by Tony Roberts
“Well, sis, what about sneaking back there, disguised as a man, finding your way round the town, locating the arms and equipment, and then setting fire to the lot before getting away?”
“Oh, if only! I’d jump at the chance!”
Vosgaris grinned. “I think I love you, sis,” and he kissed her on the cheek. Vasila giggled and the two made their way back out of the castle towards the tavern as the stars twinkled in the night sky.
Later that evening after dinner, Vosgaris returned to the castle and found his way to his office. Alenna had finished for the day and had gone to her room, but he checked through what had been done with a cursory eye. Seeing nothing amiss he threw the parchments back onto the table and wandered through the passageways, nodding to the guards on their rounds. Nothing was untoward, which was how it should be. He stopped by one of the long narrow slits that looked out over the Bragalese countryside and breathed in deeply for a moment. He felt comfortable with his post. He’d got through a difficult couple of years and had now settled down into his duties. The imperial couple had come to recognise his usefulness and efficiency, and accepted him as part of the household. The added benefits were clear, plus the fact he had enjoyed Amne’s body; at the thought of her he smiled to himself. Vasila would be scandalised if she knew he had made love to the princess, more so now she was married. He looked forward to seeing Amne again and hoped she wouldn’t be too long in finding an excuse to visit.
Time was passing so he carried on round to the imperial quarters. The two guards assured him nobody was within except for those who were supposed to be there. Vosgaris passed through the two doors that were spaced five paces apart for added security, waved the two guards on the other side to relax, and walked up to Pepil, studiously scribbling onto a sheet of parchment. “Evening, Major Domo,” he said neutrally, “late work?”
Pepil looked up irritably. “Yes, and if I’m interrupted it’ll take longer.”
Vosgaris grinned. “The Emperor free?”
“Yes but I doubt he’ll wish to be disturbed.”
“I have something important to speak to him about. It can’t wait.”
Pepil sighed deeply and placed his quill in the ink pot. “Very well. It is something I need to be involved with?”
“Foreign affairs, Pepil.”
The Courtier pulled a face and knocked on the Emperor’s chamber door. He got a gruff reply and opened the door inwards. “Captain Vosgaris – a matter of some import, sire.”
“Very well, come in Captain. Not bad news, I trust?”
Vosgaris brushed past Pepil who shut the door behind him and stood before the tired looking Emperor. “No sire, but I may have a volunteer to destroy the Venn military ordnance in Rhan.”
“Have you, by the gods? Who?”
Vosgaris told him. Astiras objected, and Vosgaris had to spend a long time persuading him, stating how well he knew her and how she was very good at hiding her femininity. Also she was good at starting fires and had been to Rhan and seen for herself the stockpiling of weapons. There was nobody else around who had all those attributes or skills. Finally, too tired to argue any longer, Astiras threw up his arms in surrender. “Oh, all right! You can organise your sister, damn you. Teduskis! In here.”
The old retainer came in, rubbing his eyes. He was finding things a little harder these days, but he was still valued by his master. He was appraised of the plan. He was surprised but bowed when ordered to arrange a route through eastern Bragal to the Kral frontier. It would need a military clearance close to the frontier to allow Vasila to pass, and that was Teduskis’ remit. “Make sure nobody sees our agent passing through,” the emperor said to Teduskis. “We don’t know how many people in eastern Bragal are unhappy with our victory, and may have sympathies to Venn.”
“Venn hate the Bragalese with a passion,” Teduskis observed.
“You know that; I know that. But do the Bragalese know that? I doubt it. Their attitude could well be that an enemy of an enemy is logically a friend. The damned fools have no idea that everyone hates their guts and that no matter who controls the land around their little part of the world, they will never be an independent people.”
Vosgaris looked surprised. “Is that true, sire?”
Astiras nodded. He looked up at Teduskis. “Tell him what your outriders found last sevenday.”
