by Tony Roberts
“Lalaas – I’m……..” Amne stared at Lalaas. A whole raft of emotions played over her face, read by Lalaas perfectly clearly. He almost laughed out loud, but he decided it might not be a good career move. “I’m impressed!” she finally declared. “What a scheming, manipulative, back-stabbing move!” she came up close to him. “You are learning how to intrigue wonderfully.” Inexplicably she giggled. “Oh, you’re beginning to learn just what your role is. I’m pleased.”
Lalaas rolled his eyes in confusion. It wasn’t what he had expected.
“You don’t like me carrying on with Dragan, so you manufacture a disagreement with him on the pretext of a security issue, then you have the excuse to ban him, thus stopping me and him continuing, which is what you want. You then imply that if I contest your decision, you’ll have to bring in my husband with the natural consequence, of course, that he’ll have to be told why. You don’t want to, of course, but you just want me to back your decision, and you subtly threaten me with revealing my indiscretion to my husband. Oh, you’re magnificent.”
The palace guard captain stood uncertainly, wondering what was going to happen next.
Amne ran her hand down the side of his face. “I see I’m going to have to act more carefully around you in future, Lalaas.” She kissed the side of his face, then returned to her seat. “You can go now, Captain,” she said gaily.
“Uh, so……”
“Oh, I won’t contest your decision to bar him from the palace. You’ve backed me into a corner on that one. Now I must insist you go – my darling corpse of a husband is due here in a short while, and he wouldn’t like the thought of any other man being here, would he?”
Lalaas decided he didn’t like the sweet way she was smiling at him. He bowed gravely. “Very good, ma’am. I shall be on my way.” He closed the door behind him and stood in the corridor for a moment. He heard a scream of frustration, followed by the crashing sound of something being broken. He smiled to himself briefly and shook his head. The two guards outside the door stared ahead stolidly. They wouldn’t say anything.
He walked off, relieved he had managed to deal with the situation. However, knowing Amne, she may well find another way of seeing Dragan Purfin. Lalaas decided to keep a close watch on the nobleman. He would have to go see one or more of his street contacts. The Purfin estate was some way outside the walls of Kastan, and he might have to find more funds to get hold of someone capable of keeping that family under observation.
He had the feeling the affair hadn’t run its course.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The riders lined up across a low ridge, hardly one that warranted the name, but it was higher than the surrounding ground, so it needed some sort of description. Jorqel’s eyes roved along the distant walls of Romos Town, taking in the wooden walls, towers and other defences. “Similar to Slenna when we besieged that, don’t you think?” he said to Gavan.
“Aye, sire. I hope we aren’t going to have to sit out here for another year. I had enough the last time!”
Jorqel nodded thoughtfully. “The garrison outnumber us, but they are all militia and are on foot, except for those we chased back to their kennel. I doubt they’ll make any difference come the final reckoning.”
Gavan agreed. “Scouts, sire. Not ones to get close up and personal. What of the ships?”
“What of them? They cannot do much where they sit, and they can hardly be dragged overland to fight us here. Discount them.”
“And their crews?”
Jorqel looked levelly at his bodyguard. “What do you think, Gavan? Sailors fighting us?”
“Aye, arrow-fodder.”
“Indeed. As, I expect, will be the militiamen. Let us see what we are facing then, shall we?” He gently urged his mount onwards, followed by the rest, spreading out into a long line of mounted men.
On the walls of Romos Lord Duras watched their approach. He looked at the riders in disgust. “What is the world coming to, when our ruling family copy the ways of our enemies? They turn their backs on centuries of tradition. They do not deserve to live! We have two companies of spearmen who will butcher those fools.”
His two sons agreed, nodding, but Nikos, who had already faced the Koros in Makenia and Frasia, wasn’t so sure. He remained looking at the approaching men for a moment, then turned to his uncle. “Sire, permission to check the harbour – I don’t like the thought of those sailors being out of our sight. They may flee, given the first opportunity.”
