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

by Gav Thorpe

  Oblivious to the looting behind him, Ullsaard slowed to a stop beside Anasind.

  "Where is he?" the king demanded. "Have you found him?"

  "Over there." Anasind jerked his head to the left, eyes downcast, unable to meet Ullsaard's gaze.

  The king took a few steps, scouring the haphazard corpses for Jutaar. He stopped in stunned recognition as his gaze fell upon his son's mutilated remains. Had it not been for the First Captain's insignia on the battered helm he might have missed him altogether. Ullsaard knelt down, pulling the helmet free, part of him still believing that the man wearing it was not his son.

  The dried blood was almost black and maggots crawled in the many wounds inflicted upon Jutaar. His eyes were missing – probably taken by birds – and his skin writhed with larvae and beetles. Ullsaard could not bring himself to touch this disgusting thing, his hand held just above Jutaar's chest.

  Shadow enveloped him as Anasind came up from behind.

  "He died fighting," said the First Captain.

  For a moment Ullsaard felt a burning rage. The mangled remains of his son were a horror he had hoped never to see. He was about to turn his anger on Anasind when the words sunk home. Those three words were a tribute; perhaps the finest any legionnaire could make of another man.

  He died fighting.

  "His sword has gone," the king mumbled.

  With a ring of bronze, Anasind drew his weapon. He stepped past Ullsaard and crouched to place the hilt in Jutaar's dead grip.

  "Now he has one again," said the First Captain.

  Ullsaard slumped back, arms limp by his sides. It did not matter what had happened. Answers would come later. For the moment, all that filled Ullsaard was the certain knowledge that his son was dead. Anger melted into the bloodstained grass and was replaced by tears. Head bowed, the king sobbed, while Anasind stood beside him, watching over father and son.

  V

  Furlthia wanted to turn around the cart and head back into the wilds. Never before had he felt so scared. Even when he had been caught up in the madness with the rebels, and watched the fires spreading across Magilnada, he had felt safer than now.

  The Askhan army stretched across the hills for half a mile to either side of the road; right flank anchored against the river, left flank secured by the still smoking ruins of a Salphorian settlement. Perhaps it was Furlthia's knowledge of why they were here that gave the blocks of legionnaires a vengeful air. The thousands of Salphors driven back to Magilnada were a sure sign that King Ullsaard was very unhappy with the current course of events. Tales of the Askhans' brutality had been brought along by the lines of ragged women and children, spread by the warnings of terrified old men, carried from the fighting like the refugees' packs and handcarts.

  He was well aware of the strange sight he must present, emerging from the line of Magilnadan legionnaires and Salphorian tribesmen on his small, lupus-drawn wagon like a peddler who had lost his way. The lupus itself, a larger black-furred cousin to the wolves of the Altes Hills, was unknown in Greater Askhor; a gift from Aegenuis.

  A mile separated the two armies, a short enough distance in itself, but the journey from one side to the other seemed to take forever and Furlthia's skin crawled with nervousness the whole way.

  Ahead, Askhan companies drilled and shifted, as adjustments were made to the line. Squadrons of soldiers on kolubrids passed back and forth in front of the phalanxes, the shimmering bodies of the serpentine creatures catching the morning sun. At the heart of the Askhan line Furlthia thought he could see a small group of officers gathered beneath a shining icon, one of them mounted on an ailur. His gut clenched and his sphincter tightened at the thought of approaching the Askhan king. He patted the letter inside his jerkin and whispered an entreaty to the spirits that Anglhan knew what he was doing.

  When he was halfway across, Furlthia noticed several of the skirmishers redirecting their steeds in his direction. They closed in fast, ten of them, hefting heavy bellows bows to their shoulders, bronze arrowheads pointed at his wagon.

  He pulled back on the harness and called the panting lupus to a halt. The beast settled to its haunches, a growl in its throat as it watched the circling kolubrids with slitted eyes, its ears folded back. The kolubrids hissed and swayed their heads, their riders hauling tight on their reins to keep their distance a few dozen paces away.

  "Are you lost?" one of the riders called out.

  "I bear a message for King Ullsaard." Furlthia's declaration was greeted with harsh laughter. He held up a hand to shade his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting back from the speaker's helm. The man's face was heavily tanned, creased with age, his eyes alive with amusement.

  "I don't think the king is welcoming visitors just at this moment," the man said, affecting a cultured accent. "Perhaps if you made an appointment you would have more luck."

  "The message is from Governor Anglhan."

  The humour fell away like a dropped stone, replaced with such an air of hostility that Furlthia's stomach turned another somersault.

  "Nobody cares what that treacherous cunt has to say. Best turn around now, you dog-fucker, before we send you back to your master with a bit more bronze to decorate your guts."

  Furlthia dearly wanted to comply, but he knew that he had to deliver the letter. He tried a different approach.

  "Anglhan isn't my master. I think he's just as much a cockloving traitor as you do. I'm just doing a job. Please, the king has to read this letter."

  The scout's sergeant urged his mount closer and leant forward, eyes burrowing into Furlthia. The kolubrid and lupus eyed each other with similarly deadly intent.

