House of Lust (29 page)

The watching populace, either on the walls of the town or around the field, all fell silent.  Astiras chopped his arm down.

Geril’s hand jerked, almost before he had consciously given it the command to move.  He was so on edge that the mere sight of the emperor’s arm falling had sent the message.  The javelin resting in the slot against the wooden block was sent hurtling out and the machine jumped backwards, the team of engineers springing to arrest its movement.

All eyes were on the missile as it tore through the air, a blur, and impacted on the wall of bales behind the dummies, sending the wall toppling.  The crowd roared in delight and Astiras clapped, a smile wreathing his face.  “Well, Venn, have some of that!” he exclaimed. 

Geril was shaking his head.  Clearly he was not satisfied and was waving his hands in the air in the excited manner Talians tended to do.  Astiras led the group across to the gang of men adjusting the machine.

“Well, Engineer,” the emperor said as he arrived, “a successful shoot.  Congratulations.  I want the schematics and assembling instructions sent to all castles and cities so they, too, have the knowledge.”

“Ah, your majesty, I’m sorry we didn’t shoot accurately enough.  I assure you the next one will hit the target.”

“Well go ahead – don’t let us stop you.”

“But sire, the risk of a breakage…”

“Oh stop sounding like some hand-wringing councillor,” Astiras grumbled.  “I’m not five years of age.  Go ahead.  I want to study this machine in action close up, and if this is going to be used in battle, then you’ll have soldiers crowded round them anyway.”

Geril bowed, then barked orders to the crew of five.  One began rotating the spoked hand wheel that pulled the string back while a second picked up a new javelin, a steel-tipped wooden stocked missile.  Two more moved the body of the machine a touch to one side while the last stood by the trigger lever.

Once the javelin was fitted and the hook engaged, Geril peered along the shaft of the missile.  Grunting, he stood back and nodded to the trigger man.   Once again the weapon of war jumped, the three at the rear keeping clear of the recoil.  They all watched as the javelin arced away and this time it struck one of the dummies, shredding the body and ripping the cloth jacket apart.

“That’s fantastic!” Astiras said in awe.  “With these weapons we can knock down walls, given time!”  He turned to Geril.  “You’ve earned your salary, Engineer.  How soon can more of these be made?”

Geril sighed.  “Sire, the materials are expensive and difficult to obtain.  We have tried local substitutes but they are not suitable.  I need the right kind of wood, string and engineering to make these properly.”

“Give me the list and I’ll see what I can do.  You say they have these machines in Talia?”

“Sire – the knowledge to make these is all around in Zilcia and Paprinia, and I would say it’s likely also in Genvia and Venn.  Genvia in particular is keen as they like lots of missiles.”

The emperor pulled a face.  “Well then we must seek to build more engineer workshops and spread this knowledge here.”  He was worried about the report he’d been sent from Mazag about the talks held in Somor, and if the Talian nations actually formed an alliance, it might mean a great deal of trouble for the empire.  He just hoped Venn and Zilcia continued to act in the selfish way they had up to now.

If not – he didn’t want to think about the alternative.

____

One final cry, and it was done.  Sannia collapsed back onto her bed, her face bathed in sweat.  Instantly her handmaidens were there bathing her face with damp cloths.  The nurse turned, wrapping the squalling new born baby in the birthing cloth, wiping the worst of the blood and fluids from it, making sure the child’s mouth was free.

“A boy, your majesty,” the nurse said in excitement.  “Congratulations.”

A boy!  Sannia felt overjoyed.  After three girls, finally, a boy.  She knew Jorqel wanted an heir, no matter how he was devoted to the girls.  An heir, at last!  The birth hadn’t been difficult, and to be honest she was getting used to it by now.  There had been some blood loss, but when hadn’t there in any birth?  She tried to get her breath back.  “My son,” she panted, “let me hold him.”

As the child was being handed to her, the door to the room was being opened and the news passed on to the waiting prince.  Jorqel came charging in, his eyes wide.  “A son!  A son!  Sannia!”

