by Tony Roberts
Pepil was silent, standing close to the empress. He was next in line for interrogation from the empress. How was it that a creature like that could have been smuggled into the palace? The major domo would take some of the blame for that. Pepil glared once every so often across at Vosgaris who was oblivious to him. He was too busy watching the empress. The priest, Waylar, had immediately gone into a religious trance and was praying to Viak to show him who had been responsible for the terrible deed.
Frendicus had retreated from the room; this was nothing to do with him and he wanted to be as far away as possible from the enraged empress. He had duties to perform, so he used them as an excuse to flee to his offices. Rousa had taken Istan to the nursery, under a double guard, and the little boy was happy enough playing with papyrus and ink, getting incredibly messy.
Argan had cried once the shock had worn off, but now he was calm enough. His heart was still beating and he relived the moment when the creature had hissed at him and had even gone to strike, but the scream had intimidated it, as well as Argan falling backwards in shock. It had tried to slither up out of the box but the arrival of the adults had ended its life in no time. Vosgaris had sliced its head off.
The drink was cool and refreshing, and he liked that his mother and the others were close to him. The monster had scared him a lot and he didn’t like the way its mouth had opened so wide, nor the noise it had made. It had shown two big teeth and he’d tried to get away but he’d fallen over and his screams had brought the adults running into his room. He’d not seen what had happened but Fos, that nice soldier, had said he’d killed the monster. Argan hadn’t believed him until he’d shown him the lifeless body of the red and black reptile, as long as a man was tall.
After he’d calmed down there seemed to be an argument between the adults. He wasn’t sure why his mother was so cross at a couple of them but it must have something to do with the monster being in his room. It hadn’t been there in the morning when Mr Sen had given him the present. Now he wasn’t sure that he wanted to play with it in case there were more monsters. In fact, he was scared to go back to his room alone.
In the end Vosgaris volunteered to show Argan that the room was safe. After all, he’d killed the monster. Argan agreed, but he held his mother’s hand all the same and waited until Vosgaris had gone in first. Then Argan walked in, holding his mother’s hand tightly, his free hand to his mouth. He looked around very carefully. Nothing moved. Vosgaris checked under the bed and in the cupboards. “Nothing to scare you, young prince,” he said calmly. “These monsters only live far away.”
“So why was that one here, Fos?”
“Ah, it was naughty,” Vosgaris explained, quickly catching Isbel’s eye for approval. She curtly nodded once. “It had run away from home.”
“It hadn’t got any legs!” Argan objected, “so it couldn’t run!”
“Well, it slithered, then,” Vosgaris said lamely. “But it wasn’t allowed to come to Kastan, although it did. There are no others because they’re scared someone will chop off their heads like I did to that one.”
Argan looked at Vosgaris with his eyes wide. “Would you chop off another’s head if it came in here?”
“Of course, young prince,” Vosgaris puffed out his chest. “I’m the Captain of the Guard; it’s my job.”
“I want to play with my castle but I don’t know if there are any more in the box.”
“Let’s see, shall we? I don’t think there are any more in all of Kastan.” Vosgaris took the castle out of the box and placed it on the floor. He picked the box up and shook the contents out. Soldiers bounced all over the rug. “No, nothing nasty here.”
Argan sat down next to the castle and picked up a soldier with a sword. “I’ll call this one Fos. He’ll be the castle’s Captain!”
Vosgaris grinned. “Good choice, young prince. Make sure I have a warm, comfortable room.”
Argan began walking the figure through the gatehouse, and Isbel motioned Vosgaris to leave. The captain bowed and backed out. Isbel stayed for a few moments more, then satisfied her son was happily playing with his figures, left as well. She found Vosgaris questioning the guards by the entrance lobby. She motioned for him to follow her to the day room.
Pepil was there and Isbel motioned to him to record what was to be said. The major domo grabbed a wax slate and stylus – these were still being used for taking quick notes – and stood expectantly. Vosgaris waited apprehensively. His position was still not that secure and although he’d worked hard at making the palace guard more trustworthy and efficient, this latest episode had done him quite a bit of damage. Pepil hoped that Vosgaris would take most of the blame, and maybe a little word here and there in the empress’s ear might not be a bad thing?
