House of Lust (11 page)

The right hand unit were forcing Dragan’s mounted archers further back, duelling with the mercenaries.  The more disciplined KIMM squadron were having the best of the exchange, and only a couple of their number had been hit.  Two lay still on the ground, their mounts standing forlornly by their riders, nuzzling their bodies.  A couple of others were pulling away from the fight, clutching wounds, trying to pull the wooden shaft of an arrow from their shoulder or arm.

The left hand squadron had ridden wide and up a slight incline, sending more shafts down onto the second militia company which was advancing in a line, masking the militia archers.  Someone there was organising them because their shields were up in a wall, blocking or deflecting most of the arrows.  Still, a number of them had been hit and their route was marked by a number of figures lying in the mud or grass, some moving feebly, others not at all.

The archers were concentrating on the left hand KIMM unit, and arrows were beginning to strike more of them down.

Deran Loshar turned his head enquiringly, not daring to actually speak, but his unspoken plea was noted.  Elas nodded to Loshar.  “Remain here and command the KIMM.  I shall ride those archers down.”

Elas placed his helm over his head, an open-faced type with a detachable visor.  He slotted the visor onto the nuts and tightened it, then dropped it over his face.  “Heavy cavalry will commence the attack.  March!”

With the prince in the lead, the forty members of his bodyguard set off, an armoured wall of men and beasts, their lances left behind.  They were not going to charge an infantry unit, they were merely going to charge and cut down an unprotected company of archers.

Dragan, alone with the solitary flag officer on the edge of camp, watched as his men were forced back left and right.  He turned to the flag officer.  “Go fetch those idiot mercenaries and tell them to charge that unit there,” he pointed to the KIMM unit exchanging shots with the mercenaries.  “Tell them to make sure none of them survive, then wheel in and hit the middle squadron.  Go!”

Now alone, Dragan cantered back to the centre of the camp, trying to ignore the cries and shouts of men all round, and he dismounted, bounding to his own tent.  He went inside, picked up his personal money box and emerged, noting the position of the enemy forces.  In a few moments they would be through the militia screen which was wilting under the torrent of arrows.  He stuffed the box into one saddlebag and vaulted up into the saddle once more.  Taking one last look at the respective positions of the combatants, he trotted through the camp towards the rear, cursing the gods, the Koros and the ineffectiveness of his own men.

Meanwhile Elas and his guard had broken into a canter, riding behind the left hand KIMM unit which was suffering badly in the duel with the militia bowmen.  “Go deal with the militia footmen there!” he snapped to the captain as he passed close by.  The captain, showing strain in his youthful face, saluted and waved his remaining men to follow him down the hill.

Now clear of any other obstacle, Elas dug his heels into the flanks of his equine, urging it to greater speed.  Ahead the archers had spotted the new danger and were turning in fright, hoping to find some safe place, but they were out in the open on a slope clear of vegetation.  The guard broke out into cheers of delight and raised their swords.  It was butchery time.

The heavy cavalry crashed into the fleeing archers, sending dozens tumbling to the ground, then the blades began to fall and rise.  Elas cut down sharply as he passed one man and felt the impact travel up his arm.  His sword rose up, the blade coated in red, and he quickly glanced back to see his victim crash heavily face-first into the sodden ground.  He looked up to see another man before him.  He slashed down again, the blade impacting on the man’s throat and upper chest, and the archer span round and fell onto his back, jerking in a reflex motion before becoming still.

The cavalry swarmed around the helpless archers, sending blow after blow down on the unarmoured and unprotected bowmen, turning that part of the field into a charnel house.  Elas wheeled and looked about.  Two archers were trying to run across the slope.  He urged his steed into motion, running the two down and turning ahead of them.  “Drop your bows,” he ordered, pointing his sword at them.  “Surrender or die.”

The two stopped, glanced at one another, then threw their weapons down and stood still, hoping the fearsome looking man in the brightly coloured surcoat would not hack them to pieces.  More of his men came up and a couple of other prisoners were herded to join the two.

“See to it that these people are checked for any other weapons,” Elas barked.  “I shall return shortly.”

The foot soldiers were running now, their numbers hugely diminished, the mounted archers chasing them, bows slung over their shoulders and swords in their hands.  “I want prisoners!” Elas shouted, lifting his visor. 