She was overjoyed at his reaction.  The joy and pride on his face was clear to everyone.  He knelt by her side and peered down at the tiny face, red and crying.  “Yes, my beloved, a son.”

“Oh, praise to the gods,” Jorqel said, the biggest smile of all on his face.  “Such a tiny little thing.”

“Aren’t they all?  What are you going to call him?”

“Amsel.  Amsel Koros.”  Jorqel said, looking at his son.  He switched his attention.  “How are you?  Exhausted?”

“A little, yes.  I will sleep now it’s all done.  I feel weak.”

“Your highness, you’ve lost a lot of blood.  You need to rest,” the nurse said gently.  “The child will need quiet and rest, too.”

Jorqel grunted.  “I know when I’m being dismissed.”  He kissed Sannia on the forehead.  “I’ll let the two of you rest, then I’ll be back.  I’ll go tell his three sisters that they have a brother.”

“How are they, darling?”

“Oh, you know, questions questions.  Is mummy alright?  When can we see her?  Is she making the baby now?  Can we help?” he chuckled.  Sannia smiled too, tiredly.  “Alright, sweetheart, I’ll go now.  Rest.  I love you.”

“And I love you,” Sannia replied, watching as her husband departed.

Jorqel stood outside the birthing room and drew in a deep breath.  Relief.  Relief it had gone alright, and that he now had a son.  The apothecary came out and stood next to the prince, concern on his face.  “Sire, the princess had lost a fair amount of blood.  She will be weak for some time.”

“Is it serious?”

“It would have been if it had gone on for a long time.  I believe there is damage inside.  Hopefully the bleeding has been stopped, but I think it would be dangerous for her to become pregnant again.  It’s a bit early for me to say with total confidence, but I would not recommend she has another child.”

Jorqel thought for a moment, then nodded.  “Very well.  Do what you can to make my wife and son comfortable.”

The apothecary bowed and returned to the room.  The prince made his way to the day quarters and sat down heavily.  Gavan was there, inevitably, and he raised an equally inevitable goblet of vine liquid – Romosian – and toasted the tired father.  “A son – congratulations, sire.  A general.”

“Indeed, about time,” he said softly.  “I was beginning to think the gods only wished for me to have girls.  Not that I don’t love them, but a son is just what I wanted, and what Kastania needs.”

“Word is already spreading around the town,” Gavan chuckled.  “I’ve got the scribes to prepare the announcement.  Riders are ready to take them aboard ship and take the news to the mainland.”

Jorqel nodded.  “I shall go tell my daughters the good news.  Bring the documents to me to sign and then get them sent as soon as possible.  We need the news spread as fast as possible.  I want the people of the empire to be lifted by this.”

“It shall be done,” Gavan bowed.  He went out and began telling those he met in the corridors as he went.

Jorqel heaved himself out of the chair and walked along the passageway to the nursery room where his three daughters, Merza, Krista and Zora, were playing.  Merza ran to him and threw her arms up to him.  “Father!  What has happened?  I heard people cheering!”

Jorqel picked her up.  She was only three yet already showing signs of great intelligence; she was ahead of her years, bright, observant and precocious.  “Yes Merza, you have a brother.”

“A brother!” Merza shrieked, causing Jorqel to wince.  Why young children apparently were gifted with three times the volume of adults he had no idea, but it was a fact they shouted at the top of their voices.

Krista, a year younger, stood up and clapped her hands in delight.  No less charming than Merza, Krista was clearly, even at her age, less gifted than her older sister as far as brains went, yet she was charming and very spirited.  The youngest of the three, Zora, was only a year old and not yet showing much in the way of how she would eventually turn out.  Zora remained sat on the rug sucking her thumb, her eyes wide and alert.

“A brother?” Merza asked.  “A boy?  Does he have a beard like you?”

Jorqel laughed.  “Oh no, he won’t have one of those for a long time, Merza.  For the moment he’s going to be with your mother until both are well enough to leave the birthing room.  Your mother is very tired and Amsel – that’s your brother’s name – is very small and has only just been born so he’s not yet ready to play here.”

