by Tony Roberts
Vosgaris retired to his room, tired, his day done. The night shift was in the hands of his lieutenant. He lay on his bed, his armour hanging from the stand in the corner of the room. He pondered about having a bath, but he was too tired to get off his bunk. He was off duty now until the day after, and wondered what he was to do on his day off.
Lalaas wandered down to the trader’s entrance at the rear of the palace. It was time. He nodded to the two guards watching the doors and opened them, looking out onto the starry night. The tall buildings of the palace complex rose up on three sides, while the fourth was open and marked where the road ran away before turning a corner towards the main street. Three figures were standing close to the door, all dressed in long dark cloaks and their heads hidden by hoods.
“You’re on time,” Lalaas noted.
The three filed in, one after the other. Lalaas motioned to the guards to shut and bar the door, and looked over the three who were standing silently in the bare passageway. No comforts here, this was merely a functional part of the palace, not on show to visitors. All supplies came through this way. “No offence,” Lalaas said, “but I must search you all. This won’t take long.”
He ran his hands over their cloaks, and then slipped his hands inside. His eyebrows went up. He repeated the check twice more, then, satisfied there were no concealed weapons, waved them to follow him. The two guards grinned and nudged one another.
The passageway ran on straight for a while. Open archways ran off towards the storerooms and kitchen to either side, and it then went up in a stone staircase that turned round on itself. On the next floor a door opened onto a passageway that ran in both directions, and Lalaas led them along to the end. He grinned and bent close so they could hear his low voice. “If he’s able to walk in the morning you will not be paid. You understand?”
The three nodded.
Lalaas opened the door and looked in. “Ah, there you are, old boy. Tired out after a bad day?”
Vosgaris got up on one elbow. “You could say that. What’s going on?”
“My birthday present to you. I don’t want to see you until after the mid-day watch has changed. I’ll come for you then. Enjoy.”
He ducked out of view and to Vosgaris’ surprise, three hooded figures entered, who came up to the edge of his bed. “Who are you?” he asked, a little concerned.
All three threw off their hoods. They were all young women. They were wearing colours on their lips and a stain of it on their cheeks. They smiled, then undid their cloaks and these dropped to the floor. The women were naked. Vosgaris gaped, his eyes bulging.
“Captain – I’ve never had a captain before,” the first cooed, slipping onto the bed. Vosgaris saw she was busty and dark haired. She slid up his legs and pinned him there, eyeing his loins. The second crawled over him and lay to his left, stroking his arm, smiling at him. She was fair haired and while not as voluptuous, was quite shapely. The last, a black-haired olive-skinned individual, sat on the right hand side and began stroking his hair. “A birthday present,” she said huskily. “Just lie back, Captain, we’re going to treat you all night long.”
Vosgaris swallowed and allowed himself to be pushed back onto his back. As one, the three women bent to their tasks.
Lalaas peered round the edge of the door one last time, and saw Vosgaris’ feet curling. He grinned and gently shut the door, walking back down the passageway. A guard was patrolling the corridor. “Captain’s got visitors,” Lalaas told him. “He’s not to be disturbed, alright?”
“Aye. Got told he might have, ah, company,” the guard chuckled.
“Good man,” Lalaas said and walked off, wondering if his friend would, indeed, have any energy left to surface tomorrow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Astiras’ fist crashed onto the map on the tabletop, causing those around it to jump in fright. “I’m not going to my daughter’s wedding leaving unfinished business behind, and that’s final! This pant-wetting moron Duras will dance at the end of my lance before I get to Kastan City, and this I vow to the gods! So stop worrying about the Bragalese,” he looked long and hard at Sepan, “for they are broken and will not have the capacity to organise themselves until next year at least, and by that time we’ll have enough soldiers here to spare some to escort every potential rebel in this province to the shitter, if needs be!”