Over to the far side the mercenaries had been ordered by the flag officer to charge the imperial troops facing them, but now a second KIMM unit arrived and the two shot every arrow they had into the milling, confused group of mounted mercenaries who, caught in a crossfire, visibly wilted.  Men fell in clumps from the saddle and equines screamed in pain as they were hit, and broke, galloping off in agony or fell alongside the piles of dead men.

In a few moments there were none left on their mounts and the two squadrons stopped, staring in awe at the carnage they had caused.  The flag officer had been the last to fall, slowly sliding off his saddle, an arrow piercing his chest.

Dragan, watching from the safety of a copse of trees, saw the last of his men fall a short distance away, then turned and galloped out from cover and made for the horizon as fast as he could, a few shouts coming his way but the distance was too great to catch him.  His mind was full of anger, frustration and fury.  He knew that his own home in the country would be the first to be searched by the vengeful imperial forces, so he had to get there fast, get what he could out of there, and be gone.  His family would be declared traitors and the estates would be forfeit, but he knew that was the risk when he set out on the road to seize power.  There wasn’t much there in material wealth that could be taken, save the walls and buildings, and the trees and plants, but that was a small price to pay.  The portable wealth he would have on his person, and who knows, perhaps he could buy revenge?  He would have to make more definite plans when he knew how safe he was wherever he would eventually end up.

On the battlefield Prince Elas sat upright in his saddle and watched as the survivors of the rout were herded together by his victorious troops.  Some were still on equine back, like himself, but others were moving about the dead or dying, checking to see who was alive and not too badly injured.  Those too far gone to be saved had their throats cut by order of the prince, to save them from any further lingering suffering, so he said.

Deran Loshar moved his female mount alongside Elas.  “My congratulations, sire, on the victory.”

Elas glanced at Loshar and nodded curtly.  He was in turmoil inside, his mind going over the revelation that his wife had used her body to seduce the traitor into revealing his plans.  He felt outraged that she could do such a thing, yet again, but at the same time he acknowledged she had played her part in the destruction of a potentially effective plan to usurp him and his rightful administration from the governance of Frasia.  He would have to speak to her as soon as possible.

“Thank you, Commander Loshar.  It would appear we have a number of losses, despite our victory.  Do you know how many we have lost?”

“I have the figures, yes, sire.”  Loshar produced a thin sheet of parchment that he had scribbled rough figures on during his talks with the captains.  He passed it to Elas who took it, frowned at the smudging of dirt on it, then tried to decipher the oddly slanted script of the former Tybar soldier.  Loshar had learned Kastanian in the past few years but was still a beginner in the written version. 

“I cannot make out these figures, Commander,” the prince passed it back.

“Ah, my apologies.  Our losses are fifty-two.  Five from your own bodyguard, the rest mostly from squadrons blue and green.  Red only lost two men.”

“Yes, they were not facing archers.  And the enemy?”

“Three hundred and sixty-five dead, sixty-nine taken prisoner, seven escaped, including their leader, unfortunately.”

Elas thumped the pommel of his saddle once, then nodded in acceptance.  It was the will of the gods that the traitor should flee.  His men were either dead or prisoner.  “The prisoners shall clear up the detritus here, bury the dead.  Afterwards they are to be brought back to Kastan City in chains and taken to the city dungeons.  “You are to remain here in charge with one squadron.  I am to return to Kastan City with the rest, to find out what has happened there.  Return as swiftly as you can.”

Deran Loshar saluted, his teeth flashing wide.  “It was like the old days, sire.”

“Really?  In what way?”

“Before I had to flee my tribal lands.  We fought our battles like this, it has made me tearful of the eye in memory.”

Elas studied the swarthy man closely.  Indeed, the former Tybar’s eyes were wet with emotion.  He regarded that not as a weakness, but as a feature of the Tybarman’s spirit.  Elas would not show such emotion, but he knew others showed theirs far more, and supposed the Tybar were as a whole, far more emotional.  “Do you have any wish to return to your former way of life amongst your own people?”

