Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  The three squadrons now shot arrow after arrow into the grimly advancing spearmen, joined in by those imperial archers away from the melee. The line of the rebel spearmen extended beyond the limits of the foot archers of Jorqel’s army, so they were clearly visible to half of the imperial bowmen.

  Jorqel hacked at another lancer who had struck the prince’s shield, and the lancer shied away from the raging Koros heir. Jorqel was not going to allow these creatures that were less than men to deny him reuniting with Sannia. The lancer screamed as Jorqel’s blade found his guts, slicing up under his guard and shield and tearing through the lamellar armour. The rebel doubled up and fell forward onto the ground with a crash.

  Bodies littered the ground which was cutting up and becoming wet with blood, equine urine and other bodily fluids. The air was full of screams, the clashes of weapon on weapon and men grunting and cursing. Lombert parried one cut from his opponent and slid his blade forward, in under the armoured man’s armpit and cut into his ribs. The bodyguard cried out and twisted as he fell, blood splattering over Soul’s blade. Lancer after lancer was falling and Soul needed space to assess the battle. “Withdraw!” he shouted.

  His surviving men pulled away, following their leader, and they got enough space to be able to turn and gather their strength. Only twenty remained from an initial eighty-one, and only one of Jorqel’s men had fallen. The Kastanian armour had been too strong. Lombert sucked in a deep lungful of air and watched as his line of spearmen staggered up the slope, wilting under a hail of arrows. It was madness; arrows hit them from three directions and the spearmen’s progress was marked by a mass of bodies, covered in shafts. Men sank to their knees in pain or span round to topple lifelessly to the messy hillside.

  “Come on, one last charge!” Soul snapped, knowing this was his last chance. He would not flee like a coward. He knew it was do or die. With a cheer, the twenty lancers broke into a charge across the slope, angling towards the end of the line of archers who were beginning to peel away in fright.

  Jorqel, having made sure his men were ready, waved them to follow and they charged across the hill right into the lancers who had just reached the bowmen. A wild-eyed man ran past Jorqel just as the prince reached his pursuer, cutting through his arm and sending the limb flying up into the air. The lancer rode on for a few steps, then, realising his arm had gone, fell to the ground, his body numbed with the shock of it.

  Lombert Soul smashed at one bodyguard but his blade was blocked by a shield and then he came face to face with Jorqel. The prince bared his teeth in delight behind his visor and slashed down hard. Soul blocked it but the blow sent shockwaves down his arm. He was slow in getting his sword up to stop the next attack and he received a heavy blow across the face that stunned him, knocking his helmet off his head. His vision swimming, he tried to pull his reins round but Jorqel sent his blade down again from high above his head and cut deeply into the rebel leader’s neck.

  Blood spurted up and Soul clutched his wound, releasing both reins and sword, and his mount whirled in fright. Without any purchase and totally disorientated, Soul fell off and lay on his back, staring up at the sky, the sound of battle gradually fading. His vision was filled with an immense pair of equine nostrils and, looking up the long neck, the bloodied and pitiless figure of Jorqel holding a dripping sword. Lombert Soul smiled ironically and his vision faded.

  “They’re running!” Gavan shouted in delight, looking down the hill at the spearmen who had taken too much, and the cutting down of their leader had been the last straw. They flung away their shields and spears and scattered in all directions. The archers loosed off at their backs until Jorqel snapped to them to cease. They were no longer an army, they were a leaderless rabble, and that was the end of matters. He raised his visor and looked at the carnage.

  All up the slope men lay dead or dying, the cries of pain filling the air. The smell of blood and upturned earth pervaded everywhere. Riderless equines stood forlornly by their fallen masters, nuzzling them, or sniffing the unfamiliar smells coming from their broken bodies. The prince lifted off his helm and sighed deeply. It was done. Victory was his. He began to walk his mount across to a clear patch, and the men began cheering, waving their swords or bows in the air, acclaiming their leader. Jorqel waved a gauntleted hand in acknowledgement as he approached Demtro, who had watched in fascination at the fight. The mounted archers were riding in gently, pleased at their part in the victory.