He next looked at Teduskis. “The Venn are not yet in a position to move on us, something I’ll repeat again and again. Word of our conquest of Zofela has yet to reach their ears, and then they’ll have to hold one of their damned committee meetings to decide whether it’s worth moving on us and Mazag for the prize of a war-ruined city. No, no, no and no! We could throw our swords and spears into the Balq Sea and walk round naked, and nobody would want Bragal – yet. A couple of years, yes, but not now. Venn need to hold a whole series of committee meetings to even decide whether to change their clothing, so by the time they’ve actually decided to invade we’ll have grown beards the length of my waist.”
Teduskis nodded and lowered his head, accepting the rebuke.
“Mazag are policing the south and that’s where the last of the rebels may be skulking, so rest assured our new allies are happily roasting Bragalese arse for dinner. I do not want my lands to the north disrupted by rebellion, and if we are to turn on them now is the time, not when there are dangers looming on our borders. I want an army equipped and ready to march with me into Makenia in three days’ time. I want a messenger sent on ahead to Turslenka, advising Thetos Olskan to get his best spearmen ready. They shall supplement what I’m taking from here.”
“Sire, even so, I advise against leaving Zofela too stripped of men.” Sepan was concerned at having his garrison dangerously denuded.
“Worry not, Sepan, I’m leaving all the spearmen here. I’ll take the Bakran archers and my bodyguard. You’ll have enough to patrol the valley and the surrounding districts. Send regular missives to Kastan City.”
Teduskis scratched his jaw. “The number of men you’re proposing, sire, isn’t big enough to take on the rebels, surely. There’s the bodyguard and the archers, and that’s about a hundred and eighty men. There’s, what? Three hundred spearmen in Turslenka? That’s a dangerously small number of men to tackle a rebel army.”
Astiras jabbed his finger down on the road that led north from Zofela, almost straight up towards Turslenka. It led through a region of mountains, marked on the map, close to the Bragal-Makenia border. “We’re passing through the Bakran Mountains. We can hire more of the buggers when we do. They’re always up for a fight, and if they’re being paid for it so much the better. I’m also informed that there’s some Mazag irregulars looking for a punch-up. What are they called?”
“Hushirs, sire.”
“Yes, that’s it, Hushirs. A quick word with their Vogna – that’s their warband leader, by the way – and we’ll have a squadron of mounted archers who will be perfect for scouting and screening. They’re a bunch of madmen and will fight anyone given half the chance.”
“How are we going to be able to hire them without formal contact with the Mazag, sire, who, I’m sure, would be reluctant to send troops in to fight for us in an internal war.” Teduskis couldn’t see how Mazag would agree to helping a potential rival, even if they were allies.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Besides, aren’t these Hushirs always galloping off without warning to do some unauthorised thing? I understand the Mazag have a hard job controlling them at the best of times. I doubt they know just how many of them they have under their nominal control in Valchia and the Bragal borderlands.”
“They post most of them on their borders with the Risanian Plainlands. Nobody cares what damage they do across the borders there,” Teduskis said.
Astiras nodded. “There’s the other factor to consider as well. If these Hushirs remain in this vicinity sooner or later they’re going to raid one of my villages and that’s going to cause a problem. I’d rather be paying them to get kille
d for me than ravaging an already badly war-damaged province. Mazag may even turn a blind eye rather than having these maniacs riding loose and causing mayhem here, which would sour our alliance. It’s in their best interest to have the alliance stable at this moment, or else they wouldn’t have signed it.”
The men agreed. Astiras had a pretty good grasp of the strategic situation. “Now, Sepan, you keep the place in order while I’m gone. You’ll have a garrison of five hundred men which should be enough. Send out patrols and build guard towers at the passes into the next valleys. I want them manned all the time and relieved every day. Three men to man them with enough supplies to last two days.”
“Who is going to build them, sire?”
“Get those damned slaves to do it. There’s enough to work on the river rerouting, and there’s some spare. I don’t want the slaves to be idle. When they’ve built the towers then get them working on improving the roads. Organise the farms, get them to sell their produce at a big market place. Get one put up outside Zofela. The ground’s messed up anyway, so building pens and stalls there won’t harm anything.”
