farewell, Landwaster – for the last time!”

  The Hushirs galloped off towards Bragal, leaving the Kastanians and Bakran mercenaries on the field. The bodyguard who’d been assigned to gather the casualty tally came up to Astiras, saluting. “Sire, ninety-three dead, not including the Hushirs.”

  The emperor grunted. “They lost thirty. Idiots! Imbeciles who had no discipline. They deserved such heavy losses. Ninety-three amongst the rest, eh? Could have been worse, I suppose. Split?”

  The bodyguard consulted a torn piece of parchment he was holding with rough blackstick marks on it. “Sire, forty-two Bakran archers, one bodyguard and fifty spearmen.”

  “Hmmm, Thetos is going to have to recruit men to replace them fairly soon. Very good, lad. Go get some rest and a meal.”

  The bodyguard moved off. Astiras dismounted and led his equine over to where the first of the water troughs were being set up by the men. While he saw to his animal, he got the tally of dead from his captains of the rebel force. Seven hundred and twenty-nine had been killed, most of them fleeing as was usual in battle, but over a hundred and fifty had escaped. All the wounded enemy had been put to death as per his orders. The wounded Kastanians were being tended to and many would be fine, having arrow wounds in arms and so on, or gashes in non-vital places.

  Astiras was satisfied and called his captains to him. “I am pleased with the victory,” he told them, “and another step towards the return of the greatness of the empire. You can take with you to your homes the knowledge you have helped crush the Duras menace to Makenia and the east. Those of you from Turslenka, you can return there on the morrow, and you will be feted as heroes. I have already sent a message to your governor and he will prepare for the welcome you deserve!”

  The two captains concerned nodded in satisfaction. That was what they had wanted to hear. Astiras turned to the two Bakran captains. “And to my mercenary men of the mountains, I thank you wholeheartedly for your courageous part in this victory; it is sad that it cost you so many of your brave men. Rest assured your men will be buried here with full honours and a marker will be erected here mentioning your men. Any of your people who pass by this point in the future can stop and rest here and be proud that their people helped end the scourge of a monster who threatened both our peoples.”

  The captains inclined their heads slowly. To be recognised by a Kastanian emperor in this way was unusual; in the past they had been hunted and chased away from the fertile valleys of their mountain ranges. Now they felt they could finally live in relative peace, provided the Koros remained on the throne of Kastania.

  “You, too, are free to return to your homes. You may return the way you came and once more benefit from the hospitality of Turslenka’s merchants and…ah…women.” The Bakran officers smiled and exchanged knowing looks. Their loins had been more than sated the last time they had stayed outside the city. It had cost them a fair amount of their money, but it had been worth it – provided of course, their wives didn’t find out.

  Astiras had achieved his wish. He’d ended the Duras threat to the east and had now disbanded his army, thereby saving any further cost to the treasury. The spearmen would return to Turslenka, the Hushirs were on their way back to Mazag and the Bakran archers were returning to their mountains. He would continue on towards Kastan City with only his own bodyguard.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Turn! Stand! Brace! Advance! Wheel! The commands went on and on endlessly, echoing across the bowl of the rebel camp. Zonis was suffering, the repeated barking cruelly inflaming his lungs and windpipe. There were few instances now that he wasn’t coughing up blood. He had to continue, however, and he knew it was his last job. He didn’t have too long to live as the disease dug its claws deeper and deeper into him. Part of him raged at the injustice of it all, and part of him wished it would hurry up and end it all. He was getting tired of the pain and discomfort.

  The recruits had been drilled mercilessly, and they, too, were tired of the marching up and down across what had become the ‘parade ground’, which was no more than a worn out muddy patch of bare earth where the grass had been worn away by the hundreds of feet being put through their paces. They knew though, how to face armoured cavalry and how to deal with it. Zonis had made it clear to them that a battle against Prince Jorqel would involve the charge of the heavy equines led by him personally, so if the spearmen could deal with him and defeat him, then the battle could be won.

  Lombert Soul had watched from the cave mouth
on occasions and approved of what he saw. He was pleased with the two newcomers, ‘Sinoz’ for his professionalism and military knowledge, and the beautiful and sensual ‘Marta’ for pleasuring him at night. She was good, very very good, in fact, and he thought she might even be able to make a living out of the pleasure business. He pondered on that, but dismissed the possibility of hiring her out; he had no wish to share this stunning girl with anyone. Once he controlled Niake, then he would install himself as Duke of Bathenia and make Marta a duchess.

  The Duras plan to turn all within Niake into mindless addicts was yet to show any progress, but the rebel leader knew that the leaf had been delivered over the walls. He had agents and contacts in the city and they had done their job well. All they had to do now was to convert the dry leaf into the easily sold form to smoke and give it away free. By the end of the spring Niake would be a mindless wasteland and all he had to do was to walk in and take the city. All the addicts would be slain; they would be useless and a burden on the new Bathenia he wished to rule. He would also destroy all remaining stocks of the leaf for he did not wish any of his men to fall to the temptation.

  Clora had struck up a close friendship with the captive Sannia. She thought the noblewoman was so beautiful; it was no surprise she was to be Prince Jorqel’s wife. She was envious of the things Sannia told her of about her home in Lodria and of what the Prince had said and what he looked like. Clora’s wish to meet the imperial family grew. To her, they were a semi-mystical people.

  Sannia cultivated her friendship with the red-haired Clora – or as she was called by the others, Martha. Sannia had been shocked when Clora informed her she was working for the imperial administration in Niake, and Sannia asked her to get word out to her betrothed that she was safe and well. Clora, given the freedom of the chambers during the day in order to clean them and make them presentable, agreed to pass on the message. She had surreptitiously done so to Zonis during one of their meetings. Zonis had insisted he continue to meet with his ‘niece’ as part of his contract in training up the rebel forces, and Lombert couldn’t see the harm in it. He saw ‘Sinoz’ as no threat, and realised the man was dying. Oddly, ‘Martha’ seemed unaware of the fact.