“Zora isn’t playing with me or Krista.”

“Krista and me,” Jorqel corrected her.  He was determined his children would speak correctly even from a young age.  No point in letting them get into bad habits only to make them go through the rigmarole of change at a later date.  Such a waste of time and it would only confuse the children.

“Krista and me,” Merza said loudly.  Another wince from Jorqel.  “I hope Amsel won’t be a bad player like Zora.  She just sticks things in her mouth and covers everything with dribble!”

“Not so loud, Merza,” Jorqel said softly.  “You’re right next to me so I can hear you very well.  Zora is only a year old so isn’t old enough yet to play properly.  Give it a little time and the three of you will be like one and the same at games.”

“Hmph!  I hope Krista learns to call things their proper names in that case.  It’s so boring when she makes up silly names for things.”

“I’m sure she will,” Jorqel smiled and glanced at the dancing Krista.  The middle girl was singing as she danced, making up a song about having a brother.  The two older sisters were so different, like rock and sand.  Still, he mused to himself, it wouldn’t be half as interesting if they were identical.  He put Merza down and let her return to playing with a stuffed rag doll of an equine.  He glanced at the nanny who was wiping Zora’s constantly wet mouth.  “I’ll be back shortly.  Put the girls to bed and I’ll come see them when I return.”

“Sire.”

He made his way out of the wooden castle to the courtyard.  People congratulated him as he went and he smiled and waved in return.  Guards bowed with a grin, pleased to share in the good news.  Romos was so different now to the place it had been under the pirates.  Gavan came out, belched, then sauntered over to Jorqel’s side.  They could see over the walls to the masts of the ships in the harbour from where they were.

“One day soon we shall have to leave this island, Gavan.”

“Yes sire; it’s like being banished out here.  The mainland’s far more interesting.  The men like the climate but they miss being back there.”

“I know.  There are things that need doing here.  We’ve just finished building the garrison quarters so the castle has more space for us which is a blessed relief, but I want Romos to have better facilities.”

“You’ve started that small temple over by the landward gates, sire.  That should please the populace and make the town more desirable to live in.  Nothing like a decent new building to tart a place up.”

“Indeed, or as my report would say, ‘improve the ambience of the residential areas’.”

“Yes, sire, that’s what I said, tart the place up.”  Gavan grinned.  Then he looked at his master in concern.  “Still no word from Kiros Louk?”

“None.  I’m wondering what has happened to him.  I hope he has completed his mission because I desperately need details of what that
kivok
Nikos Duras is doing.”

Gavan grunted.  “If he moves then we’d know.”

“Oh I’m aware of that – and I doubt he’s yet got the numbers to do that, but what I need to know is the extent of assistance he’s getting from the Tybar, and is it material or in men as well?  Does he have advisors, a core of professional Tybar soldiers?  Is he getting good intelligence on our dispositions?  What does his force comprise of?  How many does he have of what type?  Where are his camps, and how soon could he assemble an army and where?”

“Phew!” Gavan puffed his cheeks out.  “That little sneaky bastard will earn his fee this time around.”

Jorqel nodded.  He hoped for once that he would be able to pay the spy, for the information he wanted would be invaluable.

Imakum, a shimmering vision set in a vast valley, hemmed in by hard, jagged peaks in the distance all around.  The valley was a massive bowl, with fields and canals criss-crossing the entire width, making the Imakum Valley one of the most fertile in the region.  In winter it retained much of its greenery while the mountains all round were coated in white.

Beasts of burden and herd animals moved slowly, both in the near distance and far away, and people went about their business, either tending the fields or walking or riding their beasts from here to there.  There was a single large wide unpaved road that entered the valley from the east and ran through the centre of the bowl to the city, then exited at the western gates and ran west into the distance.

Kiros Louk and Beshin lay behind a scattering of boulders off to one side of the road and studied the comings and goings.  A regular stream of visitors made their way to the east gate and were cursorily checked by the guards, before being permitted entry.

