by Tony Roberts
All around swords were rising and falling as Astiras’ bodyguard slaughtered the militia company, and suddenly the ill-trained unit broke in terror, scattering wide. Astiras didn’t have time to gather his wits, as a thundering of hoofs heralded the arrival of Duras and his lancers, intent on stopping the slaughter.
The scene became a confused mass of riders and beasts, circling and hacking, watching their backs, then hacking down at an enemy who appeared across their line of vision. Astiras roared in fury, and battered down at a lancer who tried to slice across his head. The blow was blocked and the emperor rammed the point of his sword forward and into the lancer’s throat. Blood ran down his sword and the emperor jerked the blade free and watched for a moment as the lancer slowly slid off his saddle to crash to the ground.
Teduskis wheeled, both fighting to keep himself free of injury and to keep an eye on the emperor. Astiras was ploughing into the lancers, seeking Duras. Teduskis waved two others to follow him through the mass of madly battling men and mounts. Astiras hacked left and right, screaming defiance to those whom he saw as lower than the slithering reptiles of the deserts. Men who betrayed everything he saw as being fundamental to a strong and vibrant empire.
“Die you bastards!” he roared, cutting one man almost in two as he slammed his broad bladed sword down. The lancer fell back, his right arm and shoulder peeling away from his neck and chest, blood fountaining up and splattering Astiras from helm to waist.
Suddenly the lancers peeled away, having lost half their number. Teduskis swung full cirlce and saw three of their number lying in the churned up dirt, mixed in with the blood, urine and faeces. “They’re pulling back, sire!” he breathed.
“Ah-ha!” Astiras growled and swung his visored helm to look to see how the battle was progressing.
The rebel right had been destroyed – the remnants of the militia were running as fast as they could go. Their opponents, the nearest imperial militia spear company, were beginning to set off in hot pursuit. “Stop!” Astiras roared, flipping his visor up, spraying still warm blood up into the air. “Leave those cowards be! Turn right – help your comrades!”
He had seen that his centre was beginning to edge backwards, pushed by two companies of rebel spearmen. In moments they would most likely be split apart and then the imperial army would be cut in two. Duras could then finish off the exposed right at leisure. He roared again and the spearmen, cowed by their emperor’s voice, turned and ran at the melee in the centre of the battlefield.
Sepan’s company was battling hard. Men were falling on both sides and to the raw inexperienced men’s credit, they were so far holding their own. But now they felt the sheer weight of men pressing against them and they were edging backwards. Their faces were showing strain and anxiety as well as determination. They would hold as long as they could but if they were split apart, they were unlikely to hold their own in individual fights; they simply did not have the training to deal with it.
The impact of their comrades on their left suddenly changed this and the rebel centre halted, confused as to where to push now. Their front and right were being assailed and now it was them who were being pushed hard. Sepan sensed the mood change. “That’s it, lads! You’ve got them worried now! Go on, you’re winning!”
Astiras sat up straighter in his saddle. Over on the right the Bragalese mercenaries were striking at their opponents with such savagery that the rebel spear company had lost a third of their number, and they didn’t fancy the fight any longer. As one they turned and fled, leaving the embattled centre to cope with the sweating, blood-soaked mass of men pushing at them.
Nikos Duras cursed. These weak and cowardly so-called soldiers were letting a rabble defeat them! Sensing the battle was on the edge of a sword’s blade, he called his lancers to him and pointed at the Bragalese mercenaries who were regrouping and preparing to swing in and attack the centre. If they did that the battle was as good as over. Digging his heels into his mount, he led his men forward to plug the gap and to send the hated Bragalese back to the kennels they crawled out from.
“Sire – our mercenaries!” Teduskis said with concern.
“I can see,” Astiras grunted and slammed his visor back down. “Come on, hit that traitor in the back!”
The bodyguard rumbled after their commander, wheeling round behind the melee in the blood-soaked field and bore down on the rear of the lancers, now fully occupied with slashing down at the unsupported Bragalese. The mercenaries were standing their ground, striking back, but a few of their number were down. Astiras whooped in delight. The lancers couldn’t disengage in time. His shock charge smashed into the rear of the Duras bodyguard. A score toppled in the first strike and Astiras ran one man through his back, almost throwing the man off his saddle as he pulled his blade free.