Teduskis drew is a deep breath. “This is to be kept a secret, but one of my patrols went south to the Ister, a reconnaissance of the area. We’re told that rebels are still active in that part of the province but so far we’ve not found any evidence. Anyway, there were a few burned villages and the entire population had been nailed up to trees and left to die slowly in the sun. Our men managed to save about fifteen.”
Vosgaris looked aghast. “What – who, was behind that?”
“Mazag militiamen, carrying out an enthusiastic policy of pacification. They seem to think it’s a condition of our alliance that they can ride into Bragal to hunt down brigands and raiders. It seems they chased a few – criminal elements – back over the border from Mazag and put the entire village to the torch and hung up those responsible for the raid plus everyone else in the village. Women, children, the lot.” Astiras slammed his hand down on the tabletop. “If anyone is to carry out a massacre then it’s me! Blasted Mazag, shows you what we’re dealing with here.”
“But-but haven’t you protested, sire?” Vosgaris looked from Teduskis to Astiras.
Astiras snorted and leaned back, scratching his stomach. “They genuinely think they’re helping us, so why would I protest? I’m caught by my own policies here, blast their eyes.” He waved his hands helplessly over the table top. “I cannot make any formal complaint as it might cause a strain in our alliance and I need Mazag more now than ever, especially now we’re going to try to burn down Venn’s military supply depot. With Mazag behind us Venn won’t be so ready to accuse us or threaten us.”
Vosgaris rubbed his chin. “So what is to be done?”
“Nothing.” Astiras suddenly grinned. “In fact the Mazag might have done us all a favour. I’ve arranged for Teduskis to rehouse the survivors in other Bragal villages in the area – and they’ll spread the word of Mazag atrocities. You know how words become exaggerated with each retelling. Anyway, the Bragalese will now see Mazag as the evil neighbours and not us. Teduskis’ men were very sympathetic and gave the survivors food, water and clothes – oh, they had been stripped naked prior to being nailed up and raped, the men as well as the women.”
Teduskis nodded. “We told them Landwaster was enraged and would hunt down those responsible. The Bragal people were his now and not to be attacked by the Mazag. I did tell the men to warn the Bragalese not to cross over into Mazag, though, as that would certainly cause another counter-raid.”
“Do you think the Bragal will listen to you?”
Teduskis shook his head. “They’re the Bragal. Who do they listen to? Only the one who is toughest and meanest in the village, and then only backed up by the number of corpses they make and women they rape. It’s a society based on who’s got the biggest prick in the community.”
“Not quite that,” Astiras rebuked his retainer, “but not too far off the mark. So, if Mazag are happy to slaughter the Bragalese, its likely Venn will do the same. We’ve gone a bit off the mark here. Get this agent to see me tomorrow morning for a briefing. Nobody is to know the identity of this person, you understand? This does not go outside the walls of this room.”
“Indeed, sire. I would not want any harm to befall – the agent,” he said, deliberately refraining from using the name of his sister.
“Very wise indeed, Captain. Now get to sleep. We have work to do on the morrow and we all need a good night’s rest. Teduskis, you look like a pack of krolls have eaten you for supper and shat you out.”
“I feel like it, sire,” Teduskis muttered, saluted, and withdrew to his chamber.
Vosgaris saluted and left the room, shaking his head at the savage butchery that
still went on in the province even through the war had ended. Would there ever be an end to it? It appeared the Mazag were just as bad as the Bragalese. He vowed next time he saw Amne he’d ask her what the Mazag were really like. At the thought of her a tingle went up his body.
____
The tired group huddled down amongst the rocks of the foothills, grateful that it was summer and not winter. They had made progress along the road until the Empress had finally given in and ordered a halt. Mr. Sen was suffering badly, his legs swelling up with the unfamiliar exercise, and Argan and Kerrin were stumbling on the last vestiges of strength. The soldiers had spelled stretcher carrying duty so that there were always two at the front and two bringing up the rear, and constant updates from the back had kept them going.
There was still no sign of their pursuit but by now the Brigands would have come upon the camp and it would take a strong leader to force the men away from looting and continue with the hunt. The group could go on no further; they were spent.
