by Tony Roberts
“Smarten up,” he snapped, “you’re guarding the Koros family, not an army camp.”
The guards looked at him with surprise and a slight tinge of annoyance. Who was this man, dressed in expensive armour and speaking well? He was clearly nobility, so best to defer to him. The senior of the two straightened, pushing his chest forward. “Sire. Who, may I ask, are you?”
“Prince Jorqel Koros, Commander of the West. I am here for my sister’s wedding celebrations.”
The guard felt his knees weaken and his bowels turn to icy water. “Uhh…s-sire. My apologies; I didn’t recognise you!”
“Fear not,” Jorqel replied mildly. “But you will from now on, will you not?”
The guards nodded vigorously. Jorqel passed through, crossed the stone courtyard and walked up the wide stone steps to the front doors. More guards stood here, and Jorqel formally presented himself once more, eliciting a series of bows and salutes. One guard opened the door for him and Alenna, and the Prince waved the men back to their positions, stating he would find his way to the Empress.
Jorqel walked down the marble corridor, looking with interest at the busts of emperors of times long past. Would his bust be here one day? Would he be remembered as a great emperor, or a fool? Greatness was usually associated with conquest and victories, not laws or buildings. He would have ample opportunity to earn that respect, he guessed, once he became Emperor. There was a desk at the end of the corridor and a man in armour sat behind it, staring at the two as they approached.
A staircase wound its way up to either side of the desk, and cross passages ran to either side. More guards stood on duty here. The man stood, looking at Jorqel closely. “Welcome to the palace, sir, ma’am. May I ask the purpose of your visit?”
Jorqel was getting tired of the repeated questions, and the repeated answers. “I’m Prince Jorqel. Who are you?”
The man opened his mouth, gaped for a few moments, then snapped it shut. “Prince Jorqel?” he looked him over closely.
Jorqel noted the rank insignia on the chest strap. “Captain….?”
“Uh, Vosgaris, sire. Palace Guard commander. We weren’t expecting you so soon!”
“Oh yes, Vosgaris, I’ve heard all about you. Where are my sister and the Empress?”
Vosgaris cleared his throat. His gaze switched briefly to Alenna. Young, noble, short. Not bad looking, although the mouth was a little big. “Sire, I’ll go take you to the Empress.” He walked along one of the side passages and indicated the two to follow. Jorqel stepped in line alongside Vosgaris and studied him as they went down the corridor. “You’ve had an entertaining few years here, haven’t you?”
“Sire. We’re coping well, though. Big day coming up soon.”
Jorqel grunted. He recognised someone trying to switch the subject readily enough. “How are the Empress and my sister?”
Vosgaris glanced at the Prince. He hadn’t referred once to the two young princes, which was interesting. “They’re doing fine, sir.” He glanced behind him. “And the lady is?”
“Oh, forgive me,” Jorqel stopped and held out an arm. “Alenna Duras.”
Vosgaris’ face reflected stunned disbelief. “Duras?” he echoed in amazement.
Alenna stepped sideways so that she could be closer to Jorqel. The reaction to the name by the captain had confirmed her worst fears. She began shaking.
“It’s alright, Captain, she’s under my protection. She’s helping us against her father who’s proving to be something of an unpleasant fellow. Nothing I can’t deal with.”
Vosgaris nodded and resumed, his mind full of thoughts. He stopped outside a door with two guards standing smartly to attention. “Here we are, sire. Ma’am,” he added, bowing formally to Alenna. He opened the door and poked his head round, spotting Isbel talking to Pepil, the major domo. He stepped back and allowed the two to enter. He shut the door and stepped away, rubbing his chin. He decided to remain there, in case he was called.
Isbel looked up and sat still in surprise as she recognised the smiling face of the newcomer. “By the gods!” she breathed out. “Jorqel!”
Pepil’s eyes narrowed and he stepped back automatically, appraising the man. He’d never met the Prince before and so he watched very carefully how he conducted himself and spoke. Would there be a way of finding a weakness in him?
