The Crown of blood tcob-1

by Gav Thorpe

  "You might have the hearts of the solders and the common people," Anglhan said to Ullsaard, "but I have the purses of the chieftains, the craftsmen and the merchants."

  "Which is why we will make such a powerful pairing," replied the general, raising his cup of wine. "Just don't forget that all of the money in Magilnada can't stop a spear tip."

  "And I am sure you will always remember that a simple bronze spear tip is the difference between a soldier and a man with a long stick."

  Ullsaard laughed deeply while Anglhan lifted his own mug in salute.

  "You've made me governor of Magilnada, and I am grateful," Anglhan continued. "When I help make you king of Greater Askhor, I am sure the favour will be more than returned."

  "And I am sure the favour will not be a cheap one," said Ullsaard, his expression losing its humour.

  "You can be sure of that," replied Anglhan.

  Nalanor

  Late Spring, 209th Year of Askh

  I

  The camp outside Parmia rivalled the largest towns in Greater Askhor. It was one of three such camps, spreading hotwards from the town, each three days from the Greenwater. The legionnaires had dubbed it Ullsaardia, the others being Jutiilia and Donaria after the respective First Captains. Officially they were simply Parmian Barracks One, Two and Three, but Noran preferred the soldiers' names.

  The marching camps Noran had witnessed during the winter were nothing compared to the construction of these garrisons. Each housed between fifteen and twenty thousand men and their families, in endless rows of canvas tents around a few wooden buildings such as the First Captains' headquarters, the baths and the armouries. Wooden walls protected the camp, with five rows of stake-lined ditches spreading out like ripples outside them. The forge chimneys billowed smoke day and night as the weapon smiths forged more armour and weapons, fed by a steady stream of ore now coming from the Midean Mountains and the peaks coldwards of Parmia. Supply caravans arrived almost daily, with fresh slaughtered cattle and goats, barrels of salted meat and the first shipments of spring grain from Salphoria. Noran was used to such industry on the outskirts of Askh, in Geria and other cities, but here in a temporary camp in the middle of the Nalanor farmlands it seemed incredible.

  Having fled the wrath of Luia, Noran had avoided Ullsaard, despite his promise to confess all to the general. It had not been so difficult; Ullsaard had been busy marshalling his forces throughout Ersua and Nalanor, gathering the legions of Murian, Asuhas and Allon into three army groups to guard against attack from Nemtun on the other side of the Greenwater, and the possible arrival of Cosuas. Noran had kept himself distracted by becoming an unofficial ambassador to Ullsaard's governor allies, and spent more time with them than in the camps. He was far more comfortable dealing with the governors' continual manoeuvring than army logistics, and certainly the accommodation in their palaces was far more to his liking.

  But for all the insight Noran was gaining into the governors' motives, expectations and likely ambitions, he could not hide from the fact that he was dreading a confrontation with Ullsaard. The matter became more pressing when Noran learnt that Ullsaard had travelled to Magilnada for Anglhan's investiture. That same night he had considered fleeing, maybe to Maasra. Though the desire to save himself from Ullsaard's inevitable wrath was strong, there was a part of Noran that knew he deserved whatever punishment was coming to him. Grief was no excuse for his betrayal, and that he had betrayed the memory of Neerita added to his burning shame.

  He had tried strong wine to wash away the feelings of guilt, but drunkenness just left him in an uneasy fog, leaving him more vulnerable to bursts of depression. He wondered how it could be that he had once been free to leap from bed to bed of any women who took his fancy, yet one natural, grief-driven indiscretion now left him feeling hopeless and scared.

  When news came that Ullsaard was returning to Nalanor, Noran knew that it was time for him to make a decision. He wondered whether he could deny the act, but his past was against him; while Ullsaard might doubt Luia's motives for making such a claim, the general would surely believe innocent Meliu. Noran hoped that Ullsaard was not too harsh on his youngest wife. Having already dismissed self-exile, Noran was only left with the option of facing up to what he had done and begging Ullsaard to forgive him.

