Prince of Wrath Read online

  Amne and Lalaas looked at the cantering equines with their riders for a moment, sending their shafts into the straw targets at the end of the green. Many had missed but a fair number had hit. It was an on-going process and hopefully one day they would be ready for battle.

  The two then left the palace courtyard, passing through a narrow passageway that ran under one wing of the building to a stout wooden pair of doors that opened inwards, allowing egress to the road beyond. They trotted out onto the paved road and made for the eastern gate, called the Turslenkan Gate. Amne received a salute from the guards as they passed out into the farmland of Frasia, and then they were galloping away from the city.

  After a short while they came to a halt at the top of a rise. Far off to the north the Aester Sea glittered in the sunlight while behind them, beyond the city, the sea curved round through the Straights that separated Frasia from Bathenia. To the south and east only rolling farmland existed. Amne’s administrative region ran from the paved road to the north as far as the sea, but not including the port of Galan. The farms and land in this part of Frasia were her responsibility.

  “Where lies the farm that reported bandits, Amne?” Lalaas asked, peering across the countryside.

  “Off in that direction.” She pointed off slightly left of their route. “Their last letter was pleading for us to do something about it. Let’s go see.”

  Lalaas grunted. Bandits could mean an isolated group preying on the helpless farmers, or a group belonging to the rebel Duras army further west that was controlling the Makenian port of Kalkos. It was a long way but with no army outpost between Kalkos and Kastan City, there was nothing to stop some of the Duras troops from riding this far east, although they ran the risk of running into the city garrison.

  They trotted across the plains, enjoying the sun and being out in the open away from the oppressive atmosphere each felt in the palace. Lalaas was no courtier; he was a scout and hunter, and was at home best in the country. Amne disliked the restrictions of the palace after her two years away on the diplomatic mission to Mazag, and much preferred riding to sitting in her room or an office.

  She felt the weights on her shoulders slough away and she breathed in deeply. This was what she wished for! Laughing, she urged her mount to gallop off ahead. Lalaas clucked at his equine and chased her, not wishing for his charge to get too far ahead. He had his orders and his pride. They thundered through the Frasian countryside, lone riders in the vastness of the wheat bowl of the Empire.

  Finally Amne came to a halt, breathing hard. Sweat filmed her face and neck, but she was smiling. Lalaas grinned as he came up alongside. “Feel better, now?”

  “Oh, yes! That Corpse is like a pair of manacles on me, Lalaas. If I ever start getting like him, please tell me; I’ve no wish to become another in his image.” She referred to Elas as ‘The Corpse’, despite her step-mother’s horrified opposition.

  “I’ll do that. Meanwhile, let’s find this farm. We don’t want to be here at night, especially if bandits are at large.”

  They walked along a small track they came across that seemed to go in the right direction, and when they reached the top of yet another gentle rise, they could see the farm below them. It had been burned.

  Amne gasped in dismay. Lalaas frowned, studying the buildings. Something wasn’t right. “Tell, me, Amne, would you say this farm had been burned in the past few days?”

  The princess looked again at the blackened shell of the farm buildings. The land immediately around the house and outbuildings was also burned. “I don’t know,” she said, uncertainly. “How would we tell?”

  Lalaas took a firm grip of his reins. “There’s only one way to find that out,” he said and began urging his mount down the slope towards the destroyed buildings. Amne followed, her face reflecting dismay and outrage. They were halfway down when a movement off to Lalaas’ right caught his attention. He looked up to see a number of riders appearing on the horizon. He stopped and whipped his head to the left. More were there. He twisted in his saddle to look up behind. More there. “It’s a trap, Amne.”

  Amne gasped and looked round fearfully. “What are we going to do?”

  “Only one thing to do, Princess. Ride hard to the farm. Go!”

  Lalaas urged his equine forward, but made sure Amne was close to him. Even as they began to thunder down the lower reaches of the slope into the shallow valley, the unknown riders were beginning to canter down off the hilltops. Lalaas did a quick mental calculation. There were about twenty-five of them, all armed. He could see swords or other weapons being wielded, and it was clear they weren’t there to exchange pleasantries.

