The Crown of the Conqueror (The Crown of the Blood)

by Gav Thorpe

  Realisation that Ullsaard did not want their surrender dawned on the delegation. To their credit, they responded by standing straighter, puffing out their chests and matching his stare. As he watched the men stride stiffly back towards their village, Ullsaard wondered how much their fawning had been an act, or if the courage they were showing now was bravado. Everything he had heard before had put in his mind the idea that the Salphorian tribes were fierce and proud, and unlikely to surrender meekly.

  For a moment, he considered halting the attack. Slaughtering a few hundred Salphors would do little to speed his conquest.

  "What are your orders, king?" asked Anasind. "Shall I signal the advance?"

  Ullsaard looked at the First Captain and back at the Salphors. He swung a leg and dropped off the back of Blackfang, tossing the reins to Anasind.

  "I'll do it myself," said the king. He sheathed his sword and pulled free his spear from behind the ailur's saddle. "I wouldn't want to get out of practice."

  II

  Much to Ullsaard's annoyance, the Salphors withdrew into their settlement, perhaps hoping the wooden walls would give them some protection. He ordered the legion to encircle the village, two companies ready to storm the gate, the rest closing in on the walls. As the Thirteenth marched closer, arrows sailed out from the walls. The first inaccurate volleys did little to discourage Ullsaard; firing blindly over the walls was a waste of arrows.

  Coming closer, the fall of the arrows grew in intensity, concentrated on the companies approaching the gate. One of these was the first company, led by the king, and when he was less than two hundred paces from the village he saw that the wall was not as pointless as he had first thought. What had appeared at first to be haphazard gaps between staves poorly lashed together, were in fact murder holes for the defenders to shoot through. Though towers and rampart would have added to the range of the defenders' shots, with the Askhans determined to attack this proved no disadvantage.

  "Cunning bastards," muttered Venuid. Bearing the golden icon of the Thirteenth, the veteran captain of the first company ducked sideways as an arrow sliced just above his head, clattering off a shield behind him.

  "Raise shields!" bellowed Ullsaard, bringing up his own.

  The clatter of bronze and wood surrounded the king for a moment as the front rank of soldiers levelled their spears and brought up their shields. Ullsaard peered past the golden rim of his shield at the gate, more arrows whistling towards him. He felt the shudder of shafts hitting his shield as he continued to advance, hearing the occasional cry of pain from behind him.

  Ullsaard shouted the command to halt at fifty paces from the gate. Breaking the shield wall for a moment, he leaned forward and looked to his left and right. The other companies were almost at the walls and were being pelted by stones and other missiles from within. He heard the calls for axemen and rams to be brought to the fore.

  The companies attacking the wall formed roofs with their shields while others pushed through the ranks with sharpened logs and heavy axes. The axemen started the work, hacking at the ropes binding the palisade together. When a few stakes had been loosened, the men with the ram began pounding upon the timbers. The shouts of the captains beat out a slow rhythm, each blow accompanied by loud splintering and a shout from the legionnaires. They were helped by other men in the company kicking at the wall and pushing forward with their shields.

  "Advance! Double pace!"

  Ullsaard waved his company on with his spear and broke into a trot, shoulder-to-shoulder with the men on each side, those coming behind almost on his heels. Leather slapped, bronze jingled and men panted in the hot sun. The volume of arrows descending on the first company increased, but at the cost of accuracy. Covering the ground with swift strides, the Askhans were at the gate without suffering any more casualties.

  Through the gaps between the logs, Ullsaard could see the press of Salphorian archers. He rammed the point of his spear through one of the holes, heard a scream, and wrenched the spear back. The tip was slick with blood.

  While the second rank jabbed their long pikes through the gaps, the front rank stabbed their spears into the ground and pulled out knives to saw at the binding ropes. Ullsaard slid his sword between two timbers and sliced quickly, parting the fibres of a tar-covered rope. Arrows thudded against the gate from inside the village, and now and then the king felt a shaft hitting his sword. With a final snap, the rope split.

  "Brace for push!" shouted the king, taking up his spear again.

  All the men of the front rank turned sideways and leaned their shoulders against the inside of their shields. Ullsaard felt the weight of the man behind him pushing against his back, the pressure growing steadily as more and more ranks added to their weight.

  "Forwards!"

  Having shouted the command, the king planted his feet and heaved. Teeth gritted, he took a step, feeling the gate buckling slightly. He reset himself and pushed again, aware of the fifteen men behind him all lending their weight. Ropes creaked and wood bent under the strain. Ullsaard found it hard to breathe in the tight press, nostrils flaring as he sought to fill his lungs for another surge.

  A loud crack sounded to the left and the momentum of the phalanx shifted, the sudden lack of resistance dragging the men in that direction. Ullsaard almost stumbled, but was kept upright by the proximity of the men to either side.

  Though the gate sagged, it did not break. Another glance confirmed to Ullsaard that a heavy timber had been dropped as a bar across the inside. More crashing and victorious shouts to his right announced the collapse of the first part of the wall.

