by Tony Roberts
Isbel put her hands to her face and wept. “It’s too much to take in!”
Astiras stood above her for a moment, torn with uncertainty, then pulled her up and embraced her. “As long as we have each other and the family, then everything will be fine.”
Isbel nodded into his chest, still weeping.
____
Amne sat at a table, looking at a sea of parchments and maps. It was bewildering. Theros Pognon was seated opposite her. “Yes, it’s a little challenging,” he smiled, “ma’am. But I must give you an overview of the political scene before we do anything else, so that you can understand why things happen the way they do, and why some people hate us so much.”
“Why do people hate Kastania so much?” Amne asked. “We’re cultured, educated, have such a long history and heritage.”
“I agree, ma’am, but jealousy and avarice are terrible things. People are happy until they are shown they can have something they don’t have, then they become unhappy and strive to get that which they haven’t got. If it’s something trivial, such as a nice pair of new boots, then that’s one thing, but when it becomes land, or an ideal, then that is something entirely different.”
“An ideal?”
Theros waved a hand at the biggest map on the table, one of much of the known world. Kastania was a small area in the middle, drawn on either side of the Aester Sea. “The ideal of owning Kastan, gaining the kudos of possessing this city, a city that has endured for seven centuries, a glittering gem of a prize. It is widely thought that possessing Kastan will bestow upon the owner prominence over the nations of the world.”
“But we only want peace!”
“Peace is fleeting,” Theros said. “Peace is what happens when nations tire of war and draw breath; then each nation must manoeuvre to gain what advantage it can before the war resumes. Do not think that peace is the natural way of nations; no, it is war.”
“So what is the purpose of diplomats like yourself?”
“Our purpose is to secure the most advantageous treaties for our nation; to follow the foreign policy as determined by the emperor, or by the king or council or whatever political regime holds power over whatever particular nation it may be.”
“I see,” Amne peered at the map. “And I’m to secure a treaty with Mazag, so my father says.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Theros indicated a lump of territory to the south of Kastan, the borders of which were coloured orange. “Mazag is a relatively new kingdom, bursting with ambition and expansionist beliefs. It grew out of a collection of nomadic tribes that found themselves in the plains of Mazag about a hundred and fifty years ago. Their king is constantly looking to expand their frontiers. However, because they are tied to the eastern Divinity religion, they are not permitted to expand eastwards at the expense of fellow Divinity believers.”
“Divinity,” Amne repeated slowly. “They believe in only one god, yes?”
“Indeed. They took one of our gods – Sonos - and elevated him above all others many many years ago, and eventually banished all other gods as heretical. They seek to destroy our polygamous faith and impose upon us their own religion.”
“But we have Sonos followers within our empire. Aren’t they dangerous?”
“Not so I understand. We allow any faith here, provided they also worship the emperor. The eastern Divinity kingdoms see this as a blasphemy and have said on many occasions they intend stamping it out. But if they hate our religion, then they hate the western faiths even more.”
“Why?”
“I’ll come to that later, your highness. First, back to Mazag. Mazag sees Bragal as the next area to conquer, but the savagery of the war we’ve waged there over the past five years has given them second thoughts. They’re not likely to step into a hornets’ nest if there are easier pickings elsewhere, and luckily for us, there are. Their attention is currently to their south and east, away from us. So they’ll likely be attentive to an offer of peace and trade while they take what land they wish elsewhere.” Theros tapped the area in grey in between Kastan and Mazag. “And they’ll be happy for us to subdue Bragal.”
“Why?”
“Because if we subdue Bragal, when they turn on us, and they will in time, then Bragal will be easier for them to take over.”
Amne gasped. “That’s awful!”
“Diplomacy is often duplicitous, your highness. Smile at your enemy; nobody is fooled for a moment, but if you play the game by the rules, you know how things will proceed.”
“And can plan accordingly”
Theros smiled. “I think you’ll make a wonderful diplomat, ma’am. Now, we will be journeying through Bragal with your father’s new army, so I’m led to believe. So the first part of our journey will be safe. But after they stop at Zofela we must continue onwards to the south and east until we get to the great river that forms the boundary between Bragal and Mazag. It is this leg of our journey that will be the most dangerous and we must be alert. I’m informed that Mazag patrols often ride in this border country, so if we do come across one of those then we are safe. It’s the Bragal bandits and brigands we must avoid.”
“Who will be with us?” Amne was nervous; she’d never been away from her family before and this journey, a very long and hazardous one, was frightening her.
“We will be given an escort of a dozen soldiers under the command of a captain. There will be two handmaidens to attend your needs and a personal bodyguard, and I will have a small number of minor scribes and attendants to perform the necessary paperwork.”
“Not a lot to hold off any bandit,” Amne commented.
“If your father thinks it too dangerous, then we won’t be allowed to proceed.”
Amne nodded, then looked at the map. Beyond the river the country broke up into a mountain chain, and a symbol of a fortress stood just on the other side with a flag pointing out of the top. “Where’s that?”