  Most likely it would mean a meeting on the bloodfields, where men of honour resolved their disputes. Noran was no slouch with a sword, but he knew Ullsaard would butcher him in moments.

  It was with such dark thoughts that Noran heard the horns sounding Ullsaard's return early one evening. Seized by a sudden doubt, Noran packed a few belongings into a sack in case his nerve failed him and he chose to bolt for safety. He could not decide whether to approach Ullsaard and throw himself on his friend's mercy, or wait to be summoned by the general.

  As the tramp of the column thundered across camp, Noran waited in his tent, biting his nails and fidgeting with his bag of clothes. He heard the officers calling out the halt and could picture Ullsaard saying a few words to his men before dismissing them.

  Would Ullsaard send for Noran straight away, or would he deal with his other business before attending to personal matters? Unable to contain his worry, Noran began to pace, rehearsing what he would say over and over. Muttering to himself, he tried to find the words to express how much he regretted what he had done, but they felt empty. They were excuses, not reasons. Had he been a man at all, had he been a true friend, he would have kept his lust in check and sent Meliu away.

  An odd light of hope filled Noran's thoughts as he lingered at the tent door, awaiting the summons. What if Ullsaard really didn't care? Meliu had said it herself that he didn't love her and simply desired her body. There was a chance that Ullsaard would be annoyed by Noran's indiscretion, but would understand the desires that can sometimes cloud a man's judgement. If Noran admitted his misdeed there was the possibility that his honesty would earn a little favour.

  Back and forth, Noran wrestled with his decision, but no matter which way he looked at the situation, there was no easy route out.

  "You're an idiot," Noran told himself sharply. "You fucked the man's wife; of course he is going to care."

  The hour bell rang and Noran realised it had been half a watch since Ullsaard had returned. Wrapped in his woes, he had lost of all sense of time. What was keeping the general so busy?

  Tired of gnawing at his fingers, feeling his balls shrinking with fear, Noran strode to the tent flap, determined to see Ullsaard and declare everything. He gave a girlish shriek of surprise as he came face to face with a second captain. The officer stepped back in shock.

  "What do you want?" snarled Noran, masking his fear with anger.

  "General Ullsaard wishes to see you," the captain said. "When you're ready."

  "I'm ready now," said Noran, walking out of the tent. "Where is the general?"

  "Follow me. He's at the bath house."

  Noran followed after the captain, confused by this piece of news. Surely Ullsaard would want to deal with this matter in private? His confusion grew as he stepped inside the low building and found it empty. Pushing through the curtains into the main bath room, he found Ullsaard by himself, lounging in one of the main tubs. Through the clouds of steam, Noran saw Ullsaard raise a hand.

  "Get your kit off and join me!" Ullsaard called out.

  Noran hurriedly stripped off and splashed into the pool on the opposite side to Ullsaard, foregoing the customary preliminaries.

  "Here I am," Noran said with a weak smile. "You look… You look happy!"

  "What's to be sad about?" asked Ullsaard, running fingers through his wet hair. "I've just heard that Nemtun has lost his nerve and retreated behind the Wall. Nalanor's ripe for the picking. With the Greenwater and Narun in our possession, Okhar and Maasra won't be able to put up a fight for long. We're about to win the war."

  "Oh," said Noran. "That is good news."

  Ullsaard swam across the bath with splashing strokes, and settled next to Nor
an, elbows resting on the wooden side panels.

  "What's the matter with you?" said the general. "You look like a man who paid for a whore and got in bed with a goat."

  At first Noran took that as a veiled reference to his exploits with Meliu, but slowly realisation dawned as he looked at the general's concerned face. He didn't know! For reasons beyond Noran's understanding, Luia and Meliu had kept Noran's treachery secret.

  "Um, nothing in particular," Noran replied. A little voice inside whined at Noran, telling him that it didn't matter that Luia hadn't given him up: now was the time to come clean. He told the inner voice to shut up as a wave of relief bubbled up inside him, flowing through his body like the warmth of the water. "Just a bit tired, I suppose."

  Ullsaard nodded and rubbed his face in his hands.

  "How was Magilnada?" Noran asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "It must have been good to see Allenya."

