House of Lust (9 page)

The ‘road’ was a dirt track, undulating, rutted and showing signs of much traffic, with hoof prints and wheel marks.  A few man-sized footprints showed, too, and after one downpour a set of animal paw marks were seen crossing the road.  They were fairly large and Vosgaris’ hand went to the hilt of his sword.  Whatever had made those, he didn’t really want to meet.

The nights were still chilly, especially when it had rained, and the three huddled round the campfire.  Vosgaris learned that the two men, Arkanin and Hendros, were veterans of the war in Zofela, and had fought with a mercenary company.  Vosgaris was surprised; he thought only imperial troops had taken part in the fighting.

“Oh, no, sir,” Hendros shook his head.  “Me and Arkanin here joined a company fighting in northern Bragal, not too far from here.  Fought in lots of skirmishes, mostly against bandits.”

Vosgaris frowned; this was something he had been unaware of.  “Wasn’t the emperor – then just a general – commanding all Kastanian forces in the Bragal War?”

“Nah,” Arkanin said.  “They didn’t have enough troops, so the local nobility hired people like Hendros and me and others who’d been disbanded from the army to protect their estates.  Seemed the emperors at that time weren’t too bothered about them, especially if these nobles weren’t in thick with the Duras and Fokis.”

“You mean – the emperors at that time abandoned whole estates to the mercy of the rebels.  Deliberately?”

The two men shrugged, then nodded. “You’re nobility, sir, so you know how the power politics work.”  Hendros smiled to rob any offence from his words.  “Alliances forms and breaks all the time, don’t they?  Us ordinary folk don’t bother with them unless it means we gets hired to fight for one or the other.  We was happy to serve with General Astiras Koros, as the emperor was then, but the imperial court cut his numbers so he couldn’t win.  We was two who got cut.  They disbanded the Turslenkan regiments.”

“Yes,” Vosgaris looked thoughtfully at the flames of their camp fire.  “I remember being told that.  Who hired you, then?”

“The Anglis family,” Arkanin said.

“But – their estates are far from the Bragal border.”

“Ah,” Hendros grinned.  “Lord Anglis believed in a pro-active policy of protecting his estates,” he looked at Arkanin who chuckled.  “So that’s what his excuse was anyway.  So he sent us under one of his captains across the border to burn any Bragalese village we found.  That way we struck first without suffering any ravages on our side of the border.”

Vosgaris shook his head in wonder.  “So there were private armies all over northern Bragal plundering and pillaging?”

“Suppose that was the way of it, sir.  Good times, they was.  Nobody in Kastan City was bothered; they’d abandoned the province and only General Koros was fighting on, and in the end the Duras and Fokis got jealous and got their emperor to pull him out.”

“Idiots,” Vosgaris replied.  “That only served to bring the Koros to the throne and ended with the emperor dead and the Duras outlawed.  The Fokis could go the same way, too.”

“Well, after the war ended, we was thinking what to do.  Lord Anglis let most of us go and we either could turn to brigandage, come to Kastan City or Turslenka and try find some work, join the Duras rebellion or try to get a job in the army.”  Hendros spat into the flames and waited till the sizzling died away.  “And we ended up re-joining the army after the losses in the battle to regain the province.”

“Did many turn to brigandage?”

“Yep,” Arkanin grunted, shifting his buttocks.  “Loads in the army in Zofela served one time or another either as brigands or in the Duras army.  We needed to survive, see,” he said, forestalling a rebuke from Vosgaris.  “No offence, sir, but you and the other nobles got money, ain’t ya?  But we. Well we’re poor and needs a wage to live.  We try to pick the right side but when you’re starvin’ and facing no hope, well those morals go walk, don’t they?  We joined the army quick enough, see, once there was places up fer grabs.  As long as you lot needs us, then we’ll be here.”

“That’s good to know – I wouldn’t want to have men under me who’d desert given the first chance.”

Arkanin snorted.  “Hendros and me will fight like bastards for you, believe me.  We wants the Koros to succeed – they’re army, see?  Those Duras and Fokis ain’t.  They’re lawyers or merchants.  Don’t trust any of those slimy
kivoks
.  Speaks well but they don’t follow any of those high words through. We prefer to follow an army emperor.”

“That’s good to hear,” Vosgaris said.  “So you’re Makenian, then?”

“Yup.  Turslenka isn’t a bad place, it just suffered in the time I was growing up there,” Hendros said.  “Will be good to see the place after being away for these years.”