The skyline of the city was a mixture of classic Kastanian with a few alien constructions, built by the Tybar ever since they had seized Imakum during the war a few years before Astiras had taken power.

Louk had almost collected every piece of information that Prince Jorqel had wanted, with the sole exception of what was bothering the Tybar to the west.  There had been almost no regular Tybar troops in the region, and Louk found that puzzling.  What he had found out in his time in Kaprenia was that the Tybar had three main armies; one had conquered Tobralus and was still there, garrisoning the town of Taboz, subduing any remaining opposition and watching the frontier.  The second was doing much the same in Amria.  It was the third – and largest, according to what he had learned – which puzzled him.  It was nowhere. 

Rumours were that it was over in the west.  Louk was baffled by this; the lands now held by the tribes ran from the western mountains in what was almost a rectangular blob through former imperial lands to the frontiers of Lodria and Bathenia.  The southern frontier of this was almost exclusively the Balq Sea, except in the far west where a spur of the western frontier mountains ran to the edge of the Balq Sea.  A couple of passes exited south into the plains beyond, but those were nomadic lands and no organised kingdom or territory stood there.  Kastania was not interested in those lands and they had always been out of reach and the domain of barbarians.

The northern edge of Tybar lands ran down to the Reyen Desert just beyond the borders of Amria which was Epatamian territory, and further away stood the Lands of the Two Rivers, somewhere always just too far for Kastanian armies in the past to venture to.  Here the land fell away to the north in huge fertile plains.  What lay beyond was anyone’s guess, but Louk thought that any defensive army would be placed either there or on the Kastanian frontiers.  The Tobralus army would look after the passes to the north-west and the Amrian army the route from the Reyen Desert into Amria.  Why the Third Army would be put west from where the Tybar had come from was a mystery, yet Louk always had the impression something was back there that scared the tribesmen.

If he was to find out what, then logically the answer lay in the Tybar capital, Imakum.  Therefore he had to get in and steal any information from the governor’s residence.

“Very well,” he suddenly said, moving towards the edge of the boulders.  “I shall enter the city.  Keep those notes with you.  If I do not return in three days then you know where to take them.”

Beshin nodded.  “Latiyya.  The ship Morning Tide, Captain Jumbal.”

Louk grunted.  The boy at least listened and didn’t argue.  Too many people spent their time arguing and as a result not listening, and if one didn’t listen, then they never learned anything.  “Wait here three days.  You have food and shelter.  Speak to no-one.”  With that he was gone, slipping soundlessly around the rocks and gliding across the broken ground towards the road.  He had spotted one slow-moving cart driven by an old tired looking drover, with a pile of what looked like grain-grass in the back.

Beshin looked on silently.  He had tried to tell Louk that he didn’t need to sneak in, for the Tybar were happy for those with skills in a number of ways to come to the city.  Their conquest had either driven away many of the artisans and administrators or killed them.  Now they needed people to maintain the city.  Enslaving most of the indigenous population hadn’t been a clever move, for the city had degenerated since, drains becoming blocked, the buildings falling down, the roads cracking up, no taxes being collected.  A systematic campaign of bullying taxes from what had been left had backfired, for it had resulted in many of the survivors being either imprisoned for objecting, or they had run away, leaving the situation to deteriorate even further.

Many of those who maintained the infrastructure were soldiers, and they were low quality garrison troops with few skills.

Louk had dismissed Beshin’s advice.  As a spy, he prided himself on knowing the situation and his opinion of the Tybar was that they mistrusted foreigners and therefore he needed to sneak in.  He was no farmer or artisan, therefore he would be immediately viewed with suspicion.

Beshin watched as the spy waited by the roadside in a dry ditch, then as the cart lumbered past, quickly sprang up onto the back and slipped under a pile of grain-grass stalks and burrowed in out of sight.

The city gates were in the distance but he could see the guard as a vague dark shape.  The cart was eventually stopped at the gate and he concentrated on trying to see what was going on.