  "What's the message? We'll pass it on."

  "Doesn't work like that. I have to deliver it myself, and get the reply. Please, it is very important. Thousands of lives depend upon this letter being delivered; maybe even yours."

  The sergeant sat back. With a barest flick of the head, he sent one of his men heading back towards the Askhan line, a sinuous trail of flattened grass left in the kolubrid's wake.

  Furlthia wanted to break the uneasy silence as they waited, but all small talk fled his mind. He watched the scout racing up the road, following his progress all the way to the king. It was impossible to see any reaction from this distance, but it was only a matter of moments before the rider had turned around his mount and was heading back. Furlthia did not know whether such a brief exchange meant good news or bad.

  As the scout approach, Furlthia's bladder added to his discomfort. He could not let go of the lupus's reins, fearing what the creature might do if he let it out of control for a moment, and so had to sit on the board, squirming with the growing urge to relieve himself.

  The scout and sergeant had a brief conversation, their eyes turned on Furlthia. The sergeant nodded and reined his kolubrid away.

  "Follow us," he snapped back over his shoulder.

  Furlthia gratefully flicked the reins and the lupus strained into its harness, black furred shoulders bunching as it pulled against the wagon's weight. The cart rocked from side to side along the rough road while the kolubrids slithered through the grass to either side, the scouts' bows still trained on Furlthia.

  When they were some fifty paces from the king, the scouts formed a ring around the wagon again and motioned for Furlthia to dismount. He did so, moving forward to hobble the lupus. A group of orderlies approached from the throng of Askhan officers. Two of them stood either side of the cart, two more gesturing for Furlthia to accompany them.

  Taking one reluctant step after another, Furlthia walked towards Ullsaard, trying to gauge the king's next action. The ruler of Askhor appeared impassive, but Furlthia knew not to be fooled by looks alone; he had seen before the instinctive way Ullsaard had despatched those that displeased him, having shown not the slightest sign of murderous intent in the preceding moments. He comforted himself with the thought that had the king wanted Furlthia dead, Ullsaard could just as easily ordered his scouts to shoot him where he had been
.

  "So, here's Anglhan's little whelp come to beg terms," said Ullsaard. "Does he take me for an idiot? Perhaps you are going to lie to me? Tell me that I have come to the wrong conclusion about what's happened? You are wasting your breath."

  "I will not lie to you, king," said Furlthia. "I am only a reluctant associate of Anglhan. What you believe to have happened is true. Your former governor has betrayed you. He has brokered a deal with King Aegenuis, and between them they have agreed to return Magilnada and these lands to the status of Free Country."

  "You know that his actions have killed my son?" Ullsaard growled.

  A quiver of panic shot through Furlthia.

  "I did not know, king. I am sorry to hear that. I can't begin to think what that must be like, I have no children myself, but I wouldn't wish that on any father. But there are a lot more sons and brothers going to be killed unless you choose to accept Anglhan's new position."

  "Accept his new position?" Ullsaard's voice dropped to a hissed whisper that sent another shudder of dread down Furlthia's spine. The king's brow was knitted in a deep scowl, his teeth clenched, as he continued. "I gave him that city. I made that ungrateful whore-bastard governor. I'd sooner let my whole legion take turns fucking my wives than agree terms with that snivelling little bitch-cunt."

  The king swung off his ailur and tossed the reins to one of his officers. He stalked towards Furlthia, shoulders hunched, hands clenched in massive fists. It looked likely that the king would beat him to death and spare himself the effort of unsheathing his sword. Faced with a beast of a man bearing down on him, Furlthia could hold his bladder no more. A trickle of warmth soaked his groin and seeped down the left leg of his trousers.

  He snatched the letter from inside his jerkin and thrust it towards Ullsaard, holding out the folded parchment as if it were a ward against all the evils in the world.

  "You have to read this!" Furlthia's voice was almost a squeal. The letter flapped in his trembling hands as he fought to control himself. He took a deep breath and spoke again with a little more dignity. "Please read the message."

  Ullsaard stopped, barely two paces away, fully a head taller than Furlthia. The Salphor looked up into the king's face and considered dropping to his knees. He's going to kill me, thought Furlthia, over and over, the words bouncing around inside his head.

  Plucking the letter from Furlthia's grasp, the king cocked his head to one side.

  "This will fix everything, will it?"

  Furlthia shrugged helplessly. He sincerely hoped it would, but he had no idea what was contained in the letter. His breath came in short gasps as Ullsaard inspected the seal and then broke it with his thumb. The king held the letter in one hand and rubbed his chin with the other. Furlthia followed every movement, watching Ullsaard's eyes flicking left and right as he read. The king's scowl deepened and his jaw worked as he ground his teeth. The veins in Ullsaard's thick neck stood out like cords and his eyes moved to Furlthia, windows into pure fury. For a moment, Furlthia believed he saw tiny flickers of flame in the king's murderous gaze.

  He stepped back out of instinct, but not quick enough. Ullsaard's fist caught him square in the chest, smashing him to his backside, all the wind driven out of his body. Coughing, he struggled to get up and was met by a booted foot in the ribs.