  Lalaas allowed Amne to edge ahead, looking left and right anxiously. The riders were closing fast on them, but the farm was close. “Get to the main building,” Lalaas ordered, taking hold of his bow and pulling it off his back. He was no expert in the saddle but on the ground he knew all that was necessary. He guessed the riders were the same. None were carrying bows.

  They clattered across stone, the remains of a yard or floor of a now vanished store. The smell of burned wood was still faintly detectable, but the fires had extinguished themselves some time ago. Amne reached the biggest part that remained, a stone wall with blackened and charred beams piled against it. She dismounted and cowered in the lee of the wall with her equine next to her.

  Lalaas urged his beast across the yard, three of the riders no more than ten lengths behind. The hunter sprang off his animal as he hauled on the reins, bringing it to a halt, and grabbed a handful of arrows from the quiver. He jammed two into his mouth, crosswise, threw the rest but one onto the ground at his feet, and fitted the last to his string, all in one movement. He turned to face the attacking trio, all wearing nondescript leather or padded vestments.

  Without even having to aim properly, he loosed the first arrow. The Taboz bow he used was a devastating piece of military hardware. Comprised of bone, animal horn and glue, it was stronger and larger than many bows found in Kastania. It took some strength to use one, and a lot of skill. No beginner could hope to use one with any degree of accuracy, and it took years to fully master it. Lalaas had over ten years of experience of using one under his belt. The arrow blurred in the air and impacted fully in the chest of the central rider, skewering him up to the feathers, and punching out of his back in a shower of blood. The force of the impact threw him off the saddle and he was pitched into the ground and tumbled into an untidy heap.

  Even as the man was flying through the air Lalaas had grabbed the second arrow from his mouth and slid it across his left fist, gripping the centre of the bow, and fitted the neat, small groove set in the rear of the missile to the string. He pulled hard with his right, taking up the strain and swung the bow round to the right. The second rider was vaulting a pile of charred wood, no more than ten feet from Lalaas. The arrow flew up into his ribcage and catapulted him off the saddle to send him crashing off to one side, his arms and legs failing. The third raised his sword, his face a mask of hatred. He was swinging in behind Lalaas, a few heartbeats from cutting him down. Amne screamed.

  Lalaas grabbed the last arrow from his mouth and dived under his stationary equine. He rolled onto his back, taking hold of the arrow against the string even as he did so, planting his feet on the solid ground on the other side. Four more riders were approaching, yelling wildly. Lalaas had no time to waste. He swung, the arrow already drawn back fully. Lalaas kept on rotating, the arrow releasing as the point faced the third rider who was turning to avoid the hunter’s equine. The arrow buried itself into the rider’s throat, snapping his head back. Blood sprayed out of his mouth and his arms flew up into the air. The dying man flew head over heels back over the rump of his mount and fell into a lifeless heap eight feet from Lalaas.

  The hunter turned. The four others were closing fast. Lalaas ran to the dropped arrows and snatched one, turning back the way he’d come, going down on one knee. He held his breath briefly, then released the missile. It flew unerringl
y into the left-hand rider’s chest, pitching him off the equine, sending him to the ground in disarray.

  “Damn that man!” one of the others could be heard to exclaim. “Kill him!”

  “Amne, watch behind you!” Lalaas shouted, picking up another arrow. Three riders were coming for him and he had time only for one shot. He selected the nearest man and the arrow sank into his heart, killing him instantly.

  He threw his bow aside and pulled his battle sword from the sheath on his saddle and stepped into the path of the two remaining riders. They came at him simultaneously, swords slashing down. Lalaas jumped to one side, and was knocked over by one of the equines. Amne cried out in horror, shrinking back against the wall. She looked round for a possible escape route. The house she was sheltering in was merely a shell with the roof lying in a blackened heap in the centre. In some places the charred beams piled up higher than the wall, but there was no visible route through to the other side.