“Vosgaris.” Isbel paused, thinking hard at what to say. “Your efforts these past few sevendays have been appreciated. But we now face the most serious challenge to ourselves. It is imperative that you find this man of yours and discover – by any means – how this incident came to pass. Leave nothing unopened in your efforts. I will not countenance failure, do you understand me, Vosgaris?”
“Perfectly, ma’am,” the captain bowed.
“I don’t like making threats, but in this case I’m afraid I will have to. If you fail then I shall have to replace you as captain with someone who can prevent such incidents from happening again.”
“I understand, ma’am.” Vosgaris glanced at Pepil who was smiling as he wrote. “And if the trail leads to highly placed persons?”
“Stop at no-one; you have my full authority, Vosgaris.”
Vosgaris nodded. He knew his career was on the line. He would follow the one line of enquiry he had picked up a few moments ago at once. He also knew he couldn’t trust any of his men, so it would have to be by himself.
Isbel dismissed him and the captain bowed and backed out of the room. Pepil stopped scribing. “How trustworthy are the Taboz family, your majesty?” he asked softly. “Would they benefit from the fall of the Koros?”
“Concentrate on your job, Pepil,” Isbel snapped, “rather than trying to undermine another person in my employment.”
Pepil coloured and bowed, chastised.
“Both you and Vosgaris are hard-working and valued people, but if either of you prove unable to do the jobs you’re supposed to do, I would have little option but to have either of you replaced. You should concentrate on doing your job to the best of your ability, rather than waste time in intriguing against others. Now copy my commands down on paper and have them sent to the records office.”
“Ma’am,” Pepil bowed again.
Vosgaris spoke briefly to his subordinate, a sergeant by the name of Zenin, informing him that he would be absent for a short while and to keep the guard doubled and watchful. Donning his ‘working’ armour of studded leather and dispensing with his helmet and gauntlets, he left the palace by the rear gates, armed with his sword and dagger. Now he looked like any sword-arm for hire, of which there were plenty. To be truthful, the empire was suffering with a surplus of out of work sword-arms. With the shrinking of the army, there were many who had been made to leave and some knew no other life than by the sword, and then there were those who had flocked to the various rival armies in the recent civil wars. Now they had, by and large, finished, more men had found themselves without employment.
They offered their services to anyone with money to pay for protection, and some had even resorted to banditry. The worry to the palace was that at any time someone with enough money and a grudge against the Koros may hire enough to successfully challenge for power. This was one of the many things Vosgaris was keeping an ear out for.
But on this occasion he was single-minded; the tavern by the north gate, the Lone Archer, had been the haunt of the missing guard. His colleagues had told Vosgaris of this that morning. The guard, Harran, often drank at this tavern and was acquainted with a fair number of shady characters. The tavern was a ramshackle wooden construction of stout beams and
white painted wattle and daub plasterwork, a standard method of building in Kastania. The better quality buildings had stonework.
Dodging the animal dung and icy ruts in the road, he reached the door and pushed in, his eyes finding it difficult to see at first in the gloom. Poor quality light was provided by candles in glass bowls hanging from ceiling hooks or beams, and there was an odd assortment of clientele to be seen. The innkeeper was standing behind the bar, polishing a mug, and he eyed the new arrival cautiously. Men with weapons often caused trouble, and none were really welcome.
“What can I get you, sir?” the innkeeper asked.
“Information, that’s what,” Vosgaris replied, stepping up to the bar. He glanced round and saw a fair few men turn their heads in his direction. “A man by the name of Harran; known to drink here.”
“What of him?”
“You seen him lately?”
“Can’t say I have,” the innkeeper said, a little too quickly for Vosgaris’ liking.
“When did you last see him?”
“Well, my memory is having a little, ah, trouble,” the innkeeper grinned, a hand falling as if my accident onto the bar top, palm upwards.
