The Crown of the Conqueror cob-2

by Gav Thorpe

  "Your father's opportunity has passed, Erlaan." It was the first time Lakhyri had addressed him by name. The high priest stepped into the room. His words were delivered in the same flat manner as before, without pity or distaste, but his eyes betrayed just a shred of lingering humanity as he continued. "Your chance is now. To let your father dwindle away would be doubly disrespectful. End his suffering now, and use the last of his strength for yourself, to reclaim that which belongs to you."

  Erlaan said nothing, but his mind was awhirl with the implications. His father's life hung by a narrow thread, all that remained between Erlaan and becoming the heir to Askhos. Was it selfishness to cut that thread, or was it a mercy? He turned back to Kalmud and placed the tips of his fingers on his cold brow.

  "The empire has already taken his life," said Erlaan. "It would be a waste to let what remains slip away without purpose. What do I do?"

  "You already know."

  Taking a breath, Erlaan stared at his stricken father. He could feel the tremor of a pulse, not in his fingers, but somewhere deeper, in his veins. It took no effort, Blood calling to Blood, drawing to its own. Erlaan felt the slightest shift within, a momentary change of current between him and Kalmud.

  His father's heart stopped and a last breath whispered from Kalmud's lips.

  "I have little to offer," said Erlaan, closing his father's eyes before turning to Lakhyri.

  "What are you willing to give?" said the priest.

  "I have no experience as a leader of men, and I am no great warrior. I would not call myself brave by any measure."

  "These things I can give you, if you are willing. It will not be easy, and it will not be pleasant. What will you do to reign as king?"

  Erlaan looked at his father and thought of his dead grandfather and uncle. He was the last of the Blood, save for the bastard who now wore the Crown. It was Erlaan's birthright to rule, and he recalled Ullsaard's words to him, an assertion the general had made to assuage the prince's doubts, which Erlaan had etched into his memory during the long days and nights he had spent in Askh, fearfully waiting by his father's side. 'You are what you are, and it is in you to embrace that destiny. You owe it not only to yourself, but to the people you will rule and your forefathers.'

  The prince met the implacable glare of Lakhyri.

  "My family have given their lives for the Crown. I would offer nothing less. My body and my spirit, if needed."

  Lakhyri accepted this declaration with a slow blink.

  "Your life will not be necessary. Your spirit, your body… that is a different matter."

  Geria

  Summer, 211th year of Askh

  The herald waited with his helmet under one arm, eyes roving around the great hall of the palace looking at the murals on the walls and ceiling, examining the delicate tiles of the mosaic underfoot; his eyes looked everywhere except at Urikh.

  The prince carefully read the missive from Harrakil, deciphering the First Captain's infantile strokes. When he was finished he leaned across from his chair and handed the letter to his mother, sat on his right.

  "You know the contents of this?" Urikh asked the herald.

  "Yes, prince. Captain Harrakil said I was to add anything else you might ask."

  "These Mekhani attacks, how frequent are they?"

  "Before I left, there had been seven in thirty days, prince. All along the border. Raids, mostly."

  "Raids? Three towns have been destroyed!"

  "Yes, prince. No survivors. We don't know how big the Mekhani forces were. There have to be several armies, to attack so many places so quickly. Leviira and Hanalun had garrisons of three hundred men each, prince. Wiped out to the man."

  "Captain Harrakil tells me that captives were taken."

  "Yes, prince. Slaves, most likely."

  Luia stirred, folding her hands in her lap, the letter in her grasp.

  "The Mekhani do not take slaves," she said. "Not before now."

  "That's right, queen. We don't know why they've started."

  "What else don't you know?" asked Urikh, keeping his tone mild.

  "I don't understand, prince."

  "Who is leading these Mekhani attacks? What is Harrakil going to do about them? What extra forces does he need?"

  "He was waiting on your orders, prince, which I'm supposed to return with. There's no way of telling where the next attack will come, or when. The border's more than five hundred miles, from the Greenwater to the mountains. The captain's worry is that if we split up, we'll be picked off like the garrisons."