The drover was asked a few questions.  Louk could hear the conversation in a muffled way.  Some of the words he could make out but others not.  It seemed the usual line of questions about the content of his cart and where he had come from.   The drover was surly and clearly resented the way he was being questioned.  Louk lay still wishing the fool would shut up.

Footsteps.

The grain-grass was shaken.  Louk held his breath.  The cursed guard was giving it the once-over.  A blade narrowly missed Louk’s face, and brushed his shoulder.  Enough was enough.  Louk sprang up, dagger in hand.  He opened the throat of the shocked guard and jumped off the cart.  The drover sat at the front, his mouth open in horror and surprise.  Shouts came from the guardhouse.

Louk cursed his luck.  It had to run out sometime, he supposed.  He began running hard for the distant cover but it was a forlorn hope.  Arrows came arcing out from the entrance and down from the walls.  Two missed before one struck him clean through the back, puncturing his left lung.  He crashed face-first to the stony soil and lay there, his limbs moving weakly.

Guards came running, their bows now slung and their slim swords drawn.  Beshin watched in fascination as they reached the prone figure of Louk and dragged him to his feet.  Even at the distance he was, he heard the shriek of agony from the wounded man.

“Well, what have we here?” the guard sergeant said in thickly-accented Kastanian.  “A Kastanian spy?  Oh are we going to have fun with you!”

Louk coughed, his lungs bleeding.  He was finding it hard to breathe and his legs wouldn’t support him.  He sagged in the arms of the two burly men who held him.  The others crowded round, waiting for the command from their sergeant.

“Nothing to say?  Well let’s see what the interrogators can get from you!”

Louk groaned and was hauled round.  Using the motion, he wrenched on the arm of the man to one side, pulling free from the other, and staggered away, trying to grab his short sword.  One of the guards stepped forward, his weapon already flashing in the sun, and struck.  The blow was already committed when the sergeant screamed at the man to stop.

Too late.  The blade cut through Louk’s neck into the chest.  The guard stopped his blow but it was already a fatal one.  Louk fell to his knees, blood splattering his knees and the ground.  He dropped his weapon and fell onto his face, the blackness of death descending upon him.

“Fool of an alleyway whore!” the sergeant screamed, striking the guard across the face.  “Now we will never know who sent him and why!  It’s the western mountains for you!”

The guard jabbered in fear.  He’d rather die.  With a sob he reversed his sword and ran himself through, his lips parting in a smile of relief as he sank to the ground alongside the man he’d just slain.

The sergeant cursed and spat on the corpse.  “Coward!  Your family name shall be reviled and struck from the scrolls of honour!”  He looked at the rest of his squad.  “Arrest this fool,” he jerked a thumb at the dumbstruck drover, “take this one,” he pointed at Louk, “and sever his head.  It ought to be returned to his lands.  Burn the rest.  As for that one,” he nodded to the dying guard, “dismember him and mount each part over the gates of the city.  Failure to do one’s duty must be punished.”

Beshin didn’t hear any of that but knew the situation was beyond his ability.  Remembering the last words of the spy to him, he slid away from the boulders, retreating towards the mountains that rose to the north.  He would find the ship at the port and tell the captain of what had happened.  He wondered if he would get a reward for this.  He hoped so.  A herd beast perhaps, a house?  Maybe even a young, supple slave girl.  That would be perfect.

He smiled at the thought.

____

The room echoed to the tramp of multiple boots.  The new arrivals filed in, all looking in surprise at the mostly naked woman kneeling at the side of Dragan Purfin.  She was striking enough without her large breasts exposed to all.  Long, blonde curls, large blue eyes, a slim, upturned nose, wide hips, narrow waist.  Everything each of those entering the room would wish for.

