by Tony Roberts
Rumours were that it was over in the west. Louk was baffled by this; the lands now held by the tribes ran from the western mountains in what was almost a rectangular blob through former imperial lands to the frontiers of Lodria and Bathenia. The southern frontier of this was almost exclusively the Balq Sea, except in the far west where a spur of the western frontier mountains ran to the edge of the Balq Sea. A couple of passes exited south into the plains beyond, but those were nomadic lands and no organised kingdom or territory stood there. Kastania was not interested in those lands and they had always been out of reach and the domain of barbarians.
The northern edge of Tybar lands ran down to the Reyen Desert just beyond the borders of Amria which was Epatamian territory, and further away stood the Lands of the Two Rivers, somewhere always just too far for Kastanian armies in the past to venture to. Here the land fell away to the north in huge fertile plains. What lay beyond was anyone’s guess, but Louk thought that any defensive army would be placed either there or on the Kastanian frontiers. The Tobralus army would look after the passes to the north-west and the Amrian army the route from the Reyen Desert into Amria. Why the Third Army would be put west from where the Tybar had come from was a mystery, yet Louk always had the impression something was back there that scared the tribesmen.
If he was to find out what, then logically the answer lay in the Tybar capital, Imakum. Therefore he had to get in and steal any information from the governor’s residence.
“Very well,” he suddenly said, moving towards the edge of the boulders. “I shall enter the city. Keep those notes with you. If I do not return in three days then you know where to take them.”
Beshin nodded. “Latiyya. The ship Morning Tide, Captain Jumbal.”
Louk grunted. The boy at least listened and didn’t argue. Too many people spent their time arguing and as a result not listening, and if one didn’t listen, then they never learned anything. “Wait here three days. You have food and shelter. Speak to no-one.” With that he was gone, slipping soundlessly around the rocks and gliding across the broken ground towards the road. He had spotted one slow-moving cart driven by an old tired looking drover, with a pile of what looked like grain-grass in the back.
Beshin looked on silently. He had tried to tell Louk that he didn’t need to sneak in, for the Tybar were happy for those with skills in a number of ways to come to the city. Their conquest had either driven away many of the artisans and administrators or killed them. Now they needed people to maintain the city. Enslaving most of the indigenous population hadn’t been a clever move, for the city had degenerated since, drains becoming blocked, the buildings falling down, the roads cracking up, no taxes being collected. A systematic campaign of bullying taxes from what had been left had backfired, for it had resulted in many of the survivors being either imprisoned for objecting, or they had run away, leaving the situation to deteriorate even further.
Many of those who maintained the infrastructure were soldiers, and they were low quality garrison troops with few skills.
Louk had dismissed Beshin’s advice. As a spy, he prided himself on knowing the situation and his opinion of the Tybar was that they mistrusted foreigners and therefore he needed to sneak in. He was no farmer or artisan, therefore he would be immediately viewed with suspicion.
Beshin watched as the spy waited by the roadside in a dry ditch, then as the cart lumbered past, quickly sprang up onto the back and slipped under a pile of grain-grass stalks and burrowed in out of sight.
The city gates were in the distance but he could see the guard as a vague dark shape. The cart was eventually stopped at the gate and he concentrated on trying to see what was going on.
The drover was asked a few questions. Louk could hear the conversation in a muffled way. Some of the words he could make out but others not. It seemed the usual line of questions about the content of his cart and where he had come from. The drover was surly and clearly resented the way he was being questioned. Louk lay still wishing the fool would shut up.
Footsteps.
The grain-grass was shaken. Louk held his breath. The cursed guard was giving it the once-over. A blade narrowly missed Louk’s face, and brushed his shoulder. Enough was enough. Louk sprang up, dagger in hand. He opened the throat of the shocked guard and jumped off the cart. The drover sat at the front, his mouth open in horror and surprise. Shouts came from the guardhouse.
