Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  “The operator then aims the machine at the target and releases the trigger, thus sending the javelin at the target. The range varies, depending on the atmospheric conditions, the quality of the string and the bow, but it is about the same as a Taboz bow, or maybe slightly greater.”

  Vazil had been impressed. “Amazing. But you state there is a problem in getting the right material?”

  “I do. The wood needs to be very stout and flexible, but strong. No fast growing trees can supply that; one needs big, old trees for that. Mountain trees are best, particularly the rib trees of the mountains far to the south.”

  “We may be able to find wood from alternatives, since we have mountains a-plenty here.”

  “That may be so, but they have to be sourced, cut, weathered, shaped and tested. So far they have not been remotely good enough. Then there is the matter of the string. I understand the gut of wool-beasts is used for normal bows, but this string is four times as thick and only certain animals have that – one is the herd beast in southern climes, another is the desert beast known as the lamac.”

  “Ah, yes, the lamac,” Vazil had said thoughtfully. “Epatam has them, and also Ganbad far to the north west. We may be able to negotiate something with them in time, but now? It is unlikely.”

  “I am experimenting with other animals. I shall keep Captain Anthes informed as to the relative successes.”

  “The javelins are standard, I presume?”

  The defector had nodded. “Nothing out of the ordinary there. The good thing is you can use this machine to break down doors, walls or even burn houses. The javelins can be soaked in oil, lit, and then sent on their way.”

  Vazil had agreed the research should be allowed to continue. Now she decided to write to the emperor in Zofela and bring him up to date with the progress of the siege machine. If Kastania was to survive, it would have to find newer and better weapons. Although no military expert, during the time before donning the disguise as a male priest, Vazil had listened to her brother and father and picked up some of the basics. Her tomboy nature had come in useful after all. Her time in Zofela had also given her a little basic understanding of military matters – priests were expected to be able to argue successfully with soldiers, amongst many other professions, and that meant a little knowledge was essential.

  The pace of life in Pelponia was very slow and everyone seemed afflicted by a lack of urgency. War may come to the region at any time and so defences needed to be improved. Vazil had visited homes inside the town walls and found the basic faith of the Pelponians to be unshakeable; they were amongst the most ardent believers in the gods, and that meant that should Venn take the region then there would be many executions for ‘heresy’. Vazil feared for the population, unless Anthes and the other decision makers moved faster.

  The recruitment potential there was huge. The only obstacles Vazil could see were a lack of money and a lack of facilities. A huge army based in Kornith could feasibly protect not only Pelponia, but also Makenia. The workshop in the town could make plenty of weapons; the mountains around provided the raw materials in abundance, and the people were steadfast and proud of their nation. All good attributes for a soldier.

  Money and facilities.

  Vazil dipped her quill in a pot of ink and began to write.

  ___

  The Army of Romos sailed out into the Aester, illuminated by a setting sun behind them. Sannia stood in the keep of Slenna castle and could see the sails low down on the horizon. Her heart was heavy and fear gnawed deep within her. So much could go wrong with the invasion. Still, it was best not to dwell on that. Jorqel had been insistent all precautions had been taken and that he would not risk his life nor that of his men without good cause. Sannia had taken his word in good faith. The days she would now spend in the castle, looking after the crawling Merza and running the province, would help distract her from thinking too much of her husband.

  Merza was growing. The change in décor because of the child now meant rugs could be found across most floors, and guards were constantly reminded to look down when they entered the room where the baby was. Crawling infants always had a habit of getting into places they were not supposed – or expected – to be.

  Sannia had employed a nursemaid to take care of the child during the day. She was a native Slennan called Tanina, and was a middle-aged large woman with rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. She had three grown-up children of her own and therefore had the right experience. She had been recommended by the castellan who knew her through his wife.