  "Use your spears, lever up that bar," he told his men, manoeuvring his own weapon into position. A dozen spears thrust through the gaps in the gate at Ullsaard's shout. At the next command Ullsaard and his men heaved upwards, using the shafts to raise the bar. It moved about the width of a hand and then stuck solid against the brackets holding it in place.

  Though curses filled his thoughts at this obstacle, Ullsaard kept his swearing inside his head; it was not wise to show frustration in front of his men. He cursed himself most vehemently for his impatience. They could have waited and brought up ladders from the baggage train; he might have ordered a bombardment by the spear throwers and catapults. There had been a number of options, not least of which had been to use the lava-throwers to burn out the Salphors, but his hunger for immediate action had driven him to a direct assault. Now it looked like he'd be stuck at this damned gate until one of the other companies saw fit to let him in; a humiliation whatever way you looked at it.

  "Perhaps we should have knocked?" he called out to his men, who laughed dutifully. He could hear shouts and sounds of fighting inside the village and knew he was missing the battle. "The lads in the other companies are taking all the loot. One more shove!"

  Whether it was for their commander or fear of losing out on the spoils, the first company redoubled their efforts, lunging en masse at the gate. One hundred and sixty men threw their weight against the offending obstacle with a throaty roar.

  "Come on!" Ullsaard could barely take a breath to call out.

  It was a hinge that gave first, to Ullsaard's right. The bottom of the gate swung away, causing the Askhans to stagger for a moment. Seeing their efforts rewarded, they piled on, straining every muscle.

  With a last screech of twisting metal, the gate collapsed inwards, falling to pieces as it crashed down onto the packed dirt. Some of the men lost their balance, tripping over and stumbling amongst the splintered logs. Ullsaard brought up his spear, ready to fight, wary of instant counter-attack.

  He did not have anything to fear. The Salphors were battling ferociously in the middle of their village, forming a circle against three other companies that had broken through the wall. Here and there pockets of warriors fought against a handful of legionnaires, while some fought face to face with lone opponents. This was not a grand battle of sweep and manoeuvre; it was a simple fight to the death.

  "Break ranks and
charge!" bellowed Ullsaard, leaping over the remnants of the gate.

  Dashing along the dirt street, Ullsaard saw a legionnaire of the fifth company backed up against the wall of a hut, fending away two Salphors with spear and shield. The king met them at a sprint, driving his spear into the back of the closest.

  The other Salphor turned quickly, braided beard whipping through the air. Ullsaard's shield caught the man's axe as the king pulled his spear out of the dead man. He jabbed towards the Salphor's face, forcing him back a step, only to be met by the point of the legionnaire's weapon in the side. Twisting awkwardly, the Salphor staggered away from the legionnaire, blood spilling from the wound. Ullsaard followed up, ramming his shield into that of his foe, knocking him to one knee. He kicked the man in the face, booted foot connecting squarely with his chin. A heartbeat later, Ullsaard rammed his spear through the man's leather jerkin, plunging the tip into his ribcage.

  "Come with me," he told the legionnaire, heading further up the street to open space between the ring of buildings. More of the first company were streaming towards the battle to his left and right.

  Unable to form the phalanx through the breaks in the wall and the narrow spaces between the huts, the Askhans could not bring their numbers to bear for a decisive onslaught. All across the village, a swirling melee was being fought; in some places it had devolved into a running fight with groups of Salphors chasing down legionnaires cut off from their companies and Askhans encircling isolated groups of defenders.

  With a handful of other Askhans by his side, Ullsaard plunged into the fray. He bashed Salphors to the ground with his shield, stabbing at faces and guts with his spear, trampling and stumbling over the fallen. An axe caught the king a glancing blow on the right shoulder, opening up a long gash across his arm. Snarling with pain, he smashed his shield into the axe-wielding man, stunning him long enough for another legionnaire to drive his spear through the Salphor's groin.

  His grip on his spear slick with blood, Ullsaard flexed his arm, hissing as the laceration parted with the movement. Though the wound was sore, it did not inhibit his movement. Still feeling confident, Ullsaard pitched into the fight, kicking away the shield of his next foe to expose the Salphor's chest to another spear thrust.

  Splinters of wood from a snapping spear haft exploded into the king's face, blinding him for a moment. He ducked behind his shield out of instinct as tears, blood and sweat streamed into his beard. Something heavy hit the shield boss, jarring the king's arm. Blinking furiously, he stopped a sword blade with his spear's shaft, and whipped the tip into the man's face, cutting across cheek and lips.

  The Salphor howled and swung his sword at Ullsaard's head. The king shuffled back a step and knocked the blow aside with the rim of his shield. Unbalanced, the Salphor stumbled face first into the blood-spattered earth. Ullsaard slammed a foot down onto the man's helmeted head and reversed his grip on his spear, driving the tip between the downed Salphor's shoulder blades, feeling it glancing from the man's spine.

  His spear trapped, Ullsaard snatched out his sword and waded into the mass, his legionnaires around and behind him shouting the king's name. The Salphors fought with the desperation of doomed men, defending their homes and families with every last breath. Caught up in the frenzy of the fighting, Ullsaard had a grudging respect for his foes even as he cut them down and bellowed for his men to leave none alive.