  "Three quarters of the legion is already in the area," said Luia. "Are nearly five thousand troops not enough for Harrakil?"

  "Though he would never say it himself, queen, I think the captain would need at least twice that number to patrol the border. More, if you want him to head into Near-Mekha and chase down the bastards."

  "Three legions?" Urikh laughed. "Where does he think I can get another ten thousand men?"

  "Perhaps you could send word to the king?" suggested the herald, eyes fixed firmly on a detail of the mosaic.

  "Thank you, we will send for you," Luia said before Urikh could reply. The governor glanced at his mother, annoyed, but recognised the intent look on her face.

  "Yes, refresh yourself and return this evening," said the prince. "I will have a message for you to take back to captain Harrakil."

  The herald bowed and departed, his hard-soled kolubrid boots clicking on the tiled floor. When the tall double doors of the hall closed behind the messenger, Urikh turned to Luia.

  "Do you really think it is a good idea to request legions from Ullsaard at the moment? He is probably a thousand miles into Salphoria by now, and no doubt having immense fun."

  "He will thank you little for allowing Okhar to be overrun by Mekhani savages while he is away conquering new lands," Luia replied. She smoothed her long dress, hands running over the dark blue Maasrian silk. "There could be another way to get the soldiers you need."

  "No, not the other governors," Urikh replied with a shake of the head. "You know they would insist on payment, over the odds. The cost would be extortionate. Trade is barely half what it was two years ago and there are some parts of Okhar that have not paid their taxes since I took power. There is simply not enough money in the city vaults and I am not going to the moneylenders."

  "Sometimes you will have to delve deeper than the official coffers, Urikh."

  "Family money?" Urikh almost choked on the suggestion.

  "Nobles have been raising new legions all over the empire to join my husband on his jaunt," said Luia. "Thanks to Nemtun's exploits trying to stop your father, Okhar is woefully under strength. The Greenwater is vital, the border with Mekha volatile, and to duskwards you have the hill tribes on the Salphorian border; and to deal with all of that you have barely a single legion. Maasra, peaceful Maasra with her Nemurian neighbours, boasts three legions. Enair has four. The situation is unsustainable."

  "I will write to Ullsaard," said Urikh, deciding that any solution that did not involve spending his own money was preferable.

  "It could be the end of the summer before we receive his reply." Luia stood up, adjusted the slender silver chain that served as her belt, straightened her necklace and fixed her son with a hard stare. "You best hope that your father is in a generous mood, and that nothing drastic happens to hotwards. Make no mistake, if Ullsaard thinks you are not up to the task of being governor, he will replace you, son or not."

  "You would never let him do that."

  Only Luia's look offered argument to Urikh's assumption. She turned away, saying nothing, and left the hall by a side door. The patter of bare feet announced the arrival of several servants, buckets of water and brushes in hand. As they set to work scrubbing the floor tiles, Urikh sat deep in thought, composing the letter he would have to send his father. If he could find some way to make it look like he was taking assertive action and needed the soldiers for expansion, not defence, his message was more likely to
be welcomed.

  With the proper phrasings coming to mind, Urikh strode from the great hall with determined steps, heading for his study.

  Free Country

  Midsummer, 211th year of Askh

  I

  More than a dozen heralds crowded into the king's pavilion. Ullsaard's scribe, Lasok, sat behind a small field table with a pile of scrolls, handing one out to each messenger in turn before crossing off a corresponding entry on a wax tablet. Ullsaard sat on his campaign chair watching the proceedings with a dour expression, chin cupped in his hand, elbow on the arm of the throne.

  Anasind pushed his way through the throng and bowed quickly. He glanced over his shoulder at the heralds.

  "Fresh orders?" he asked. "Will we be moving out soon?"

  "No," Ullsaard said with a slow shake of the head. "The legions are staying exactly where they are."

  "I understand that you do not have to tell me what's going on, but if I can help?"