She was partly dressed, yes.  A leather slave collar ran round her throat and neck, and affixed to this was a leash which Dragan held.  Her hands were bound behind her back and the small leather harness she wore only served to push her breasts forward.  It was something they instantly knew as being a slave harness, something banned in Kastania but known nonetheless.  A narrow leather belt hung from her hips, and dangling from this was a frill and tassel arrangement, covering her female modesty but not much else.  Her legs, long and firm, were free of anything except the ankle bracelet which denoted who her owner was.  Nobody needed to see what it said, as Dragan clearly was that.

“Please be seated, colleagues,” Dragan smiled, indicating the array of roughly made chairs and stools.  He was seated in a reasonably comfortable high backed chair.  “You may recognise this woman,” he tugged briefly on the leash.

Amne looked up in disgust at him.

“By Kastan!” one of the arrivals exclaimed, halting in the process of sitting down.  “Princess Amne Koros!  Are you mad, Purfin?”

“Not at all.  Look at her, what beauty, what perfection.  And she serves me, pleasures me, services me.  The Koros are nothing.  I shall take the throne from that eunuch of a husband of hers, and use her as a hostage to stop her father from taking any action.”

“This is treason, Purfin!” another said, pointing at Amne.  “We’ll all be executed!”

Dragan laughed easily and pulled on her hair, forcing her to look up at him.  “Really?  Look how she obeys my touch.”  He clamped his lips on hers, pressing hard.  She emitted muffled sounds, unable to break free of his grip, but when he pulled back her eyes were flashing with fury, her cheeks stained red.  “Spirited girl, isn’t she?”

“You’re asking for trouble, Purfin,” another of the new arrivals said.  “When you sent out your messages for recruits, I thought – and I imagine the rest of us are of the same mind – that you were raising a mercenary company.  If I thought that you had the princess here prisoner then I would not have answered your invitation!”

Dragan waved a dismissive hand.  “Don’t be such a coward.  Have you heard any cries of outrage from the palace?  No.  Has there been any house to house search in the city?  No.  What do we hear from her feckless husband?  Oh yes, she is unwell.  Unwell?”  He looked at her, leering at her breasts.  “She looks fine to me.  My slave whore, a Koros princess,” he laughed.  “Using her as a hostage we will march on the palace, arrest Prince Elas and his minions, and take the city over.  With the militia and guard under our command we will rule this empire.”

“You’re out of your mind,” the first man said, shaking his head.  “Your first attempt ended in ignominious defeat on the battlefield.  What makes you think this idiotic scheme will succeed?  She looks mad enough to kill.”

Dragan eyed Amne again.  “Hmm, you may be right in that, but I think it makes her look even more desirable.  She has pleasured me these past ten days and she’ll do the same tonight.  She has learned not to refuse me or to speak unless I command her.”  He chuckled.  “Pain is such a good teacher.”

Amne seethed, her nostrils flared, teeth clenched.  This
kivok
was asking to be hung from the nearest gibbet.  True, she had been beaten and beaten well enough for her to realise there was no point in her fighting him or speaking back.  She had been raped repeatedly until she had learned not to struggle.  The pain was less but the humiliation just as great.  He took her when he wanted but she made no effort to do anything; she merely lay there like some object, which she guessed he regarded her as.  He wasn’t interested in her mind, her personality, her thoughts, her wishes.  No, she was just an object for him to sate his carnal desires on.

“See, no comment.  I have broken her,” Dragan bragged, smiling at the group of men.  “Those of you who will join me tonight will train a group of men for the next twenty days, then we shall act.  This whore will continue to serve me in the palace.  Perhaps you can be rewarded with Princess Sannia?  I hear she’s really quite good, with a fabulous body.  That’s an added inducement to you.  Imagine that, humping a princess!  Any of you ever think you could do that?  Well, here’s a preview,” he tugged on the lead and pulled Amne’s hair again, pushing her chest forward.  “Look at them!  The best you’ll ever see.  What do you satisfy yourselves on?  Rancid emaciated pox-ridden street sluts?  Well this is different, a real woman.  Princess Sannia’s may not be as good as these but I bet they’re better than what you’re used to.  My loyal followers can take their turn with her.”