“You have family there?”

“Nah, plague took them.  Arkanin here had a sister but she was taken by bandits during the troubles ten years back.”

Arkanin’s face hardened.  “Don’t worry sir, we got those who did it.  That’s how I met Hendros here – he volunteered to help along with a few others.  Those bandits took a long time to die.”

Vosgaris swallowed and said nothing.  There wasn’t much to say.  He decided to change the subject.  “Either of you met Governor Olskan?”

“Nah, he took over after we left.  Supposed to be a toughie, don’t take no shit from nobody,” Arkanin said.  “Army, too, yes?”

“Army indeed.  Got wounded in the war, and was saved by his Bragalese slave girl.”

“Oh, yes, Metila, isn’t it, sir?  Heard lots about her, hot she-canine, so the word says.”

Vosgaris’ lips twisted.  “I don’t know about that – all I hear are rumours.”

“Well those Bragalese girls are hot – we had plenty in the war.  Thing was, when we burned a village down, we had orders to kill the men and rape the women, but we found that the girls raped us!”

The two men chuckled.  Vosgaris shook his head in amazement.  “Yes, I heard tales of that sort.  Hard to believe.  Didn’t they hate you for what you did to their homes and men?”

“Oh yeah,” Hendros agreed.  “But first, before they went to kill us, they had us, if you know what I mean.  Then straight afterwards, when our men were recovering, they’d kill us.  We got wise once word got out, so we had our way with them, and killed them first.”  He looked at the expression on Vosgaris’ face.  “Oh, sir, you had to be there to understand.  It was kill or be killed.  The soft died, the tough survived.” 

“I hear such tales from others who have fought in that war – it’s not something I wish to occur again,” Vosgaris said.

“All the officers who started off sounded like you, sir,” Hendros said, lifting his flask to his mouth.  He swallowed the ale and wiped his lips.  “They either soon learned the hard way to be as nasty as the Bragalese, or they died.  Most died.”

Vosgaris grimaced.  “What of the final attack by the emperor?  I was under the impression his army was the only one in Bragal at that time.”

Arkanin nodded.  “By that time the Bragalese had destroyed most of the mercenary bands – or the nobility had run out of money to pay them and the bands had mutinied and turned to brigandage, fighting each other or the Bragalese, or they had disbanded and returned home.  I think many nobles wanted to see what the Koros did.  Nobody knew, you see, sir.  I heard one noble telling his son not to pick a side to fight for as they were going to wait and see who came out on top.  I think they were all fed up with the in-fighting.  Besides, most of the money was gone what with the breaking down of central rule and trade.”

Vosgaris sighed.  It seemed Astiras had made his move pretty well at the last possible moment that anyone could have in order to save the empire.  It had been bankrupted by the greedy Houses who wished to cling onto power, even at the cost of ruining the empire.  “At least now you’re fighting for the right people.  You won’t go hungry under the Koros.”

“That’s what the guys are saying,” Hendros agreed, “even in Zofela.  We weren’t too happy to be posted there but things ain’t as bad as we thought.  We even got us a lusty Bragalese girl to keep us happy,” he grinned.

“Both of you?”  

“Most of us, sir.  We prefers them to Kastanian girls.  No inhibitions, always up for it, you know what I mean?”

“Aye, I know,” Vosgaris grinned.  “What about you being away?  I know full well Bragalese social habits.”

“Ah, well that’s the thing, sir.  We know we can’t keep them off wanting it, so we – ah – have this agreement amongst some of us.”

Vosgaris frowned, then stared at Arkanin.  “You mean…..”

“Aye.  Well, at least we know who they’re humping while we’re away, and we get a return favour.”

“Don’t the wives object?”

“Oh yeah, and they fight most of the time.  Winner gets the guy.  Great watching – turns us all on, too.  Sometimes nobody gets to go to bed – we have this full-on orgy there in the hall.”

“I wondered why some of you were worse for wear in the mornings – I thought it was drink!”

“Naw,” Hendros chuckled.  “It’s the wives and what have you.  After a good fight everyone goes at it like a pack of love-starved lupus.  We’re keen to get back, sir, so if you don’t mind we’d like this job done as soon as possible.”

“I’ll bear that in mind – and maybe supply a load of ice cold buckets of water to you all.  I won’t stand for guards being late for duty, you know.”