A second man tried to turn but was only able to get halfway. It helped the emperor who hacked down twice, cutting deep into the man’s armour and flesh. With a cry of despair and pain the lancer fell. Equines were getting in the way of the battle, most of them riderless. Then Duras hacked clear and, assisted by ten of his men, galloped clear of the fight. Astiras whirled his sword above his head. “After them!”
Both groups of cavalry thundered off the field, the lancers fleeing in dismay. At least here they had the advantage over their heavily armoured opponents. The distance widened with every heartbeat and Astiras realised with fury that Duras was going to get away. He came to a halt, flipped his visor up and screamed in frustration at their backs. “I’ll find you one day, Duras, and when I do I’ll flay the skin off your back!”
He turned about, followed by Teduskis and the other riders. They saw the remnants of Duras’ force running as fast as they could, hotly pursued by the spearmen and Bragalese. The riders stopped short of where the main part of the battle had taken place, easily identifiable by the pile of bodies in a line. Astiras groaned, slipped off his equine and walked stiffly over to the men lying on the ground. Teduskis came with him. Their beasts were tended by two of their men as each took the opportunity to stretch or take a drink. Thirst was always worse after a battle.
“Congratulations, sire,” Teduskis said, “a victory. A crushing one, too, by the looks of things.”
“Bah!” Astiras snapped, “that foul creature escaped, damn his black heart!”
The soldiers were beginning to check the fallen. The dead would be sorted – the enemy in one pile, their comrades neatly side by side. Those on the imperial side who were wounded would be tended and checked to see if they could be saved, while an enemy wounded would be finished off. The enemy dead would be looted; such was the remit of the victors.
“Take a count of the fallen, Teduskis,” Astiras said, surveying the scene of his victory. “We will camp on the ridge over there tonight. Burn the enemy dead. Bury ours.”
“Sire.”
The men who had chased the fleeing rebels were returning, red-faced and running with sweat. Fighting in open terrain under a hot sun sapped the energy fast. Sergeants were running round shouting at the soldiers to regroup and to take a roll-call. The Bragalese were already celebrating and were cheering ‘Landwaster’ Koros. Yet another victory. To the Bragalese, he was invincible. This triumph was proof of that.
The Bakran archers came walking up as one and stopped, raising their right fists in the air and cheering at Astiras. Cupran bowed. “My Lord, we salute you. A fine victory indeed. You have proved to our people you are a warlord worth fighting for.”
Astiras grinned, his face, Like Cupran’s, streaked with sweat. “I can guarantee, Captain Cupran, that under the Koros your people will not be persecuted.”
Cupran nodded, pleased. “And then you may well find my people willing to serve in your armies. Provided, sire, that you give us plenty of enemies to slaughter.”
Astiras chuckled. “I’ll see to it.”
The two tired companies of spearmen sat in a group, rubbing aching muscles, taking deep draughts from their water skins, tending wounds or brui
ses, or throwing up with the shock of having been in battle. Sepan thumped his chest. “Sire. We fought hard. And we stood.”
“That you did,” Astiras acknowledged, removing his helm. “You fought well this day, all of you,” he nodded to the exhausted and shaken men. To nearly all of them it was their first taste of battle. “You can be proud of the fact you took part in this victory. I am very pleased with you.”
The men cheered.
“Now,” Astiras put his fists on his hips and looked about. “Clear this damned mess up. I like a tidy kingdom, you know.”
The men laughed and got up, being organised into gangs to pile the enemy in one place and to gently lay their friends in rows.
Teduskis came to Astiras a little later. “We lost seventy-one, sire.”
“So many?” Astiras was surprised. He was seated on a rise overlooking the battlefield, writing a letter to Isbel. Birds were circling overhead, waiting to feast.
“Aye. Our own bodyguard lost seven. The Bragalese lost seventeen and the rest were the militia spearmen. It could have been worse.”
“No archers were lost then.”
