by Tony Roberts
All seemed to be going well. Now all they had to do is to ride out the storm and then get into the heart of the island. Gavan turned up a short while later, bedraggled and sour-tempered. He swore long and loud against the elements. “If this is what awaits us on this pimple of an island then it can go drift off into the oceans,” he declared, grimacing with distaste as he dripped onto the soft ground underfoot. The ground was layered with years of fallen leaves that gave a spongy feel to it.
“Stop complaining,” Jorqel said and waved one of the men with a steaming mug of klee to service him. The camp fire had a large pot suspended over it which supplied them all with hot water. “And instead tell me what awaits us up there.”
“A flat farmland, with no feature I could see. Fences, yes, but no buildings. They seem to be growing food crops here. There’s a single track that leads off north-west but the gods alone knows where it goes. It was so wet up there I couldn’t see further than my equine could piss.”
Jorqel smothered a smile. “Once this weather clears we’re moving off. My information is that there are farmsteads nearby who will supply us with helpful advice and even food. We’ll move off in three columns.”
“Three, sire?”
Jorqel nodded. “The main column in the middle and two flanking columns, one to either side. If anyone attacks us, they’ll come at us from the flank, and those attacked can retreat, pulling the attackers into the centre column and then be assaulted from three sides. The other flanking column can ride round the rear and then – finish.”
Gavan was impressed. “Where did you learn that, sire?”
“I’ve been reading an old account of fighting against plains nomads centuries ago – it seemed the empire had faced such enemies similar to the Tybar before, but we’ve lost the knowledge. Thankfully we had some very good scribes back then who recorded the teachings of emperors and military leaders at the time. There was an old copy in the vaults of Slenna fort.”
“Slenna must be an old town then, sire.”
“It is – or, rather, it’s the latest in a long line of habitable settlements in the area. Previous ones died through earthquakes or sacking. Slenna in its current form has been there for about three hundred years. They brought all the old records to the fort when the old settlements were abandoned.”
Gavan grunted. “It’s almost night. I’m done in. With your permission, sire?”
Jorqel waved his retainer off. He wanted to be away from the camp as soon as possible, and made sure the guards were set before he, too, settled down for the night under a waterproof canvas sheet tent.
The following morning the rain had stopped, although the sky was still sullen. Jorqel sent new parties out to check both beach and farmlands, and got the camp to pack up and stow all necessary items back on the equines. They were to ride inland far as possible, making their way from the tip of the island where they could feasibly be trapped. As soon as everyone was ready, he sent the men up the sodden and slippery path to the top, squad by squad.
He was almost the last to leave along with Gavan and his bodyguard. Those at the beach came up, reporting that the boats were matchwood on the shoreline; the storm had seen to them alright. They led their mounts by the bridles up to the exit and Jorqel emerged onto a flat terrain, marked with fences and crops. The view had improved from what Gavan had reported, and some of the mounted archers were some distance off, acting as scouts. In the far distance the first of the farms could be seen, and beyond that a low ridge with trees growing thickly up the slopes.
The prince organised the men into three columns, one squadron of the RIMM on either flank and his bodyguard with the third squadron in the middle. They set off, the columns half a bow shot apart, trotting comfortably along the wet ground, sending up clods of earth and grass. Fences were either vaulted or knocked down, and crops trampled. Jorqel was not that concerned with seeing that nothing would get damaged; it was war, after all.
They passed the first farm at a distance and made for the ridge which they reached close to the middle of the day. It was cresting this that they saw their first sign of life. Two men on light equines saw them coming down the single track running down the ridge and took off as if the hounds of the abyss were on their tails.
“Well, there goes secrecy,” Gavan said. “They’ll go bleating to the pirates.”
“Let them; it’ll help spread panic,” Jorqel replied. He sent scouts out as far as they could see. To the left rose the jagged mountains, dominating the scenery, and off to the right the land gently sloped to scrubland. Occasional outcrops of white stone dotted the countryside, and large, open grassland lay everywhere. No fences stood here. More farms would stand closer to the town. “Let’s carry on. Eat as you go,” he commanded, and ordered the breaking out of the large Kastanian banner of purple and white. They may as well announce who they were.
