Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  “Leave that to me, Mr Sen. You do your part, I’ll do mine.”

  Sen bowed and Isbel left, leaving the tutor thinking deeply on how to counter an enemy that didn’t conform to the normal accepted methods of fighting.

  The empress usually held a council meeting with the same people. Pepil the major domo, Sereth the Counsel, Frendicus the financier, Vosgaris the Palace Guard commander and a new member, Valson Kelriun. Valson was a diplomat and spoke on foreign matters. He was a dark complexioned man with a wide face and a cheery smile, and terribly thin, even though he allegedly ate like a charger.

  Usually the first items of the day were those issues that had arisen the day before, there then followed the new ones. As always, civil unrest was discussed. There appeared to be a lot of people disgruntled with the state of the empire’s finances and infrastructure, and what was being done to sort it out. Vosgaris, as internal security advisor, was pressed to come up with a plan of action to make sure any revolt was well known in advance, and to police the streets effectively.

  Frendicus and his tax collectors had begun to channel funds into the palace, much to the anger of the businesses that had, up to now, managed to evade paying any taxes. Vosgaris had had to arrest half a dozen owners and throw them into prison until their families paid the tax due. This had caused trouble of its own, but posters stuck up in public places stating why this had been done had turned the angry people on the traders and it was remarkable, so Frendicus commented, on suddenly how many businesses were finding the back tax and paying up. The town criers and posters were doing their job.

  But the underlying simmering resentment of the populace in general was a concern, and everyone agreed that it would only take a small incident at the wrong time to set them off. Sereth recommended an assessment every sevenday of each town and city, and Isbel decided to require all governors and acting governors to report any disturbance. Isbel wanted to know if the unrest was directed against the Koros regime in particular, and Vosgaris would send in agents to listen and report back.

  The foreign report was next. Valson listed the foreign kingdoms, republics and states and their perceived attitude towards the empire. Still no visiting ambassador had been received to congratulate the Koros on their accession to the throne. As Sereth commented, nobody cared much for the empire anymore and didn’t see them as a serious player on the international diplomatic scene. They made alliances and went to war with whom they liked without consulting the empire. It was such a change from just a generation ago when alliances had been sought and advice requested of the emperor.

  The only good piece of news there was that as a result of the contempt towards the empire, nobody was considering a move against them at the moment. No troop movements had been reported close to any border, nor were there any fleets heading for any of the five provinces. It seemed all were busy with matters elsewhere. So much the better.

  The council also wished to hear progress reports of the events in Slenna and Bragal, and of the diplomatic mission under Amne. But there was no news on all three. Isbel couldn’t help but worry.

  Astiras and his army were halted close to the Bragal frontier. Their number had swollen even after the meeting with the Bakran archers; the emperor had been heartened by the arrival of groups of Bragalese warriors, tough, hard men, wielding spears and wicked looking blades on poles. They were the type of people he’d fought often enough in the past few years and respected them enough to know they were wonderful allies and terrible enemies. The Bragalese on their part knew of ‘Landwaster’ Koros and feared him. The number of settlements that had been obliterated by Landwaster had made his name one to be feared.

  Their initial delight at being told they were finally free and independent had been crushed by news that Astiras Koros had seized power in Kastan and had repudiated the independence declaration, and it was no secret he was going to return with an army to continue the war. This had torn the communities in northern Bragal down the middle, with some siding with the Kastanians and others vowing to continue the struggle to overthrow their enemies.

  Those that sided with their bigger neighbour had been either killed or driven out of their homes, and now these refugees had gathered on the borderlands, inside Frasia, awaiting the return of Landwaster. It was while waiting they had seen the gathering of the Duras army and now they brought valuable details of their numbers, dispositions, equipment, and location.

  The Kastanian Army of the East, as Astiras was calling it, outnumbered the rebels. Apart from the dubious quality of the two companies of spearmen, he had better men. Two companies of archers that could cut the enemy down at range and a sturdy line of spears to block any attack should be sufficient. And of course there was also Astiras and his elite bodyguard.

