House of Lust (62 page)

The four Hushirs were almost on him, but not moving very fast.  The fight to get through the bodyguard had killed any momentum and one was flailing at the dying efforts of a bodyguard who was trying to stop them getting past.

Argan assessed their armour and weaponry.  Light cavalry, built for speed and agility.  Light armour, leather, padded or cloth.  Swords, not heavy, slightly curved in the manner of such skirmish troops.  They had longer reach than Argan but Argan was covered in decent armour and his equine was heavier.  The years of learning how to avoid the combat training devices came to him.

The first Hushir raised his sword high, his intention clear.  Argan was to lose his head.  The Koros prince was not in the mood to co-operate, however.  He had no shield, but he now had his sword arm back in commission.  The Hushir swept down, his teeth bared.  Argan slapped the blow to one side with a gasp of effort, then backhanded his blade across the enemy’s throat.  A splash of blood erupted from it and the mercenary twisted in his saddle and slid off onto the ground.

The second came at him from Argan’s left.  The now dead first Hushir’s equine was in the way and the man had to press past to get at Argan.  The prince regained his balance and dug his spurs in.  His beast leaped forward and Argan ducked as the swipe passed by his head.  Hauling hard on the reins he brought the steed to a halt alongside the grunting Hushir and rammed his sword point through the man’s heart.  As the Hushir grimaced and fell forward, Argan grabbed the man’s secondary weapon from his saddle holder, a long pointed dagger.

The third came at him from behind and Argan wrenched the reins over, forcing his mount to turn side-on.  The Hushir chopped down and Argan met the blow above his head with his sword and thrust forward with the stolen weapon, piercing the man’s throat.

Kerrin stumbled groggily in his wake, trying to avoid the equines and falling men.  Argan was a whirling storm, leaving destruction and devastation in his wake.  One man crashed to the ground in front of Kerrin, his throat opened.  Kerrin screamed, then jumped over him.  He grabbed the man’s fallen sword and staggered towards his master who was trying to turn to meet the fourth and final attacker but he was too late, too tired and too far over to one side to effectively block the attack.

A hefty blow to his side pitched Argan out of the saddle and the prince struck the ground with a numbing crash and he lay there winded.  The Hushir wheeled, his swarthy, unshaven face twisted into a mask of hatred.  He spat a torrent of Mazag at Argan and moved to finish off the helpless boy.  Kerrin jumped forward and stood over Argan, sword in hand.  “Try it, you filthy peasant!”

The Hushir didn’t know what was said but he got the idea.  Hacking at Kerrin he knocked the boy to his knees and with the third blow sent the sword flying off to one side.  Smiling in triumph he brought his sword back for the final delivery.

A battle sword flew through the air, wheeling lazily, and impacted on the Hushir’s back, shaking the man, halting his intentions in mid-blow.  The first two handspans of steel protruded through his ribs out the front, and the man stared stupidly at it, before pitching off to lie alongside his intended victim.

Kerrin, already on his knees, sank onto all fours and sobbed.  All around there were bodies, mostly dead but some groaning in pain.  Equines twitched here and there, some whinnying.  The smell of spilt fresh blood was sickingly overpowering.

Argan groaned and slowly rolled over onto his side.  The Hushir lay quite dead alongside him, his eyes wide and unseeing, the sword a grotesque extra limb.  An equine slowly walked up to him but all Argan could see were the black legs and hoofs.  It snorted and the smell of the beast washed over Argan.

“Are you alright, sire?” Thetos’ voice floated down to him.

Argan looked up to see the concerned visage of the governor.  “Yes, Governor, apart from an aching side.  Thank you for saving my life.”

Thetos dismounted.  He planted a foot on the back of the man he’d cut down and pulled his sword free.  It came out with a sucking noise.  “Best I could do, young prince.  They were on you before I could reach you.  I apologise in leaving you undefended.  Your guard acquitted themselves well, though.”  He extended his gauntleted hand to help Argan up.

The prince got to his feet, felt dizzy, then a flush of heat rose up and he bent over and vomited over a dead Hushir.