The two guards laughed, then sat back and enjoyed their ales.

Vosgaris stood up and told them he was going to take a short walk.  He waved the two to remain where they were.  He was glad to exercise his legs, having been in the saddle for too long, then sat on the fallen trunk of a tree around the fire.  He realised that the words of warning about Metila were pretty wise.  Metila seemed a particularly active Bragalese woman, and unless he was chaperoned he may well be pounced on and ravaged.  The thought sent a shiver through him.  He wondered what it would be like to couple with one of those women.  Amne had been wonderful, lusty, passionate and fulfilling, but perhaps a Bragalese woman was even better?

Most of them were lithe and short, and not so well built in – ah – certain places as a woman like Amne was, but maybe that didn’t matter.  He shook his head.  He ought to concentrate on his job.  Get the information from Metila, then seek out the family homes of both the Anglis and Mirrodan.  The Mirrodan home was easier, being inside Turslenka itself, but the Anglis estates were big and outside the city.  They did have a town house, and maybe Lord Anglis was present, or perhaps a representative who knew Fostan Anglis fairly well.  As a minor noble himself that would open a few doors, but the Anglis were higher up the pecking order than the Taboz.  Nobility could be terribly snobbish.

He wondered what sort of reception he’d get.

Night had fallen over Kastan City.  Bands of armed men gathered in secret places, ready for the evil work to be carried out.  The palace was quiet, with only a few lights showing here and there.

There had been rain during the day, and clouds still covered the sky, making it even darker.  These were perfect conditions for the intentions of the group of men who walked purposefully through the side streets of the city, heading in an indirect route towards the palace.  They wore swords and carried other weapons, a mixture of clubs, hammers, axes, maces and daggers.

Nobody challenged them. They had been told that the streets would be clear of any militia patrols, and so it was found to be.  The palace had arranged for only the main streets to be patrolled that night, and the group of forty men, drawn from the dark places of many cities and towns of the empire, made their way with increasing confidence to the rear entrance, away from prying eyes.

The two huge gates barred their way, shut, silent.  Off in the distance a canine barked, then again silence descended on them.  Their leader, a burly, dark-haired man with a broken nose and two days’ stubble on his face, waved two of his men forward to the door inset.  They had been promised that the door would be unlocked and that no guards would be present.

One of the men leaned forward nervously and pushed.  The door gave inwards.  Looking at his comrades in amazement – for he hadn’t really believed that the palace would be so stupid – he pushed harder and the door swung back, revealing the courtyard, empty of life.

The stables were off to the left, a long line of dark openings for the equines, and also oblong doorways for their riders’ quarters.  It was there that these men headed, ignoring the rows of windows on the other side.  A few lights shone from an occasional window, but all were shuttered or curtained, and so only weak filtered light showed which hardly affected the amount of illumination in the courtyard.

The leader waved his men to spread out as quickly but quietly as they could.  The KIMM numbered some two hundred and forty men all told, and it would take quick and decisive action to deal with them.  If the agent within the palace had done the job needed properly, then all the soldiers in the barracks would be sleeping, drugged.  It would be an easy case to slit their throats as they lay in their beds, then cross the courtyard to tackle the Guard and Prince Elas.  The Guard were a ceremonial group of men, and there were only about thirty in the palace.  Most of them would be asleep, and so a swift attack there would take care of those fools.  That would leave Elas and the few others who should be overwhelmed in no time.

The best of their troops would be already on their way under Lalaas to an ambush and death, well away from the palace.  It was going smoothly.

The doors to the many stables were left alone.  The equines posed no threat.  There were twelve doorways leading to the various sleeping quarters of the troops, and three men were assigned to each.  At a signal from the leader, all twelve were opened simultaneously and the men passed into darkness.

The leader waited outside with three others, his own personal retinue, the three biggest, meanest and nastiest of the group.  His men began to come out, and something was not right.  “What is it?” he whispered to the nearest man who was shaking his head.

“Nobody is there – its empty!”

“What?” the leader didn’t believe him and checked himself.  He used a small torch which he took from one of the other men.  The room, fitted for twenty men, was indeed empty.  The bunks were all neatly made, and nothing was out of place.  The only thing missing were the men.  The leader’s mouth turned down.  He burst back out into the courtyard where all his men were milling.

“The palace – now!” he whispered furiously.  Something was terribly wrong.