“Yes, of course, Nikos. Make sure they know who their masters are. If they have any difficulty, hang ten from the rigging.”
Nikos bowed. “As you command, sire.”
Lord Duras pointed at the back of Nikos. There – that’s how to behave towards your superiors. Take note, you two. Now, go prepare the garrison to meet these fools. Once that whelp Jorqel is defeated I shall have him flayed alive, boiled, and his skull made into a drinking cup.”
His two sons descended to the ground and began barking shrill orders to their captains. The three companies of men, one archers and two of militia spearmen, milled about getting into some semblance of order.
Lord Duras saw Jorqel and two others detach themselves from the main body and continue to advance under the banner of parley. He snorted. Parley. Child’s rules, but he supposed he ought to listen and hear what the whelp had to say. He waved to a soldier on the battlements to raise a white parley flag in response.
Jorqel saw the banner rising and grunted. He waved Gavan and the standard bearer on with him until they were in hearing range. He stopped and stared at the figure behind the pointed stakes at the top of the walls. “So, Duras, I have finally run you to ground. You will not be able to flee my clutches this time.”
Duras leaned forward. “So you say, whelp. All your boasting and bravado has come to – what? Two hundred and fifty children on immature equines? Is that what your budget runs to these days?”
Jorqel turned slowly and surveyed the RIMM waiting patiently a hundred paces away. They had their quivers ready, and although their bows were not in their hands, they were in their leather holders hanging down the side of their steeds, and could be pulled out and ready in a couple of heartbeats. He turned back to face Duras once more. “You do not change your whining, Duras. Your arrogance and refusal to listen to anyone has been your downfall. Today I shall personally slay you for what you did to my beloved Sannia.”
Duras sneered. “I only regret not using her like the she-bovine she is. Perhaps by giving birth to a Duras she might have become a woman of some standing – shame she has become the breeding vessel of you Koros. No matter, once I have finished with you I shall cross to Lodria and burn Slenna to the ground. Nobody will survive.”
Jorqel balled his fist. “You seem to be unable to follow your boasts with any firm action. You’re full of wind and piss and nothing else, Duras. All you can do is make idle threats but don’t have the ability or balls to carry them out. Well, come out and face me in battle, and prove to me how useless you are.”
Duras growled. “So shall it be, whelp! You shall serve as my drinking vessel for years to come.” He stamped off the battlements.
Jorqel turned and jerked his head to his two companions. “Come on, back to the line. We need to get ready for battle.” They trotted back to the line of men. Behind the line of archers a small group of dismounted men waited, grouped round a collapsible table. On the table was a rough map of the town’s defences, weighed down by heavy objects such as a dagger, a stone and a belt.
Jorqel threw himself off his mount and ran to the table to peer down at the thick black markings. The irregular wavy lines denoted what was known of the town walls, running in a rough half-circle with the sea as the unwalled side. Gavan joined him as did Hammerfall and the other captains. “Right – we haven’t much time,” the prince said, jabbing a gauntleted finger down on the gates that pointed north-east. “If things go to plan, these gates will be unlocked and we can ride through them once we have taken car
e of the fools that Duras is going to send out at us in a few moments.”
“What about the fools, sire?” Hammerfall asked, eager to get to grips with the enemy.
“Duras is old-school,” Jorqel said. “He’s incredibly arrogant and will not listen to any advice that runs contrary to his beliefs. Consequently he blunders from one disaster to the next, blaming his subordinates for every failure. He’ll march out, line up and expect us to charge them. We’ll ride wide, spread out and hit them from three sides. Concentrate on their archers first – I want their missile troops wiped out, clear?”
The others nodded.
“Good. Then, once we’ve destroyed the garrison, what are left are the ship’s crews. We must ride in and sieze their ships. We need them. Hammerfall, you and your squadron ride to the harbour and take it, stopping everyone from leaving.” He looked at the other two captains. “Ride along the streets and eliminate any opposition. Send men to the ramparts and clear them of any enemy. While you are doing that, I’ll go for the fort and take out anyone left in there. Everyone clear on what they need to do?”