Thetos slapped him on the shoulder in sympathy, then moved to help Kerrin up.  “Brave move there, young Kerrin.  I saw you stop his first two attacks.”

Kerrin nodded, his face white.  “But I couldn’t defend him properly, Governor.”

Thetos eyed his arriving bodyguard.  “Go make sure nobody comes our way.  Check Captain Dukos is alright.  The battle is over?”

The bodyguard saluted.  “Sir, they are fleeing, what’s left of them.  We smashed them.”

“Good work.  Let’s clear this mess up.”

Argan straightened, sniffing and spitting the acid taste out.  “Ugh.  Horrible.”

Thetos passed him a water bottle.  “That’ll help, sire.  Rinse, spit, then swallow the next few mouthfuls.  One always gets a thirst after a battle.”

Argan nodded and complied.  The soldiers were gathering around the piles of dead.  Ten of the bodyguard had fallen but the others were gathering round and guarding the shaking prince, who was now sitting on an abandoned saddle.  Kerrin groaned and sat on the ground by his side.

Captain Durok turned up and saluted.  “Sir.  Our losses from the spears are forty-two.”

“Very good Captain.  Add five of my bodyguard and ten of Prince Argan’s.  Their losses?”

Durok turned to survey the scene of carnage.  “I’ve done a quick totting up and it seems they lost about a hundred and forty dead, and over that number taken prisoner.  More again fled.”

“Let them go.  Herd the prisoners together and get them to dig a grave for their soldiers.  We’ll carry our fallen back to Turslenka.  It’s only half a day’s march.”  He looked at the two fifteen year olds.  “Well, you’ve had your first battle.  You both did very well indeed, and you survived.  Learn fast, fight hard.  Its nothing like practice, is it?”

Argan grinned and shook his head.  He grasped Kerrin’s shoulder.  “C’mon, ‘Rin, let’s get our equines and weapons and mount up.  I need a nice relaxing bath and massage.”

Kerrin flexed his right arm.  “It’s so painful when you block a blow!”

“Indeed, young Kerrin,” Thetos nodded.  “Remember, and learn to ride the blow, deflect rather than meet it straight on, at least until you’re as big as I!” he roared in mirth.

Leaving the clearing up to the prisoners and a handful of men, the rest slowly made their way back to the city.  Tired, bloodied and nursing a range of injuries, wounds and aches, the victors marched in and dispersed to their barracks.

Thetos went to his quarters to be tended to by Metila and to write a report for Astiras.  Kerrin went to his quarters for a rest and clean up, and Argan opened the door to his own room.  Amal was there, tidying up.  She saw him leaning against the door frame, bloodied, sweaty, his hair loose and unkempt.  “Oh!  My lord!  Are you hurt?” she came running over.

The door closed behind him, blocking out the view of the two guards on duty.  He allowed her to lead him over to the bed.  Sitting down he began shaking.  Amal unclipped the breastplate and it slid off along with the back.  She ran her hands over the leather undertunic.  “Argan – are you hurt?”

He shook his head.  “We were victorious – but it was brutal.”  He shakily told her of the melee.  His side did in fact hurt and when the tunic was removed and his wormspun undershirt dragged up over his head, there was a huge red and purple welt over his ribs.  She unbuckled his boots, tugged them off, then untied the leather leggings and pulled them down and off his feet.

Argan took hold of her wrist and pulled her up to him, then he lay down and pulled her close to him and he broke down, sobbing, the day’s emotions finally getting too much for him.  Amal stroked his hair.  “It’s alright, Argan, I’m here,” she kissed his wet hair.

He pressed his face against her throat.  “I don’t ever want to be without you, Amal.  As I lay there on the ground I thought of you, and how devastated you would be if I died.  And when I realised I had survived, my first thought was that I would be back here and holding you.”

She smiled and pressed her cheek against his.  “You are safe, and we are together, my lord.”  She kissed his lips, then wiped away his tears.  “You need a lot of care and attention.  I shall get your bath, then I will take care of that,” she pointed to the bruise.

“Nobody is going to separate us, Amal,” Argan said, looking into her brown eyes.  “Nobody!”

“And nobody will,” she nodded, smiling. 

