Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  He rolled onto his elbows and knees and looked around.

  Not ten paces away Lord Duras was leaning forward, still in his saddle, but with a grimace of pain etched across his face. He was holding his side. Blood was seeping through the armour and Jorqel could see that his blade had split it open at that point. He also realised his axe was still looped round his wrist.

  Gavan came skidding to a halt by Jorqel’s side, his sword raised. “My lord – I-I’m sorry!”

  Jorqel waved his protests to silence as he painfully got to his feet. “It doesn’t matter! Save it until after the battle. This filth is mine. Go secure the victory. I want his offspring brought to me. Go!”

  Gavan hesitated, then swung round and thundered off. Jorqel breathed in hard, flinching with the pain it brought. Falling off one’s beast at full gallop wasn’t good for the body. He slowly, stiffly, walked over to Duras. “Get off your mount, you kivok!”

  Duras glared balefully at him. “I do not obey the commands of one unfit to give them!”

  Jorqel took hold of the man and dragged him from the animal which trotted off, scared by the noise of its rider striking the ground. Duras’ sword lay on the ground a few paces away. The prince ignored it. It was irrelevant now. “Kneel at my feet.”

  “I shall not!” Duras spat. He was holding his wounded side. He got to one knee and tried to get up.

  Jorqel sent an armoured foot into his face, sending him flying backwards. Blood coated Duras’ mouth and he groaned, lying on the grass, one hand to his side, the other clutched to his shattered mouth. Jorqel looked about. The two militia companies were being shot to pieces, unable to move in any direction. The RIMM were riding round at twenty paces completely at will, sending shaft after shaft into the huddled mass, hitting something with every shot. Shields sprouted arrows in profusion, but very often one would get through, hitting one of the poorly protected men.

  “You won’t stop us revolting against your rule,” Duras said thickly. He was almost unintelligible.

  “At least I can end your foul campaign today,” Jorqel said. He unfastened his helmet and dropped it to the ground, glad to have some cool air play against his face. It had been getting hot inside it. He went to pull Duras up but suddenly the nobleman had a dagger in his hand and was thrusting up.

  Jorqel leaped backwards and the small, pointed blade glanced off his thigh plate. The axe swung and Duras screamed, a high-pitched bubbled sound spraying through the blood over his lips.

  Duras’ hand went flying, to land harmlessly ten paces away.

  “Treacherous canine,” Jorqel said, taking the sobbing man by the throat and hauling him to his knees. Duras knelt there, curled up with his head almost touching the ground. “You’re a dead man, Duras,” the prince said evenly. “But first I want you to see the deaths of your sons. I want you to know that your line is extinguished.”

  Duras looked up, his eyes sick with pain and horror. “You wouldn’t! Not even you wouldn’t do that!”

  “And your wife will spend the rest of what life she had in my dungeons.”

  “My-my daughter?”

  “Is no longer your concern. She is somewhere else, serving one of my followers. Willingly.”

  Duras sobbed aloud. His wrist was gripped tightly but blood was still oozing out onto the ground. His face was a mask of red, his mouth smashed, and the wound in his side was agony. “Please,” he looked up at the man standing over him, “spare my sons.”

  “No,” Jorqel replied coldly. “You and your seed have done so much harm to the empire and the longer you survive, the greater the threat. I have not forgotten your part in the kidnapping of Sannia. You have caused me trouble and pain for the last time.” He took the wounded man by the collar and dragged him towards the shrinking circle of men. The RIMM were still riding round in a huge circle, shooting into the pack of men at their leisure. It wasn’t a battle, it was target practice.

  Jorqel dropped Lord Duras at his feet and called Gavan over. The bodyguard rode to him and dismounted. “Make sure this piece of offal causes no trouble,” he said curtly and strode towards the galloping archers. He waved them to stop, and Captain Hammarfall gestured to the men to halt.

  The sound of hoofs died away until only the cries and groans of the wounded and dying could be heard. Jorqel stepped through the cut up earth and grass to the other side, closer to the trembling survivors. They stared in desperation out at him. Men lay everywhere, some still, others slowly moving in pain. Arrows littered the ground.

