The Crown of the Conqueror cob-2

by Gav Thorpe

  Eventually the desert-dwellers arranged themselves on the new line of advance and with a signal from Erlaan the army set out at a fast pace towards the hills. Erlaan loped to the front with long strides, golden eyes scanning the hillsides for signs of the Askhans. The lacertil riders had reached the bottom of the slopes when the king-messiah spotted the first kolubrids.

  Even from this distance, Erlaan could see the exchange of arrows and slingshots as the two skirmishing screens clashed. Far from sweeping away all before them, the Mekhani advanced faltered quickly, losing dozens to the volleys of the Askhans' bellows bows. This was the first thing to give Erlaan pause; the number of kolubrid scouts present indicated a larger force than he had anticipated, perhaps even a full legion. It made little difference, he decided. Even a full legion numbered no more than five or six thousand legionnaires; little match for the tens of thousands at Erlaan's command.

  Despite their best efforts, the lacertils were driven back down the slopes, and then further onto the grassland, harassed by the bellows bows of their foes. Erlaan reckoned his main army was a mile away, no more. Even if the Askhan force had already received warning, they would have no more than a six or seven mile head start over the king-messiah. Certainly that did not give them enough time to prepare a march camp or other defensive position, and though a smaller, nimbler force, the armoured legionnaires would not move as swiftly over the rough ground as Erlaan's warriors. It would only be a matter of time before they were caught.

  When the king-messiah was half a mile from the foot of the closest hill, he saw the sun glinting on spear points and shields ahead. It seemed that the enemy commander had come to the same conclusion as Erlaan and had decided to fight instead of flee. Phalanx after phalanx of legionnaires appeared at the crest of the hills, their standards flapping.

  The soldiers were as easy to see to Erlaan's eyes as if they were no more than an arm's reach away. He recognised the standard and colours of the Seventeenth. Things may have changed since he had left the empire, but when last Erlaan had been in Askh, the Seventeenth had been commanded by Harrakil. Dredging through his memories, Erlaan recalled that he was a good commander — bad commanders did not become First Captains — but not of remarkable talent or great achievement. He had spent most of Ullsaard's war for the Crown guarding Governor Adral of Nalanor.

  Raising his hand, Erlaan called for the army to halt and spread out for attack. As the order rippled through the tribes, the Mekhani moved into position, placing behemodons between their warbands, while the crews in the howdahs readied their war machines.

  While this continued, the Askhans were also preparing. Erlaan could see kolubrid riders hurrying back and forth between the First Captain and the company commanders, carrying the details of the battle plan. Positioned at the top of the steepest slopes, the legion had the advantage of ground; the kolubrids were trying to push back Erlaan's skirmishers and gain the flanks, but so far were being held between the two armies.

  "Let us see how you fare against a commander who knows how you fight," Erlaan growled.

  He had spent much of the winter preparing the shaman-chiefs for such an encounter, impressing upon them the need to avoid challenging the Askhan spear blocks head-on. It had taken some considerable time, but the king-messiah had hammered home the importance of tactics and manoeuvre over individual bravery and strength. The Mekhani could not hope to defeat a phalanx one-to-one, on attack or defence; with his subordinates, Erlaan had drilled his troops to feint against the front of the enemy before using their speed to get between the Askhan formations to attack from the side and rear.

  Erlaan flexed his fingers in anticipation and was about to draw his sword to signal the attack when a doubt stole into his thoughts. Seeing through the cloud of pleasure that had filled his mind at the prospect of battle, he paused for a moment to think about the situation.

  "Why does he fight?" the king-messiah asked himself. "What can he hope to gain?"

  One possibility was that Harrakil had despatched part of his force to take warning to Ullsaard while his legion acted as rearguard. That seemed a reasonable explanation. There was another, and it unsettled Erlaan. What if, against all expectation, the Askhan force was stronger than one legion? The kolubrids had fought so hard to keep the heights, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that more legionnaires lay in wait beyond the hills.

