Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  The shocked patrons had looked at Kiros, one or two with vague thoughts of revenge for the death of their comrade, but Kiros’ firm look at them had persuaded them perhaps this was one who should be left alone – at least for the time being.

  Kiros was no fool. He had been alert for the next few days and when the back street attack had come, he had left the two would-be muggers as trash in the alley, to be picked up by the town refuse collectors. They would be thrown into the dock before the next morning. Since then Kiros had been given a wide berth. He was someone not to mess about with.

  This day he was keen to leave early, for he had an appointment on the coast. His comings and goings had been covered by an eccentric habit he’d thought up, that of collecting different types of plant that grew around the island. On his days off he would get on his elderly retired pack equine and ride out into the interior of the island to find new kinds of plant to take to his small one-room abode where he arranged the plants in a neat row along the wall, held there by a combination of string and nails.

  People regarded him as an odd kind of man and often grinned behind their hands when he came back, a bag of flora over his shoulder. He even showed people what he had collected, and most laughed it off and ignored him, which was what he wanted anyway. In reality he was scouting out places for Prince Jorqel to approach the town from. Ever since he’d got the message that an invasion of Romos was being planned, he’d begun to seek out firstly a landing place for the Kastanians, and secondly routes they could take to the town. He had drawn plenty of maps and now had them under his tunic.

  He rode his animal along the single track road that ran from Romos town into the interior of the island. There were a couple of villages in the hills and a boating village on the other side, and farms dotted about here and there. The pirates didn’t bother them too much, merely being contented in sending out the less than enthusiastic garrison troops to gather food supplies. A couple of farmers had resisted, complaining that the amounts they had to hand over would leave them with precious little to see the winter through, and they had been hung up on the roadside as an example to the others to co-operate. After that there had been little complaint – at least to the faces of the soldiers.

  Kiros knew that the farmers were hoarding food in secret places, and had spoken to one or two particularly bitter men. One had lost his daughter to the pirates – she had been taken when they had seen how pretty she was, and the farmer had been informed she was now servicing Volkanos as his sex slave in the town keep. The farmer had been too ready to give Kiros any information he needed, in return for Kiros sending word to the girl. He’d managed to locate her but had as yet not been able to speak to the girl, since Kiros was not one of the people privileged enough to enter the fort.

  The other had lost most of his herd to the rapacious demands and his mutterings had been picked up by Kiros one day while observing the farm from close by, so Kiros had approached him and suggested that the return of Romos to Kastanian rule may well be beneficial to the farmer. In return the farmer had passed on all the information Kiros needed on the loyalties of the farmers, which ones to trust, which ones not to.

  He had become an information conduit between the various disaffected people on the island, and felt much safer out in the countryside than he did in the town. A right hand fork led down to the shingle beach he had found as a good place to take messages, and as night began to fall he arrived, tying the beast to a tree so it could graze happily about.

  There was a steep path down to the beach which was dotted with flotsam and detritus, and old wood was in plentiful supply. He made a small pyre and lit it, the glow visible only out to sea because of the steeply shelving terrain elsewhere. After a short delay an answering glow began across the straights on the mainland, and he knew that a boat would now be setting out from the outpost Jorqel had set up on the Lodrian mainland.

  It took a little while but finally a small rowing boat materialised out of the dark, two figures sat inside, and it crunched onto the shore. One of the figures leaped out and trod heavily up to the line of pebbles beyond the high water mark, passing a dark line of dried out seaweed.

  “Hail,” the figure said softly.

  “Hail. I have papers here.”

  Kiros passed the bundle to the man who slipped them into his jacket, a rough vestment of leather. The man next searched in a small bag he had and passed to Kiros a few coins. “The Prince will let you know when he is to land on Romos. Have you identified a good place to land?”

  Kiros pointed to the bulging vestment. “It’s all in there.”

  The man grunted. “The pirates lost two ships in the past few sevendays. How are they reacting to that?”

