The Crown of the Conqueror cob-2

by Gav Thorpe

  "The Mekhani will get wind of it," said Aklaan, the commander of the Third. "They'll attack."

  "Good," said Ullsaard. He turned and gestured to a nearby orderly to fetch his ailur. "If they commit, they won't be able to get away again. I want a fight, but that bastard over there is either too canny to fall for my lures, or too stupid to recognise a seemingly obvious opportunity for victory. I guess we'll find out in the next hour or two."

  The Mekhani camp was a sprawling affair, disorganised and poorly defended in comparison to the march forts of the Askhans. For all that, the earth walls and ditches surrounding the disorganised spread of multicoloured tents were enough to give the king second thoughts about attacking. He counted fourteen behemodons at the centre of the camp, and rough revetments housed more than a dozen war engines of crude but lethal design. An assault would be costly, and if Ullsaard could tempt or taunt his foes out from under them, it would be for the better.

  His officers' insults aside, the enemy commander had chosen to make his stand in a good spot. The plains stretched for several miles in every direction; the only two rises in sight being the hill on which the Mekhani had made camp and the shallower mound from which the king surveyed his enemy a few miles away. A river, though not wide, curved around the duskward side of the enemy-held hill and cut between the two encampments, and the slopes to coldwards, facing the Askhan army, were strewn with rocks and steep faces. The best approach would be to circle around to duskwards and attack from the other side, and wisely the Mekhani had sited their catapults and huge bows facing duskwards and hotwards to counter such a move.

  "Should we send a parley, just in case they want to surrender?" suggested Naadlin.

  "Not a fucking chance," said Ullsaard, his finger rubbing at the scar on his lip from his last attempt to speak terms with the redskinned tribesmen.

  "We could send out the kolubrids, launch some fire arrows into those tents. That'll stir them up." Aklaan seemed excited by his proposal. "Let a few of the bastards burn."

  Ullsaard considered the idea.

  "Not yet," he replied. He glanced up at the sky, trying to work out the time. The sun was hidden behind a swathe of low cloud. "I reckon the reinforcements won't be here for another four hours. We'll make our move in two."

  The orderly arrived with Storm in tow. The ailur flicked her head, tugging at the reins in the captain's hand. She was feisty, but Ullsaard had not yet decided if that was a good or bad trait. He had known when he bought her from a nobleman in Geria that she was untested in battle; a symbol of prestige that had never hunted or fought but the only ailur in the city.

  With a nod of thanks, he took the reins and swung up into the saddle. Storm took his weight with a swish of her tail, but no further protest. Ullsaard turned her along the slope towards the camp of the Third but stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.

  "Best have the companies turned out anyway," he told his staff. "If the Mekhani decide to start things early, I don't want to be rushing about. Everybody has their orders?"

  A series of affirmatives came in reply and the king nodded his appreciation and rode on, confident that the First Captains would follow their orders to the letter. A track wound down the hotwards slope of the hill just before the wall of the Third's encampment. Ullsaard turned down this path and continued down to the bottom of the slope. He stopped for a while, surveying the ground from this level, assuring himself that the gently undulating grasslands would be the perfect field for the phalanxes to move across. It was a pity that only the slender river provided any barrier with which to anchor a flank, but it would have to do.

  He pictured the coming battle as he hoped it would unfold, running through the positioning and movement of his line and the kolubrid squadrons in response to the possible Mekhani actions. So engrossed was he in this, that he almost did not hear a warning signal being sounded from the camps above.

  Looking back up the hill, he saw that the four legions of his army were almost assembled, rank after rank of bronze spears and polished shields. There was a calm effortlessness to the blocks of soldiers arranging themselves, like the intricate interweaving of graceful court dancers. There was certainly nothing of concern that he could see, and he turned his attention back to the Mekhani, expecting to see them mobilising from their camp.

  There was movement, but not on the scale he would expect to precede an attack. The enemy encampment was situated around an abandoned farm and a paved road switched back and forth down the near slope before turning duskwards towards Cavrina, a town fourteen miles away. Something appeared at the gate leading to the road, large enough that Ullsaard could see it, and at first he thought it was one of the Mekhani's reptilian beasts, though smaller than a behemodon.

  As it approached down the road, Ullsaard recognised what he saw: the huge man who called himself Orlassai. The enemy commander walked down the road with easy strides. There was no sign of a bodyguard. Eyes narrowed, Ullsaard watched the giant's progress.