  “Gavan, see to the tally,” Jorqel said, sliding off his saddle. “Well, merchant, how was your first battle?”

  “I trust it is my last, sire,” Demtro said, awe written over his face. “Battles are not for the likes of me.”

  Jorqel grunted. He felt the elation of battle ebbing from him and it was now being replaced by concern for Sannia. “We must act swiftly. You mount up and be ready to accompany us to the rebel camp. I have little doubt one of those who has fled will be taking the news back to them. My betrothed’s life is in danger.”

  “As are those of my brother and woman.”

  Jorqel nodded. He turned to face his men. “Men of Kastania. You have won a great victory here today. The traitorous Lombert Soul lies dead on the battlefield and his rebellion has died with him. The people of this empire can now go about their daily lives free from the scourge of these rebels, and it is to you whom they will be grateful. You can hold your heads up with pride and say that you put your lives in danger for the good of the empire and those who live within it. Victory!” he raised a fist to the sky.

  The men echoed the last word in exultation. Some were bloodied; they had received wounds and now turned to get them seen to, either from themselves, or from their comrades. Gavan loped over to the prince. “Sire, only fifteen dead. Eleven foot archers – Lombert Soul’s lancers got at them before we could stop it, three mounted archers from the enemy bowmen, and poor Lankat of our own bodyguard.”

  “I saw Lankat killed; Lombert Soul did it before I despatched that cur. Arrange for his head to be taken to Niake and mounted over the main gate. What of the enemy?”

  Gavan glanced at a scruffy piece of parchment. “Over six hundred and fifty slain. We think around eighty fled. We have eight prisoners, sire.”

  “Hang them here. Send a messenger to Niake informing them of the victory, and instruct the governor to hang the prisoners he has, as well as mounting Soul’s head from the Aconia Gate. Bring me the message and I shall sign and seal it. Make it fast; I wish to be on my way as soon as possible.”

  Gavan saluted and moved away. Jorqel beckoned Deran to him. The swarthy renegade Tybar loped up to the prince and knelt, bowing low. He was smiling, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “A great victory, sire.”

  “With thanks to you and your mounted archers. They acquitted themselves well. Take the news of the victory back to Kastan City, and take the three fallen so they can be honoured properly in the capital.”

  “It shall be done. I noted where some improvements can be made to our tactics and will work on them, sire.” The heavily accented words were still hard for Jorqel to understand at once.

  Jorqel waved him off and lastly turned to the imperial bowmen captains. “Take the next ship to Efsia and take news of our victory to Slenna. I shall be returning via the road after dealing with the camp. Arrange for the castle to be decorated in triumph.”

  The archer officers bowed and called their men together. It was to them the clearing up of the mess was to fall. The rebels would be burned while the twelve Kastanian slain that were not being returned to Kastan City were to be buried. The name of the valley was Gamrap.

  After signing the three messages and sealing them, Jorqel called his bodyguard to him and, signalling to Demtro to keep up, began galloping off along the valley back in the direction the rebels had come from. He had to get to the rebels before they could carry out their promise to slay Sannia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The peace of the rebel camp was shattered by the thundering hoof
beats of the lone rider who came through the canyon past the startled guards and skidded to a halt almost opposite where Zonis’ cave was. The equine was foaming at the mouth, sweat-streaked and clearly spent. The rider was similarly exhausted, and his face was etched in pain. He panted for breath, his mouth open, his hair plastered wetly across his scalp.

  Guards came running over to him, concerned. Zonis stood by the entrance of the cave alongside Kimel, silently watching and listening. Almost sub-consciously his left hand touched the smooth side of his wardrobe and he leaned against it, as if needing the support.

  “All is lost,” the messenger gasped, grasping the arm of the nearest man who had come to him. “We were wiped out! The boss was killed! Get Captain Wottek at once!”