The scouts came back at intervals, and soon news filtered back that a couple of farmsteads lay in their path. Jorqel ordered the scouts to speak to the farmers for information, and a request to advise where the best place to camp for the night would be. As the day faded they camped out under a grove of tall trees on the border of one farm. The farmer had provided useful information, mentioning that the pirates only bothered him when it was harvest time which was now. He was expecting a visit any day.
Meanwhile, in the town of Romos, Lord Duras crashed the door to Volkanos’ private quarters. The pirate leader, who had been fondling the breasts of the girl – the one who had helped Kiros Louk – while she was sat on his lap, sprang up in fury at the intrusion. He called his guards in. The two men who had been too afraid to touch Lord Duras, appeared hesitantly.
“What do you think this is, Duras?” Volkanos snapped. “I expect some privacy here!”
“Damn your privacy, you fool!” Duras bawled. “We’ve got word that that whelp Jorqel has landed somewhere along the south east coast with an army and is making his way here! While you’ve been touching up that whore he’s been moving in on us! We need to send the garrison out to face him!”
The pirate leader slapped the girl in frustration out of his way and glared fully at the nobleman. “Face him where? Who brought this information to you anyway? Why didn’t I get this message?”
“You were indisposed, or so everyone was told! Indisposed playing with that strumpet there. Stop acting like a debutant in a brothel and more like a leader, or I’ll have you hung from the battlements and take your place myself!”
“Don’t you speak to me like that you piece of filth!” Volkanos screamed. “Who was it who took this town in the first place? What were you and your chinless offspring doing then? Losing yet another battle, no doubt. Gods above, you’ve no idea how to lead anyone, except to disaster!”
Duras shook with rage. How dare this low-born piece of dung speak to him like that! He drew his gauntleted hand back and delivered a slap to Volkanos’ face, holding nothing back. The pirate leader staggered, struck his table and dislodged many of the objects resting on it, then grabbed for his sword, lying across the table in its sheath. He swung, the blade free of the leather cover, and slashed at throat height in a blurred arc.
Duras had seen it coming and had stepped back. The tip narrowly passed his face and Volkanos overbalanced and fell to the floor with a loud crash. There came a silence, punctuated only by Volkanos’ heavy breathing as he got to his feet, his hair wild, face red. “You incompetent, useless sot,” Duras observed. “You can hardly stand up. What is it? Kirit? That stuff rots your brains. The place smells like a brewery.” He looked in contempt at the intoxicated pirate. “You’re no land campaigner. This is a land battle – I formally take command of the garrison.”
“Usurper,” Volkanos said thickly. “You will have no help from us! Pirates will not follow your lead, Duras!”
“As you wish. Stay here and drink and pleasure yourself on that slut. That’s all you can manage, anyway.” Duras pushed past the two nonplussed guards and began calling for his sons to his side
.
Volkanos slumped drunkenly into his seat, mumbling. The girl got to her feet and looked at him in contempt. The pirate leader glared up at her, wiping his mouth. “Get back to my lap, woman.”
She looked to the doorway and saw nobody there. Smiling, she shook her head. “I no longer will do as you please. You’re finished, you filthy animal. I hate you!” She walked past him, evading his claw-like hand that tried to grab her, and shut the door behind her. There came an enraged scream from the room followed by the sound of a bottle being smashed against a wall. Guards stood in the room, discussing what to do, whether to follow Duras or Volkanos. “He is drunk,” she stated, pushing her way past the men. “I will not be with him when he’s like that!”
The men grunted or shrugged their shoulders. The news that an imperial force under the heir to throne of Kastan was on its way had filled them with panic. They, like all true sailors, decided to abandon the town and go to their ships. With luck they would be able to sail away if things went wrong with the fight.