  He turned at the sound of footfalls on the trail behind him, to see Harrakil hurrying down at the head of a company of legionnaires.

  "You're more of a fussing hen than Cosuas was," Ullsaard told the First Captain as the self-appointed bodyguard formed up around their king.

  "I do not like the look of this," Harrakil replied with embarrassment. "This creature is unnatural."

  "He is big, I'll give him that," said Ullsaard, returning his gaze to the Mekhani king, who had reached the plain and was now striding confidently across the grasslands directly towards the legion camps. "And his balls are just as huge, by the looks of it."

  The other commander stopped about a mile away. Ullsaard heard his name called out. He glanced at Harrakil, who shook his head. Ignoring him, Ullsaard urged Storm into a trot.

  "Wait there!" the king snapped as the bodyguard broke into a run to keep up. "It looks like we might parley after all. Let's not do anything stupid."

  "Besides," he added under his breath, "I'm not sure you'll be any help against that bastard of a brute."

  The Askhan king crossed the divide quickly and reined Storm to a walk a quarter of a mile away, holding up his empty sword hand in a gesture of peace. As he rode closer and closer, Ullsaard realised just how large the other man was. Distance had masked his true size the previous times the king had seen his foe. The Mekhani was more than twice as tall as Ullsaard, and past the ornate helm and armour the king saw that his skin was of normal colour. Whoever he was, he wasn't born to a Mekhani mother.

  Ullsaard's nerve held out long enough for him to get within a spear's cast of his opponent, and then he pulled Storm to a halt. With such long legs, the Mekhani commander would be able to cross the distance in a matter of heartbeats.

  "Bow down before Orlassai, the reborn king, rightful ruler of the world!"

  The voice was a roar that rang Ullsaard's ears. Storm cringed at the noise, snarling a mixture of defiance and fear. The king knew how she felt. For a moment he was overawed by this apparition of a man and he felt his fingers twitch at the reins and his legs tense, his body moving to comply with the order even as Ullsaard's brain rejected it. Amidst the confusion, Ullsaard thought he recognised the voice, but could not place from where or whom.

  "Go fuck whatever twisted bitch spawned you!" Ullsaard called back in return, his voice sounding thin and weak in comparison to the bellow of the other. "I'm the king of Askh, and I bow to no man. Or whatever you are."

  Orlassai laughed, a much more human sound, and it triggered a half-formed memory in Ullsaard; he had heard that laugh before, somewhat youthful, in the palaces of Askh. He dismissed the idea. He would have noticed such a monster wandering the halls and corridors.

  "What do you want?" he shouted.

  "I want the Crown," Orlassai replied, his tone less menacing than before. "It belongs to me. You took it from me."

  "You're wrong," said Ullsaard. "I prised it from the dead fingers of Lutaar himself. I'm sure you aren't him. That makes it mine now."


  Again there was that familiar laugh and Orlassai came forward, long strides covering the ground quickly. Ullsaard didn't know whether to stay or run. Not since the behemodon had he faced such opposition, and on that occasion shock had spurred him to action. Seeing the gigantic warrior bearing down upon him filled Ullsaard with a fear he had not known before, as if dread itself washed over him from Orlassai's presence.

  At his approach, he felt something else, and the fear subsided. The Blood fizzed in his body, strengthening his resolve, filling his muscles with power. More than that, it reacted to something else. It reminded him of the odd feeling he had from Lakhyri. He had no name for such a thing, but his ancestors might have called it sorcery.

  With a start, Ullsaard saw the golden eyes in the shadow of the feather-plumed helm of his foe. It was too much, and immediately the king knew that Lakhyri was somehow involved. Had he been setting up Ullsaard simply for this moment? Was this beast of a man sent to kill him?

  Storm went down to her belly, ears flat, hissing and spitting. She tensed and Ullsaard flung himself from the saddle a moment before she bolted. Landing awkwardly, the king glanced back to see the ailur racing off with his spear and shield still hanging from her saddle.

  "Shit." There seemed little else he could do except face down the Mekhani king.

  "I will kill you, Ullsaard." The Askhan king watched in fascinated horror the twisting sigil-carved lips of Orlassai as he spoke, and felt a tremor of uncertainty as rows of fangs were revealed. It was as if an ailur was speaking to him. With another part of his brain, Ullsaard recognised the impeccable Askhan accent of his foe; better than his own. "That much is certain. It would be a shame to waste the strength of your legions. I will need them to finish your conquest of Salphoria."