  Lalaas staggered to his feet, his sword gripped in both hands. He grimly assessed the scenario. Two men on equines were wheeling round, seeking to finish him off. The others were gathering just beyond the limit of the scorched grass. With hardly time to think, he lunged, attacking the nearest man. The rider had the height advantage but Lalaas had more skill and was fitter. His body, used to years of outdoor life, was toned much better than the henchman mounted astride his beast. The rider slashed down hard, but he was unused to fighting on equine back. Lalaas deflected the blow, knocking the blade aside, laying the man open to Lalaas, who cut across the waist. The blade tore through the padded tunic into the stomach muscles, ripping them apart.

  Lalaas slapped the beast across the face, frightening it away. As it bolted, the wounded man toppled off onto the ground and lay there, groaning faintly, clutching his stomach. Lalaas stepped sideways, his eyes fixed on the last rider close by. The man turned, cursing. What should have been an easy kill had turned into a charnel house. Six of his men were down and his quarry was still standing there defiantly.

  Lalaas picked his bow up slowly. He stuck his sword point first into the ground. Now he grasped an arrow and began to fit it to the string. The rider looked at him and lowered his sword. “Give us the princess and we’ll leave you be.”

  “You know I won’t do that,” Lalaas replied, sliding the arrow across his left fist. He had not yet drawn the string back, but it would take no time at all to do so and loose his missile off at the man. He wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “We could – negotiate.”

  Lalaas’ eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

  The rider smiled thinly. He had a grey-flecked goatee beard and a narrow, hard face. A man used to giving pain. “A remuneration, shall we say? What value your life?”

  “Less than the princess,” Lalaas said and began pulling back on the string. “You cannot bribe me with promises of wealth. I need nothing.”

  The rider regarded Lalaas, noting the warrior’s physique, the cool determination in his blue eyes, the lean, smooth face, the fair hair. A Koros partisan, to be sure. “All we want is her,” he nodded at the half-seen Amne. “You can go free if you hand her over.”

  Lalaas sneered. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then both of you will die.”

  “That statement tells me you intend killing her, so if I hand her over all you’ll do is slay her. I have vowed to protect her unto death, and that is what I shall do.”

  The rider sighed. He looked up at the sky. “Very well, fool, if you insist on sacrificing yourself to one who would stab you in the back the moment you’ve outlasted your usefulness, that’s your decision.” He turned and slowly walked his mount away towards the waiting group of men.

  Amne slid round the corner of the wall and came up to Lalaas, one hand gripping his upper arm. “Shoot him, Lalaas!”

  “In the back?” Lalaas looked at her in surprise. “Not my style. He’s not going to attack for the moment. They’ll confer. Have you checked the rest of the building?”

  “Ruins. All blocked with rubble and fallen beams. There’s one small area we can shelter in but that’s it. They can only come at us from this direction.”

  Lalaas lowered his bow. “That’s good. That means they have to come this way. Amne, could you pick up those fallen arrows, and bring my equine in here? I don’t want to drop my guard yet. They may charge us at any time.”

  Amne immediately complied, instantly dropping into their relationship they’d had on the mission through Bragal. She may be a princess, but outdoors it was the hunter who was king. “Who are they?”

  Lalaas looked thoughtfully at the men who even now were conferring, just out of earshot. “I don’t know, and if I asked they’d say nothing. They’re hired ruffians, except for the leader. He’s got a little class; the rest are hopeless.” He examined the nearest beam, a cold, dead charcoaled remnant of what had existed before. “Whatever happened here, it happened over seven days ago. I’d like to see that letter you got. When did you get it?”

  “Yesterday. It was quite desperate sounding.”

  “I bet it was. It was a lure to get you out here. They destroyed this place well over a sevenday back, then sent the letter. Whoever it is, had enough money to hire thirty men and keep them in the field away from their lair for that amount of time. I suspect someone saw us leave and then sent a quick message, alerting them. They came from over there,” he nodded across the plains beyond the riders. “East, or south.”

  “A spy in the palace?” Amne said, aghast.