The stretchers were put down and the occupants checked. The wounded soldier was unconscious and it was doubtful whether he would survive, but Panat was still awake and insisting he would be fine in the morning. Isbel, after taking advice from the elderly man and the sergeant, ordered the group to scale the lower outcrops and find a place above the road so that they were out of sight and concealed from casual view.
So it was that they settled down to sleep uneasily in the open, scattered across a few ledges with four soldiers on watch at any one time. Argan tried to keep awake but he was exhausted and fell asleep curled into a ball on a warm slab of rock, his mother by his side. Isbel sat awake; she was not in the least bit tired, for there was too much to worry about. Below, about the height of five men away, ran the road. It was dark but faintly visible in the starlight, and her ears were pricked for any sound. The distant noise of the river was constantly in the background, but she listened keenly for anything different.
Mr. Sen lay as if one dead; he’d never undertaken so much exercise for many years, and his large frame was totally unsuited to climbing rocks in the countryside. His panting was the only sign he was still in the land of the living. The two servants huddled together, too fearful to go near the edge of the rock. Kerrin lay next to his father, his arms wrapped about himself, hoping that he would see the next morning.
A small sound alerted Isbel. She stiffened and looked about. The terrain was a mere collection of differing shades of grey, some darker than others. The sky was discernible, but the ground was hard to tell from level to level or what was on it, still or moving. Something had disturbed a small number of stones, but she wasn’t aware exactly from where.
One of the guards was crouched nearby, his head turning slowly from side to side, his eyes wide and watchful. “Did you hear that?” Isbel whispered.
The guard slowly nodded and gripped his spear tightly. At night a spear was not of much use. It would be better to use a sword or an axe, a weapon with a smaller arc of swing, for night combat was a much closer event; it was too dark to throw or hurl any weapon with any hope of success for more than a few paces. The empress slowly put her hands round the sleeping figure of her young son, wondering whether the boy would ever grow up to be a man. It seemed so much was against him; accidents, brigands and who knows what else? She would of course do anything to try to keep him alive, but she felt so helpless hunched there straining her eyes into the darkness.
Slowly, surely, dark forms came into view from the countryside, men moving silently, carrying weapons. She sucked in her breath and edged away , trying to pull Argan with her, but the drop off the edge of the ledge was not far and she would kill herself if she fell from it.
The sergeant stepped across her line of sight and stood there, defiantly facing the approaching men, ready to sell his life dearly. A few of the approaching figures stopped and waited while three carried on walking until they were no more than ten paces away.
“You can relax,” a heavily accented voice came to them, “you are now in the lands of Furtill, Headman of the village of Zun. You are welcome to stay the night.”
Isbel scrambled to her feet, half aware Argan was mumbling a protest in his sleep. “Furtill, you are very welcome indeed. I am Isbel Koros, wife of Astiras Koros, Emperor of Kastania.”
“We know,” Furtill bowed. “Your husband is an honourable man who has paid good gold to us and given us the freedom to be ourselves within our mountains. We are friends of the Koros.” He turned and waved, making a curious clicking noise. Instantly more men approached, sheathing their weapons and bending to assist the infirm and injured.
The sergeant lowered his weapon and turned to the Empress. “Who are these men, ma’am?”
“Bakranian mountain men. We have given them a treaty to rule themselves within the mountains in return for not raiding the roads here – the emperor arranged that the first year we were in power. Tell your men that it is all right and to assist them with helping us to their village.”
Furtill came up to the empress. “I am honoured to meet you, Lady Landwaster,” he bowed. “We have watched you for a time, and those who were pursuing you.”
“Thank you, Furtill. I shall mention your hospitality to the emperor in Zofela – we are travelling onto there. What of those Bragalese who were chasing us?”
“Them? We chased them off. They were no match for my warriors. We have managed to rescue your wagons and beasts. What is left of them will not survive long; I have sent some of my best hunters after them. Bragalese are murderers who have no respect for anyone! It is a pleasure to finish them off.”