They all nodded. Jorqel grunted and slammed his axe into the tabletop. “Leave Duras to me. Nobody is to take him out. He’s mine.”
A call went out from one of the sergeants watching the town. “Gates are opening!”
“To your mounts,” Jorqel snapped. “Remember – you’re fighting for Kastania against traitors. Good luck!”
The officers all climbed into their saddles and made for their places. Jorqel and Gavan lined up in front of the heavy armoured cavalry, behind the three squadrons of mounted archers. Slowly, the archers spread out, the two flank units spreading wide while the central unit opened their ranks but remained in front of Jorqel and his bodyguard.
The garrison were filing out, drums beating. They looked slovenly, much to Jorqel’s disgust. Their shields were dirty, faded, with chunks missing from the edges. Nobody had bothered to maintain much, by the looks of things. Their spears looked reasonably clean, though. Their uniforms were anything but. A variety of styles and colours were scattered about their forming ranks. Two spear companies now advanced a few paces and stopped, allowing the archers to emerge, forming up behind. Lord Duras was visible, being one of the few on equine back.
Jorqel slipped the leather thong of his axe over his wrist and readied himself. This would be a fight to the finish. He couldn’t let the Duras live, not after what they had done.
Inside the town, after the garrison had filed out, the two soldiers guarding them shut the two gates and lowered the wooden crossbeam to lock them. Kiros Louk, watching from the nearest alleyway, peered left and right, then up and down. No other soldiers were in view. The sailors were nowhere in sight. Louk thought on that for a moment, then dismissed it. Probably frightened. The few guards left were too few to be everywhere, and so there were only two to take care of.
Making his mind up, he stepped out and walked across the cobbled street towards the gates, his short sword in his hand. The two guards spotted him and tensed. There was no mistaking Louk’s intent. One came at him, sword high, his teeth gritted with tension and fear. He was only a part-time soldier, and had never faced anyone in combat before.
Kiros Louk was out-reached but was much more skilled, and his shorter blade was more manoeuvrable. The strike from the guard came down and Louk met it above his head. Stepping forward he brought his blade down across the guard’s face, slicing it open. Blood splashed out, coating Louk’s blade and tunic, and the guard crumpled.
The second one stepped up, swinging his blade clumsily in desperation. Louk stepped back in alarm. The man wasn’t skilled but he was dangerous. Anyone with a blade was dangerous. There was only one thing worse than someone with a blade who had no idea how to use it, and that was someone with a blade who had a little knowledge.
The guard was off-balance and Louk sprang forward, sliding his sword up into the unguarded gut, sinking it to the hilt. He caught hold of the wounded man and held him fast, stopping him from making a last strike. The guard dropped his sword and Louk pushed him away to fall onto his back, a huge red stain spreading over his leather jacket.
The spy grimaced. Two unarmoured and untrained fools. The pirates were amateurs. Wiping his blade, he looked about and saw nobody taking any interest in him. Sliding his sword into its sheath, he lifted the bar and gently opened one gate inwards. He saw the backs of the garrison some distance away, then lost interest. His task was to clear as much of the way for the prince as he could.
He left the two dying men draining their lifeblood on the road and strode through the streets towards the fort entrance.
By the harbourside, Nikos Duras stood by the gangplank of one ship. The crew were aboard, standing by their stations. Their former captain was hanging from the mainmast, his head at an unnatural angle. The Duras had a single-minded attitude towards dissent of any kind. He looked up at the avian’s nest, two-thirds of the way up the main mast to where a lookout stood, peering across the roofs of the town. “Well? How goes the battle?”
“They are still advancing,” the lookout replied. “They have not yet clashed.”
Nikos scowled. “Hurry up, damn’ you!” he muttered to himself.