  A special room had been decorated along the corridor and now was earmarked as Merza’s room, next to Sannia’s and Jorqel’s. It was small and had just one window which was shuttered, just to be sure. Although she couldn’t yet walk, Sannia guessed it wouldn’t be long before the child would and that was the time all breakables and small objects had to be moved up or out of the way. Everything went into the mouth.

  Sannia wasn’t sure quite yet who Merza would take after, nor whom she would most closely resemble. She had some of each in her, so it seemed. Dark haired, she had blue eyes and pale skin. The eyes were quite striking.

  Jorqel would send for both as soon as he had secured the island – that he had assured her on more than one occasion. She was hopeful it wouldn’t be too long; she hated being away from him. The memories of her imprisonment at the hands of the Duras were too vivid still, and she did feel vulnerable whenever Jorqel was gone from her side.

  Jorqel himself was thinking of Sannia and Merza at that moment, stood on the prow of the leading ship of the flotilla. His cloak billowed out in the sea breeze and the salty smell of the sea filled his senses. The spray lifted up, thrown forward by the wind, and coated him from the top of his dark hair to the leather boots set firmly on the deck. He never seemed to notice, though, staring through the gathering darkness to infinity. His mind went back five years to when he had set out to capture Lodria. This was a much more risky venture; even though the opposition was as weak as those under the Fokis had turned out to be, this time he was not coming by land. Landings on a hostile shore were always fraught with danger.

  His plan to sail out into the Aester at dusk was all a subterfuge. If anyone was spying for the pirates then it would seem they were moving out in the direction of Venn-held Cratia, which is what he wanted them to think. He hoped that nobody who had seen them was a spy but it was a little too much wishful thinking to believe that for certain.

  His plans depended on speed and surprise; no foot-soldiers this time round. He had a totally mobile force and could move twice as fast and as far as any infantry-based unit. He wanted to be ashore and gone from the landing spot before the enemy could react.

  The night had come now, and he turned and walked down the short flight of wooden steps to the main deck. Gavan was there, waiting, as he had been bidden. “Everything in order, sire?”

  Jorqel nodded, droplets of water dripping off his hair, nose and beard. “It is now in the hands of the gods,” he said. “All we can do is to trust that everything is as we have planned. Let us go inside – I’m getting cold.”

  They made their way to the officer’s quarters, a small cabin at the stern that Gavan shared along with Captain Loriz Hammerfall and the other two captains. Jorqel had a guest berth in Admiral Drakan’s cabin. Throwing off his cloak, Jorqel sat in a sturdy looking wooden chair that was set around the single square table the cabin possessed. Gavan located a flask of liquor that the sailors had a liking for, made from the berries of a plant that grew in more northerly climes than that of Kastania. It was called Kirit and was fiery and very intoxicating.

  Gavan was careful to pour a small measure for the officers and Jorqel. Nobody wished to spend the voyage throwing out their insides. Jorqel lifted his small glass and peered at the amber liquid, glittering in the light of the lamps. “To success,” he toasted.

  The others lifted theirs, and as one, threw the contents down their throats. Kirit was not for sipping, not if, that was,
one wished to retain one’s taste buds. The drink bit into throats and caused gasping, coughing and tears to form.

  “Ah,” Jorqel gasped, his throat suddenly constricted, “that’s potent!”

  Gavan nodded, unable to speak. He bent over and coughed violently.

  Hammerfall puffed out his cheeks and his eyes bulged. “Sire, we could sell this to the pirate garrison,” he paused to draw breath, “and wait till they were wasted before moving in to take the town.”

  The prince nodded briefly. “Good plan, but not one I wish to use. I value my supply and will not waste it on those foul traitors. Besides, the Duras should die without the benefit of such nerve-killers.”

  The others chuckled. Jorqel heaved himself up. “That’s warmed me up. I bid you goodnight. Tomorrow we plan.”