  "Magilnada was good," replied Ullsaard. "I would have been back sooner, but I took Allenya and the other two up into the mountains to show them that old rebel camp."

  "What about Urikh and Jutaar? Are they well?"

  "You sound like some old mother," laughed Ullsaard. "Really, you're in an odd mood."

  Ullsaard splashed Noran in the face and lunged at him, pushing his head under the water. Noran panicked, thinking that Ullsaard's innocence had been an act. He was going to drown! He thrashed at Ullsaard's thick arms, but there was no give. Bubbles streaming from his mouth, Noran kicked his legs and grabbed Ullsaard's wrists, trying to push to the surface and prise open that iron grip.

  Ullsaard dragged Noran back up and let go, swimming away with a laugh.

  "This isn't funny!" snapped Noran between gasps. "Just do it, all right?"

  Ullsaard didn't seem to understand and paddled to the centre of the pool.

  "You know, it was less than a year ago, I was in your baths and you told me to avoid getting into politics. I can't say this was what I had in mind then, but it hasn't turned out so bad."

  Noran said nothing. He had been worried about letting slip Prince Kalmud's illness to Nemtun. It seemed such a stupid thing to worry about in hindsight. Less than a year ago, Noran had a loving wife and a child on the way. Now he had neither, and it was Ullsaard's politics that had killed them. Ullsaard must have seen something in Noran's expression. He swam closer and put a hand on Noran's shoulder.

  "I'm sorry," said the general. "I didn't mea-"

  "No, no, you didn't," Noran said, a wave of sadness sweeping through his thoughts. He grabbed Ullsaard's arm. "It really isn't your fault. And I'm sorry too."

  "What are you sorry for?" said Ullsaard. "Apart from Allenya, you're the only other person I've been able to trust through this whole thing. Anglhan always has his own plans; Luia is possessed at the moment with the thought of becoming a queen; Urikh no doubt realises if I win he'll be heir to the Crown. You? You've asked nothing from me. No favours you want done, no whims to indulge. You could have been governor of Magilnada, but you didn't want it. You have nothing to be sorry for. Of everyone, I owe you the most, and if there's anything I can do for you, just tell me."

  It was so tempting to Noran to make his confession there and then. After such a promise, there was no way that Ullsaard could refuse if Noran admitted what had happed with Meliu and asked simply for forgiveness.

  But Noran could not bring himself to do it. Looking at the face of his friend, seeing the loyalty and gratitude in those eyes, Noran knew that he could not break that trust. After what Ullsaard had just said, Noran could no more confess his break of faith than breathe the water around him. Forgiveness was not an option, because he didn't deserve it.

  His punishment would be to endure the guilt, and that was far harsher now than it had been moments before.

  Temple

  The prayers channelling the power of the eulanui were swallowed by the dust-filled air. Outside the temple, the winds had grown to a gale, lashing the ziggurat with an unending barrage of sand while the dark skies above flickered with multicoloured lightning. Foreboding seeped from every stone and tile; the displeasure of the eulanui as palpable as the storm.

  Lakhyri stared at the apparition of Udaan's features in the carved, distorted face of the acolyte on the slab. The high priest had been assailed by a number of long-forgotten emotions recently: fear, irritation, concern. Now he felt anger as the head of the Brotherhood reported events in the world beyond the temple.

  "The king's grip is weakening," snarled Lakhyri. "In one season you have lost an empire that took two hundred years to build. I hold you responsible for this failure."

  The bloody parody of Udaan's face contorted into a grimace.

  "When the governors no longer listen to us, the Brotherhood can do little to shape events. We have tried our best to firm the hearts of the people against these traitors, but Ullsaard has been sly. He starves them and then feeds them, fills their heads with lies. He promises riches and glory to the legions and the governors are afraid of him."

  "They should be afraid of the king!" Lakhyri seized the acolyte's throat in his skeletal fingers, pinning him to the stone table, his face a hair's-breadth away. "You should have dealt with this Ullsaard long before now. Your dithering puts everything at risk. I warned you of the consequences."