Jorqel bowed slightly to Isbel and waved a trembling Alenna forward. “Mother, it’s wonderful to see you again after so long. We should have weddings more often.” He grimaced at the irony of what he said. It reminded him of Sannia’s situation.
“Who is this, Jorqel?” Isbel asked, standing up.
Jorqel went through the introductions. Alenna curtseyed but had to be helped up by the Prince for her legs refused to obey her. He felt her trembling and squeezed her hand once for reassurance. “Now mother, Alenna is helping us against the treasonous behaviour of Lord Duras, so I do not wish any punishment to be placed on her head. I have given her my word.”
Isbel pursed her lips. “That remains to be seen, Jorqel. It is reckless to bring her here.”
“It is not, mother,” Jorqel countered. “Where could she go? I have a responsibility to her, since it is to me that she turned when she was put in an impossible position. The information she has provided has resulted in her being ostracised by her own House. I command it.”
“You do not command here, Jorqel, remember who I am.”
Jorqel smiled confidently. “Remember who I am, too, mother. I hold more authority in the Empire than you do.”
“I am Empress.”
“And I am heir to the throne, not some captain whom you can intimidate with your position. Father has entrusted me with the entire west and I shall shortly bring the insurrection there to a close. Where is he, by the way?”
Isbel sat down again, eyeing her stepson carefully. Four years away had built him into a very confident and authoritative man, not the same kind of person she remembered. He wouldn’t be pushed around so easily. “On his way, as far as I can tell. He should be here in a few days.”
“He’d better be or he’ll miss the wedding. Talking of that, where’s Amne?”
His reply was answered by the door opening and Amne bursting in. “Jorqel!” she shrieked in joy, flinging her arms wide. He laughed and braced himself for the running jump into his arms. The two siblings embraced and turned a full circle before he let her down. They stood there looking at one another for a moment or two.
“It’s been too long, Amne,” he said. “My, you’ve grown into a beautiful woman. Elas is a fortunate man.”
“And you – you’ve filled out, Jorq,” she said, using her favourite shortened version. “And gone hairy,” she rubbed his cheek. “Suits you, though, makes you look more – manly.”
“Well now we’ve exchanged compliments,” Isbel said acidly, “we need to talk.”
“That we do,” Jorqel agreed. “In the meantime Alenna here needs a place to stay and someone to look after her.”
“That’ll be arranged,” Isbel said. “I’ll detail Vosgaris to take care of the arrangements.”
“He’s outside, hovering like a cloud,” Amne nodded towards the door.
Isbel called out his name and within a couple of heartbeats he had appeared. He came to the desk and saluted. “Ma’am?”
“Alenna here, she’s your responsibility from now on. She needs guarding and a room. Make sure of it, will you?”
Vosgaris snapped his heels together. Isbel’s tone had been peremptory and sharp. He looked hard and long at the frightened woman. “For how long, ma’am?”
“As long as I decide, Captain. You are aware of her family name? Then I do not need to tell you, do I, Captain, that she will need extra security around her, particularly as there almost seems to be state of civil war at present with two separate Duras armies in rebellion in our lands. Since the Prince here has given his word that no harm will befall her, the security of her person is your responsibility.”
Vosgaris b
owed curtly. Another hand to be held. Something he could do without, particularly with the forthcoming wedding taking up so much of his time. “Please follow me, ma’am,” he said in as neutral a tone he could muster.
Alenna looked reluctant to go, then suddenly turned and followed the palace guard captain out into the passageway. Isbel breathed out hard and looked Jorqel in the eye. “You have some nerve, Jorqel. Are there any more surprises you have in store for me?”
Jorqel briefly went over the current situation in Bathenia and Lodria, which shocked the two women. Pepil assiduously wrote everything down. At the end of it Jorqel dragged a chair over and sat in it. Amne did likewise. “Now I’ve given my appraisal of the political situation over in the West, I’d like to hear more of what is going on here. What about the two boys, Argan and Istan? How are they getting on? I’ve not seen them in a long time and I’m not sure I’d recognise either.”