Louk cursed his luck. It had to run out sometime, he supposed. He began running hard for the distant cover but it was a forlorn hope. Arrows came arcing out from the entrance and down from the walls. Two missed before one struck him clean through the back, puncturing his left lung. He crashed face-first to the stony soil and lay there, his limbs moving weakly.
Guards came running, their bows now slung and their slim swords drawn. Beshin watched in fascination as they reached the prone figure of Louk and dragged him to his feet. Even at the distance he was, he heard the shriek of agony from the wounded man.
“Well, what have we here?” the guard sergeant said in thickly-accented Kastanian. “A Kastanian spy? Oh are we going to have fun with you!”
Louk coughed, his lungs bleeding. He was finding it hard to breathe and his legs wouldn’t support him. He sagged in the arms of the two burly men who held him. The others crowded round, waiting for the command from their sergeant.
“Nothing to say? Well let’s see what the interrogators can get from you!”
Louk groaned and was hauled round. Using the motion, he wrenched on the arm of the man to one side, pulling free from the other, and staggered away, trying to grab his short sword. One of the guards stepped forward, his weapon already flashing in the sun, and struck. The blow was already committed when the sergeant screamed at the man to stop.
Too late. The blade cut through Louk’s neck into the chest. The guard stopped his blow but it was already a fatal one. Louk fell to his knees, blood splattering his knees and the ground. He dropped his weapon and fell onto his face, the blackness of death descending upon him.
“Fool of an alleyway whore!” the sergeant screamed, striking the guard across the face. “Now we will never know who sent him and why! It’s the western mountains for you!”
The guard jabbered in fear. He’d rather die. With a sob he reversed his sword and ran himself through, his lips parting in a smile of relief as he sank to the ground alongside the man he’d just slain.
The sergeant cursed and spat on the corpse. “Coward! Your family name shall be reviled and struck from the scrolls of honour!” He looked at the rest of his squad. “Arrest this fool,” he jerked a thumb at the dumbstruck drover, “take this one,” he pointed at Louk, “and sever his head. It ought to be returned to his lands. Burn the rest. As for that one,” he nodded to the dying guard, “dismember him and mount each part over the gates of the city. Failure to do one’s duty must be punished.”
Beshin didn’t hear any of that but knew the situation was beyond his ability. Remembering the last words of the spy to him, he slid away from the boulders, retreating towards the mountains that rose to the north. He would find the ship at the port and tell the captain of what had happened. He wondered if he would get a reward for this. He hoped so. A herd beast perhaps, a house? Maybe even a young, supple slave girl. That would be perfect.
He smiled at the thought.
____
The room echoed to the tramp of multiple boots. The new arrivals filed in, all looking in surprise at the mostly naked woman kneeling at the side of Dragan Purfin. She was striking enough without her large breasts exposed to all. Long, blonde curls, large blue eyes, a slim, upturned nose, wide hips, narrow waist. Everything each of those entering the room would wish for.
She was partly dressed, yes. A leather slave collar ran round her throat and neck, and affixed to this was a leash which Dragan held. Her hands were bound behind her back and the small leather harness she wore only served to push her breasts forward. It was something they instantly knew as being a slave harness, some
thing banned in Kastania but known nonetheless. A narrow leather belt hung from her hips, and dangling from this was a frill and tassel arrangement, covering her female modesty but not much else. Her legs, long and firm, were free of anything except the ankle bracelet which denoted who her owner was. Nobody needed to see what it said, as Dragan clearly was that.
“Please be seated, colleagues,” Dragan smiled, indicating the array of roughly made chairs and stools. He was seated in a reasonably comfortable high backed chair. “You may recognise this woman,” he tugged briefly on the leash.
Amne looked up in disgust at him.
“By Kastan!” one of the arrivals exclaimed, halting in the process of sitting down. “Princess Amne Koros! Are you mad, Purfin?”