  "You delivered this? To me?" Ullsaard's accusation was a deafening roar, punctuated by another kick.

  Furlthia curled up, arms across his head, knees to his chest.

  "I don't know what it says!" he wailed. "I don't know what it says! I'm a messenger, you can't hurt me. I'm protected!"

  Ullsaard's next kick caught Furlthia in the kidneys, sending a spasm of pain up his back.

  "Please, king, please! I'm just delivering the letter. It's from Anglhan, not me!"

  Ullsaard grabbed a handful of Furlthia's hair and dragged him up to his knees. With his other hand, the king thrust the letter into Furlthia's face.

  "Can you read, you little shit?"

  "Yes, king, yes."

  "Then read it! Look what message Anglhan has sent me."

  Through tears, Furlthia tried to make sense of the scrawled marks. It was written in Askhan, and used some words that he did not understand. Forcing the fear from his mind, he concentrated, trying to understand what had provoked such a reaction.

  The start of the letter laid out what Furlthia had already explained: Anglhan's secession from Greater Askhor. It went into some detail on this, which Furlthia skipped over on the second reading. The letter went on to make various demands for the withdrawal of the Askhan legions across the border into Ersua, and insisted that Ullsaard agree to take no military action or other reprimand against the city of Magilnada or its territory.

  It was not until the end that Furlthia realised what Anglhan had done. The letter ended pleasantly enough, assuring Ullsaard that as a free city Magilnada would uphold its previous trade agreements with Askh. The last line was the guarantee that made Anglhan so confident. On the face of it, the words were innocuous enough. Furlthia read them several times, realising how much weight could be put into a single sentence, and why Ullsaard was so enraged.

  The parting comment simply read: Also rest assured that I will continue to protect your family and friends for the remainder of their stay in my city.

  Furlthia turned wide, disbelieving eyes to the king. Ullsaard let go of Furlthia's hair, stepped back, took the letter from his weak fingers and folded it crisply before tucking the parchment into his belt.

  "I had no idea…" said Furlthia.

  "That just makes you an idiot, not an accomplice," replied the king.

  Ullsaard turned away and Furlthia let out an explosive breath of relief. He looked up at the cloudless sky and let his hands drop to the dirt, feeling it between his fingers, the grass rubbing against his palms.

  Almost quicker than Furlthia could follow, Ullsaard span back, sword sliding from sheath. In one motion, the king struck, plunging the tip of the blade into the flesh between neck and shoulder, driving it down into Furlthia's chest.

  Furlthia felt only a moment of pain before he died; his last vision was of the Askhan king's hate-filled eyes boring into him, blood spattered across his bearded, weathered face.

  VI

  The wreckage of clay pots, plates, tables and chairs littered the pavilion. Ullsaard's campaign throne lay upended against a roof pole. The ornately carved and painted panels were stained with splashes of wine, running down the vistas of Askhor like blood.

  The king lay in a stupor, surrounded by crushed goblets and shattered jugs, his shirt wet with sweat and wine. His breastplate lay where it had been flung, his helmet at the other end of the room. Ullsaard murmured in his sleep, grunting and growling; his gnarled hands clenched and unclenched in torment, as the king was gripped by wine-fuelled nightmares.

  Askhos walked out of the flames that engulfed Ullsaard's dreams, clad in the finest robes of state. A red cloak trailed behind him, edged with white fur. Upon his breastplate snarled the etched face of an ailur and his hair hung in oiled curls about his shoulders.

  Naked and shivering, Ullsaard looked up from a bed of hot ash.

  "Not now," he snarled.

  "Neither of us seems to have a choice," replied the dead king. "I would rather leave you to your unpleasant fantasies."

  Ullsaard rolled away, eyes screwed shut.

  "I do not think it works like that," said Askhos.

  With a deep-throated growl, Ullsaard sat up, bringing his knees to his chest, arms clasped around his legs. Smoke from the all-encompassing fire swirled into a column and formed a stool for Askhos to sit.

  "How do you do that?" asked Ullsaard.

  "Practice," said Askhos. "I have a lot of time on my hands at the moment. It gives me plenty of opportunity to explore every dark corner of your mind. I would have thought you had more control over it, but apparently not."

  The fires burned white as a wave of irritation swept through Ullsaard. He flinched at their sudden
ferocity. As the king's mood settled, the flames quietened.

  "So, what are you going to tell me now" he asked, resting his chin on his knees.

  "I think you already know."

  "I am not going to attack Magilnada."

  "It seems my purpose has become that of bearer of bad news, Ullsaard." Askhos ran the fingers of one hand through his beard, tugging at the tight loops of hair. "Maybe that is why we keep getting brought together."

  "You're my conscience?"

  "The opposite. I have been cast in the role of the truth-teller. You cannot let Anglhan hold hostages against you. It is a neverending negotiation from which you cannot escape. Call his bluff. Attack the city."

  "And he will kill Allenya, and Noran, and Meliu. Anglhan is sly, but he never lets go an advantage without a fight. I can't do it."