Loshar looked into the middle distance.  “Ah, my heart aches for the life I have lost, yet my head knows I can never return, and rules my heart with discipline.  My loyalty is to you Kastanians, for you took me in when I was cast out of my homelands, and when I had need of succour and safety, you gave me both.”

Elas understood the references to discipline and loyalty.  “I trust we never have to fight your own people in that case, for it may test your loyalty to the hilt.”

Deran Loshar waved a firm hand in a gesture of respect.  “Sire, my pain has been caused by my own people, so I would have no regrets about facing them in battle.”

Prince Elas nodded slowly.  That was a useful fact to know.  He was beginning to understand he needed people he could rely on.  The constant shifting of alliances and loyalties amongst the nobility was unsettling to him, and he had come to the conclusion that the nobility were not that reliable, for their power politics meant they could be a friend one day, and an enemy the next.  Better to have people around him he could count on when a crisis reared its ugly head.

He needed to sort out Captain Lalaas, for one.

The clouds slowly passed over the rooftops of Niake, second city of Kastania. A city slowly rebuilding itself, both in material and spiritual matters.  It had suffered riots the year that preceded Astiras Koros’ seizure of power.  These had resulted in the destruction of most of the city temples, the effects of the destruction had been largely erased in the eight years since, although some scars remained.

The man chiefly responsible for the regeneration of the temples and the returning of the worshippers was Gaurel Burnas, former High Priest of Kastan.  His ill-fated opposition to the Koros in the first few days after the coup had resulted in him being banished to Niake for life, a fact that had rankled him for a long time now.  True, he had been permitted to oversee the marriage of Prince Jorqel to Sannia Nicate in Slenna, but this was a rare privilege permitted him.

His energies were undiminished though, and he actively sought to root out those who did not believe in the gods and deride them publically.  Nobody could whip up a crowd better than Burnas.

It was for that reason the governor of Niake, Evas Extonos, tried his best to appease the fiery-tempered man, but both knew the former high priest could run rings around the governor.  Extonos was there merely because he posed no threat to anyone, choosing to side with whoever happened to be in power on the throne at any given time.  He would obey and implement any Koros dictum, but he would just as readily go along with a contrary policy should it come from higher authority.  Nobody trusted him.

The other problem the governor had was a man called Demtro Kalfas.  Kalfas was ostensibly a merchant, dealing in the fine woven materials that arrived from the west along the trade routes, but everyone knew he was an agent of the empress and freely acknowledged this.  Demtro and Burnas had frequently clashed over policy matters, even in the presence of the wincing governor in his office, and their arguments were talked of by the militia guardsmen on many occasions.  Nothing much that went on in the governor’s office was a secret for very long.

Fortunately that day the two were not in the office of the governor.  They were on the steps of the chief temple of Niake, a building constructed a few years ago thanks to funds from the central treasury, a gift that Burnas still wasn’t entirely sure was a genuine gift to appease the gods, or merely a clumsy bribe to silence the priest’s more vocal criticisms of the imperial family.

Behind the two men the columns of the temple rose from the platform at the top of the eight wide marble steps, and beyond them the circular shape of the main building stood, a pristine white edifice with a door on the four major compass points.

“You say this is a lie, Kalfas?” Burnas said, his white-bearded face bristled with ill-disguised indignation.  The white hair contrasted with the all-over black garb he wore.

“Probably a lie, Burnas,” Demtro said, his face showing concern.  His normal high black hat was in his hands, and his rich velvety clothing displayed his wealth.  “Distributed by those who wish to blacken the imperial name.”

“Bah!” Burnas slapped a hand onto the letter he’d been handed that morning.  “An accusation of the emperor’s infidelity is hardly going to bring the Koros down, is it?”

“You think so?  With self-righteous people like yourself decrying the moral degradation of our leaders from the pulpit?  You can get a crowd baying for blood in no time – I’ve seen you at work.”

“How dare you, merchant!  I am not self-righteous!  I am the upkeeper of the empire’s morals, for without those like me the empire would quickly descend into a morass of degenerative fornication of the likes nobody would have seen before.”

“That’d turn your hair white, Burnas, wouldn’t it?” Demtro grinned.

The former high priest scowled.  “It has turned white, if you hadn’t noticed!”

“Ah, so you have seen degenerative fornication on a mass scale then,” Demtro said irreverently.