  Growling in irritation, Erlaan weighed up the possibilities. The show of defiance could be an elaborate bluff by Harrakil, conceived to fool Erlaan into thinking the Askhans were stronger than they were; an act of desperation on being confronted by such an overwhelming force. Yet, if it was not a bluff…

  Erlaan wished he had someone with which to discuss his thoughts, but his priestly companions were nowhere to be seen, and the shamans were incapable of providing any useful insight with such a conversation. The decision remained Erlaan's alone, without advice or encouragement.

  His instinct was to attack and have the matter settled, but he knew that good commanders did not act on instinct alone. Harrakil thought that he faced the Mekhani of the past; barbaric and impetuous. His plan would be based upon that assumption. Thinking further along this line, tugging at his thoughts like a stray thread, Erlaan considered the consequences of what might happen. The Askhans knew the Mekhani would attack, and that was what they wanted to happen, for whatever reason. It followed, Erlaan concluded, that if he was simply to withdraw, Harrakil would be left with the difficult choice of coming down onto the grasslands, revealing his true strength in the process, or simply letting the Mekhani move away to wreak whatever havoc they intended.

  "We will withdraw!" Erlaan announced.

  This proclamation was greeted with some consternation by his subordinates. The nearby shamans muttered briefly to each other until one was nominated as spokesman. He knelt before Erlaan, eyes fixed on the ground.

  "Forgive us for doubting your wisdom, which is brought to you upon the winds from the sky, mighty Orlassai," the shaman began. "We seek only to understand your impeccable will. The enemy are few and we are many, and you alone could destroy these fools. Why do we not attack? Is it now your intent that they escape, to take word to their king of the great and terrible foe that they face?"

  As he considered his next words, Erlaan looked at the Askhan legion intently, unsure whether he was making an error. It had been Asirkhyr's intent to keep their presence as secret as long as possible. Such a factor seemed less important now when judged against the losses that a battle would inflict, before the campaign proper had begun. A few days mattered little measured over a season of war.

  "They are beneath us," declared Erlaan. "When we wet our spears, it will be with the blood of men, not dogs. If they are truly worthy of facing me, they will come after us, and we shall oblige them with the deaths they desire."

  This seemed to satisfy the shamans, who nodded and smiled in reply.

  "Pass on my will to my brave warriors," Erlaan told them with a wave of his hand. "The towns and people of Ersua should not be made to wait too long for our cruel attention."

  As soon as the shamans had departed, they were gone from Erlaan's mind. He drew his sword and pointed it towards the icon of Askhos as the centre of the Seventeenth's line. Drawing in a deep breath, he roared his next words, the runes on his tongue and lips sending them clear and loud up to the legionnaires on the hill.

  "Know that I am Orlassai, the reborn king of Mekha! Run like dogs to your cowardly master. Tell your king that his time is short. I desire his Crown and I shall take it. If he kneels before me and presents the Crown to me I shall be merciful and spare his people!"

  While the Mekhani turned away and headed coldwards, there was movement in the Askhan ranks. Two companies parted and a figure rode forward on the back of an ailur. Even with his enhanced eyes, Erlaan could not make out the noble's features, but the glint of gold when the man raised his spear was an unmistakeable declaration. A shout carried on the wind, picked up only by the king-messiah's ear
s; words that amused and concerned Erlaan in equal measure, for the man who uttered them could not have known that they would be heard.

  "You want my Crown? Come and take it, you goat-fucker!"

  As the cry drifted away on the wind, the hills were alive with movement. More golden icons appeared, and the flapping standards of many companies. Rank after rank of spearmen marched up the crests of the hills, until the Askhan line was nearly a mile wide.

  Four whole legions stared down at the departing Mekhani army.

  Pleased that he had not fallen into the trap, Erlaan smiled. The priests had been wrong about Ullsaard. He was here, and he had a force almost the equal of Erlaan's. Almost equal, but not quite. In the past, four legions would be a match for fifty thousand Mekhani, but not now. With the advantage of the hills, he was safe, but on the level ground of Okhar the advantage was with the numbers. If the Askhan king wanted to come down and start a fight, Erlaan was happy to let him.