“Sire. What about the costs?”
“You’ve got a decent administration in the making here, from what I’ve seen. The best outside Kastan City, in fact, thanks to using those former scribes and clerks from the palace in your militia companies. They’ll set to the task much more enthusiastically than they would if they were put on guard duty in those watchtowers.” Astiras laughed. The others joined in, as expected.
“So – Teduskis, you hire those Hushirs. I’ll need a squadron. Sepan, send a messenger up to Turslenka. I’ll dictate the order to Thetos. I’ll be gone until the summer. If you have urgent need of anything, send a messenger to the capital. I don’t expect you to, though, as I hope you’ll be self-sufficient.”
The meeting broke up and Astiras retired to his chamber. He sat down and rubbed his thigh. It was aching a bit too much these days. Now the war here was finished, he wanted to clear up the rebellion in Makenia. He was emperor, after all, and had to be seen to be protecting his people. It was one of the promises the Koros were making, and if they could not, then who would trust their word? He was much better suited to war and battles than administration. Administration! He snorted. The word was almost an expression of contempt. If only it were a matter of settling everything by fighting, then he would be a happy man.
Luckily he had the right people behind him to do all that paperwork stuff. He trusted them to get on with it and do the right thing, while he got on with killing the enemies of the Empire. While he had been governor of Bragal, he’d been involved in keeping the peace by way of the mailed fist, suppressing any sign of revolt by the simple expedient of whacking them hard. Once he had been called away to fight in the west to try to shore up the collapsing situation there, the Bragalese had risen up and turned the place into a mess. No firm hand to keep them under control, that’s what the problem had been, at least to Astiras.
It was all very well being nice and approachable and decent and accommodating and all the other attributes the hand-wringing anti-war people liked to think they were, but one did not maintain an empire by being weak and defeatist. Faced with a full-blown insurrection, all the defeatists were either killed or ran away, leaving behind those they had betrayed with their useless appeasement policies to die a hideous death. So much for politeness and decency. Now kill the bastards!
Astiras grunted as he pulled off his calf-length leather boots. He’d had to use pitiless ruthless tactics as that was the only way the war could have been won. With a badly led army and a feckless corrupt emperor they were going nowhere fast, so Astiras did the only thing possible; kill the emperor and take over the prosecution of the war himself. He hadn’t really wanted to be emperor, he merely wanted free reign to do as he saw fit in Bragal, his province. But as long as there was someone above him giving the orders and having idiots and sycophants obey them, he could not do that and the war would never be won.
Sighing in relief as his feet were given air, he sank back onto his bed. A few sevendays back this had been that fool Elmar’s bed. It was the only decent one in the entire town. Furniture. That was another thing that had to be supplied, and the best wood in the Empire was here in Bragal. It would take time to get the sawmills up and working again, and the workforce employed, and the supply routes re-opened.
Skilled furniture makers would have to be brought out to Zofela, too. Something else he needed to arrange when he was next in Kastan. He had a myriad of things to do, such was the responsibility of being emperor. Bah! No wonder he hadn’t wanted to be that! Trouble was, there was nobody around other than he whom he could trust to do a good job. The other Houses had proved they hadn’t been up to the job, and they were merely a succession of lawyers, merchants and administrators. Gah, administrators! An empire needed a warrior as emperor!
He had a vision – a plan – for the Empire. Long ago it had been the dominant power in the world and nobody dared defy the word of the emperors. Then, it had been known as the Somorran Empire, and had reigned supreme for thousands of years. Then had come the Age of Discord, when the Empire had turned on itself and torn itself apart in wars that had lasted for hundreds of years. When the war had ended, the western half – Kastania – had remained, triumphant, exhausted, wasted. Somehow it had survived when Somorra had collapsed into utter ruin. Kastania had been unable to retake those portions of the former Empire that fell to new powers or had set themselves up as successor states, such as Hibania or Fenkel, and over the centuries Kastania’s horizons had solidified at her borders.