  Kiros snorted. “Annoyed – but they don’t seem to be that bothered. To be honest I think they have little ambition beyond plunder and blowing it all on drink and women. Discipline has gone to the black pit of oblivion. At least on the ships anyway; the garrison is a little more organised – it’s their home after all, and they’ll fight to stop everything being burned to the ground.”

  The man nodded, then he passed a hunk of bread to Kiros who took it and bit a chunk off it and chewed slowly, savouring the sweetness of the dough. “Think it’s possible to take the town with one surprise attack?”

  “Depends on the size of the attacking force. You’d need to knock over the walls. Forget any approach from the sea – the pirates will have that route blocked. They have archers and spearmen inside the walls.”

  The man sucked in his breath between his teeth. “I’ll pass that on – that’s no surprise but I think his highness was hoping for a more demoralised garrison.”

  Kiros jerked his head inland. “You’ll have support amongst some of the farmers, I’ve noted which ones. I think it best to blockade the town and starve them into surrender. They rely on raping the farms for supplies.”

  “I’ll let the Prince know that – this is good stuff to know. Are you in danger of being discovered, by the way? His highness is concerned your long stay here could compromise you.”

  Kiros shook his head. “They think I’m a little crazy; I collect plants,” Kiros half-smiled in the light of the flickering beacon. “They leave me alone.”

  The man nodded, then turned and made his way back down to the boat. “We’ll be watching again in thirty days.”

  Kiros nodded, then began kicking the beacon into extinction. Although the pirates and their militia allies didn’t often come this way, he didn’t want to take the risk of leaving evidence that here had been a fire. The branches sparked in the night air and still crackled with flames even after being bashed against the pebbles and shingle. There was no other way but to douse the blazing ends in the water, which he did. The light on the beach died away, and all that remained was the distant beacon on the far shore, acting as a guide for the rowboat.

  He scrambled up the narrow path, cursing under his breath at the loose surface, but finally got to the top and located his equine, placidly standing by the same tree it had been tied to. A few moments later Kiros was riding it away from the beach area, along a narrow defile, and then out onto the grassy inland area that eventually led to the farms.

  There was one farm not too far away and he made his way towards it, using the distant flickering light from the house as a guide, and trying to keep to the narrow track. It was a difficult feat, however, what with the intense darkness due to the lack of a moon. The wind blew across his face, bringing a touch of coolness, another sign that summer had gone and winter was on its way. Romos wasn’t given to the severe winters further south, and being surrounded by water meant that its climate was much more temperate, but the high mountain backbone often collected snow in deepest winter and when the wind blew from there down to the valleys, it did bring a little extra bite.

  Snow on the lowlands was almost unknown, though, and the farms could grow foodstuffs all year round if they planned sufficiently well. The nearest farm was one of these and Kiros knew the farmer to be a
steady, unruffled type, taking the change in master with equanimity. To be honest, he had stated it was no different now than what it had been under the latter emperors before the pirate takeover. He hadn’t been overly enthusiastic about the prospect of an imperial resumption of rule when Kiros had engaged him in idle conversation, wondering whether he would prefer the current regime or a Kastanian seizure of Romos.

  “As long as they leave me alone, that’s all I care about,” he had grumbled. Fat chance of that, since taxation was a way of life and one of the most certain things anyone could expect. The other was death.

  Kiros approached and halted; there were more people milling about than he had expected. He slid off his mount and walked it along the boundary road of the farm, identifiable from the double split plank fence that marked the end of farm property. There were a couple of trees by the roadside so Kiros tethered the equine there and made his way across a field of high foodstuff plants, ripe and ready for harvesting. It was arranged in neat rows so he could walk fairly evenly along towards the farm without becoming lost or making a noise.

  The edge of the field was marked with another fence, this one a low single planked construction. He eyed the group of men standing by the doorway and crouched behind a barrel full of rainwater standing at the corner of the main house. Kiros was still in the dark but could hear the farmer speaking to the leader of the group.