  Zonis sighed and passed Kimel his pipe. “Here, you may as well keep this; I won’t be needing it anymore.” As Kimel took it wordlessly, his face expressing wonder, Zonis opened the wardrobe door and felt for a small ledge high up to the right. His fingers found it and he lifted up the false inner panel and threw it aside onto the rocky floor. Revealed inside the secret panel was a gleaming sword, resting in specially made wooden clips and mounts. He lifted it out and took it in both hands, his face grim. “Ah well, all good things must come to an end,” he said, walking into the full daylight and closing in on the knot of people surrounding the messenger who had slid off the saddle and was standing shaking, getting his breath back.

  “They knew where to find us,” the messenger said, then caught sight of Zonis as he raised his sword high into the air. The three guards began to turn as Zonis’ first blow slashed through the messenger’s neck, separating his head from his body.

  The guards took a few heartbeats to realise what was going on. Blood splattered out and the lifeless torso of the messenger collapsed to the ground, his head bouncing with a sickening sound a few paces away. Zonis swung the sword up without hesitation. The upswing took the blade through one guard’s throat, opening it to the air, sending arterial blood spraying over his comrades’ clothing.

  Shocked, the second guard fumbled for his sword but Zonis was already chopping down, stepping forward rhythmically, pace, swing, pace, swing. His blow took the guard across the chest, smashing his ribs in. The man screamed and staggered back, his lungs filling with blood. The last guard’s face twisted in fury and hate, and he pulled his sword free just in time for Zonis to swing his blade up under the guard’s into his guts. The guard sucked in his breath and doubled up.

  Zonis stepped away, his face grim. He walked towards the caverns at the far side of the clearing, knowing the call for Wottek had gone out. He had to get to Clora and Sannia before Wottek did. As he strode away, leaving a scene of carnage behind him, Kimel shook his head slowly in amazement. “Scary.”

  Shouts came to Zonis from above; the patrolling crossbow-carrying guards had seen the slaughter and realised that the lone swordsman was not on their side, after all. There were two guards, all that were spared from the army that had set out with Lombert Soul. Zonis couldn’t run – his lungs were too badly gone to allow that, so he walked as fast as he could towards the cavern entrance, now guarded by one man. The other had obviously gone into the passages to find Wottek.

  A bolt narrowly missed Zonis and he flinched. It struck the ground and skidded away noisily. He strode on purposefully, his eyes fixed on the one guard ahead of him who was slowly drawing his sword from his sheath, the shock on his face showing just how much he couldn’t believe Zonis’ sudden turn against the rebels.

  A blow struck Zonis hard on the upper back, just below his left shoulder blade. He staggered and his knees almost buckled, but he refused to allow himself the luxury of falling flat on his face. The bolt had gone in deep and was lodged in between two ribs. It was agony, but he was used to pain, and he stumbled on. The guard stepped forward, wondering whether he needed to cut the wounded man down, but Zonis surprised him and swung hard. The guard inexpertly raised his blade but he was too late. He sank to his knees, his sword clattering to the ground, trying to keep his guts from spilling out through his fingers.

  Zonis gritted his teeth and entered the caverns. He hoped he wasn’t too late. His feet were getting heavy but he forced himself on, trying to ignore the knifing agony of the bolt in between his ribs. The passageway widened and he bounced off one wall and collided roughly with the opposite one. Ahead was the door to Lombert Soul’s chamber and a man was standing in the open doorway, his back to the passage.

  Within the chamber Captain Wottek had just entered, his face red with fury. “Time to get out of here, Martha,” he said to Clora harshly. “Get your things. We’re done for if we remain here. Just let me kill this Koros whore first!” He produced a small set of keys and selected a small iron one, stepping forward towards Sannia’s cage.

  “No!” Clora cried out, “you’re not going to kill her!”