Isbel and Amne gave him brief details, and then Pepil was dismissed as Isbel didn’t want any real personal issues to be recorded or heard by the man. He was sent to oversee the decorating progress in the banquet hall for the wedding.
Jorqel stretched his arms and unfastened his tunic. He wanted to change out of his travel clothes and have a bath. His clothes were still in Slenna and his equine in Aconia, but he was confident his instructions sent to Slenna would be obeyed and a package would be brought to Kastan within a few days. Travel by water was so much faster than by land. “All we need now is for father to arrive and we’ll all be back together again for the first time in ages. It’s been too long. Running the Empire has broken us up.”
Amne nodded. “I know what you mean, Jorq. I can’t recall a day when I’ve been able to relax and lie there without a care in the world. So much to do and so on! I think I’m going mad at times.”
“You ought to sit in my seat, Amne,” Isbel said sharply. “Then you’d be busy! I’ll be glad when Amne’s married and Elas takes up the governorship of Frasia. He’ll halve my workload.”
“What’s he like?” Jorqel asked, curious.
Amne looked at Isbel who frowned in warning. “Oh, very dedicated to doing things correctly,” Amne said airily. “Doesn’t laugh much.”
“There isn’t much to laugh about at the moment, sis,” Jorqel said. “I hope to the gods my Sannia is unhurt and that she’ll be free soon. The longer she’s in the hands of those creatures the greater the danger becomes. Your man Demtro, by the way, mother, seems to have slipped a couple of spies into Lombert Soul’s camp.”
Isbel looked pleasantly surprised. “He’s a good man, Demtro.”
“Full of himself,” Jorqel countered. “Too damned cocky by half. I’d’ve slapped him down if he hadn’t been your agent.”
“Go careful with him, Jorqel, we don’t have too many good people working for us. There aren’t many to trust fully.”
Jorqel pulled a face. “That’s the trouble with palaces and governor’s residences; always full of intrigue and backstabbing. I hate that.”
“You’ll have to get used to it come the day you become Emperor,” Isbel pointed a warning finger at him, the finger extended by a long manicured nail. “You ask your father. Or maybe it’s best not to,” she frowned. “He never seems to spend any time administering the Empire; he’s always looking for a fight.”
“That’s my old man,” Jorqel grinned and looked at Amne, smiling. She chuckled briefly.
“Less of the disrespectful titles, Jorqel. He’s Emperor, remember that,” the Empress chided him.
Jorqel tutted at Isbel. “I know who he is and what he is, and I’ll address him appropriately. Don’t tell me what to do, or I’ll start insisting you address me properly. See how you like it.”
The Empress pursed her lips in annoyance. “Is it a family trait to be so damned defiant? You’re as bad as Amne here!”
“I doubt I’m as bad as Amne,” Jorqel said lightly, “she’s always been the naughtier one of us.”
Amne gasped and punched him in the arm. “You’re a fine one to talk, Jorqel Koros! Remember how you fed the poor equines those bad fruits that time? They were poo-ing for days!”
Jorqel waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t you start or I’ll tell mother about all your misdemeanours! You may look innocent but by the gods you’re anything but, you wicked girl.”
Amne poked her tongue out at Jorqel. “Tell-tale. Mother’s pet!”
Jorqel grinned briefly, then his face became serious. “If I were not so worried about Sannia I’d respond to that, sis, but my mind is full of concern for her welfare. To think she’s in the hands of those…..” he clenched and unclenched his hands helplessly.
“It’ll be fine,” Isbel said. “Demtro’s people will make sure no harm comes to her.”
Jorqel clenched his teeth together. “If she is harmed in any way, I’ll wipe the Duras off the face of the land, so I swear by the gods.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The word had reached Nikos Duras in Kalkos. A messenger arrived via the sea, brought to Kalkos by a merchant vessel owned by the family. The order was from Lord Duras and ordered Nikos to mobilise his army and send them towards Turslenka within a sevenday.