“Kalfas!  Sometimes you try my patience, you really do! This – accusation” he changed the subject, waving the sheet in the merchant’s face, “needs verification.  If it happens to be true, then I shall most certainly denounce the emperor from my pulpit, as you call it.”

“Ah, that may not be a good idea, Burnas.  You might incur the wrath of the emperor.”

“And what can he do?  Have me arrested?  That would cause a riot, I can tell you.  Where can they banish me to next?  The Tybar lands?”

“I don’t think they’d do that.  Zipria would suffice,” Demtro said dryly.  “So what exactly does this letter say, and where does it come from?”

“I have no idea whence it came, it appeared under my door this morning.  No address, no seal, no indication as to who it came from.  It says – oh here, read it yourself!  It’s too disgusting for my eyes to read again.”

Demtro took the letter and examined it closely.  A well-written note, stylised, punctuation perfect.  It stated Astiras Koros, emperor of Kastania, had been involved in an illicit sexual affair with a Bragalese slave girl over the past four years, insulting his wife the empress.  The merchant pursed his lips thoughtfully.  “Hmmm.”

“Hmmm?  Is that all you can say about this disgusting affair?  Hmm?” Burnas sounded as outraged as he looked.

“I leave the emotional outbursts to you, Burnas,” Demtro said, returning the letter.  “As for myself, I won’t make any proper comment until I see proof of this allegation.”

“Oh Kalfas, how is proof going to be found?  He is emperor and will cover up all proof, you know that!  This is probably the only ‘proof’ that there will ever be on this sordid incident.”

Demtro looked about.  People were coming and going in the street below them, and a few were passing by up or down the steps.  Nobody was taking any special interest in them.  “Then you can hardly denounce the emperor in one of your sermons, now, can you?  Anyone could make this story up and pass it to you in the hope you will utter an anti-Koros rant in the temple.  Maybe that’s the entire hope in all this.”

“Bah, I doubt that very much, merchant.  I am fully aware of your pro-Koros loyalties.  The emperor is incorruptible in your eyes, isn’t he?”

“No, that’s not true.  In any event, why bring this to my attention in the first place, if you knew I would refute this?”

The former high priest cleared his throat.  “Well, since you have connections with the palace, I thought you might like to do a little research of your own into this.”

“And then tell you of the results?  Oh, Burnas, don’t be so naïve!  If I do find it to be true, I’m hardly going to tell you, am I?  The next thing there’d be posters up all over Niake accusing the emperor of infidelity, which won’t be what the imperial party would like.”

Burnas scowled.  “Aren’t you interested in the truth?”

“Truth?  I leave that to philosophers.  I’m more interested in the stability of the empire, which makes it a safer place for all concerned.  That sort of thing only serves to inflame to mob who, as you and I both know, is hardly in possession of a single brain.  A mindless mass, they’ll riot for any reason without any thought of the consequences.  Look what happened to the temples here nine years ago.”

“The Koros stand for no corruption, no immorality.  This,” he slapped the paper, “goes against their entire vow to the people of the empire.”

“So what?” Demtro folded his arms defensively.

“So what?  Why this exposes them as liars and hypocrites!”

“And?”

“And?  What are you trying to tell me?”

Demtro sighed.  “I’ll spell it out to you, Burnas, if only because despite your appearance, I do like you.”  He ignored the priest’s spluttering.  “So what if the Koros have mass orgies with slaves, statues and wool beasts?  So what if they tell you and I something and don’t actually do what they promise?  So what if they siphon money from the treasury into their purses and spend it on building immense brothels for more orgies and days-long bouts of debauched fornication, as you’d put it?  So what?  They have brought stability to the empire, they have brought back trade, they have secured the borders, they have stopped the collapse of society and the empire itself.  They have brought back three provinces into imperial control.  People are happier.  Look about you; get your head out of your arse and see.  Use your eyes, Burnas.

“Now, you do what the sender of this letter wishes, and you’ll upset all that stability, and we’ll get yet another civil war.  More deaths, more destruction, more disintegration.  More temples being burned to the ground,” he jabbed a finger into Burnas’ chest.  “I believe that is what they want, to cause trouble and spread dissent, and for their own purposes.  They don’t give a care in the entire world what you think, they just want to use you as their tool to topple the Koros and put themselves in their place.  All you’ll do is to replace one House with another, one that will probably be even worse – in your eyes – at systematic fornication, both literally and metaphorically, and it’ll undo all the hard work over the past eight years.”