“No sire; they got clear before the enemy closed.”
“And how many did they lose?”
“Six hundred and forty. Nearly half of those running away.”
“So only Duras and ten of his lancers got away then.”
Teduskis nodded. “We carry on to Bragal tomorrow, sire?”
Astiras sighed. “Yes, my friend, we do. But first I want a monument erected here. Make it into a watchtower so it can have a function as well as remind people that here the Koros began the revival of the Kastanian Empire. Then organise a messenger to take this back to Kastan. I want them to know of this victory as soon as possible.”
Teduskis grinned.
The land rose in southern Frasia to snow-capped peaks. These were isolated mountains and marked the frontier with Bragal. The road into Bragal skirted these to the west and this was the route that Astiras led his army along. The land dropped again and became rolling hills. Zofela was reasonably close to the Kastanian frontier from the Turslenka road off to the east, but here it was much further and Astiras knew he would have to cross a fair amount of Bragal territory before he got to the capital.
The frontier was marked with posts, but some had been burned. The army paused and looked into what to them was a different world. It seemed no different to Frasia, but there was something in the air that made it feel menacing. They had noticed that the number of people they encountered got less and less the closer they came to the border, and they hadn’t seen anyone for quite some time. There had been a couple of abandoned farmsteads, the fences falling apart and a building here and there a blackened shell. The Bragalese who had been with them at the battle had melted away the following morning, returning to their homes with the news that ‘Landwaster’ was once more in Bragal, and this time as emperor at the head of an invincible army. Those who had opposed them would now be the ones ejected from their homes unless they made peace with the pro-Kastanian elements.
Astiras sat quietly on his charger for a moment. He’d left the province nearly half a year ago, burning with anger and frustration, but now he was back. This time he vowed he would not leave again until the war was won. Or lost.
“Men,” he said, turning to face the sea of expectant faces. “Before you lies the province of Bragal. It is not a separate nation; it is our land. We are here to reclaim it for the empire. You may face great trials and danger from the Bragal people, but remember you are imperial troops and nobody can defeat you. Be on the watch for anyone approaching – even children. If any of you see anybody from now on, report it. Do not ignore it. Our destination is a village ahead, which we should reach before nightfall. Do not enter the village unless I so order it.” He turned back and raised his arm. “Forward!”
As one, the imperial army crossed into Bragal, eyes watchful, the men tense and apprehensive. And other eyes were watching them, too.
The road deteriorated as they went and the wagons needed frequent pulling out of holes. A wheel needed changing and this slowed them down. By the time they reached the village it was dusk and a line of torches could be seen in front of them, blocking the road. “Here we go,” Astiras muttered to Teduskis. “I expect there’s plenty of men to either side of the road hiding, don’t you?”
Teduskis nodded. “I’ll order the archers to the flanks.”
As the bowmen ran to the flanks, stringing their bows, Astiras waited for the people ahead to make their move. The spearmen shuffled nervously, their shields un-slung from their backs and a spear in each of their hands. Most of them had never been to Bragal before and the swallowing and shaking was rife amongst them.
“What is your purpose here?” a voice called out from the line of torches.
“To reclaim this land for the empire,” Astiras replied. “I am Emperor Astiras of Kastania, and I am here to finish this revolt. All of Bragal is mine by right and I demand you swear fealty to me.”
“Astiras? The governor of Zofela that was?” the voice mocked.
“Show respect, you eater of dung,” Teduskis snarled.
“The only respect you’ll find is at the point of an arrow,” the voice snapped back.
“Or my sword,” Astiras replied. “Is that Spetar? You still sound like a whelp.”
A figure came forward, a torch in his hand. The sound of a hundred bowstrings being tautened came to everyone’s ears. “Careful, relax,” Astiras muttered.
Teduskis waved the archers to lower their bows. A man materialised into the flickering light of the torches carried by the imperial soldiers. A man hard-faced, swarthy, suspicious and hook-nosed. He was holding a sword in his other hand. “Emperor Astiras, is it, now?”
Incredibly, Astiras was grinning. “And you still a lowly village idiot, Spetar.”