Vosgaris looked at it, snorted, then fished in his pouch and dropped a coin into it. The innkeeper said nothing but continued staring at Vosgaris. A second coin landed there, then a third. The hand closed and the coins vanished into the innkeeper’s apron. “Last sevenday, sitting over there in the corner with a man I’ve not seen before. Harran took some sort of bag from the man. What was inside I don’t know but they treated it really carefully, like.”
Vosgaris nodded. At least he knew now that it definitely was Harran behind the attempt on Argan’s life, and when the reptile had been handed over. “Anyone else friendly with Harran here?”
One of the seated people stood up and slammed a dagger into the already badly scarred and worn table top. “You ask too many questions, friend,” he rumbled, blocking the light from the filthy window behind him. “Folks here don’t take kindly to nosey types like you.”
“That’s too bad,” Vosgaris replied. “You a friend of Harran, then.” It wasn’t a question.
The man bunched his fists. “Who wants to know?” He stepped forward, tugging the knife out of the table and coming closer to Vosgaris. Behind him two more stood up and reached for similarly hidden weapons.
“I do,” Vosgaris smiled. “It shouldn’t hurt to tell me, would it?”
“Me, I like my privacy and you should mind your own business. Now are you going to leave?”
“You own this establishment?” Vosgaris leaned nonchalantly on the bar. “You don’t look as if you can afford the clothing you have on.”
The man’s face turned down and became really ugly – not that it hadn’t been ugly before, Vosgaris thought to himself. The man came at the captain and swung with the knife. Vosgaris jumped backwards, avoiding the blow and whipped out his sword just as his two colleagues sprang forward. One fell onto the blade and the young palace guard officer planted both feet wide and stood side-on to the attackers, pulling free his now bloodied blade. The unfortunate man fell to the floor soundlessly, clutching his guts, his hands already stained red.
“Kill him!” the first man snarled and came at him again, swinging high. His remaining pal came for Vosgaris at waist height, his blade slicing in a wide arc. Neither man was skilled and both were more used to brawls whereas Vosgaris had received a number of years training in swordsmanship. He knew if he allowed them to get in close then he was most probably dead, but he kept the two at a distance and picked his moment to strike. One riposte had the second thug turning slowly in agony, his hands clamped to his side, as he forgot all about the fight.
The last man tried to flee, seeing that it was one-on-one now, but Vosgaris kicked a stool across the floor into the man and sent him tumbling noisily into a table which crashed down on him. Vosgaris stepped up to him and pulled him up by the collar with some effort – the man was quite solidly built. “Now, either you tell me or you end up like your friends there.”
The man stared at the dripping blade and felt real fear.
____
Terror had come to Bragal. From the village Astiras had sent out his mercenaries to spread fire and destruction to the district. The message was clear; submit to the empire or die. It took three villages to be burned to the ground along with their inhabitants, save for a few who were deliberately allowed to escape, for the rest to come to their senses. No more the civilised approach by the Kastanians, that was sneered at and taken advantage of by the rebels; now fire was being fought with fire and it was the outclassed Bragalese who were the ones being hunted.
Astiras moved on from the first village after all the buildings had been used for firewood and all the beasts for food. They moved to a second village that also foolishly resisted and it suffered the same fate. Anyone looking down on their route from a high hilltop would see that the army’s path was inexorably south-east, heading straight for Zofela along the only recognisable road in the region.
Now the villagers were offering food, women and animals to the army as it approached. They had learned that Kastania would no longer tolerate murder, theft and defiance, nor be hampered by those within Kastan who whined about their right to rule themselves. Astiras brought law and order to Bragal at the point of a sword, and woe betide anyone who thought of resisting. Only in one place did the locals try to stop them, and that was probably at the behest of the man ruling Zofela. This man, Elmar, had styled himself ‘King of Bragal’, and had ordered the stand as a last desperate attempt to thwart the advancing Kastanian army.