  “I call upon you to surrender,” Jorqel called out. “None of you, save the two Duras will be harmed, this I swear.”

  The men looked to one another. One of the Duras captains swore and threatened to kill the first man who gave in.

  “If you do not I shall order my men in to finish you off. You have no chance of survival. You are surrounded, cut-off and outnumbered. You have until I count to ten.”

  Three soldiers on one side glanced at the two Duras captains, and, seeing they were out of reach, threw their shields down and ran out of the pile of corpses, hands held high. Jorqel signalled to Hammarfall to round them up and put them under guard. Other men were now throwing their weapons down and walking out, hands held up.

  One of the Duras screamed in fury. He struck the nearest man down and was turning on a second when the militia crowded him and beat him to the ground. Jorqel ran forward, bellowing. “I want them alive! I command you to bring those two to me alive!”

  The militiamen pinned both Duras to the ground and called out they had complied. They also asked for mercy. Jorqel nodded to the RIMM to bring the Duras prisoners forward and keep the rest in a circle.

  The two captains were dragged over to where their father knelt. Gavan stood over him, sword edge against the nobleman’s throat. The two sons were forced to their knees, facing him. Jorqel waved to two of his bodyguard, two of the toughest and meanest amongst them, to stand behind the sons. He then turned to Lord Duras. “Witness the end of your sick line, foul traitor.” He cut his hand down and the two sons were run through the back.

  “Noooo!” Lord Duras screamed in dismay.

  “Now you,” Jorqel said, his face red with anger. “My pleasure is to finish you off.” He swung his axe, and Lord Duras caught it under the chin, knocking him over onto his back. His eyes stared up at the sky, wide with terror. His throat had been opened up and his lifeblood flowed out onto the earth. He shivered once, then lay still.

  Gavan grunted and slid his sword home. “Now this had been done, sire, what is your pleasure?”

  “Captain Hammarfall, go secure the gates and send your men to take the harbour. Leave a dozen men to guard the prisoners.”

  “Sire,” Hammerfall saluted and ran to his men, shouting orders.

  “Gavan, we go to the fort. Get the men to ride.”

  “Sire,” Gavan grabbed the reins of his mount and climbed up.

  Jorqel Took his own equine’s reins from one of his men and got into the saddle and looked down at the crumpled remains of the Duras. It had been about time he’d settled with him. Now maybe his personal demon could rest. He waved his men to follow him and made for the gates, already being pushed open by the RIMM.

  At the harbour, the lookout had called out the course of the battle. Nikos Duras cursed and snapped his orders quickly. “Cast off, get us out of here!”

  The ship exploded into action and the ropes were cut, the gangplank hauled in and the sails dropped. The vessel slowly pulled away from the jetty and headed for the gap in between the two arms of the harbour wall. As they began to pick up the pace, they heard the sound of galloping equines and turned to see the mounted archers spreading out along the jetty.

  Even as they came to a halt, they were fitting arrows to their bows.

  “Take cover!” Nikos screamed and flung himself down behind the rail.

  Arrows struck the ship or hissed narrowly past. Two sailors were hit, crying out as they were pitched to the deck. The ship carried on, howev
er, passing through the opening, a matter of a few paces ahead of the archers riding along the wall trying to cut them off. The ship was shot at for a few more moments but it had escaped.

  Captain Hammarfall punched his saddle in frustration. “Go secure the other vessels – none are to escape!”

  His men rushed to comply, but they found nobody aboard the others. All those who wanted to flee had been on the one ship. All they found were the hanging corpses of those loyal to their pirate commander, and who had died as a result.

  Jorqel, meanwhile, had ridden to the fort entrance. Kiros Louk appeared, his sword sheathed. “Sire, there are a few die-hards up in the keep. They are the sworn bodyguards of Lord Duras.”

  “Then they shall die,” Jorqel said, dismounting. “Is there anything else that I need to be aware of?”

  “No, sire,” Louk smiled in a half-mocking manner.