  Ullsaard beckoned the First Captain closer and waved to one of the stools arranged around the throne. Anasind swept his cloak out of the way and sat down, leaning close to hear the king's soft words.

  "Our woes are not restricted to Salphoria," Ullsaard said with a heavy sigh. "I received word last night from Urikh. Those Mekhani we left behind are stirring up trouble on the hotwards border."

  "Surely Urikh can cope with a few troublesome savages," said Anasind. "It doesn't say much for his suitability as a governor, if you forgive me saying."

  "I would think the same, but from what Urikh has reported, these are not your normal summer raiders. Someone has been bringing the Mekhani together, organising them. Most of the legions are with us, trapped this side of Magilnada. I can't abandon the campaign wholesale to sort out the Mekhani without giving the Salphors an opportunity to take back everything we've conquered already."

  "I see that. I still don't get what all the messengers are for."

  "I'm assembling the council of governors in Askh. Urikh can't ask them to pass on their legions to him, so I'm going to have to."

  "You're going to Askh?" The First Captain's brow furrowed. "Who's going to be in charge here?"

  "I was going to speak to you later about that," said the king. "Since you're here now… I'm going to name you my general. You'll be in command."

  Anasind rocked back, making no attempt to hide his happiness.

  "I'll be general? Thank you, king!"

  "Don't thank me yet," Ullsaard replied with a sour look. "It's not going to be easy for you. The situation here is fragile, and I don't know what Aegenuis or Anglhan are going to do next. You can expect the Salphors to make something of the situation. You're also going to have your hands full with these amateurs, the merchants and nobles, trying to get their own way and tell you what to do."

  Ullsaard levered himself out of his throne and stepped forward to lay a hand on Anasind's shoulder.

  "I trust you with this. You need to keep the army as intact as possible. Supplies will be low, and you need to keep a lid on desertions. Some might be up for a fight, wanting to advance again. You can't let that happen. If the army starts to break apart, the Salphors will pick off the legions on their own. I don't expect them to launch a major counter-attack this season, because they've had plenty of time to do so while we were readying our defences. That said, I'm sure they'll try to bait some of our commanders out of the line. Sit tight. It could be for the whole winter, I don't know yet. Keep everyone safe and ready for me."

  Anasind stood and rapped his fist against his chestplate, eyes gleaming with pride.

  "You can rely on me, king."

  "I know," Ullsaard replied with a smirk. "I wouldn't have picked you, otherwise."

  "No, I suppose you wouldn't."

  "You also need to keep my departure secret. The less people that know I've left Salphoria, the better. Let's say I'm going on a tour of inspection around the other legions. That should explain my absence for plenty of time."

  "When are you leaving?"

  "Tomorrow," said Ullsaard, returning to his throne.

  Anasind looked worried, realising how soon he would be left in command.

  "You'll be taking the first company as bodyguard, I assume."

  Ullsaard shook his head.

  "No, I want to leave them with you. They'll help keep the legion in order. I'll be taking a few dozen men from across the other companies. Lasok already has a list of names. I want them assembled and ready to go by the second hour of Dawnwatch."

  "And how do you think you'll get back to Askh without being noticed?"

  Ullsaard patted the arm of the throne.

  "I'll be leaving this behind, for a start."

  II

  The glow of campfires could be seen to hotwards, a smudge of red in the night amongst the shadows of the foothills overlooking the road between Magilnada and Ersua. Anglhan's legion stationed to guard that road were making no secret of their location, and from what other travellers had said, Gelthius knew that the other legion was keeping an eye on the other road running to dawnwards, forty miles to coldwards of where he walked along the base of a low hill.

  The early evening air was warm and sweat beaded Gelthius's brow as he pulled a handcart over the humps and dips of the plains, the solid wooden wheels occasionally catching on a rock or thick tussock of grass. A few paces ahead, a handful of other legionnaires waded through the thigh-high grass, their uniforms hidden under long shirts, mud-stained robes and ragged cloaks; their weapons and armour were in the handcart, buried beneath a pile of pans, canvas and other gear.