Nikos read the message and wordlessly passed it to his aide-de-camp. He looked out across the rooftops of the port and out to sea. His position was secure there in Kalkos; he was supplied by sea and used the port as a focal point for shelter, provisions and recruitment. To march out into the countryside was risky. He had no idea as to imperial armed forces dispositions, or if in fact there were any. There was a map resting on the table in his day room and he turned to it, looking at the region in detail.
To the west was Frasia. This area was not to be approached for two reasons; firstly to march into Frasia would run the severe risk of provoking the Kastan City garrison to come out and take him on in battle, and he was not certain that he could do that as yet. He could also not besiege the city with what forces he had either, as the city walls were too big and Kastan could be easily supplied by sea. A siege would last years and years and he just couldn’t keep an army in the field that long. Additionally, the Fokis traditionally ran Frasia, and they had made it clear that in the event of the Koros being toppled, for their support, Frasia was to be theirs. No Duras force was to enter Frasia without their express permission.
Nikos looked south. The land ran inland, climbing gradually to the hills and mountains that bordered Bragal. He had no idea whether a Koros army would march down from there and threaten his rear should he march on Turslenka. He had around six hundred men, but not all were fully trained or familiar with combat; they were disgruntled peasants and farm folk fed up with not getting heard by the ruling House, and who had listened to the Duras propaganda and had decided to fall in with the only armed band of people in western Makenia.
So to the east. The rest of Makenia was dominated by Turslenka and the garrison there. Since Thetos Olskan’s victory a little while back over a scratch force outside the city, Nikos had been reluctant to move in that direction, but now the Lord of the House had commanded him to move. It was to distract the Koros from events in the West, and Nikos wasn’t stupid; his was a sacrificial move. There could be no assistance from his House should things go wrong, so he had to make sure things were right.
His agents from within Turslenka told him the garrison was smaller than his force and included two companies of militiamen, comparable to his trained farmers. He was confident of beating them. But he worried about the two companies of imperial spearmen and the bodyguard of Thetos. They were much tougher and in a battle they would have to be overcome if he were to prevail.
He had a definite advantage of having missile troops, plenty of them, in fact, and planned to use them. It all depended on whether he could entice Thetos out into the countryside and then bring him to a place of Nikos’ own choosing to slaughter the Koros army and then Turslenka would be his. The route to Turkslenka was straight forward, along the single military road that ran from Kastan City a
ll the way to distant Epros. It wound its way in and out of hilly valleys and was often prone to attacks by banditry these days, so he would have to make sure the road was secure for him to use.
All through the winter he’d built up food supplies and equipment for his army for the campaign, and now would be the test to see if it was enough. His stomach churned; going to war with an enemy who would give and receive no quarter was always nerve-wracking, but to the winner the rewards were enormous.
“Get the men ready to march,” he said at last, staring down at the map.
His army commander straightened to attention. “Sire, the men need a day to gather and equip. What is our destination?”
“Turslenka,” Nikos said, jabbing down on the map. “Send out the riders to make sure the road is clear. Burn any farmsteads you come across and put the villages to the sword, but make sure enough escape to spread the word we’re on the move.”
“Yes sir!” the commander snapped his heels together and left.
But what Nikos didn’t know was that the Emperor was only four days’ march away and getting closer all the time.
Astiras and his army reached Turslenka that very evening. The Bakran archers threw themselves down along the roadside that led into the city and lay there as if dead. The forced march down the wide Storma Valley had exhausted them, even the ones fresh from the villages. The cavalry were much less affected, but even so they were looking forward to a night of rest in much more comfortable surroundings than they’d endured the preceding few.
The cool sea breeze blew into their faces and the smell of the sea filled their nostrils. Turslenka was sited on the Storma River mouth where it emptied into the Aester Sea, and the deep indigo of the water stretched to the horizon as the night fell. Astiras tugged off his gauntlets and stretched his arms. It had been a hard march down to the city, but they had made it on time. Two nights rest here and then they’d advance on the rebels.