  “Possibly, yes, or some lackey in the streets watching us. Either is equally likely.”

  Amne tied the equines’ reins to a beam and stood next to Lalaas, her heart beating wildly. “What will happen to us now? It looks bad for us, doesn’t it?”

  Lalaas made a non-committal noise. He looked away from the scared princess, back at the group of riders conferring. Some of their conversation drifted to his ears and it seemed they were arguing over what to do. Two of those felled were still alive, one was crawling feebly away from the destroyed farmhouse, the other was emitting faint noises of pain. He didn’t look as if he would last long. “If they don’t decide what to do in a few moments, I’ll remind them why they’re still arguing.”

  Amne gripped his arm and pressed herself against him. “I’ve been stupid, haven’t I?”

  “What do you mean?” Lalaas looked at her. He saw the wide, frightened eyes, the pale skin, the tight lips. He stroked her cheek. “Stupid? No.”

  Amne pressed against his fingers. “I’ve been behaving like a spoiled brat recently, haven’t I? I should have listened to Elas. I bet he thinks I’m a she-canine.”

  “You’re you, Amne. You’re nobody else. Don’t go all blaming yourself because someone wants you dead. It’s clearly the Fokis, or Duras, or one of the other families your father’s displaced at the top. Now bring me my quiver; I think I’m going to cut the odds a bit, and to drive them away from us a distance.”

  Amne briefly placed her head on his shoulder, then meekly fetched the quiver. Lalaas placed the loose arrows back in it and slung it over his shoulder. “Stand back.”

  She stepped away and watched as Lalaas flexed his shoulders and went through the process of fitting an arrow to the string and aiming. His muscles rippled across his back and down his arms and Amne couldn’t help but look at them, wishing he could be hers.

  Lalaas yelled out, attracting the riders’ attention. Their heads swung in his direction, alarmed, and they caught sight of a black blur streaking out from the shadows. One of their number grunted and was sent toppling off his saddle onto his back, his arms out-flung, an arrow embedded halfway down its length into his chest. He was wearing chain armour and that hadn’t helped.

  “By the gods!” the leader said and hauled his mount round and spurred it into a gallop. The others scattered, too, riding in all directions away from the farm house.

  “Nice shot,” Amne said, approvingly. “How far can that thing shoot?�
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  “You remember the bridge over the Ister?”

  Amne grinned and nodded. During their journey to Mazag they had crossed the border bridge between Bragal and Valchia and Lalaas had used the bow on brigands, cutting them down thanks to the superior range of the Taboz bow.

  “They’re still in range,” Lalaas noted, watching as they halted and turned back to glare balefully at the farm. “Think I’ll scare them some more.” He stood in the open, raised the bow and extended the string as far as he could. Even his arms were shaking. He shut one eye, concentrated on one of the riders, held his breath for a moment, and then released the string. The bow shook with the force and the arrow was propelled away.

  The riders saw the arrow arc through the air and two hastily dived off their saddles. The arrow tore past them and struck the slope beyond, burying itself in the earth. “That’s a fearsome bow he has!” one of the men said, getting up, wiping a streak of dirt from his hose. “We must be mad to face that!”

  “Shut up,” the leader said, retreating up to the point the arrow protruded from the ground. He stopped just beyond it. “This is the range of that thing. Generous of him to let us know. Nobody goes past this point until I say so!”

  Amne and Lalaas watched as the riders pulled back to the halfway point up the valley. “So now what?” Amne asked, wrapping her arms about herself.

  “We wait. They won’t come until nightfall.”

  “And then?”

  “They’ll come. I won’t be able to see them until they’re upon us.”

  Amne shivered.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cheering broke out in the courtyard outside the castle. Jorqel frowned and moved to the window, peering down at the people gathered there. A messenger had just arrived, his equine sweating. The man’s hair was stuck to his head with sweat. A mixture of soldiers and townsfolk were cheering, their fists raised, and Jorqel’s heart missed a beat. “Hey, you!” he called out to the messenger. “What is it?”