“That is our destination, the fortress of Branak. It’s always governed by the heir to the throne, who is currently a Prince Lamak. He will be sent a letter informing him of our intended visit and the purpose shortly before we set off from here. Hopefully he’ll make sure patrols from Branak will be looking out for us. You will negotiate directly with Prince Lamak.”
“What’s he like, this Prince?”
“Like? You mean is he handsome?”
“Yes,” Amne smiled self-consciously.
“I don’t know, ma’am. He’s young, a few years older than you; I’m told he’s tough and brave, but I really don’t know if he’s handsome or not.”
“Oh.”
Theros thought for a moment. “Just one word of advice ma’am. Don’t judge your opponent through looks; it could hide someone very dangerous indeed. He will be seeking an advantage to his kingdom at our expense, and he may well believe as you’re young and inexperienced he can take advantage of you.”
“He wouldn’t!”
“He would, if it meant his kingdom would benefit. After all, he is due to inherit Mazag when his father dies.”
Amne kept silent. She had to digest what her tutor had just told her. It was a very different world to that which she had been used to. Theros examined the papers on the table. His office had served the empire over the years but nothing had been as difficult as it was now. He’d begun a life in the diplomatic service almost as soon as his tutoring had finished, and in those days there’d been many regions to be assigned to, far flung places to visit and his profession had been very highly regarded both at home and abroad. But now they were looked upon in an entirely different manner; now they were the poor relations, who would maybe be given scraps or dismissed without a moment’s thought. Theros had been thinking of looking elsewhere for a job until this assignment had been offered him. His professional pride demanded he take it and see it through. If he taught the girl well, then maybe she’d succeed and perhaps the reputation of the Empire abroad may rise once more. However, if she failed, then maybe Theros could ask to serve in the Mazag
court. He was after all fairly experienced.
“What of the other eastern realms?” Amne suddenly asked.
“Oh. Venn.” He pointed to a red-bordered area to the south east, surrounding the coastlines further from Kastan. “Probably the most distrustful and deceitful of our neighbours. Ruthless, greedy, without morals or conscience. They are a republic.”
“I know what that is, Theros,” Amne said sharply. “I have been educated, you know.”
Theros smiled. “No offence, ma’am. I have no idea how much you know about our world, that’s all.”
“I know what a republic is,” Amne said, “but not what each realm is. They don’t teach women about the outside world,” she added bitterly. “Venn will be someone to watch, then?”
“Absolutely. It grew out of former imperial territory when the east collapsed all those centuries ago, but they’ve only relatively recently grown powerful. They rely on sea power to expand their domain. That’s how they took Cratia,” he pointed to a large island to the north of Kastan. “A long time possession of the empire, it was lost nine years ago when the garrison was withdrawn to fight in the civil wars closer to home. With nobody to defend it, Venn practically walked in and took it. They’re likely to do the same with Drazino over here,” and Theros indicated a town on the coast to the east. “The province of Epros has declared for one of the old emperor’s predecessor’s family and refuses to acknowledge imperial rule. With no army to speak of there’s not much we can do.”
“My brother’s with the army in the west,” Amne said quietly.
“Again, I meant no offence, but your brother can’t be in two places at once. Ten years ago we had a large central army and provincial armies capable of defending their assigned territory. Alas,” he sighed, “such is not the case any longer.”
Amne looked across the map to the west. “And here – is that the Tybar tribes?” she whispered, almost in fear.
“Yes, the Tybar.” Theros scowled. “You’re rightly afraid of them. They have done great evil wherever they have gone, and much of our former land is now under their heel. We tried to negotiate with them but my colleagues…” he tailed off and gripped the table. The memory of his friends and compatriots being executed was still a raw wound in his mind. “They were hanged,” he said abruptly. “The Tybar are a collection of tribes from far to the west. Where they come from is not known, but thirty years ago they first appeared and carved out a domain for themselves in the land of the Two Rivers,” he pointed to the far western edge of the map, “then moved close to our frontier. That was when the fatal day came,” he said, “when the emperor and his army perished in the biggest disaster ever to befall our empire, and we were plunged into civil war and chaos.”
“Do you know what happened, Theros?”
“Alas, I do not. Your father would know; he was in the army at that time, and the details would be known to him.”
“He refuses to talk to anyone about it,” Amne said, pouting.
“Then I think it be best you don’t approach him about it, ma’am. But the Tybar are consolidating their hold on the regions they took from us and for the moment we are safe, but I think it won’t be long before they are strong enough again to move east and we had better be ready for them should that day come or else we will all fall under such darkness that we may never see the light again. There’s no point in sending a diplomatic mission to Imakum, their new capital, as they tend to hang diplomats. They are a savage people!” Theros ended angrily.
Amne was shocked. A diplomat should remain calm no matter the provocation. She folded her hands in her lap. “Then we are fortunate we are to go to Mazag.”
Theros looked at her for a moment, then relaxed. “Yes, we are.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The army reached the frontier with Lodria towards midday. The scouts returned with the news that the province frontier posts were still in place and hadn’t been defaced, which was good. They also reported a few people were gathering on the road, armed with rudimentary weapons. Jorqel snorted with amusement. “Farmers? Peasants?”