Spetar squinted up at Astiras, then chuckled. “You’re as disrespectful as ever; what fool made you emperor?”
“I did,” Astiras answered, then slid off his charger, handed the reins to one of his men, and stepped forward to face Spetar at an arm’s length. “I just wanted to come here to remind me how ugly the Bragal people are.”
Spetar guffawed. “At least Kastania now has a leader with balls! And men! Ha ha! This calls for a feast!! A feast!!” he yelled, waving both arms high. Men stood up from either side of the roadway and relaxed, lowering their bows, and the torch carriers by the village broke into excited chatter.
Astiras stepped forward and clapped the Bragalese leader on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, you ugly bovine.”
“And you, you madman!” They embraced and the imperial soldiers gaped. Teduskis sat smiling with relief. He remembered Spetar now, a brigand, a bandit and thief, but a pragmatic man knowing his village was close to the Kastanian border.
The soldiers were told to stand easy and make a camp and start brewing up drinks and make fires for a meal. Teduskis also advised each unit to post guards to make sure nothing got stolen. The villagers would steal a man’s leggings given the chance, even if were wearing them at the time. “And none of you are to go into the village, even if one of their young ladies entices you to do so!”
“Are there some there, sir?” one of the soldiers inquired.
“Yes, and all have big ugly fathers with big ugly blades waiting to cut off your bits and pieces if you mess with them!” The men laughed. They were in good spirits; they’d been told of the horrors of being in Bragal yet this village was a pleasant surprise.
Astiras welcomed Spetar and the other village spokesmen to his tent. Teduskis remained outside arranging the guard. Two guards were allowed inside just for decorative purposes, as were their unsheathed swords, of course. Two Bragal villagers, armed with their own swords, were permitted to stand outside as a gesture of trust. Teduskis didn’t trust them for one moment, and got five of the Bakran mercenary archers to wait quietly in the shadows just in case. He had the impression the mercenaries wanted
something to start.
Astiras shared his cup with Spetar, as was the custom in Bragal. Spetar nodded to acknowledge the correct etiquette and drained the cup. He wiped his lips, belched loudly and handed the empty vessel back to the emperor. “Foul. Got any more?”
“A couple of barrels for your village, if you wish. And I have some gold.”
Spetar’s ears pricked up. “Gold? Ohhhh, you want some work, do you? Some of us to do your dirty work ahead?”
“Would I ask priests or children to do so? I think not. To do dirty work needs dirty warriors, and I can’t think of better people than you.”
“Hah,” Spetar scoffed. “Those nasty looking men you have with you, those Bakran mountain men, they look as if they’d rape grandmothers and bovines for fun.”
“They probably do as a matter of course, Spetar.”
The Bragal leader roared with mirth. “A dirty task with a dirty leader! Hah! You’re the best man I can think of to lead mountain men, Bragal brigands and ugly Kastanian soldiers into Bragal! Yes, but let me see the gold first.”
Astiras leaned over and picked up an identical leather bag to the one Teduskis had passed the Bakran mercenaries. Spetar weighed it, then upended it and dropped a few coins into his palm. His eyes widened. “Oh, for this I’d sell you my daughter; she’s a nympho. She needs an army to service her, the slut. I’ve had to kill three men already for screwing her out of wedlock, did you know that?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. Get her married fast, my friend, or you’ll not have any men left in the village.”
“Good idea. You have anyone here in mind? I wouldn’t mind her marrying one of your men; it’d get the silly girl out of my hair and then all the village could relax around me. The way all the men look at me I think they’ve all had a turn at her. You know our laws.”
Astiras did. Bragal local law held that sex outside wedlock was banned. Once wed, then anyone could have affairs. It kept marriages spicy, or so Spetar averred. Divorce was banned, and marriages were well known in Bragal for their arguments and tempestuousness. Quite often the married couple ended up living apart with other people, but to only those who also had been married and separated. It was a baffling local custom and often Kastanian soldiers fell foul of it and were hunted to the death by vengeful fathers – or husbands. “I’d best make sure the lucky husband to be knows what he was getting into.”