The road was blocked with barricades of fallen trees and piles of snow and ice. Behind them the Bragalese massed, armed with their axes, spears and swords. Astiras slowly walked his mount out in front of his halted army and studied the road block, almost contemptuously. At his rear the mercenaries waited eagerly, and beyond them the two militia spear companies stood, wondering whether they would, at last, be pressed into proper action. They were still not trusted by the emperor, and had so far been limited to road clearing and camp building on the campaign. Behind them were the imperial archers, acting as rearguard.
Teduskis came alongside and studied the block. “How many do you think they number, sire?”
“A hundred, no more. You agree?”
Teduskis nodded almost absently. “That barricade is of wood, sire. We have archers.”
Astiras grinned suddenly. “Fire? Good thinking, man. Go arrange it.”
The two archer companies were ordered to form up in front of the army and prepare their arrows. Then the spear units were pressed into making fires in the camp pots, using oil. The flames flickered into life and the archers pressed cloth onto their first arrow, tying it to the shaft just behind the metal head, then dipped them in more oil that was poured into vessels at their feet. Two hundred and forty archers waited, looking at Astiras.
The emperor raised his arm. “Archers, one volley, light arrows!”
The archers dipped their oil soaked arrows into the braziers and their faces were illuminated by the flames that sprang up. It took a few moments for them to step back into line and stand there, the fire taking hold on their arrows.
“Archers, draw!”
All stood sideways on to the target, the barricade, and thrust their left arm forward, clutching the bow. At the same time they pulled back on the string, pulling the flame close to their left hand.
“Archers, loose!”
The flames roared through the air as the arrows were released and tiny pin points of light sped towards the wood of the road block. A few extinguished themselves in the air, but the majority struck the barricade and immediately flames were licking at the branches, twigs and trunks of the trees. Some even found their way to those behind the barricade and cries filled the air.
“Reload!”
A second time the archers dipped their arrows into the oil and then ignited them. “Loose!” Once mor
e a stream of fire sped into the wood and added to the flames already spreading across it. Some of the defenders were throwing snow over the wood in a desperate attempt to extinguish the flames, and succeeding to some degree.
“Normal volley – present!”
Now the archers nocked their arrows without setting fire to them. Astiras knew what they had to aim at now. “Pick your targets – aim for the guts!”
The men drew their strings back fully this time as there was now no worry about burning their hands or faces. The mercenary archers with their mountain bows and the imperial archers with their much more powerful composite ones paused. “Loose!”
A volley of arrows hissed through the air and struck wood, snow and the flesh and bone of the defenders. More cries came from those behind the barricade which was now burning in a few places and smoking in others. The arrow storm had cut down those trying to throw snow onto the burning sections and now the flames were taking hold.
“Volley by section,” Astiras called out. “Captains, give the commands!”
The emperor turned his mount around and walked back, accompanied by Teduskis, to the spear companies. He looked down at Captain Sepan. “Well, Captain, your time has now come. Ahead are Bragal rebels. Your task is to clear them away from the road and get that barricade out of my way. There are fewer than a hundred of them now the archers have done their work; I want to see if you and your men are up to this task.”
“Sire!” Sepan saluted. He turned to his men. “Dirt Eaters! To the front, march!”
The other captain issued a similar order to his company. A hundred and ninety men stepped past the archers and prepared themselves. Ahead the barricade was blazing away and behind it they could hear curses, cries and shouts of defiance. Astiras leaned back in his saddle and looked briefly at Teduskis, his expression deliberately neutral. Teduskis shrugged slightly, then waited like the rest of the army.
Sepan motioned to the other captain to circle his men around the barricade to the left, while he would take his men to the right. On command the two companies marched off, at the double rate, and plunged into the snow on either side of the road. They ploughed through the calf-height whiteness, kicking it up in showers of powder, and bore down on the Bragelese position. The untrained peasantry behind the barricade saw the threat coming at them from both sides, determined men with gleaming spear points aimed at them. There were about twenty men lying close to the barricade, not moving, and others slowly making their way back down the road holding wounds. The men remaining behind the barricade were outnumbered nearly three to one by the spearmen.