  But he knew it would not be that simple. Ullsaard had already caught up a step, even if he could not yet match Erlaan. Given the chance, he would strike when the right opportunity presented itself; but that was not now.

  "We will finish this another time!" Erlaan cried out.

  With that, he sheathed his sword, turned his back on the Askhans and walked away.

  II

  The departing Mekhani army was soon obscured by the cloud of dust left in its wake. Ullsaard watched them for some time, ignoring the presence of Harrakil to his right. Finally the First Captain broke the silence.

  "Are we going to let them get away?" Harrakil asked, his tone conveying his disapproval of this course of action.

  Ullsaard turned slowly in the saddle and fixed the legion commander with his stare.

  "Do you want to fight them?" said the king. "You can count as well as I can."

  "Had we struck earlier, while they were still crossing the Nakuus, their advantage of numbers would have been less. Fifty thousand Mekhani are no match for four legions."

  "You saw how organised they were," said Ullsaard. "These are not the Mekhani we have fought in the past. That creature, the one that called itself Orlassai, has changed the way they fight. They had war machines and armour. When I was last here, every legionnaire was worth five Mekhani. That isn't true with this lot. Why risk a battle when we can let them do as much harm to themselves?"

  "I don't follow your meaning," said Harrakil.

  Before Ullsaard could answer, several officers arrived to request orders from their commander, including messengers from the other First Captains. The king told them to wait and continued to voice his theory to Harrakil.

  "This reborn king, whatever or whoever he is, knows how to forge an army, but he is ignorant in strategy. It's clear he intends to march on Ersua, which is a mistake."

  "How so?" said Harrakil, concerned at the prospect. "From Ersua, they can attack at the heart of the empire."

  "Possibly, but our opponent's thinking has been clouded by his time in the desert," replied Ullsaard. "Though the sun shines here and the weather is not so foul, remember that it is still winter. Once the Mekhani reach the Ersuan Hills, they'll find the climate not so much to their liking. The winter stores of the towns will be at their lowest. I'd like to see how he plans to feed an army of that size in the late snows."

  "You would just let them run loose over Ersua?"

  Ullsaard shrugged.

  "Better one province is ravaged than we lose the whole empire," said the king. "We're still unprepared for a straight battle. There are half a dozen ways for them to head coldwards, so even if we could force march ahead of them, where would we set our next line of defence? We're no more secure trying to protect Ersua than Okhar. Give them time to lose a few thousand warriors to winter supply and then we'll see what sort of shape they're in for a fight."

  "So what are we going to do now?" Ullsaard did not like Harrakil's accusatory tone, but chose to overlook it for the moment. Clearly the First Captain was disappointed at marching several hundred miles only to see his enemy allowed to walk away.

  "We came here to kill some Mekhani, so that's what we're going to do," the king explained patiently. He signalled for the heralds to attend him. "Send word to the governors. They are to mobilise what legions they have to guard their borders with Ersua. We'll let the Mekhani have free rein for the moment, but I want the passes and crossings into Okhar, Nalanor and Anrair guarded. Also, I will have orders to convey to the army camp in Salphoria. I want a couple of legions to move closer to Ersua, just in case the Mekhani want to make trouble to dawnwards."

  "And our orders, king?" asked one of the captains.

  "Two thousand men from the Third will follow the enemy, with five hundred kolubrids. They are to harass them as much as possible and cause whatever trouble they can. Pick a captain that is good on his initiative, willing to be a bit daring; but warn him not to get drawn into a pitched battle. He is to raid and annoy, nothing more. He should create the impression that he has a larger force. I want the Mekhani to think that all four legions are following."

  Ullsaard smiled at the officers waiting on his next words.