At that moment the shutters in all the windows were pulled open to reveal men standing there with drawn bows.  “Surrender!” came a barked command.

“Like the demons we will,” the leader snarled.  “Get them!”

The men burst forward, swords being dragged out from scabbards.  There came a command and arrows spat out from the windows, impacting on the massed men pushing forward.  Cries and grunts filled the courtyard and men sank to their knees or span round in agony, toppling to the ground.  The leader swore and pounded towards the nearest window, his sword whirling.

His attack ended with a shaft pinning him through the throat and he took one step, then dropped his sword, clutched the wooden shaft resting against his throat and fell onto his side, twitching in his death throes.  All round him his men were falling, arrows protruding from arms, legs, stomachs, chests and faces.

Three men tried to escape but by now two men were standing by the exit, volgars in hands.  They snapped into a brace stance and waited for the men to run onto the wicked looking points.  The three slowed, turned, and saw more men emerging into the courtyard.  Realising the futility of resistance, they dropped their swords and put their hands up.

The officer of the guard, Fendal, a thickset dark-haired man, much like the leader of the intruders, stepped up to the prone figure of the enemy and looked down at him.  Around him the Guard slowly began checking the downed men.  Some were wounded and would need treatment.  The rest were dead or going that way.  Fendal grunted and nodded to himself in satisfaction.  “Good work, men,” he said.  “That’s this little affair dealt with.  Let’s hope that the Captain and Prince Elas can do theirs.  Go tell the Princess the attack here has been neutralised,” he ordered one of his men.

“Sir, what of these carrion feeders?” one of the guards who had been by the gate asked, pushing the three prisoners ahead of him.

“The dungeons,” Fendal said.  “Any of these here with light wounds can join them.”

“What of the seriously wounded, sir?” another man asked, crouched down by the side of one of the wounded. 

“Give them to the palace apothecary.  If he can’t save them, who cares?”

The men set to the grisly task of moving the dead and searching their bodies.  Fendal sheathed his sword.  That had been too easy.

___

Lalaas stood by the side of a street opposite the house whose address he had been given.  This was where he was supposed to be killed.  The streets were still wet from the rain, even though it had now stopped.  Lalaas sniffed once, deeply.  It was getting cold even though winter was now gone.  Spring still could have some chilly nights.

With him were five men, the toughest ones he had under his control.  All had been carefully briefed as to what was likely to greet them in the house they were regarding.  “All right, this is the moment.  Whoever’s in there is likely to ambush us.  We’re not supposed to expect too much trouble – the trap is set for us.  The bait is probably false, but we’re supposed to think its Dragan Purfin and we’re here to arrest him.  I’ll play the part, you lot be ready for trouble.  You know what to do.”

The men grunted.  There was no need for anything to be said.  Lalaas flexed his arms.  He disliked the treachery of Kastan City’s nobility.  These people saw only power through rule and were not prepared to support the emperor’s struggle to save the empire.  To the pit of fire with them.

He strode purposefully across the stone street and onto the pavement next to the house.  It was a tall, two-storeyed construction, the lower being of stone, the upper and roof of wood.  He rapped on the black painted door and stood waiting.  The five others gathered in a half circle, eyes watchful, looking along the street in both directions.  Nobody appeared.

There came a sound from the other side of the door and the bolt was drawn back.  Slowly the door opened inwards.  A pale face appeared, illuminated by a candle.  “Yes?  Who is it who disturbs the master this night?”

Lalaas resisted a cynical smile.  Instead he pushed the door open.  “I am Captain Lalaas of the Imperial Guard.  Your master is Dragan Purfin, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” the servant said, backing away into the dark hallway.  “He is upstairs sleeping.”

“Well he is to accompany us to the palace.  Prince Elas has given orders for his arrest,” and he passed the servant a sealed order that Elas had signed that evening.  “Please bring him to me immediately.”

“Of course, sir.” The servant bowed obsequiously.  “The master will contest this, of course.”

“I didn’t expect anything else,” Lalaas said dryly.  “Are we to remain here while you fetch your master, or is there a room we can await him in?”

“Please remain here.  The master will not keep you long.”  The servant smiled in a very unsettling way and began to climb the single staircase that wound round two sides of the hall.

“Right, lads, on your toes.  It’ll be here in a moment,” Lalaas said, taking hold of the hilt of his sword.  He looked round the hallway.  Three doors stood along its sides, two along the wall to the left, opposite where the staircase began, and the third underneath the stairs directly ahead.  Behind them was only the door out of the house, and to the right the staircase was too low for any doorway.