  “Then you may step aside; we will do what is necessary to finish this matter. Come to me in three days’ hence.”

  Louk bowed and slipped away, sheathing his sword. His work was done. He would return to his room and throw out the plant samples he’d collected over the time he’d been there. He just hoped the girl was still alive.

  Jorqel eyed the corpses of two guards lying just inside the entrance to the fort. Louk clearly had dealt with them, but hadn’t gone any further. The prince pointed to five of his men, standing expectantly in a group behind him. “I want the stairs cleared to the top. Kill anyone who resists, arrest those who do not. I shall decide tomorrow whether they will lose their heads or not.”

  They bowed and moved past the open doorway into the hall. Jorqel, Gavan and four others followed, all cautious lest someone spring out from an unexpected direction. The hall was roughly square with posts supporting the roof. At the rear were two exits, one a door to the rear of the fort, the other a stairway leading up. The floor was littered with carelessly abandoned items – flasks, extinguished torches, bones, broken pots and trash. Jorqel pulled a face. The people who had been here were animals. They would clean the place up if they surrendered.

  “Check that door,” he commanded two of the men with him. They clanked over to it, their armour sending echoes up the stairwell. Eyes roved round the interior, which slowly revealed itself as they got used to the gloom. The smell of unwashed and uncleaned objects assailed their senses. Someone had neglected to keep the place clean. Well, that would change.

  “Where are they?” Gavan muttered, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly.

  “Hiding,” Jorqel said, his axe swinging slowly. “Go on,” he urged the knot of men ahead of him, “get up and clear the landing.”

  The five men slowly moved up the stairs which turned twice to the right before ending on a narrow landing surrounded by a rail. Suddenly an arrow flew through the air and struck one of the men in the shoulder. The missile stuck, puncturing the metal, and the man cursed, gripping the shaft.

  Instantly the others rushed up past him and charged the archer. Jorqel lost sight of them but he heard the sound of men fighting and someone dying – quite loudly in fact. He glanced at the two men who had opened the ground door to the rear. They shook their heads. “The dungeon, sire.”

  “Go secure it and see if anyone is down there. Bring them up.” Having passed his orders on he took Gavan and the two others with him up the stairs. He glanced at the wounded man who was grimacing in pain, having broken off the shaft at the point where it had pierced his shoulder pauldrons. “Go get that seen to.”

  The man nodded and slowly made his way down painfully.

  Jorqel looked round on the landing and saw one man lying in a doorway, blood seeping from his chest onto the floor. The walls were stained and uncared for and free of any tapestry or ornament. One of his men was standing over the corpse peering into the room beyond. “What is it?”

  “Sire, we’ve found two people.”

  Jorqel pushed past into the room. It was a day room full of furniture and a bed in the far corner. Tied to a table face down, her ankles and wrists secured to a point underneath the table, was a naked woman. The prince hissed as he caught sight of a series of welts on her back, criss-crossing it. There seemed no part of her back that was untouched. He walked up to her head and looked at her.

  She looked up with pain-dulled eyes. A young woman.

  Jorqel stroked her hair softly. “Your ordeal is over,” he said softly. “I am Prince Jorqel Koros, heir to the throne of Kastania.”

  The woman closed her eyes slowly, then shook as sobs broke out. Jorqel waved to one of his men to free her. He looked beyond to where the second figure was, seated in a chair, bottle in hand, looking vacantly at the men. He had heard the words and chuckled for a moment. “Prince Jorqel,” he slurred, dribble and alcohol dropping from his flaccid mouth to his chest. “May the gods rot your genitals.”

  “And who are you, scum?”

  “Captain Volkanos,” he replied. “At your service!” He raised the bottle of strong-smelling drink to his lips.

  Jorqel slapped it out of his hands and the bottle crashed to the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces, the liquid splashing out onto the floor. “Drunken sot!”

  “Hey,” Volkanos said in dismay, “that was expensive!”

  “Get this creature out of here and sobered up,” he snapped. “Put him in chains and get him to work on cleaning this dungheap up.”