“Possibly, sir,” the sergeant in command of the scouting party nodded. “But they look as if they mean business.”
“So do I,” Jorqel growled. “Gavan, my armour! Everyone, get your best battle gear on! Shiny weapons drawn! Trumpeters, I want a fanfare to wake the blasted dead when we arrive!”
The men burst into action. Cloths covering metal were hauled off and stuffed into back packs and thrown onto the wagons, revealing bright, shiny blades and armour. The men tensed; the long period of inaction was about to be replaced with what they had joined the army for.
Jorqel patted his charger on the neck. It, too, sensed the excitement and was blowing, tossing its head. “Now listen,” Jorqel raised himself in his saddle and addressed the men. “This isn’t Bragal, so no burning villages or chopping anyone’s head off, clear? If someone makes the first move then hit back, but these people are untrained and likely to be our people after this nonsense has been sorted out. Look big, look mean, look like their worst nightmare, but don’t lose your head or I might take it off, got it?”
“Yes, sir!” the men chorused. They grinned. Jorqel was a good general. He mucked in with them and swore as good as any of them. He took no messing about, and had been known to flatten someone for wasting his time. But he was fair, honest and popular. These men would die for him.
Gavan trotted his mount alongside his commander. That’s where he would be if things got tough; his remit was to protect Jorqel with his body, even unto death. “Is it wise to announce our arrival so much, sir?”
“Oh yes,” Jorqel bared his teeth. “These flat-footed farmers ought to know who their correct liege is. It’s me and my father, not that pant-wetting talentless swine-humper in Slenna.” The men close by grinned; their commander was getting himself into the mood for a fight. He always spoke like this immediately before action. “I want my trumpeters to blow so hard it blasts these peasant’s clothes off.” He looked around. “Everyone ready?”
The men nodded. The company captains stood stiffly at attention; Jorqel nodded in satisfaction, slammed down his visor and drew his battle sword, adorned with a skull where the blade met the hilt. “For-ward!”
The army tramped forward, a company of the famed imperial archers in front, swaggering with the confidence they felt. Their bows were better than any others known, even better than those of the Tybar who used the bow en masse. Each archer had his wooden bow, made from two types of wood, a dense tree called the Awle that grew in abundance to the south west. This formed the heart of the bow. Then a second wood was glued to it, from the Spal tree, a much more common type. The more flexible Spalwood allowed the bow to bend to greater extremes. The force it exerted was tremendous and gave the imperial bowmen a far greater range.
They each carried a quiver with sixty arrows in them, and on their left arm a small buckler shield to give them some small protection. They all had wide shoulders, stout arms and wore little armour, save head protection and maybe a thickly padded jacket. In a melee they got out of there. Having said that, all carried a sword just in case. Behind them came the first of the spear companies, the mainstay of the imperial armies, these were the backbone around which the archers and cavalry operated. Trained to stand and fight, each had a long overcoat that reached to their knees, coloured with the imperial purple and white, and underneath this they wore chain mail, or thick leather armour. Each sported a spear that stood just taller than a man. On their heads they wore a cap under a metal helm to stop their heads being chafed.
Then came Jorqel and his heavy cavalry. Big, well armoured and deadly. Not many could withstand an imperial heavy cavalry charge. The trouble was it cost so much to train and equip a troop that there were few these days. However, if there was a battle, then it was almost accepted that the heavy cavalry would be the arm that won it. The spearmen would make sure nobody got to them at the same time, protecting them.
Behind Jorqel wal
ked the other spear and archer companies.
It wasn’t long before they spied the frontier. Imperial policy had been for many years to denote the boundaries of each province, and therefore the governorship of each region, with a series of markers. Usually these were of wood, which were replaced every so often when the weather had taken its toll. But in some places, such as in this spot, they were of large stone pillars. The imperial symbols were carved in the faces of the stones, and they were still fairly visible, despite the weathering of the years. Standing alongside these, blocking the road into Lodria, were a number of men.
Jorqel smiled behind his visor; these were farmers alright, country folk who jealously guarded their homes. Proud people, tough people. Many good soldiers had come from places like this in the past, and maybe they would once more. The soldiers took up their positions, the archers to one side of the road, ready to string their bows if needed, but this hardly seemed the situation for this, and they had their swords ready just in case. The spearmen lined the road, stopping just short of the boundary, and Jorqel and Gavan rode through the corridor of men and halted at the boundary. The trumpets blared and the farmers almost jumped out of their skins in surprise.
One of the farmers, a barrel-chested man with a thick bushy beard, then stepped forward. He was holding a long handled scythe. Behind him other men were wielding pitchforks, rudimentary spears and other bladed farming implements. “Who are you and why are you here?” the farmer demanded.
Jorqel flipped up his visor and stared down at the man. “I am Prince Jorqel. What my business is here is none of your concern! To whom do you swear allegiance?”
“I know of no prince by the name of Jorqel,” the farmer said.