  Now they had come to a rise in the road and saw ahead of them the junction where one turn led to Bragal and the other east to Turslenka. It was across this junction that the enemy army was encamped.

  Astiras tugged off his gauntlets and breathed hard. It seemed the civil war was not quite finished yet. “Duras,” he growled deep in his chest. “You shall die this day, you traitor! Teduskis, with me. Parley time.”

  Teduskis and a standard bearer accompanied the emperor down the road towards the enemy position. The Bragalese had been correct. Most of Duras’ army were composed of spearmen, and some looked like gang-pressed rabble with spears and shields. Teduskis heard Astiras chuckle quietly. Fodder.

  The only decent looking group were the cavalry. Nikos Duras was busy arranging his force, and he rather belatedly mounted up and was escorted through his lines by two men, one carrying the imperial flag, somewhat insultingly, and another the Duras family crest, the head of a fearsome beast called a Kroll overlaying a wide central band of red against a background of white.

  “So, Koros,” Duras spoke first as they came close and halted, “we meet at last.”

  “A little brave of you, is it not, Duras? Surely you prefer to skulk in shadows or under rocks and get others to do their dirty work for them?”

  Nikos Duras sneered. “Since your clumsy raid on the warehouse of the Fokis, my family has decided not to put their faith in those idiots. We shall rid the land of your presence. I’m glad you have arrived at last to die here at the hands of my army. They are veterans of the Bragal War, you may be interested to learn.”

  Astiras laughed out loud, throwing his head back. “Veterans of the Bragal War? Oh, Duras, any ‘veteran’ was taken by my son off to Bathenia before I became emperor; these soldiers here were trained up, yes, but the former emperor lost his nerve before they saw any action in the war. They are no more veterans than you are! Are these your crack troops? Well we’ll see how they fare against men who have seen, drawn and tasted blood!”

  Nikos Duras scowled. “And you have elite troops here? Paper-pushers, road cleaners and male prostitutes from the dirtiest back streets of Kastan? I know all about these spearmen you have trained up in Kastan. They will flee the moment my troops attack, and then where will you be, Emperor of Kastania?”

  Astiras pulled a wry face. Duras had spoken some truth in his criticism, but not all of it was so. “I have other troops here, which even you ought to have noticed, or were you too busy counting up to ten and having to start again?”

  Duras sneered. “Bragal peasants? Rough uncouth mountain men from the Bakran? Pah! If this is the best you can do, Koros, then it is just as well I’m about to part your head from your shoulders. You are clearly unfit to rule if you are unable to gather a proper army together. Do your best, for it will not be good enough!”

  With that he turned about and galloped back to his own lines. Astiras turned round in a more leisurely manner and as he and Teduskis walked their mounts back to their force, spoke to his right hand man. “A little over-confident, isn’t he?”

  “Sire. He believes the battle won already.”

  The emperor nodded and thoughtfully looked at his force, gathering itself into formation. Teduskis frowned. “Surely you do
not doubt these men, sire?”

  “Not the mercenaries or the imperial archers, no. But those road cleaners and – what did he call them? – male prostitutes….. ahh” he shrugged. “You know yourself they’re just about able to hold their spears up the right way.”

  “So we hold the line?”

  Astiras grinned. “We hold the line.”

  They turned as they got to their army and looked along the green valley to the enemy lines. Behind Duras and his force the land rose to a ridge, heavily wooded. The road ran west-east from the imperial army’s lines to the rebels and was to the left of Astiras’ forces. Duras had arranged his army across the road. Three companies of imperial spearmen stood from the rebel left flank to the centre, and their right flank was made up of another company, but this was of untrained spearmen, their weak point. Nikos Duras and his imperial lancers waited at the rear.

  “How many do you count of them?” the emperor asked Teduskis.

  “Sire, I count around six hundred and fifty.”