“Three doors, bet they have ambushers behind each.  Cover them,” he whispered to three of his men.  To the other two he pointed up at the staircase.  “We’ll get trouble from up there, too.  Watch it.”

The doors burst open as one and armed men came rushing out at them, axes and spiked clubs in their hands.  In the cramped space of the house long-bladed weapons were next to useless.  From the landing above more heavy footsteps could be heard and men appeared.

“At them!” Lalaas snapped.

The five guardsmen threw aside their cloaks to reveal small hand-held miniature crossbows, all with a bolt already fitted.  It took a heartbeat to hastily aim and discharge the bolts.  Three of the attackers took bolts through their chests or heads and their attacks finished almost as soon as they had begun.

The crossbows were thrown aside and the guardsmen whipped out their swords to meet the attack from the rest.  Two of the ambushers on the ground floor had perished but three more were stepping over the fallen and swinging into the attack.  Down the stairs came four men, and a fifth was sinking onto the stairs, a bolt through his ribs.  The hallway was filled with the ringing of steel, curses and grunts of pain.

The anticipated easy attack had already gone wrong, but the men of Purfin pressed home, one remaining on the balcony with a crossbow.  He aimed down and shot into one of the guardsmen, pinning him through the neck.  The man went down, clutching his wound, blood flowing through his fingers.  Lalaas cursed and stepped over him to meet the downward blow of one of the attackers’ axe.  His sword deflected the blow and Lalaas cut back upwards with a short jabbing motion.  His blade sliced across the axe man’s throat, opening his windpipe, causing blood to spray out.

Next to Lalaas the other guardsman cut down another attacker but then received a spiked mace across the face and he fell like a stone.  Immediately Lalaas swung his sword and struck the mace wielding man across the neck and chest, cutting him down.  Bodies were mounting up, but it gave the captain more space to properly wield his sword.  Two men remained on the staircase, one holding an axe, the other was the crossbowman.  As the axe man struck, Lalaas gave ground so the blow passed harmlessly in front of him.  Lalaas smashed his forehead into the man’s face, splintering his nose.

The axe man cried out and clutched his ruined face, blood fountaining from his nose.  Not waiting for a moment to pass, Lalaas slid the three foot length of steel into the man’s stomach and held him against the wall, feeling the tremors of pain ripple through the blade into his hand.

Releasing him Lalaas stepped onto the staircase.  The crossbowman was frantically reloading.  Lalaas had no time to reach him, so he grabbed hold of his dagger in his belt, raised it hurriedly and threw it just as the crossbowman was raising his weapon.  The dagger took him full in the chest and he cried out, falling backwards, dropping the crossbow. 

The palace captain swung round, hearing the struggles of the men in the room.  Two of the attackers who had survived the initial exchange were down but the remaining one was still fighting hard, and had cut one of the guards down.  The luckless man was lying across the floor with a huge red stain spreading across his tunic.  The other two guards were pressed back by the desperate man for a moment, until one managed to evade another wicked looking swing from the man’s spiked mace and ran him through the side.  The man sank to the ground and lay there, shaking in pain, clutching his wound.

Lalaas breathed out hard and looked about.  Three of his men were either dead or out of action.  The two remaining men wiped their swords and looked to Lalaas for orders.  “Sir?”

“Check our men.  If they’re alive see what you can do for them.  Check the others too, make sure those still alive are not able to get away.  I’ll check the rest of the house upstairs.”

He negotiated the stairs, climbing over the sprawled figures of the fallen.  He glanced at them as he passed, just in case they were feigning unconsciousness.  The only one who appeared to be still alive was one who had received a crossbow bolt through the side.  The enemy crossbowman lay on his back at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling.  Lalaas tugged his dagger free and wiped it on his boot, grimacing at the red stain on the blade.

The staircase led to a landing and off that were a couple of doors and a side passage.  The floor was warped and sloping and one or two of the doorways not upright; they leaned at a jaunty angle.  A couple of doors were shut, and he pushed these open slowly, not going into the room.  In the last room the window over on the far side was open and he went to it and looked out.  Beneath the window was a pile of refuse and beyond were a maze of back streets.  The thieves’ quarter was not too far, and the servant who had opened the front door clearly had escaped that way.  No chance of finding him.