Prince Jorqel was not thinking the same thing. He was sitting in his saddle, one arm raised. He was judging the moment to act. The garrison was advancing in a block, spears pointing forward. They had come out from their walls and now were isolated, a stupid tactic. But, he thought to himself, when did any Duras show any tactical ability? They came from the side of society that shunned military training, not wishing to spend any money towards defence. As a result, Kastanian armies had rotted and now were by reputation a matter of ridicule. Jorqel and his father, though, had changed that. Using the best soldiers, and training them, they had made them better than the rabble that served the Duras.
Jorqel’s hand chopped down. Instantly the mounted archers spread out even further, looping round so that the garrison was now having to face enemies on three sides. Only the way back to the gates was still open. The garrison stopped. The archers at the rear began fitting arrows to their string. “Now!” Jorqel snapped.
The signaller with him raised a bright red flag. As one, the three mounted archer squadrons began moving in circles, fitting arrows and loosing them towards the militia archers. There were twice as many imperial bows than rebel ones, and the mobile targets were harder to hit than the stationary ones.
Lord Duras cursed. His archers were being cut down. Men were falling in dark heaps, and only a few of the accursed Koros soldiers had been hit. “Charge those canines!” he snapped to his sons, commanding the two town militia companies. Obediently they passed on the order and the spear-wielding men began running towards the nearest mounted archer unit, but the riders peeled away so that the militiamen had nothing solid to attack.
They slowed, uncertain as to where to go. They had opened up a huge gap in their centre, with one company going left, the other right. Jorqel grabbed his axe. “Come on, let’s hit those archers!” he snapped. He dug his heels into the flanks of his equine and it jumped forward.
Fifty-six heavily armoured men and equines thundered forward, passing through the space in between the spearmen and bore down on the terrified and exposed archers. Yelling a war cry, Jorqel charged down the nearest man, slashing down hard, almost decapitating his victim. The archers scattered in horror, many throwing away their bows. They had no training to deal with this situation.
The man struck by Jorqel crashed to the ground, joined in no time by dozens of his comrades as they were send flying by the impact of heavily armoured beasts and their riders. The prince swerved to the right and caught another archer trying to run, the blade of his axe striking his neck and shoulder. He fell without a sound, arms and legs outflung.
Jorqel swung round. The militia archers were finished. Half their number were lying on the ground and the rest scattering in every direction. Off to one side a number of mounted archers were
lying still, along with some of their equines. Other beasts were standing forlornly by the side of their fallen riders. Jorqel clenched his teeth in anger. Clearly they had been struck down by the archers before they had been broken. “Cut the spearmen down!” he shouted, pointing at the two companies with his bloodied axe.
Instantly the three squadrons of the RIMM switched their target and began pouring a hail of arrows at the militiamen. They swung their shields up in desperation but now the riders were all round them, shooting into exposed sides and backs. Bodies tumbled to the ground.
Lord Duras screamed at them to attack, but there was nowhere for them to go. Instinctively they formed a circle and thrust forward their shields, desperately trying to protect themselves. In a fury, Lord Duras turned a tight circle and saw Jorqel, staring at him, thirty paces away. The prince was alone, the rest of his bodyguard chasing the broken archers across the ground. Even his personal bodyguard was occupied, beating down a panic-stricken militiaman.
“Koros!” he growled, brandishing his sword. He dug his heels into his mount which responded, nostrils flared, ears pricked.
Jorqel saw Duras begin his attack and hefted his axe, dripping blood. He also sprung into motion, coming at his enemy.
Gavan swung round and saw the two charge towards one another, screaming. “Oh, by the gods,” he said under his breath, and forced his equine round to gallop to his master’s side, but knowing even as he did so he would be too late.
Jorqel swung hard as he reached Duras, ducking under the blade of the nobleman as it flashed close past his vision. Both hit.
The prince felt a solid impact on his armour from shoulder to stomach and he had a curious weightless sensation as his backside left the saddle. It lasted for perhaps three heartbeats before he crashed heavily to the ground. He saw stars and the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He lay there for a moment, then instinct took over. If he remained there he may well be ridden over or skewered like some roasted dinner.