  Twenty of the king's bodyguard had forged ahead several miles, looking for a likely campsite. Fifteen more followed behind, broken into small groups to avoid attracting too much attention. King Ullsaard travelled in Gelthius's band, and had been relying on the Salphor's knowledge of the terrain to pick the best route back to Ersua, balancing speed of travel against the need to avoid settlements and the likely outlying garrisons of the Magilnadan legions.

  The king fell in beside Gelthius, moving up quickly from behind with long strides. He grabbed one of the shafts of the handcart.

  "Let me pull that for a while, take a rest," said Ullsaard.

  "It's all right, king, I can manage," replied Gelthius, horrified by the thought that Ullsaard would drag around the legionnaires' gear.

  "I insist," Ullsaard said with a smile, gently shoving Gelthius out of the way and taking up position between the two handles. He ducked his head under the yoke-strap and easily lifted the cart. "I have to keep in shape, you know."

  "We'll be making camp soon, I suppose," said Gelthius, feeling put out by the king's interference.

  It was hard for the Salphor to reconcile the different sides of Ullsaard he had seen. His first encounter with the king had ended with the massacre of thousands of Salphors and hillmen that had refused to join his legion. As a man of the Thirteenth, Gelthius had learned more about Ullsaard's history; how he had started out as a simple legionnaire and worked his way to the position of general. Gelthius could not help but respect that achievement. Fighting for the king had felt like a privilege despite the manner he had been pressed into Askhan service.

  And then had come the death of Furlthia. Anglhan's ex-mate had been a good man, as far as Gelthius knew. Furlthia had always treated him and the other debtors with respect if not actual kindness, and he was loyal to his fellow Salphors. To see the king cut him down out of hand, to see a man Gelthius had once considered a friend murdered in cold blood, had dented the pride he had felt to be one of Ullsaard's chosen legion.

  Ullsaard was unpredictable, and that made Gelthius uneasy. How could he ever feel truly safe around the king, knowing that the wrong words or a mistake might see him butchered the same way as Furlthia? It was too easy to forget the man's bloodthirsty nature, seeing him hitching up the straps of the handcart, marching through the dirt and filth with his men. Gelthius knew he would never be truly at ease around his new king, but it would not be a good ide
a to show it.

  "A few more miles, I reckon," Ullsaard said, pulling forward with powerful strides. "Three more days to Magilnada, you reckon?"

  "Right enough, king. The road loops coldwards a ways ahead. We can cut across and ford the Lasghin, or follow it around and use the bridge at Furath. Takes about the same time, either way."

  "The bridge'll be busier, eh?"

  "Most likely, king. But there's been rain up in the mountains the last few days, can't say for certain the ford'll be crossable yet. Might be quite a few folk waiting for the river to quieten down."

  "Less chance of Anglhan's soldiers keeping watch at the ford. We'll keep heading that way."

  Gelthius plodded through the grass on tired legs. They had left camp thirty two days ago, and for the most point had avoided the newly laid roads, crossing the rugged countryside instead. Having spent most of the summer in camp, the exertion had taken its toll on the aging legionnaire, and though he would never admit it, he was grateful that the king had relinquished him of the hand cart's burden for a while.

  "When we're near the border, we can wear our armour, not carry it," said Ullsaard, as if reading Gelthius's thoughts. Glancing across at the king, Gelthius saw that Ullsaard was almost talking to himself, eyes fixed ahead, thinking aloud. "I'll requisition the first abada we come across, too. That'll make things easier."

  "Still a tidy walk to Askh, king." Gelthius didn't know if he had been heard at all. Ullsaard continued with his monologue, the words coming in time with his strides.

  "We'll turn coldwards and take ship in Ersua, head down to the Greenwater and get off at Narun. That'll take fifteen days at the most. We'll be in the capital well before the rains start, gives us at least thirty days to sail down to Okhar and sort out Urikh. Might even get a legion or two to Near-Mekha before things get worse to coldwards."