The man’s staccato mode of speech took a little getting used to but Isbel listened attentively. “You are most valiant, Headman Furtill.” She turned as Argan stirred in his sleep. “My son. He is exhausted.”
“We can arrange for him to be carried, if it pleases you. The path to our village is hard and steep, and I fear some of your group may find it impossible in the dark.” He looked at Mr. Sen who was on his feet but looking worried. “He will need many to carry him!”
Isbel smiled tiredly. She was feeling exhausted too but couldn’t afford the luxury of falling asleep just yet. “I shall arrange for my son to be carried, but Mr. Sen there may well need help. I shall be fine; a Kastanian empress ought to show that she is no weak woman.”
Furtill bowed slowly, a tint of respect in his eyes. “As you wish, Lady Landwaster.” He turned and began bellowing commands in Bakranian. Isbel bent and shook Argan by the shoulder. “Argan, Argan, wake up! We’ve got to walk a little. Can you do it?”
Argan groaned, opened his eyes, sat up and rubbed them. “What’s going on, mother? Who are all these men?”
“Bakranian warriors, and they’re going to take us to their mountain village so we can sleep properly. Are you fine to walk?”
Argan nodded, put his hand in Isbels’s and obediently stood by her side, yawning. He looked in fascination as Mr. Sen was helped into a large sling-stretcher, carried by six men, and they set off, the tutor looking worried as he swayed from side to side. Panat was still unconscious and was picked up by two Bakranians, Kerrin in close attendance, and the soldiers and servants grouped together around Isbel and Argan. At a word from Furtill they set off along the narrow path in between the two ledges, then they went up a steep path, Isbel taking her time. Argan, half asleep, automatically followed, and he stumbled on alongside his mother, only half aware of the terrain around him.
It seemed to him that it went on and on, up and up, but he gamely stuck to his mother’s side. He was still feeling the effects of his illness and knew he would sleep for such a long time when they got to the village. Maybe it was in the clouds? Some of the Bakranians held torches so everyone could see where they were going, and they passed in between two jagged lumps of rock and followed a path so narrow they had to go along in single file, Argan just ahead of Isbel.
Then suddenly the rocks receded on both sides, the ground levelled out and the sound of a run
ning brook could be heard off to the right somewhere. The glow of various lights greeted their tired eyes and Furtill stood to one side, proudly throwing out one arm. “Zun. Our homes are yours for the night.”
Isbel smiled gratefully and was led to Furtill’s stone and thatch hut. Even though he was the Headman, his abode was no different than the others’. The Kastanians were led into various houses and shown floor space where they would lie down to sleep. Some were too tired or hurt to protest, but Isbel wanted to make sure all were comfortable and cared for. Furtill assured her they were.
Argan curled up on a small mat and was soon fast asleep once more. Isbel stroked his head gently.
“This is Landwaster’s son?” Furtill asked, sitting down close by.
“He is indeed. Prince Argan.”
“Prince Argan,” Furtill nodded. “An emperor to come?”
“Perhaps. There are other sons.”
“A child. The Bragalese make war on children; we do not. That is why they are hated so by everyone. Sleep well, Lady Landwaster,” Furtill heaved himself to his feet, bowed once, then was gone.
___
The morning was fresh and promised more sun. Vosgaris was up and about early, making sure there had been no incidents during the night. He was feeling refreshed after an early breakfast when Vasila appeared, escorted by two guards.
“What’s all this, brother?” she asked, indicating the two silent soldiers. “Hardly had I finished my breakfast when these two appear and whisk me off to this castle!”
“The Emperor does not like to be kept waiting, sis. Come on, we’re his first appointment of the day.” The two siblings walked side by side through the corridors leading to the Emperor’s chamber and were shown in. Astiras was seated behind his desk, Teduskis to one side, Pepil to the other, and that was just about it – there was not much more room for anything or anyone else.
“Vasila Taboz,” Astiras smiled a welcome.
“Your Highness!” she said, curtseying low.