  Two of his men grinned and hauled the confused man to his feet and carried him out.

  “Find a servant to care for this one,” Jorqel pointed to the crying woman who was curled up in a ball on the rug next to the table. “She needs looking after. Now, where are the rest of these canines?”

  “Sire – out here.”

  The prince rushed to the doorway where the man on guard outside had seen three men approach from further down. They were big, unkempt, dressed in a variety of styles of armour and sported axes, swords and maces. Jorqel faced them, Gavan to his left, another of his men to the right. “Drop your weapons,” he commanded the three. “Your leader is dead.”

  “I follow no command of a Koros!” the middle one snarled and sprang at Jorqel, his mace raised to smash down onto the prince’s head. Jorqel stepped forward, raised his axe and the haft took the blow of the mace, shaking both his arms. The haft, made of iron, rode the blow, and Jorqel’s downward blow carved into the man’s face, splitting it apart, continuing through his skull, stopping only after it got to the lower jaw.

  The man fell like a stone, blood and gore splashing out. Gavan struck at his opponent, knocking him into the wall before ramming his sword point-first into his gut, pinning the screaming man against the wooden planking. The other man slashed down hard from just above head height across the man to Jorqel’s right. This blow was blocked but the Kastanian warrior stumbled backwards, knocked off-balance by the force of the blow.

  Jorqel moved across, his axe swinging up, spraying blood. The blade sank into the man’s midriff and caved in three ribs before stopping. The guard folded over in pain and the prince jerked the axe free and watched dispassionately as the doomed man fell to the floor, retching. He looked at Gavan. “Secure the rest of the fort – round all prisoners up and have them placed in irons outside under guard. Put a flag up on the top to make it clear we’re in control here.”

  Gavan saluted, wiping a splash of blood from his face. The guard who had been knocked over got to his feet and checked the three fallen men. All were dead – or as near to it as made no difference.

  “Let’s clear this mess up, shall we?” Jorqel said, moving back into the main room where the girl was now being wrapped in a single cloth someone had found. She was still crying, her knees to her chest. Jorqel dropped the bloodied axe on the tabletop and tugged off his gauntlets. “Take her to one of the bed chambers and put a guard outside her room. I may need to speak to her later.”

  “Sire,” the two men with her acknowledged and gently guided the woman to her feet and then out of the room.

 
; Jorqel puffed out his cheeks and sank into the chair recently occupied by Volkanos. Apart from some mopping up, it looked like Romos was secured. It had gone much better than he’d thought.

  Out at sea, Nikos Duras peered back at the town, and his jaw hardened in anger as the imperial flag of Kastania rose up the single flagpole on top of the fort. He was not finished yet with the Koros.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Astiras growled in frustration. The building of the new Zofela was going much slower than he had planned, and the constant letters and scrolls that were received were getting on his nerves. “For Kastan’s sake, Pepil,” he shouted, “you’re an administrator, sort out the rubbish from the important stuff, and give me only the things I need to see.”

  Pepil bowed obsequiously. “Sire. What would constitute important matters in this instance?”

  Astiras glared at the man. “War! Supplies! Don’t give me these whining appeals for more food, wood or money from these beggars,” he waved a thick wad of parchments under the major domo’s nose.”

  Pepil stared at the papers as if they were causing him some discomfort. “But sire, these are from prominent members of society, important families in the empire.”

  “Prominent pains in my arse!” Astiras replied. “Get one of your clerks to tell them thank you but we’ve got nothing spare thanks to the war with Venn. Every spare item is going to the defence of the empire. I’m not interested in Lord Moaning Bastard’s new set of chairs for his pimply arse!”

  “Very good, sire.” Pepil took the thick wad and stared at it in dismay. “I shall arrange for these to be given my fullest attention.”

  “You do that,” Astiras and waved the man away. He looked at Vosgaris, standing smartly to attention before him. “So, Captain, are you here to complain about the draughty quarters or the ruined view from your bedroom portal?”

  “No sire,” Vosgaris smothered a smile.”