Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  Panat gripped his sword tightly and crouched low, ready to spring forward. He knew it would be suicide but he had to try. Suddenly Argan was up, breaking free of Kerrin’s grip, and ran round the wagon to the road. Instantly bowmen swung their aim to the small figure emerging from behind cover and strings quivered. The boy ran to his mother’s side and gripped her arm, pressing close to her.

  Another man appeared, a tall man with a beard and long hair down past his shoulders. He carried a war club which was resting over one shoulder. He was confident that his archers would cover any foolhardiness from the people by the wagons, and he had little fear from the woman and child before him. He walked slowly up to the two and stopped, surveying the pair slowly.

  “The empress and her son?” he queried, his accent clearly not that of Kastan. “With no escort? I do not believe that.”

  Isbel placed an arm around Argan protectively. “We are who we say. Why do you attack travellers on this road?”

  “We own this land. Nobody passes without my permission.”

  “This is Makenia, and you certainly do not own it!”

  The brigand laughed. Two more men came up, carrying axes and wearing a mixture of padded and leather accoutrements. He spoke to them rapidly. One of the newcomers replied briefly.

  Isbel frowned. “What are you saying?”

  Argan stirred. “They want to see evidence that you are empress, mother.”

  Isbel slowly looked down at Argan in shock. “How-how did you understand them? You have not learned Bakranian!”

  Argan shrugged. “I don’t know, mother, but I understood them. Bakranian? Is that what they were saying?”

  “No, Young Prince,” Panat said, leaning forward from the nearest wagon, “that was Bragalese. I know a few words.”

  “Bragalese…..” Isbel turned back and stared at the leader. “You’re not Bakranian! You’re….”

  She got no further as the leader grabbed her. Isbel screamed. Argan cried out and ducked away from the outstretched hands of the second man who went to take hold of him. Panat snarled and ran forward, his sword raised. The third man stepped forward, his axe swinging, and struck. Panat met the blow, knocked it aside and slashed hard across the man’s neck, almost cutting his head off. The man staggered, clutching his injury, which was spurting with blood, and fell to his knees.

  Men stood on the hill-top, bows raised, but the closeness of the group of people meant they could not shoot for fear of hitting their leader who was trying to pull Isbel away, but Panat was moving fast. The second man caught hold of Argan who kicked out in terror, catching the man on the knee, and the brigand yelled in pain. Panat dodged the man’s legs, kicking out and catching him painfully in between them, so he was too busy for the next few moments to worry about Argan, and wrapped his arm about the leader’s throat and pressed his blade against it. “Now, let go of her, you filth!”

  The leader squirmed but the veteran had him pinned and held fast, his sword to the throat and one arm pressed against his own back. He released Isbel who gasped in relief and ran to Argan who was shaking by the roadside. Panat backed away towards the wagons, keeping the grunting leader between the nearest archers and himself. “Stop, all of you, or I cut his throat!”

  They halted, unsure of what to do. “You let him go and we leave you in peace,” one of the others said haltingly.

  Panat shook his head. “And I trust the word of a Bragalese murderer? No chance. The moment I let him go we’re all dead. Back to the hills. We ride off, and I let him go.”

  “I do not trust your word,” the man replied, backing off all the same.

  “Don’t judge me by your own sordid standards. I promise to release this man once we are past those boulders.” He jerked his head at the sergeant. “Get those beasts yoked up again and get us out of here!”

  Isbel placed Argan in their wagon and covered him with a couple of sheets, but Argan wished to see what was going on. He was frightened, but fascinated all the same. Kerrin, goggle-eyed at his father, meekly slipped into the wagon and awaited events. Mr. Sen, trembling, unsteadily clambered into his wagon and the servants followed suit.

  The drovers had to be persuaded at spear point to hitch the beasts back up, and they climbed aboard, eyes wide with fear, and goaded the unconcerned animals back into movement. The guards clutched their spears tightly, waiting for the inevitable attack, picking up their fallen comrade, and watched as they rounded the curve and the brigands were lost to sight.