  "The rest of us?" said the king. He pointed hotwards, towards the Mekha desert. "We'll be teaching these goat fondlers not to leave their homes unprotected. I want every Mekhani town, village and tent within a hundred miles of the border razed to the ground. We'll show these bastards what it means to start a war with Askh. Prepare the army for night march; I want to be across the Nakuus by dawn without the enemy seeing us."

  Their orders given, the crowd of officers dispersed back to their legions, leaving only Harrakil and his few staff captains. The commander of the Seventeenth looked perturbed by Ullsaard's chosen course.

  "Thirty days," the king assured the First Captain. "Thirty days of fun while the weather improves to coldwards, then we'll come back and give this goat-fucker a battle he'll not forget."

  When Harrakil and the others were gone, Ullsaard remained where he was, watching the dwindling bank of dust on the horizon. For all his outward confidence, the appearance of the Mekhani, and the monstrous creature that led them, concerned the king greatly. The timing of this attack was too neat; the Mekhani had to know their foes were heavily committed in Salphoria. Though he would never tell his subordinates as such, Ullsaard had another reason for staying hotwards of the empire. There was no Brotherhood here.

  Whether directly involved or not, the king did not trust Lakhyri for a moment, despite the words of reconciliation he had offered. It was clear that the Brotherhood still had an agenda of their own. Kalmud and Erlaan were still unaccounted for, ready to be offered up to reclaim the throne for the heirs of Lutaar. Ullsaard was sure that Lakhyri knew where they were.

  More than that, there was something about the High Brother that disconcerted Ullsaard, and it was not just those disturbing gold eyes behind the silver mask. There was a stench, a presence about Lakhyri, which Ullsaard could not put his finger on but unsettled him nonetheless. He had the same feeling about this Orlassai fiend. Something in the king's Blood was put on edge by both of them, and he was always ready to trust his instincts in such matters.

  There was more than just Ullsaard's future as king at stake. He could not begin to understand fully the unnatural benefits and risks associated with the Blood coursing through his veins. He did not know the extent of Askhos's influence, or the implications of the First King's continued survival. The new Mekhani leader had called himself the 'reborn king' and that had struck a chord in Ullsaard's thoughts. He would have to tread carefully; not just militarily and politically, but personally as well. A wrong move could allow Askhos to gain more control, perhaps permanently, condemning Ullsaard to a future as a tiny fragment of spirit imprisoned within the immortal king.

  He shuddered at the thought and turned his ailur back towards his army. The giant cat was a young creature called Storm, bought in Geria. She had a more placid temperament than Blackfang, but the king missed his faithful mount
and for a moment wondered how she fared in the camp in Salphoria. Such thoughts led Ullsaard to his family unknowingly held hostage in Magilnada. His fingers tightened on the reins and Storm snarled in annoyance at the sudden tug at her mask.

  One thing at a time, Ullsaard cautioned himself. First, the Mekhani. When that's settled, the reckoning with Anglhan would be had. As Ullsaard rode down the slope after his departing legions, he entertained himself picturing the many punishments he would inflict upon the treacherous Salphor; an exercise that lasted for several hours.

  Ersua

  Early Spring, 212th year of Askh

  I

  Bedraggled and sullen, the winding column of Mekhani warriors laboured on through the unending rain, the narrow track they were following a slippery river of mud that made every step treacherous. Standing at the crest of the pass, looking back over his foundering army, Erlaan contented himself with the thought that another two days' of hard march would bring them to the fertile plains of Nalanor. His tired and hungry followers would find plenty to forage and dry beds when they fell upon the unsuspecting town of Aarisk at the coldwards end of the pass.

  It had been hard going, but driven on by the speeches of their king the Mekhani had suffered the depredations of the march without undue complaint. The barns and farms of Ersua had provided little enough spoils, barely enough to keep the army going as it pressed coldwards, and the last of the looted supplies had been spent three days ago. Some hard rations remained, and three behemodons had been slaughtered for food; there was nothing for them to carry and their deaths were more useful than their continued lives. The promise of food and shelter, and the guiding words of their ruler, kept the Mekhani advance moving, when many had been keen to return to their homes.