Still supreme, it recovered and ruled for many more years unchallenged, until the Religious Wars with Epatam to the west. That had taken a huge effort to hold, but the Empire had lost a lot of land to the Epatamians. The reduced Empire had lasted for two more centuries as it was until the appearance of the Tybar, and the sudden collapse of the army that precipitated the current crisis.
Astiras could not see why Kastania couldn’t recover all their former lands, including those held by the kingdoms of the east where the old Somorran Empire had ruled. It would mean a huge rebuilding effort and wars, because nobody would wish to see any single entity rise to dominate the world as it had before. But first they had to stand up on their own feet again, and defeat the Tybar. He didn’t want a war on two fronts, so it was important to seal alliances. Mazag had agreed and the Tybar were happy with a neutral trade agreement at present, but both sides knew it was merely a temporary arrangement of convenience. Sooner or later the Tybar would come again. That meant all internal discord had to be stamped out sooner rather than later, and the situation with regards to the other two regional players, Venn and Zilcia, had to be clarified.
Were both intending to attack? Venn was the more likely danger, having taken both Kral and the coastal region of Riliyan, and they were looking at Epros with an increasingly aggressive manner. Epros was Kastanian, and Astiras had hopes that he could drag the rebellious state back into Kastan’s grip before it fell to Venn, or even maybe Zilcia. Zilcia was the unknown quantity, lying over the Ridatik Sea in Talia. Their knights were some of the most fearsome known, and they had firmly ejected Kastanian rule from northern Talia at around the same time as the disaster at Zerika.
Now, for the past fifteen years or so, they had been very quiet. Unusually quiet for them. They were fierce in battle, proud and warlike. Astiras had half expected a Zilcian invasion fleet appearing over the horizon, but so far nothing had come.
He lay on the bed with his hands behind his head. First, destroy the Duras. Second, see Amne matched and settled in Kastan with Elas Pelgion. Third, return to Zofela with Isbel and his Court, leaving a rump of the administration behind for the Pelgions to run. Having two centres of power helped spread the load of work, and made it difficult for anyone hoping to seize power to do so in one fell swoop.
Fourth – build fortifications in Zofela, and Slenna. Jorqel would see to the latter; he was a good man and j
ust the sort to carry on Astiras’ work. Fifth – expand the Empire’s reach. But to where? Astiras pondered on the neighbouring lands. The Tybar lands to the west were former imperial territories but picking a fight with a strong established power at this time was foolhardy. The moment he did that it was almost certain they’d get stabbed in the back by Venn or Zilcia, or maybe even both. Mazag may help, or even defect if it looked like it would suit them. No, Tybar would have to be left alone. What of Tobralus, to the south-west? A Kastania region that had declared independence from Kastan after Zerika, it was now probably fighting the Tybar, and if that were the case, it was likely doomed.
Far across the Sea of Balq was the Krom peninsula, a trade-rich province. It was independent and therefore vulnerable. It might be best to take it before anyone else could. It would also open out the vast plains of Risania to trade. Then to the north was the island of Romos, a pirate stronghold and former imperial province. That was a fruit ripe for picking, and nobody else had a claim on it, not even Venn who had taken the nearby island of Cratia. Cratia was rightfully Kastanian, but Venn ruled the waves and until that changed, no Kastanian force could risk sailing there. Supply routes would also be hard to maintain unless the seas were secured. Not with only four ships in the navy!
Epros was another possibility, but too close to Venn’s eyes for the moment.
He drew in a deep breath and allowed the thoughts to drift around in his head.
Teduskis checked the list he had been given by the quartermaster. The supplies were barely sufficient but they would do. Enough equines had been gathered to support the small force that would make the journey to Turslenka. A messenger had already been ordered to ride out in the morning.