  “I have yet to harvest,” the farmer was complaining loudly. “How can I judge what my tithe to your leader will be until then?”

  “You should have harvested by now,” spoke the leader in a deep, gravelly voice. “Duke Volkanos is not a happy man – he has sent me to collect. Your food is needed by the Duke.”

  “What does he expect me to do about that? I have few farm hands now, thanks to your Duke taking every young man for militia duty in that damned fort!”

  “Every able-bodied man is required to serve in the militia,” the militia captain said testily, “you know that! It is the law. We are not responsible for your laziness or tardiness. Tomorrow morning you will harvest your crops and set aside one half for the Duke.”

  “One half!” the farmer shrieked, outraged, “that will leave precious little for me to sell!”

  “Sell, to whom?” the captain asked silkily. “The Duke requires one half from anyone who does not meet the deadline, and yours expired yesterday. If you do not meet tomorrow’s deadline, then we shall return and harvest it ourselves and take everything. The choice is yours, fool. Think of your family and not of your pockets; do you want to explain to your wife and children that they have no food because you were greedy? Now spare me any more excuses and get your lazy arse moving or we’ll take everything.”

  The militia group turned away and began marching down the road that led away from the house, leaving the farmer standing in the doorway, fuming, his fists clenched uselessly to his side.

  Kiros waited until the militia had gone out of sight, then stood up. The farmer was still looking at the darkness into which the men had gone, then leaned forward and screamed in frustration. “Bastards!”

  “That won’t help,” Kiros said, now sitting up on the barrel lid.

  The farmer started in fright, then realised that Kiros was not one of the militiamen. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Listening in on our wonderful Duke’s demands. It must be a reassurance that you’re living under such a benign overlord.”

  “Oh, cut out your sarcasm, Kiros, I’ve not got the mood for it! Are you here for any useful and practical purpose, or are you here to gloat over my misfortune? If that’s the case you can get lost!”

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” Kiros said lightly, his legs swinging. “I’m offering my services to help cut down that crop. If you want it, that is. If you want to insult me then I’ll be on my way.”

  The farmer stepped forward, the light from the doorway throwing half his face into shadow. “You’re not pulling my leg are you? You’re serious?”

  Kiros shrugged. “I said I’m offering, and I keep my promises. I hate to see those vermin exploit good hard working farmers. They haven’t the sense to see that alienating the people who provide the food for their little kingdom will end up hurting everyone.”

  The farmer grunted. “Hmm… knowing you as well as I do, this will be for some form of favour or other.”

  “Most certainly,” Kiros agreed, smiling infuriatingly, “but you have no choice, do you? I’m here, so you’d be stupid to turn the offer down.”

  The farmer grumbled. “Very well, as you say, I have no choice. But the gods help me if you ask for something too much in return I’ll have to refuse.”

  “You don’t know what it is yet, so don’t go jumping before you look.” Kiros heaved himself off the barrel and stood before the farmer. He offered his hand and, after a moment’s pause, the farmer reluctantly took hold of it and they shook in the manner of the Kastanians, hands on forearms.

  ___

  Thetos eyed Metila suspiciously. “You’re getting fat,” he accused his slave.

  Metila ran her hands down her stomach. There was indeed a bulge. “I eat. I hungry.”

  Thetos pulled a face. “You’ve been eating like a fantor these past few days. What’s the matter with you?”

  Metila smiled and walked away, swaying her hips provocatively. “You no like?”

  “I like my women slim. If I wanted a porcine I’d keep one in the corridor!”

  “You like mating with porcines? Kastanians odd.”

  “No I don’t, you whore!” Thetos roared, enraged. “Stop eating for three, and exercise that fat off! I command you, witch!”

  “You command, I no obey,” Metila stuck her face into Thetos’. “You fat yourself, look in reflector. Think I like mounting that?”