“Not at all. Look at her, what beauty, what perfection. And she serves me, pleasures me, services me. The Koros are nothing. I shall take the throne from that eunuch of a husband of hers, and use her as a hostage to stop her father from taking any action.”
“This is treason, Purfin!” another said, pointing at Amne. “We’ll all be executed!”
Dragan laughed easily and pulled on her hair, forcing her to look up at him. “Really? Look how she obeys my touch.” He clamped his lips on hers, pressing hard. She emitted muffled sounds, unable to break free of his grip, but when he pulled back her eyes were flashing with fury, her cheeks stained red. “Spirited girl, isn’t she?”
“You’re asking for trouble, Purfin,” another of the new arrivals said. “When you sent out your messages for recruits, I thought – and I imagine the rest of us are of the same mind – that you were raising a mercenary company. If I thought that you had the princess here prisoner then I would not have answered your invitation!”
Dragan waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be such a coward. Have you heard any cries of outrage from the palace? No. Has there been any house to house search in the city? No. What do we hear from her feckless husband? Oh yes, she is unwell. Unwell?” He looked at her, leering at her breasts. “She looks fine to me. My slave whore, a Koros princess,” he laughed. “Using her as a hostage we will march on the palace, arrest Prince Elas and his minions, and take the city over. With the militia and guard under our command we will rule this empire.”
“You’re out of your mind,” the first man said, shaking his head. “Your first attempt ended in ignominious defeat on the battlefield. What makes you think this idiotic scheme will succeed? She looks mad enough to kill.”
Dragan eyed Amne again. “Hmm, you may be right in that, but I think it makes her look even more desirable. She has pleasured me these past ten days and she’ll do the same tonight. She has learned not to refuse me or to speak unless I command her.” He chuckled. “Pain is such a good teacher.”
Amne seethed, her nostrils flared, teeth clenched. This kivok was asking to be hung from the nearest gibbet. True, she had been beaten and beaten well enough for her to realise there was no point in her fighting him or speaking back. She had been raped repeatedly until she had learned not to struggle. The pain was less but the humiliation just as great. He took her when he wanted but she made no effort to do anything; she merely lay there like some object, which she guessed he regarded her as. He wasn’t interested in her mind, her personality, her thoughts, her wishes. No, she was just an object for him to sate his carnal desires on.
“See, no comment. I have broken her,” Dragan bragged, smiling at the group of men. “Those of you who will join me tonight will train a group of men for the next twenty days, then we shall act. This whore will continue to serve me in the palace. Perhaps you can be rewarded with Princess Sannia? I hear she’s really quite good, with a fabulous body. That’s an added inducement to you. Imagine that, humping a princess! Any of you ever think you could do that? Well, here’s a preview,” he tugged on the lead and pulled Amne’s hair again, pushing her chest forward. “Look at them! The best you’ll ever see. What do you satisfy yourselves on? Rancid emaciated pox-ridden street sluts? Well this is different, a real woman. Princess Sannia’s may not be as good as these but I bet they’re better than what you’re used to. My loyal followers can take their turn with her.”
“And those who do not join you?” another voice came from the far side. Amne pricked her ears up. It was familiar. So familiar. Her heart leaped. Trying to keep herself under control she slowly raised her head and looked at the speaker.
Dragan snorted. “Then you can go.”
The man, his head covered in a hood, chuckled softly. “Just like that? What of the security? Who’s to stop one of us telling the Koros?”
Dragan stood up angrily. “So – let me hear each of you. Who is in?”
Three nodded with aye’s, including the hooded man, but the rest shook their heads.
Dragan snarled. “So, cowards, you have determined your fate. “Kill them.”
Guards standing by the door moved, swords in their hands. Men cried out in anger, surprise and fear. The blades fell and six men died in a heartbeat. The three who had agreed to join stood up and stepped back in alarm while the guards moved in on the two remaining rebels. There was a short clash and the two fell, but not before they had taken one guard with them.