  Panat whispered into the ear of the brigand leader. “You had best get going because the army are coming for you and they won’t rest until your heads are mounted over the gates of Turslenka.” He swung the man round to face him and sent a full-blooded head butt into his face. The Bragalese bandit pitched off the wagon and crashed to the road, dazed. Blood poured from his broken nose and he rolled about feebly as his men came running up in a group to surround him.

  By the time they had got their leader to his feet, the wagons were too far to chase on foot, but they didn’t scatter into the hills. They continued on in pursuit of the vehicles, knowing that soon they would have to stop for the night.

  Panat slumped wearily against the side of the wagon. Kerrin stared in wonder at him; never had he seen his father do that before. He was a little frightened to say anything. Panat was looking tired and drawn, and the action had taken a lot out of him. His reserves of energy were not what they had been before his injury.

  Isbel cuddled Argan close to her, trying to bring her heartbeat under control. “Panat Afos, we owe you our lives,” she said softly. “The Emperor will no doubt wish to reward you suitably.”

  The old man sat there and smiled briefly, then his face flickered with pain. “Ah, that took me back to the Bragalese War. Thank you, ma’am, but I merely was doing my duty. I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”

  Kerrin hesitantly reached out his hand and brushed his father’s, then Panat smiled and brought his son close. The boy wrapped himself tightly around the tired man and placed his head against his father’s chest. Argan looked up at his mother. “Were they Bragalese?”

  “So it seems, Argan, yes. But how do you know how to speak that language? Mr. Sen has not taught you, has he?”

  “No,” Argan shook his head. “I don’t know how I know their language. I just do.”

  Isbel decided not to pursue the matter for the time being; she had her suspicions but how could that be proved? She looked up at the sky; it was beginning to darken. Night would soon be upon them. “Where shall we stop?”

  “The entrance to the mountains, ma’am,” Panat breathed. “That’s Bakranian territory and the Bragalese won’t go there – too dangerous for them.”

  “And us?”

  “I don’t think so. The Bakranians should honour your husband’s treaty. I must admit I was shocked when the attack came back there – I honestly thought they were Bakranian, until they spoke. They’re using Bakranian arrows, which is a concern; clearly they’re trying to fool us into thinking the Bakranians are behind any attacks they make. I should have thought that their archery was poor for the mountain men; they’re much better than those idiots.”

  “One of the soldiers was hurt,” Isbel said. “I hope he’s not too badly wounded.”

  “His colleagues will see to him.”

  Argan stirred. “Panat.”

  “Yes, Prince Argan?”

  “Will you teach me how to fight like you just did?”

  “Of course; as long as you listen properly, you will learn. My job is to make sure you know how to fight properly. You will be able to not only save yourself if you can, but those amongst your family and friends who cannot fight.”

  “And me, father?” Kerrin said, snuggled into his hero.

  “And you, Kerrin, yes.”

  Isbel smiled, then concentrated on holding her son tight, as much as a comfort to herself than anything else. They rumbled on, the drovers urging the best speed from the tired beasts, but soon it became t
oo dark to see properly and reluctantly they called a halt. There was a wide clearing in which they arranged a rough triangle with the wagons, and the beasts were once again unhitched.

  The injured soldier was checked but he was in a poor way. He had lost a lot of blood and the arrow head was still in his ribs. The other guards nervously paced about, looking into the night. Isbel fussed about with Argan, then looked at the exhausted Panat. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”

  “Possible, ma’am. Now they know who you are – you would be worth more to them as ransom. I doubt you’d be killed, nor Prince Argan here. That probably explained why they didn’t loose at us for fear of hitting you.” He paused, wheezing. “I’m sorry but today’s exertions has used up my poor reserves of energy. I shall have to sleep in order to function tomorrow.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Go and prepare your bed. I’ll get the cook to serve you supper.”