____

The news of the victory near Turslenka was sent around Kastania, and a day of celebration was announced.  Astiras granted Thetos two more bodyguards as a reward, a veteran warrior from the Bragal wars, and a shield bearer.  The governor would now have a very special elite core of men with him.

Kerrin was praised for his protection of Argan, and Astiras came down in person to speak to his son.  He also got a good look at Amal, and reckoned she wasn’t far off adulthood.  She was growing fast into a woman.  There again, Argan was becoming a man, and his attitude was becoming more confident, more so now he had been in battle.  Astiras reckoned the two were good for one another, and secretly hoped she would soon reach adulthood and give his son another important lesson in growing up.

He left for Zofela, but by the time he got back, ploughing through the drifts of a typical deep Bragal winter, Isbel had left for Kastan city.

Amne had given birth to a son.  More causes for a celebration.  The boy was named Kontas.  Isbel sent a messenger on ahead with a summons for Evas Extonos to attend her in Kastan City, and the orders went to Vosgaris too to make sure the governor came, in chains if he resisted.

Vosgaris got the order and read it with satisfaction.  He burst into the governor’s office and stood there as he allowed Extonos to read his own orders.  Evas looked up.  “It seems I am to be sent to the empress in Kastan City.”  He allowed the order to fall to his desk surface.  “And you, Commander?  Do you have a summons too?”

“Yes, Governor.  And, unlike you, I am fully intending to comply.”

Extonos stared at Vosgaris.  “And what makes you think I will refuse this summons?”

“Because you refused the first.  You pleaded that as I was spreading revolt in Niake through my actions, your presence was needed here.  You cannot hide behind that pathetic excuse this time.  So what will you use now to excuse yourself?”

“I don’t like your attitude, Commander.  In fact, I have already determined that the emperor summoned me to Zofela in the first place, so I shall reply that I will travel to Zofela as per my original summons, but only when the snows have cleared and when the situation here had calmed down.”

“There is no situation to calm down you whining excuse of a Governor.  You are to accompany me to Kastan City today.  I too, have my orders and they include dragging you in chains to Kastan City if you refuse the empress’ command.”

“You will not!” Evas stood up in outrage.  “This has gone too far.  I do not believe your orders – they are a lie.”  He gestured to two men who had in recent days been added to his inner retinue, two mercenaries from the borderlands looking for employment.  They looked tough and capable of looking after themselves.  “If this man makes a move towards me, you know what to do, gentlemen.”

Vosgaris turned and surveyed the two.  Both were unkempt, big, tough-looking, and sported an array of accoutrements normal to men who scavenged or bought the odd item from market places.  They were swords-for-hire, who served whoever their latest paymaster was without qualms.  His eyes went to their weapons, the only clean and shiny items on them.  Knives, swords, axes.  He looked up into their eyes and saw no pity or compassion there.

He turned back to face the governor.  “Need someone to hold your hand, eh?  Scared of the big bad commander?”

Evas scowled, his courage clearly bolstered by the presence of the two mercenaries.  “Now get out of my office before I get these two to throw you out of the window.  I believe that’s your favourite way of settling an argument?”

Vosgaris smiled, a chilling expression that stopped Evas from saying anything more.  “The problem, Governor, is that you hire useless broken down failures like these two.  They couldn’t beat a ten year old.”

The two mercs clenched their fists and stepped forward.  Evas gestured at the commander.  “Get rid of this disrespectful canine.”

Vosgaris grabbed the hilt of his sword and was already turning, bending his knees and sinking down as the first came at him, the merc’s main sword halfway out of its sheath.  Vosgaris reached the lowest point of his turn and began to rise, his sword out of its scabbard and following his spin, rising up under the arm of the first man and slicing deep into his ribs, cutting through bone, cartilage and organs.  It exploded out of the other side of his ribcage in a shower of blood.

The second tore two weapons out of their housing and came at the commander, carnage in his mind.  The sword plunged down but Vosgaris was rolling aside across the rug.  The sword blade bit into Evas’ desk, sending chips flying up.  As the commander got to his feet, the ruined first merc struck the floor, his eyes wide in shock, pain and death.