  “And we have over seven hundred.” He looked at his army, arranged in two lines. In front were the archers, the Bakran mercenaries to the left and the imperial archers to the right. The second line was made up of the three foot soldier companies. The two militia spear units were on the left and in the centre, while the imperial right was made up of the Bragal irregulars. Astiras was at the rear, overlooking everything. “What’s the nearest settlement to here?”

  Teduskis shrugged and called out to the captains. The Bakran captain Cupran shouted back that a village called Hadris was over the ridge by the roadside.

  “So,” Astiras smiled widely. “My first victory as emperor shall be at the Battle of Hadris.”

  Nikos Duras, meanwhile, had walked to the front of his force and was now addressing them. Drawing his sword, and pointing it at them, he poured scorn on the imperial troops lined up ahead of his army, set on slightly higher ground. “Look at them,” he said derisively, “half of them can’t even hold their shields straight! The Koros aren’t even capable of bringing proper soldiers to the field! What do they have? Old men and children! You are the best that the empire had, before you were betrayed and cast out like so much chaff! Do you wish people like that to run our glorious Empire? I do not, and neither does my family, the Duras. Only we can lead the Empire back to greatness. Look at our forces! Who is it that brings a proper army to the battlefield? Who is it that re-employs people who were rejected by an uncaring regime? The Duras! One victory today shall cast down these usurpers and then we can rightly take our place at the head of the empire of Kastan! Be strong; be determined! With the Duras to lead you we shall enter a new golden age of greatness!”

  As the roar from the rebel troops carried to the waiting imperial lines, Astiras gently guided his equine out to the front of his soldiers. He looked at their faces. The imperial archers were watching the enemy lines with a determined look; they would be fine. They knew their job. The Bakran archers looked as if they were enjoying the whole affair; the chance to kill their hated lowland neighbours was something they looked forward to. And here they were being given the chance to do so by the emperor himself!

  The two raw companies of spearmen nervously looked at him. Here were those troops he really needed to inspire in the next few moments. Just to one side the Bragalese were stamping their feet and twitching with nervous anticipation; here, again, he knew these people would be happy to join in the slaughter. “Men of the Empire!” he boomed out, “for too long we have suffered under the tyranny of families bent on selfish gain at our expense, whether it be by persecution,” he looked at the Bakran archers, “or by wasteful and poorly led wars,” he eyed the Bragalese, “or, by bringing about social and financial strife.” He stared directly into the eyes of the spearmen. “That brings us all today to this very spot. We have to fight for what we believe in or want. Without the courage to fight and put our lives in danger, our wishes will never be fulfilled. Here, today, at the battlefield of Hadris, you will show to your friends, to me, and most importantly, to yourselves that you are truly men and moreover, men of your word and conviction.

  “Over there are a mixture of traitors and fools; traitors who wish to continue with the chaos and rape of our lands, and fools who do not have the will or courage to look for the truth, and would rather follow the lies of feckless and backstabbing degenerates. All I ask of you today is to stand here and be as a wall. A wall that will neither buckle or fall. Stand and fight, and victory will be yours, I promise this to you! Victory to the Empire, and death to the Duras!”

  The men cheered and raised their weapons, and Astiras grinned and rode slowly back through the lines to the rear. Teduskis smiled as the emperor wheeled and took up his position next to him. “Nice speech, sire. Now we’ll see if courage stands against treachery and foolishness.”

  “We’ll win, Teduskis,” the emperor said, “or you will carry my body from this place. I haven’t taken the steps I have only to lose today to a collection of idiots and foul corruptors.”

  Ahead, the enemy lines began to move forward with a deep roar from hundreds of throats. Astiras slammed down his visor. No more time for talk. Now it was down to action.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The rebel army tramped up the slight slope, shields raised, spears pointed forward. Behind them came Nikos Duras and his lancers. Astiras nodded towards Captain Cupran and the captain of the imperial archers. The two captains turned back to face forward and barked short commands to their bowmen. Two hundred and fifty archers fitted an arrow to their strings and pulled hard, drawing the strings back to their faces, holding the tension and staring hard at the advancing soldiers coming towards them, a hundred paces away.