Duras, meanwhile, had rounded up his three relatives. Nikos volunteered to lead one company while Lord Duras assumed overall command. The other two sons took the other positions of captain. The garrison meekly accepted the change in command. Whoever led them would have to be good to defeat an imperial force. They had all thought themselves as safe here on the island, and now that was gone. Some even wished for a Kastanian victory. They had no love for the pirates nor the Duras.
The messenger was questioned further in the courtyard. Lord Duras had the man held securely so he couldn’t flee. “Now, peasant,” he growled into the man’s face, “how do we know you’re telling the truth? How do we know you’ve not been sent by that foul beast to spread disinformation?”
“Please, Lord, I’m speaking the truth! I saw them with my own eyes, coming down the ridge halfway to the Ashpen Farm. They are all mounted – they could be here this evening!”
Duras sneered in disbelief. “I will have you strung up if you lie.” He turned to one of his sons. “Go take the road towards the ridge. Take a group of men. If you see anything, ride back here at once.” He returned his attention to the held man. “You will be locked up in the dungeon. May the gods help you if you are found to be lying.” He dismissed the man with a flick of his fingers.
He next spoke to Nikos. “Have the pirate officers locked up too. I don’t want them leading yet another mutiny; once a turncoat, always one. The men are to be spread amongst the soldiers. Arm them; tell them if they refuse to fight they will be put to death very slowly and painfully.”
Nikos grinned and bounded off, eager to impose authority over the slack pirates. They were poor examples of fighting men; with their officers under lock and key the sailors would be much more easily controlled.
Finally Lord Duras spoke to his other son. “You are to ensure there are sufficient men on the walls. If necessary press-gang all able-bodied males of serving age from the town. Hang anyone who protests. From now on this town and island are under the rule of the Duras. Volkanos is no longer in command.”
The men nodded and went to their stations. Everyone was now on full alert, eyes looking out to spot the approach of the Koros. Lord Duras returned to the fort with a hand-picked squad of men, chosen because they were firstly not pirates, and secondly they had been personally picked out of the gutter by Duras himself, so they were loyal to him. He had made it clear to them that should he fall, then so would they, for they would be put right back where they came from. They may not be skilled swordsmen but they were men who cared little for the suffering of their fellow man.
Duras kicked the door open to Volkanos’ quarters. The pirate leader was slumped in his chair, an empty bottle in his dangling hand. “Get this porcine up,” Duras snapped. Two of his men took hold of Volkanos and pulled him to his feet. The pirate leader’s head lolled and his eyes gazed drunkenly at him. The smell of alcohol surrounded him like a halo. Duras grimaced and slapped the man roundly across the mouth. “Fool, disgrace! You will be sobered up, dressed for battle and sent out to fight the Koros.”
“He ain’t fit to fight, sor,” one of the henchmen drawled in the Romos accent.
“So? I care not for that. If he dies, so much the better. I’ll praise it as leading by example and executing anyone who does not follow his lead. Now get him washed, changed and sobered up.”
Two of his men remained standing inside the room, on guard. Duras examined the table and desks, throwing aside parchments in disgust. “I want the castellan and administrator sent here. Once this invasion is dealt with, we shall see about restoring some semblance of order here!”
One of the guards saluted and went to follow his master’s wishes. Duras sat in the chair and looked at the décor. Cheap, plain, unimaginative. The taste of a low born peasant, just as he suspected. No matter, all this would change now he was in command.
The castellan and administrator arrived, both looking apprehensive. Two of the pirate officers had been strung up in the harbourside for resisting arrest, while the rest had been herded into the dungeons. Duras intended putting them all to death once the invaders had been destroyed. “Now,” he stood, facing the two men. “All that has gone before is no longer the policy. I am now in control here and you will follow my commands, clear?”
“Sire,” both nodded, bowing.