  Whether deliberate or accidental, at some point in the fighting, the thatched roof of a hut went up in flames, spilling smoked across the battle. Burning embers landed on other houses, setting them ablaze. The shrill screams of women, the wails of terrified children joined with angry shouts and cries of pain, the crackle of flames and ring of metal. Engulfed in the chaos, Ullsaard hacked and slashed, cuts on his face and arms, chestplate scored several times, his shield battered, the rim ragged with dozens of nicks.

  Blood rushing, Ullsaard vented his frustration with every blow of his sword. He roared wordlessly as he fought, intoxicated by the sense of release and the thrill of fighting. In the smoke he felt alone, though shadows raged close at hand. Bearded faces loomed out of the gloom to be hacked at and cut down. The smoke burnt Ullsaard's throat and his lungs rasped with every heavy breath, but he laughed away such discomfort. Not for quite some time had he felt such feral joy, such vitality, only a spear thrust or sword swing away from death.

  It was with a shock that he came up against two legionnaires racing through the smoke. He checked his sword just in time, even as they brought up their spears. He looked around, seeking the silhouettes of the enemy, but all he could see were the crested helms and spears of legionnaires.

  The Salphors were all dead.

  "Search the houses!" Ullsaard called out. "Kill any men. Take whatever else you find."

  The crack of splintering wood drifted with the smoke as bands of soldiers kicked down doors. There were scattered, muffled yells as a cowardly few were found in their hiding places and swiftly despatched. Legionnaires emerged from the blanket of smoke dragging women and children behind them, or carrying bundles of loot, sacks of grain, haunches of meat, using their shields to bear piles of trinkets and jewellery.

  His battle-rage subsiding, Ullsaard felt his strength leeching away as he circled the village, checking to see if there were any wounded Salphors to finish off. Amongst the looting, some of the legionnaires had organised themselves into casualty bearers, using spears and shields as stretchers to carry the badly wounded from the smoke.

  After the cacophony of battle, the scene was strangely quiet; the noise of the flames, the sobs of the captives, groans of the wounded and casual conversations between legionnaires seemed muted and distant to the king. He heard the squeal of a pig somewhere, followed by laughter.

  Ullsaard searched through the bodies until he found the gilded haft of his spear. He ripped it free from the back of the Salphor and took it in his shield hand; his right arm was now too sore to move, his fingers numb from the wound in his shoulder. Ullsaard did not look at the cut as he made his way back to the shattered gate.

  Already the post-battle business was well underway, organised by Anasind and the second captains. Carts were coming down from the baggage train to carry the dead and the loot. Luaarit, chief surgeon of the Thirteenth, was directing his orderlies, attending to the wounded. The surgeon's arms were bloodstained up to the elbows, his leather smock splashed with smears and handprints. Ullsaard watched numbly as Luaarit knelt down beside a man with a long gash in his thigh. The king couldn't hear what was said, but the man was hauled to his feet between two orderlies and half-carried over to a table surrounded by buckets and bandages, the grass matted with blood beneath it.

  Ullsaard turned away, raising his shield hand to catch the attention of Anasind. The First Captain jogged through the throng of Askhans streaming out of the village.

  "How many?" Ullsaard asked.

  "Seventy-eight dead on the field," said Anasind. "Perhaps add another hundred to that from those too injured to fight. Same again for walking wounded. It could have been better, but it could have been a lot worse. These Salphors are no pushover."

  Ullsaard looked at the burning village, the column of smoke now piling high into the sky, a signal to those that could see that the Askhans had arrive.

  "You should have Luaarit look at that cut," said Anasind, pointing to Ullsaard's shoulder. "Wouldn't want to get an infection."

  "It's going to be a long summer," said the king, ignoring the First Captain's suggestion. He flexed his fingers, dried blood flaking from his knuckles. "A really long summer."

  CARANTATHI

  Autumn, 211th year of Askh

  I

  Smoke from lamps and the fire pit created a thin haze that wafted along the hall as arguing nobles shouted and gesticulated, creating eddies in the smog. The bleating goats in the yard outside made more sense to Aegenuis than the bleating of the chieftains in his hall.

  The King of the Salphors leaned back in his throne, hands gripping th
e arms, and ignored the anarchy. He heard gnawing and looked down at his feet. One of his wolfhounds rasped teeth on a bone, head between the king's feet. He ruffled its ears affectionately, waiting for the storm of debate to blow itself out.

  "Why do you just sit there and ignore us?"

  Aegenuis glanced up to see his son, Medorian, standing in front of the throne. Twenty years old, Medorian had his father's dark red hair, rangy limbs and broad chest. He had the blue eyes of his mother and the down of hair on his cheeks was fairer than the greying bush that sprouted from the king's face. Most of all, it was the constant frown that marked Medorian out from his father.

  The king sighed and returned his attention to the dog. The loudly exchanged growls and insults of the twenty chieftains washed over him, easily ignored. A bang of the main door and a sudden draft of air heralded a new arrival. Aegenuis looked up as the nobles parted, allowing Haegran to approach the king.

  "The Askhans attacked the Vestil thirteen days ago," announced the chieftain. "Five tribes have fled into my lands since then. They cannot stay."