  “Why, you disrespectful slut!” Thetos shouted and swung his hand in a full-bloodied slap that sent Metila to the floor. She lay there for a few moments, her head ringing, before sitting up, blood trickling down her chin from the cut on her lips. Thetos stood over her, his face red with anger. “What is the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”

  Metila looked up at her master. “I sorry, master, I forget myself.”

  Thetos frowned, then nodded curtly. “Remember your place, witch. Now get me a cup of klee.”

  Metila got to her feet, licking the blood from her lips. “I get,” she said demurely, head bowed, and silently left the room. Once in the corridor, her back to the two guards who stood outside the chamber, she smiled to herself. She had set up perfectly the reason to abandon Thetos and Turslenka.

  The rest of that day she went about her duties automatically, saying little. The growing baby in her womb was on her mind now, and the need for her to go to Bragal and give birth to it. Thetos would not be pleased if he realised she was carrying Astiras’ bastard, so she had to get away now before people recognised she was pregnant.

  The evening meal she knelt by Thetos’ feet, head bowed. If Thetos was concerned at her silence he made no sign that he was, and ate and drank as normal. Metila hadn’t eaten; she was not hungry. The herbs and potions she had consumed earlier had made sure of that, and now she looked up as Thetos’ head hit the table, the potion in his meal having taken effect. Leaving the sleeping man, she placed the note she’d written earlier on the table next to his head and left, picking up her few belongings from her room.

  It was mid-autumn now and the nights were getting colder. Her journey would be long and laborious, so she needed proper protection for the outside elements. Her pack contained sleeping equipment, dried potions, a small pot, a spoon, a dagger, a fur coat and a fur hat. The guards outside noted her making her way down to the kitchens but said nothing; they were, after all, used to seeing her go that way with a variety of items, so a large bag over her shoulder didn’t raise any questions in their minds. Metila deliberately chose her route so as to not raise any suspicions. By the time Thetos came round she would be far away.

  The kitchen
s were nearly deserted, save for two cooks washing up and putting things away. They called out a greeting to the woman who responded, but she had no time that evening for small talk. The far end of the kitchen opened via a small door to a courtyard and on the other side of that were the stables.

  One small equine was Metila’s target. It wasn’t her’s but she was going to take it anyway. Her pack was slung behind the saddle she placed on its back, then fitted a small bridle and led the beast out of the stable. She went round a corner and walked up to the gates. Guards patrolled the area but she waited for a moment, until the nearest guard turned his back before sliding the bolt back and leading the animal out. She pushed the gate back, hoping it didn’t leave a gap that could be noticed. The guard was bored and plodded around the courtyard not really noticing the small sounds.

  In the street Metila mounted up and guided the equine down towards the closed gate, now wearing a night cloak with hood. She had sneakily used one of Thetos’ parchments earlier that day to write a pass and sealed it with his gold signet ring, and now produced it to the suspicious guard. The man scanned it in the torchlight, and shrugging, ordered the gate opened and the woman rode out slowly, a wide smile of triumph on her face.

  Now she was free and away from Thetos, and her next destination her homeland.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Zofela may have been towards the south-eastern limits of the empire, but it was beginning to attract newcomers and growth now that the emperor had put his court there. Mazag had already sent an ambassador there and he was enjoying the comforts of newly built quarters adjacent to the castle. The slaves were busy, erecting new constructions from the material pulled up from the old Kastanian entrenchments around the town. Houses, sheds, warehouses, fences. The list went on.

  Visitors came to see the new provincial capital and what improvements had been made, and wondered at the pace of change. Gone were the signs of war and siege. Astiras – or, more accurately, Isbel – sent out edicts to tidy and clean the place up. Mud was removed from walls and staircases, flags fluttered from various places to brighten it up, and people were encouraged to decorate the fronts of their habitations. The dull, dour Zofela of old would be merely a bad memory.