  The sergeant came wandering up, concern etched across his features. He bowed. “Ma’am, we’re extremely vulnerable here. I can’t guarantee we’ll be safe from attack in this spot. We really need to be up in the foothills of the mountains ahead of us.”

  “The beasts are tired; Panat cannot go on another step. Your colleague is extremely ill; we must rest, whatever the consequences. Just do your best, Sergeant.”

  “Ma’am,” he bowed and backed away, his eyes full of worry.

  “Mother,” Argan said, “will we be taken prisoner if they catch us again?”

  “It would seem like it, yes.”

  “And the others? They would be killed, yes? So why don’t we make them think we’ve gone away?”

  “What do you mean, Argan? Gone away?”

  Argan looked round. “Those nasty men want us, so if we’re not here they can’t have us.”

  “But, Argan, we cannot carry on; you heard me tell the Sergeant.”

  “We let them have the wagons and beasts; they would be happy with them, wouldn’t they? While they have the wagons and beasts, and….and….all this equipment stuff, we can get away into the mountains and be looked after by the Bakranians!”

  Isbel stared at her son. “Argan – you’re not thinking of the trouble and efforts…..”

  “Ma’am, begging your pardon,” Panat interrupted.

  “Go on, Panat,” Isbel said, piqued.

  “But that is a brilliant plan.” The old campaigner levered himself up, his breath rasping hard. Argan beamed a wide smile. “We go on, press forward. The Bragalese will waste time here looting, while we will be able to press on along the road. We must have a watch or two’s head start on them. If we set off now, we can get into the mountains before they catch us. Then we’ll be in Bakranian land.”

  “But – but you’re too bad to carry on, and the injured soldier!”

  “Carry us; the men can make stretchers, and the blankets can go to make the material. Plenty of wood in the wagons. Let the beasts loose – it’ll waste more of their time catching the damned things.”

  Isbel stood up, torn between feeling immense pride for her son and fearing the risks of the hazardous plan that had been suggested. “Sergeant!” she snapped suddenly. No time to tarry; they had to act fast and keep ahead of the Bragalese brigands.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Vosgaris greeted his father and sister in the courtyard that was overlooked by the castle. His father was a tall, grey-haired man with sun-tanned skin and a ready smile. A myriad of wrinkles creased his skin from the corners of his eyes. In contrast his sister was short, fair skinned and plain looking with large grey eyes. Very much like their mother in fact.

  “Well, Vosgaris,” his father began, clapping his hands and looking about, “not a bad job here, I can tell you! Very pleased this nonsense has been brought to an end. Cuts about ten days off my journeys to and from Rhan, being able to travel via Zofela. How are you, lad? You’ve filled out a bit since we last talked. You being treated fairly?”

  He shook hands with his father and kissed his sister lightly on the cheek. “Yes father, I’m doing well thank you. Captain of the Guard is a good job.”

  “Hmmm, but you could earn far more in a better paid job, a much higher profile post. Why not ask for governor of Pelponia? Its vacant, and you’re a noble, trusted by the Koros.”

  “I’m much happier here, father, and am close to the imperial family. Pelponia? That’s way out east, and on the edge of the empire. It’s a backwater. I’m going to be noticed much more here in the Court than in some far-off castle in the mountains.” He forestalled any reply his father might make by taking him by the arm and pointing out the building site opposite the entrance to the castle on the other wide of the square. “Look, the Emperor is already making Zofela a place that’s going to be hard to crack.”

  “Not a market place, then,” his father sounded disappointed.

  Vosgaris chuckled. “No, father. A mustering hall. The garrison is going to be housed here rather than in the castle. He wants more guest space and getting the soldiers out of the castle is his first step.”

  The older Taboz family man looked disapprovingly at the piles of timber, stone and mud. His sister, Vasila, had remained suspiciously quiet, and Vosgaris gave her a quick glance but she seemed interested in the castle and square. People were walking past, engaged in conversation, or hurrying from one place to another. The trade caravan, made up of twenty beasts burdened with goods from Kral and Riliyan, stood in a line near the square. “Well,” the older man sighed, “must get these animals fed and unhitched. I understand there’s a stables down the road by the Frasian Gate. I’ll join you two for dinner once I’ve seen to them. We’re staying in the tavern here, the one over at the far end of the square.”