  “Loose!” came the order.

  Over two hundred arrows leaped from strings and tore through the air down onto the spearmen advancing through the cropped grass. Clearly herd beasts grazed here. As the shafts struck, the line of rebels could almost be seen to shiver. Men fell, some slowly sinking to their knees, others spinning round and crashing to the ground. Most though came onwards, grim expressions on their faces. The archers quickly reloaded, pulled back on their strings, and loosed another volley at the approaching men.

  More fell, but most carried on. About thirty to forty of them lay still behind them or were groaning in pain, unable or unwilling to continue. The rest came running hard for the imperial lines, as much through wishing to close the gap before the archers loosed off another volley as wanting to get to grips with their opponents.

  At a command from the two archer captains, the archers peeled away and scampered through the lines of spearmen to the rear. Astiras waved to them to reform their lines behind him. Now it was up to the three companies of spearmen to do their bit. “Hold firm, Captain,” Astiras ordered to Sepan, then watched the events unfolding in front of him.

  Sepan cleared his throat, sword in hand, and briefly glanced along the lines of his spearmen. “Steady boys, the eyes of the whole empire are upon us.”

  The roar of the attacking spearmen filled the air and many of the waiting militiamen stood in terror, shields thrust forward, spears gripped tightly. Their legs were braced as they’d been trained to stand, waiting for the shock of the charge to hit them.

  With the deep, splintering noise the two sides came together. The militiamen gritted their teeth and were struck far harder than they’d ever imagined. Training bouts never fully replicated what went on in a battle. A few were almost knocked off their feet but their comrades behind them pushed them back and kept them from falling over.

  “Push!” Sepan screamed.

  As one, the militiamen shoved hard. Shields were locked against shield, spears jabbing forward, seeking a soft spot to sink into an enemy. Spear points came through at the soldiers and suddenly it was impossible to move as both sets of men pressed in hard. Helmets slid down noses, shield rims caught round throats, straps bit in cruelly as the two sides pushed and shoved, hoping to prevail.

  Astiras sc
anned left and right, watching for any break in the lines. The right was where the Bragalese were and they were thrusting hard into the faces and throats of the rebels there, not bothering with shields. They fought using their spears two-handed. It left them open to blows but allowed them to strike harder and with more flexibility. Over on the left the militia company there was holding its own against the untrained militia of Duras. It was only in the centre that the battle might go either way, it seemed.

  Captain Sepan was yelling encouragement, holding his men in a line. Astiras grunted in satisfaction and saw Duras edge round towards the imperial right, clearly seeking a place to charge through, but equally wishing to avoid Astiras and his bodyguard. Lancers were all very well against infantry but useless in a melee against heavy cavalry.

  Duras had left one of the imperial spear companies as a reserve and it waited behind the front line, ready to exploit an opening. “We’ve got to act fast, Teduskis,” Astiras said, making a decision. “If this carries on for any time our line will collapse. Follow me!”

  He peeled off to the left and led the bodyguard on a trot clear of the melee. The archers advanced a few steps and stood waiting for a chance to use their missiles once more, but the close fighting meant they would hit friend as well as foe. So they paused.

  Astiras waved to his front line of cavalry and they swung round obediently, wide on the left and now parallel to the spearmen fighting. He pointed his sword at the exposed edge of the enemy militia company and dug his spurs into his charger. With a roar the entire bodyguard sprang forward and came thundering in, sending clumps of dirt flying, straight for the horrified militia company. There came a crash. Astiras saw one enemy soldier being flung aside by his steed, and he hacked down at the back of another man who was trying to get out of the way. The man jerked upright in agony, his padded armour ripped open and beginning to stain red. He fell face down. His mount trampled the body as it advanced.