  The following day they did, indeed, plan. Logistics. What ship would go where, and who would take charge of what. Each of the captains had a set number of vessels to take charge of, and the landing procedure, so that all had a clear idea of what was expected of them. In the afternoon Jorqel joined Drakan on the poop deck and studied the horizons. No land was in sight, save for the highest mountain peaks off on the starboard bow. Pelponia. Wreathed in clouds, as was usual for that time of year. Astern, a vague smudge of clouds could have or might not be the mountain range that separated Lodria from Amria. Of the islands to port, there was nothing.

  “When do we turn?” Jorqel asked.

  Drakan looked up into the sky, studied the sails billowing in the breeze, sniffed, looked at the horizon and then belched. “Very shortly, sire. I think a storm is coming.”

  Jorqel groaned. “How soon?”

  “Oh, a couple of days perhaps. Look at the swell,” he nodded at the sea before them. “Something is pushing that along from ahead, and that can only be a weather front. Must be some way off as there’s no cloud in the direction its coming from, but it’s out there.”

  “Can we get to Romos in time?”

  “Aye. The wind may well pick up and that will drive us to shore. Trouble is, we’ll only have a short time to get you off safely. If the storm hits we’ll be dashed against the shore, and I don’t want that!”

  Jorqel nodded. “Do what you can.” He went to the prow to stare ahead, but the storm remained out of sight, if indeed there was one. He looked at the swell once more, but his landsman’s eyes could not work out whether they looked any different to normal. There came a shout from Drakan and the ship heeled to port, banking round, coming alongside the swells and briefly rolling which didn’t do his stomach any good, before climbing up a wave and heading north-west. The waves now slapped into the ship’s stern on the starboard side, the other vessels in the flotilla turning to follow the lead ship.

  The prince nodded in satisfaction as he saw all turn and sail in the wake of the vessel he was on. The shallow-draught ships were rolling worse than the two imperial warships and he pitied those aboard them. He hoped they would be fit for action as soon as they got their feet on firm land.

  The rest of the day was spent with anxious eyes cast to the east. The ships sailed on, ploughing through increasingly choppy waters, rising and falling, but making their way confidently towards the shore of Romos. The wind and waves pushed them forwards and just as darkness began to fall the faint blur of the mountain tops of Romos came into view. Admiral Drakan grunted and made his way forward, worry on his face. Jorqel went with him.

  “What concerns you, Admiral?”

  Drakan stood at the prow, thoughtfully looking at the sea. “I don’t want to approach the shore of Romos in darkness, sire. We’re being driven towards the island and unless we slow down and approach much more carefully, we may have a few vessels hit the rocks to either side of the beach. I don’t want that.”

  Jorqel didn’t either, and concurred. “So how will you slow down, if the wind dictates our speed?”

  “Sheet anchors,” Drakan grunted, and returned to the poop, followed by the prince who had no idea what he was talking about. Drakan began scattering orders to his crew who scurried off to follow his wishes. Two large lamps were hoisted onto the stern to show the other ships where they were, and to stay close in the night. Darkness had almost fallen by now and lights were coming on over on the other vessels.

  “Won’t they be seen from Romos, Admiral?”

  Drakan nodded. “I’m afraid so, but I daren’t lose any of my ships now, not with an unfavourable wind. We need to stick close together. Tonight may be a little uncomfortable, but there’s nothing I or you can do about that. Make sure your men are ready to disembark at first light.”

  Jorqel left the admiral to it; the sailor clearly knew what he was doing, and the prince decided he would only be a distraction if he remained by the admiral’s side. As he left, a sail was thrown into the sea behind the ship, held by two ropes. It helped to drag the ship’s speed down and to make it slightly more stable in the seas. Other ships were doing the same.

  The night seemed interminable, and not many of the soldiers slept through it. Jorqel tried to snatch a little sleep but he was too worried about the morrow to do so for long. Finally he gave up, got Gavan to assemble the men and prepare them to disembark, and dressed in his battle armour. He then joined the first mate on the poop deck. The dawn was not far away, and to his surprise, neither was the shore. It loomed before them like a huge black monster, growing out of the dark.