  The acolyte-Udaan squirmed in Lakhyri's grip, hands flapping uselessly at the slab.

  "We have tried to get people close to Ullsaard, but it is difficult, his followers are remarkably loyal. I feel there is some truth that he is one of the Blood."

  Lakhyri released his hold and stepped back as if struck.

  "That is not possible," said the high priest. His expression creased into a deep scowl. "If a child of the Blood has fallen through your fingers, it is just another example of your failure."

  "I cannot see how it is possible." There was an edge of pleading in Udaan's voice. "All of the bastards are accounted for. There are no loose ends."

  "Either this usurper is lying, or you have made a mistake. Which is it?"

  Udaan's answer was a mute look of helplessness.

  "You are clearly incapable of addressing this matter properly," said Lakhyri. "You leave me no choice but to intervene directly."

  "I… I thought you could not leave the temple?"

  "That may be what you wish to believe, but you are wrong."

  Lakhyri leaned over the supine form of the acolyte and placed a hand on each side of the youth's head. The high priest chanted deep and slow, his incantation little more than an exhalation. Closing his eyes, Lakhyri spread his fingers across Udaan's puppet-face. Tissue stirred, turning into sinew and blood and fat and skin, the priest's bony fingertips sinking into the writhing flesh.

  The carvings in Lakhyri's skin moved, altering their shapes and orientation, darkening, turning his skin into a web of white and black. The necromantic sigils swirled across Udaan's ravaged features, twisting muscle and nerve into their likeness. Darker and deeper the runes burned into Lakhyri's withered flesh, etching into bone and organ, cutting through every part of him.

  With a hoarse cry, Lakhyri slumped, the light in his eyes gone.

  Askh

  Summer, 209th Year of Askh

  I

  The inner chambers of the Grand Precincts of the Brotherhood rang with a drawn-out scream. The wretched sound seemed to come from the rooms of Brother Udaan, and a crowd of concerned brethren converged quickly to investigate.

  Upon opening the door, they found the silver-masked head of their order twitching upon the floor, the parchments from his desk scattered around him. Thinking he was having a fit, as sometimes Udaan was known to, one of the Brothers bent over his spasming form and attempted to lift off his mask to help him breathe.

  Udaan's gloved hands snapped around the Brother's wrists and pushed them away. With an eerie strength, Udaan placed his feet flat on the tiled floor and pushed himself slowly upward, gracefully rising to his feet. The Brethren shuffled away nervously as Udaan straightened, releasing his
grip on the Brother who had tried to help. The head of the Brotherhood flexed his neck and shoulders as if waking stiffened from sleep. He straightened his dishevelled robes and looked at his surroundings with eyes that glittered gold in the depths of his hood.

  "Are you all right, Brother?" one of the attending Brethren asked.

  "I am well," Udaan replied. His voice was distorted by the mask, but to those who knew their master well, it seemed stretched and thin. "Go back to your duties. I must visit the king."

  II

  Udaan's body was comfortable. It was old and by no means athletic, but it was not laden with the weight of centuries. Lakhyri walked briskly through the corridors of the Grand Precincts, drawing on the memories of the body's former master to find the shortest route to the palace. He passed the long vaults where shelf upon shelf of the archives stretched into lamplit gloom; the closest records written on vellum and parchments; older testimonies scribed into wax and clay; right the way back through the ages to the darkest recesses where crude symbols were carved into bone.

  The archives of the Brotherhood: hidden from all, containing the forgotten reigns of kings who ruled over lands swallowed by the seas; the names of priest-gods who had built shrines of solid gold; the wars of nations whose names had faded even from myth. Back through the centuries, the millennia, to the time when the eulanui had been corporeal and ruled the world, before the waning of their power, when the true Brotherhood had been founded as their immortal servants.

  In these dim vaults could be found the ancient mysteries of men and the wisdom of the eulanui, for those who knew where to look. Lakhyri had no need of such reference. He was the embodiment of the Brotherhood, the undying foundation of its purpose. Not for more than two hundred years, as measured by the fleeting lives of normal men, had he stepped foot from outside the Temple.