“Good. Let me make myself clear; I do not tolerate dissent or defiance. I view both as treason and will hang anyone I find guilty. I give my command and you follow, without question. Learn that one lesson and you shall find I am a generous leader. I reward those who obey me. Now, I want a survey carried out of the town,” he pointed at the castellan. “I believe there are those dwelling here who have no job or function. Re-enrol them into the army or navy. Those who refuse to do so you are to hang on the roadside where they live. Those unfit to serve and who also do not work, kill anyway. I will not have useless mouths here.”
“Sire, the townsfolk may riot.” The castellan sweated nervously.
“Let them. If they do send in the army to crush it. They could do with practice. A few hundred deaths will put the rest in their place. I care not if they fear me, as long as they work or serve.” He looked at the administrator. “As for you, I want an inventory of the taxes and tithes collected throughout the island. I want a list of those villages, hamlets and farms that have refused to send in theirs.”
“Sire. What will you do to them?”
“Burn them to the ground – all the inhabitants are to be separated into three.”
“And-and what will they be, sire?”
“Men, women, children. The men are to be executed. The women, if young enough, are to be put into the brothels. Any too old are to be executed too. The boys are to be inducted into the army or navy as apprentices. The girls are to be put to work serving the households or fort as servants. We will become efficient and self-sufficient. There is far too much slackness and laxity here. Discipline is all but gone. I will not tolerate it!”
The administrator swallowed. “S-Sire, the people may revolt!”
“And the army will crush it. Execute enough and the rest will be cowed into obedience. Anyone not carrying out my wishes will be executed at once!”
One of the guards came in, dragging the girl who had been Volkanos’ whore. “Sire, what shall we do with this?”
Duras smiled. He dismissed the two men to their duties, then beckoned the guard to bring the girl to him. “Now, my pretty, you no longer serve that drunken disgrace Volkanos. You will serve me!” He ripped her dress off, slapped her hard across the face and threw her across the table. The remaining objects on it scattered, most falling to the floor. Duras took a rod from the wall and pushed her face down onto the table. “Now, you will learn to obey me without question.”
The room echoed to her screams of pain and terror.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Amne picked up Kola and glared at the nursemaid who had allowed the baby to bump herself on the leg of a chair. Kola c
ried and Amne held her child close to her, rubbing her head, which was what had struck the leg. “You must keep a closer watch on her, Hilke,” the princess admonished the woman. “Especially now she is trying to crawl! There, there,” she said to her daughter softly. “It’s alright. Mummy is here.”
Hilke, a middle-aged plain-looking woman with her hair tied back severely, stood up. “I am sorry, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll take more care of Princess Kola, I promise.”
“Well, you had better, or you’ll be out of a job. Here, the child has stopped crying.” Kola was passed back to Hilke who comforted the snuffling child, wiping her running nose with a cloth. “It’ll soon be feeding time,” Hilke commented.
“I shall be back later to check on her.” Amne wiped the damp spot on her tunic. She was shortly to go and see two minor nobles who were vying for favours. It was something Amne had insisted she do; Elas had expressed his doubts but Amne had argued she was fit enough and wanted to be away from the smelly nursery; she had become tired of changing cloths and coping with oozing orifices, as she put it. Motherhood was all very well, but there was only so much mess and vomit that one could cope with. Elas had been in full agreement with the hiring of Hilke and Amne, now free of breast feeding, felt free enough to resume her duties. Elas was best at the administrative functions; meeting people was not his strong point and Amne had persuaded him that this was what she was good at.
Lalaas stepped in line as Amne left the room. “All well, ma’am?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes. Just a bump. Children are like that, aren’t they? Sannia says the same about Merza. Still, I’d feel much happier if Hilke showed some competence. I don’t want to return to my daughter being bruised all over.”
“She’s adventurous, like her mother,” Lalaas commented.
Amne chuckled. “I hope she shows more sense!”
“Hmm,” Lalaas said. “I can forsee some – interesting – conversations between you and her when she gets older. If she has your temperament, then I will remain in the barracks.”