  The sun was trying to peek through the banks of clouds that were piling up from the east but it was a vain effort. The sky was darkening in that direction and Jorqel didn’t want to look in case it depressed him. It wasn’t raining yet but it would soon enough.

  Drakan appeared, scowling. “Damned weather,” he greeted everyone. “Why couldn’t the gods just relent for one day?”

  “They wish to test our resolve, clearly,” Jorqel commented. “We’re ready to move.”

  “Good. Let’s get this done with,” Drakan said testily. He was worried out the coming storm and quite rightly. He snapped an order to one of his men and a series of flags was run up the main mast.

  Almost immediately the shallow-drafted vessels began to nose towards the beach. The waves ahead shallowed out and were much more white-spumed and confused. The ships made their way through it and sailors began jumping overboard, ending up with the water up to their waists. They began guiding the ships by hand and the sails were lowered. Men crowded the decks and were holding planks of wood.

  Jorqel watched, fascinated, as the ships were manhandled into a row, side by side, stretching towards the distant beach. Ropes were thrown overboard and anchors dropped. The ropes lashed the ships together and the planks were then arranged like a long bridge, crossing all the decks. Jorqel had to admire the smooth way they were assembled. He now looked up at the dark shore, a rolling vista of hills in the background with a wide sandy beach in the foreground. A narrow gap in the hills showed the route into the interior, and it was there he would have to get to fast in order to stop anyone blocking their path into the rest of the island. Someone would know they were here by now, surely.

  “Gavan, get the equines up and walked to the beach. Then take a squad and secure that path up there,” he pointed. The rest are to secure the supplies on the beach. Get to it.”

  Gavan saluted. There was no time to make any kind of comment. The orders were clear, the situation serious. Speed was vital. Drakan was hopping about like a feline on a sheet of heated iron, casting concerned glances astern from time to time. His crew worked hard, lifting the equines out of the hold one by one. As each beast came up and was unhitched from the sling, it’s owner would claim it, and walk it to the side and down the gangplank, lashed into place on both sides, urging the none-too-enthusiastic animal down the rising and falling plank, onto the long bridge and across the decks of the other ships. The other warship came alongside the other side of Drakan’s vessel and began unloading their cargo. The equines came across their ship onto Drakan’s, and then along the bridge.

  Jorqel saw his
men get to the beach and begin to fan out. Gavan planted the imperial flag on the beach and then rode with a small group across to the low hills at the rear and then up the one narrow path that led to the interior. Satisfied nobody was there to contest the landing, Jorqel now commanded his equine be lifted up and he was to be the next ashore.

  By the time he got to the beach the weather was turning very windy. Dark clouds were scudding overhead and he scowled at them. The smaller ships, lashed together, rode the swell better than they would have if they were on their own, but the seas were getting rough. The supplies and equipment were piled up above the high water mark and Jorqel directed Captain Hammerfall to arrange their transportation up to the edge of the beach next to the hills. The coming storm wouldn’t be good for them if they were left by the high water mark.

  More men came ashore and Jorqel directed them either to join Gavan inland or help with the supplies. His equine tossed it’s head, not liking the salt-spray from the sea. It smelt odd, but at least it was out in the fresh air. It had not liked being in the hold tied tightly to the rails down there. Here it could move about.

  The unloading took some time, the manual lifting of three hundred equines took two watches, nearly half a day, and all the time the weather deteriorated. By the time the last was walked to the beach the seas beyond the shallow stretches was too rough for the flat-bottomed boats which were abandoned, their crews scrambling onto the two warships which cast away from the improvised bridge and slowly, sluggishly, made their way out into the deeper waters and swung about. The wind was blowing hard and the rain had begun by now. Drakan wanted to be away from land by the time the worst hit, and those ashore would have to take their chances. He had done his bit, now it was down to the army to do theirs.