  Wottek stared with disbelief at her. “What? My orders are clear! She dies! Silence, witch, and do as I tell you!”

  “I’m not going with you, you horrible, ugly stupid man! I hate you!”

  Wottek couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You what? You said you loved me! Have you been lying all this time?”

  Clora stood defiantly before him, her fists clenched by her side. “I never loved you! Zonis wanted me to make you think that so you would help us!”

  “Us? Us?” Wottek’s face went hard and malevolent. He swung his arm and caught Clora across the face, knocking her over onto the rug. “Us? You’re a Koros spy? Then I shall kill you, too!”

  The guard by the door gasped and staggered forward. Wottek and Sannia looked at him in surprise. The guard was staring in stupefaction at a length of steel that protruded from his chest. It was jerked free and Zonis released the man’s neck, allowing him to crash to the ground. Sannia sucked in her breath as she saw the pain-wracked figure of the man step unsteadily into the room.

  Wottek dropped the keys to the floor and drew out his own blade. “So, now all becomes clear. You traitor!”

  Zonis coughed blood onto his cloth, and he angrily ripped it free of his face. His lips were red. No more wearing that shameful indicator of how ill he was. He stood before Wottek, his body aching, fire in his lungs and throat, the almost unbearable pain from the crossbow bolt in his ribs. “I’m no traitor, you fool. It is you who is guilty of treason. Call yourself a captain? You insult the rank.” He breathed in rapidly. His breath was failing him.

  “I am a captain! I have more rank than you, you stupid old man!”

  “I am a general. General Zonis Kalfas. I commanded thousands of men at one time, more than you’ll ever see.”

  “You’re nobody, whatever your name is. Once I kill you then I shall rape this whore here, slice her throat, then rape this other one for good measure before killing her, too! Then I’ll get away before your cowardly friends arrive!”

  “Shut up and get on with it, then. I tire of your bragging. You speak as stupidly as you look.”

  Wottek screamed in outrage and swung with all his might. Zonis deflected the blow up almost without effort, then, while the rebel captain was trying to plant his left leg firmly to enable him to bring his sword back down, punched the man full in the stomach. Wottek’s leather tunic couldn’t soften the blow and he doubled up, retching. Zonis slammed the pommel of his sword down onto Wottek’s neck, stunning him. Then he reversed his sword and sent it straight down into the rebel’s neck, in between the collarbone and spine. Zonis pressed down with all his fading strength, sinking to his knees as the blade sank in deeper, plunging down into Wottek’s body, cutting through lungs and then the stomach.

  Wottek was unable to scream. He was pinned to the ground and he vaguely felt the blade pass into his body, then everything went black. Zonis released his sword and the blood-spattered corpse of Wottek fell flat on the now messy rug. He was spent; he could feel the strength ebbing from him and he sank back against a set of drawers and sat there listlessly, blood dribbling out of his mouth. He’d done it
. His mission was over.

  Sannia was sobbing in her cage. Her head was shaking, as if to deny what had happened before her very eyes. Clora slowly recovered, levering herself up on shaking arms, and she looked round at the bloody scene. “Zonis?”

  The man’s eyes switched from the draining body of Wottek to her. He smiled crookedly. “Let her out,” he croaked. “I can’t move.”

  Clora gasped and slid over to him, but he flapped a weak hand at her. ”Go get her out. I’m beyond help.”

  At that moment more men came riding into the camp through the narrow canyon. Armoured men and others. They spread out as they arrived and saw a pile of bodies off to the left, and one man standing close to them. High up, the two men with crossbows turned and fled, not wanting to get into a fight with a squadron of imperial cavalry.

  “Check that man there,” Jorqel snapped to one of his men. He looked about the place. Evidence of many men having been trained were all about. Caves dotted the edges of the clearing.

  Two men dragged a wild-eyed Kimel over to an impatient Jorqel. “You,” the prince jabbed a gauntleted finger at the man, “where are they keeping my woman? Sannia Nicate. Where?”