Burnas shook with frustration and rage.  “But-but this goes against every moral rule in society!  If we permit the ruling House to do this with no censure, then this will give everyone the belief they can follow in their steps!  Where would it end?  No, I cannot permit this to continue, Kalfas.  I must take steps to stop this from happening again!”

“Then allow me to verify it, at least.  Going off like a rampaging water-bovine isn’t the most sensible course of action, especially when it’s only an allegation.  I’ll write to the empress.  The reply ought to be with me in about ten to fourteen days.  Can I count on you withholding one of your empire-wide famous pulpit rants until then?”

Burnas growled, peered at the letter, then nodded curtly.  “Fourteen days at the most, mark this, Kalfas.  I must not allow myself to be manipulated into delaying it any longer than that!”

“You’re a generous soul, Burnas.  The gods must sing your praises each and every day,” Demtro smiled, then turned and made his way down to the street, leaving an exasperated former high priest alone on the steps.   His mind was already calculating the options – one thing he would do that he hadn’t mentioned to the priest was to try to find out who had sent, or at least delivered, the letter to Burnas.

____

The emperor himself was feeling embattled.  His wife was being cold towards him and had refused to share his bed, even when Astiras had promised never to go visit Metila again.  Now he had the business of dealing with the annual council of nobles, knowing that one at least amongst the delegates there was actively trying to destabilise the Koros.  He still had no idea who it was and how they had found out, and hoped that Vosgaris hurried up and did a decent job down in Makenia.

The new council room in the castle of Zofela was not as grand or imposing as the one in Kastan City palace.  There were no wall hangings, paintings or tapestries of bygone emperors, battles or the gods.  There were no high arches and imposing columns arranged around the chamber.  Even the table was a disappointment.  Astiras had played with the idea of having the grand map table in the palace brought to Zofela, but that could only be done by taking it apart, not something anyone would easily accept, and besides, there simply wasn’t room to put it up in the chamber of the castle.

Astiras had held two previous Councils at Zofela, and was about to host the third.  He was seated in the highest backed chair, at the head of the long hardwood table.  The table had been specially made for this very room and purpose, and once built in situ, it could not be taken out except by one of two means – either it was demolished, or the room was.

By his side were two of his family.  Isbel sat to his right, a composed, cold Isbel.  Astiras glanced briefly at her, noting the set way of her lips, the white face cosmetic, the eye liner, the high collar of her dress.  He looked away.  It was painful to look upon her and know she would not look upon him with that smile of hers.  He looked to his left.  Argan sat quietly, watching the assembling nobility, his eyes missing nothing.  Astiras briefly nodded in approval; the lad was very observant, and said little save of importance or intelligence.  A strange one, to be sure, but one who seemed to bring warmth to a room.  Astiras didn’t know how Argan did it, but he seemed to make friends with almost anyone of his choosing.

Down the two long sides the heads of the respective Houses were beginning to find their places, arranged in order of importance.  Importance of wealth or social position.  The wealthier or more powerful the family, the closer to Astiras they sat.

At the far end there were no seats, just three guards, including the acting head of the guard, an officer called Bevil.  He was tall but very aristocratic looking and seemed to have an aversion to shaving every day.  His stubble always appeared to be of the same length, that of about two or three days’ worth, yet it never grew to be a beard.  Astiras found it mildly irritating, but again he didn’t know why.  He supposed it was down to him feeling very unsettled.

The last delegate sat himself down and Astiras cleared his throat.  “Gentlemen, thank you for attending the third Council of Zofela.  I know it is a much farther place to come for most of you, but for the time being I intend to remain here, watching the borders.  The security of Kastania is my main concern and until I’m convinced the eastern kingdoms intend leaving us alone, I won’t shift.”

The delegates nodded, or grunted, or made some expression to acknowledge those facts.  Some were mightily put out having to travel to one of the eastern-most locations of the empire, and had made it known on one or two previous occasions.