  “Oh, the Landwaster. Couldn’t you get rooms in the castle?”

  “Landwaster?” Vasila asked, speaking for the first time. “What an odd name!”

  “Popular decision, Vasila; the people round here refer to the Emperor as that. Sort of backhanded compliment, naming the main tavern in town after him. Used to be called the Throat Cutter or something like that under the Bragalese, again, so I’m told, referring to the Emperor but not in such a complimentary manner.”

  “Ugh, that’s horrid,” Vasila wrinkled her nose. “So, brother,” she put her arm in his and tugged him along the road towards the castle entrance, “tell me about your life. How is it really? Mother was so disappointed you turned down her offer to hold you last birthday celebration at home. She had guests lined up, too.”

  “Fulime amongst them, no doubt,” Vosgaris grimaced.

  “Well, now you mention it,” Vasila teased, “I believe mother had invited her. So you’re not interested in the eligible Fulime. Any reason why? Someone else, perhaps?”

  Vosgaris cleared his throat. “I’m not courting anyone, Vasila. So, how did you find Rhan?” he asked as they passed into the castle and stepped to one side as a squad of soldiers came marching out from the main yard in unison, spears pointing wickedly in the night air.

  “Dirty. Full of soldiers. The place is crazy. The merchants are selling all sorts of things there, mostly army stuff. I found it all tiresome.”

  Vosgaris looked thoughtful. They walked slowly around the edge of the huge courtyard where the majority of the buildings stood; the stables, blacksmith, barracks and feasting hall for the soldiers. Within the castle keep itself were other chambers but only for the use of the nobility and court. “Plenty of war ordnance there, then. Looks like they’re building up for a war somewhere. Didn’t hear any rumours, did you by any chance?”

  “No – I was too bored to listen to their talk,” Vasila said. “Training for this, marching to there and back, who’s commanding whom. Oh it’s all so tedious. Their god this and their god that, how awful!”

  “God? They were speaking of their god, were they? I suppose they would be if they’re whipping the soldiery up about the righteousness of their mission to end our gods. Shame the place doesn’t go up in smoke.”

  Vasila giggled.
“That would be a lovely sight to behold.” She leaned closer to her brother. “Remember the old wood shed in the grounds back home?”

  “Yes, I remember that all too well. You’re a menace with fire.” Vasila had been responsible for a couple of fires in her childhood. Vosgaris looked sideways at her. “The Emperor is seriously considering sending the whole lot up in flames; we’re worried they’re stockpiling it all to invade Kastania in a year or so. We need to delay them. He’ll be interested in hearing from you as to where these arms and equipment are being stored. I think he’s considering sending someone in to do a decent job.”

  “You mean I can meet Astiras Koros?” she was excited.

  “I think he’ll be pleased to meet you. It’ll have to be clandestine though; you know how father disapproves of war; he’s a merchant through and through. He’ll object to you giving information that could lead to the destruction of marketable items,” Vosgaris ended with contempt in his voice.

  “Oh, don’t be too harsh on him; he just doesn’t see beyond his narrow world. You know how he is. He’s still disappointed you chose a military career instead of a political one.”

  Vosgaris made a rude noise. “I’d be bored mindless governing a place like Pelponia – or why not Zipria? No, I’m happy doing this job.”

  “He’d be happier if you found a woman, Vos.”

  “Or you a man?”

  Vasila laughed. “Who’d want a plain-looking frump like me? Anyway, I’m much happier playing at being a boy; you know that!”

  “Bored again being back in Kastania?”

  Vasila nodded. “It was exciting going to a new place, but father’s fixation with trade spoiled it; I so wanted to see more of Rhan, but we had to conduct business deals the moment we were there, and then once we’d paid for the goods and received them, we were off again! Pah.”