“Fools. Go dispose of these pieces of offal,” Dragan snapped to the guards. The guards saluted and began dragging the corpses out, throwing them down the stairs. Once the last was out, the guards left to dispose of the men outside in the alleyways.
Dragan sat back down and looked at the three men before him. “So, men of courage and vision. Each of you shall be named governor of a province. You will be free to do as you wish to your province, provided you send me a third of all income. Tax the people to the hilt. It will be all yours to exploit.”
“I wish for one thing only,” the hooded man said.
“Oh?”
“Yes. A kiss of the princess’s lips. If she’s as good as she looks then it’ll be something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”
Dragan scowled and glanced at Amne who was looking surprised, her lips parted, but not enraged. Something was not right. “Who are you? Remove that hood!”
The man laughed. “As you wish, traitor,” and he flung back his head coverlet.
Amne shrieked in joy. “Lalaas!”
Lalaas’ sword was in his hand in a flash, and swinging low across the nearest man’s stomach, ripping into flesh and bone. The man sucked in a deep breath and folded over. Lalaas completed the swing and stepped up to Dragan who dropped the lead and desperately pulled out his sword, but Lalaas was now in between him and Amne. The other man looked from one to the other, then to Amne.
Lalaas stood over the kneeling princess. He kept Dragan at arm’s length with the tip of his weapon. He glanced at the other man. “Make your mind up now – flee and live, or stay and die.”
The man’s mouth trembled, then he turned and ran to the door, wrenching it open and disappearing. Lalaas switched his attention back to the furious Dragan. “Abandoned once more, but this time by your men rather than you running out on yours.”
“Shut up, lickspittle,” Dragan snarled. “It is you who will die, but I’ll keep you alive long enough to see her being taken by me, the one man who has satisfied her in her entire life.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” Amne retorted hotly, “you’re no man, but a desperate sad and lonely braggart, trying to gain respect you ill deserve!”
“Whore!” Dragan yelled and sprang forward. Their blades clashed and Dragan stepped two to the right, regaining his balance. The attack he’d made had been aimed to cut into Lalaas’ neck but the guard captain had merely stood his ground and swatted him aside with contempt.
Lalaas moved sideways, keeping Amne behind him. Dragan sneered, looking for any sign of an opening. “Oh, how noble, protecting the distressed woman. No doubt you’ll get some suitable reward from the palace, such as a letter of thanks.”
“My reward is to serve the Koros,” Lalaas said softly. “And to kill those who would bring them harm.”
&nb
sp; The rebel nobleman laughed briefly, a bark of amusement. “Oh, how pathetically simple. What are you, some gutter-dweller dragged into a position of responsibility by these canines and who thinks that entitles them to a lifetime of grateful servitude on your part?”
“If you like,” Lalaas said indifferently. “A gutter-dweller acting as a noble who will vanquish you, a nobleman who acts like a gutter-dweller.”
“Hah! You think you’re so clever, lackey! I shall put you in your place.” Dragan struck again, his blade angling down from high. Lalaas moved forward a half-step and met it, then countered swiftly, his blade narrowly missing his opponent’s chest. Dragan slid sideways thoughtfully. This one was fast and skilled. “Where did you learn to duel like this?”
“Self-taught.”
Dragan snorted in disbelief, then came up low, hoping to disembowel Lalaas but the captain was too alert and knocked the blow down, then slammed the pommel of his own weapon into Dragan’s unprotected face, breaking his nose. The injured man cried out and staggered back, one hand to his face, blood beginning to dribble through his fingers. He stared at the red on his hand, then glared up at the silent man standing before him. “You kivok! For this you die!”
Lalaas said nothing. He merely stood waiting for the next assault. He knew he was the better swordsman. Dragan went at him hard, blade slamming down repeatedly. Lalaas took the first above his head, the second wide to his left, the third close to his throat. Dragan bared his teeth in effort, blood dribbling down his face, lips and chin.