  Like the laugh, the voice resonated with some part of Ullsaard's memory, but the bass rumbling obscured any recollection. Orlassai smiled, and it was a gruesome sight.

  "Still you do not recognise me?" Orlassai reached up a hand with too many knuckles and pulled his helm from his head.

  Ullsaard gasped, disgusted by the writhing, leathery flesh revealed. His shock increased as he looked more closely, seeing someone he knew amidst the etched runes and golden eyes. The face was boyish, handsome even. He remembered the expression of triumph, on the face of a youth at the Maarmes circuit.

  "That isn't right," Ullsaard said, even though he knew it was. Finally he had found out what had happened to Lutaar's heir. "Erlaan?"

  The giant nodded and extended an arm, muscles moving like stones in a sack beneath his skin. The sun shone dully from metallic fingernails.

  "It is impressive, is it not?"

  "It's hideous. What happened to you?"

  "I became worthy of the Crown, Ullsaard. Give it back to me and I will make your death quick."

  Ullsaard took a few steps back and drew his sword.

  "You don't expect me to die without fighting, do you?"

  "You are a good warrior, Ullsaard, but you are not invincible." Orlassai-Erlaan drew his own weapon, its wickedly serrated blade catching the light. "Do you think you can stop me?"

  Ullsaard swallowed hard and his mouth was dry. One stroke of that sword would cleave him in half. It was at that moment he remembered telling Erlaan that a warrior fought with his mind as much as his sword. He desperately wracked his brains for an idea.

  "Have you become as savage as the army you lead?" said the Askhan king, sheathing his sword. "What would your father think of this behaviour?"

  "I am no savage," Orlassai-Erlaan replied. "What do you mean?"

  "Would you break the truce of parley? Do you remember what happened to the last man that crossed me in such a way?"

  The monstrous king hesitated and he looked more youthful than ever in his uncertainty. With a coy smile, he lowered his blade.

  "Forgive my manners, I have picked up some bad habits from my minions," said Orlassai-Erlaan. "My father is dead, Ullsaard. He thinks nothing of me now, but I would honour his memory. You wish to talk terms of your surrender."

  Ullsaard forced a laugh.

  "Not of my surrender, no," he said. "You might be able to kill me, but your army will be destroyed."

  The other man did not share Ullsaard's humour. His frown was frightening to behold and for a moment Ullsaard thought he would be struck down regardless of his opponent's claim to civility.

  "Little has changed from our last encounter, Ullsaard," Orlassai-Erlaan said. "I have a few thousand less men, but four legions are still not enough to match us. This is no barbaric horde you face, it is a trained army."

  "Depends what you consider training to be," said Ullsaard. "I'm happy to put your tactics to the test if you are. I reckon the odds are pretty even. Let's see which of us is the better commander, eh?"

  Again Orlassai-Erlaan paused, a flicker of nervousness crossing his face. Ullsaard felt a little glow of hope growing within and pushed home his point.

  "You know how good I am, but how good are you, Erlaan? You've seen one battle, and a straightforward one at that. I don't doubt that sword of yours could match a hundred men of mine, but a commander wins battles with his plans, not his blade."

  "This is a trick," said the other king, shaking his head. "You are scared and seek to outwit me."

  "Or I have outwitted you already and I'm just pretending to be scared."

  Orlassai-Erlaan's lips rippled with a snarl.

  "Words, Ullsaard. You used to fight your battles with armies, now you use words."

  "I'm told I have to be more of a politician if I am to be a good king," Ullsaard replied. "Come on, what's your answer. Kill me and be cut down by my avenging army, or are we going to do this properly?"

  "I will rip you to pieces!" Orlassai-Erlaan's bellow almost felled Ullsaard with its ferocity. "I will destroy your army and all of the empire will know me to be the true king. They will beg me to take up the Crown and lead them."

  "Fair enough," Ullsaard said with a shrug. He looked up at the sky. "Shall we start things in an hour? I wouldn't want to rush you."

  "Your insolence earns you a slower death, Ullsaard. I will feed your balls to you and strangle you with your gizzards. When you are screaming for me to release you from your agony, remember your flippant remarks."

  "I'll try to," said Ullsaard, tapping himself on the side of the head to indicate he was committing the words to memory. "When your army is shattered and you stand alone against ten thousand spears, you should remember that I offered you the chance to avoid it."

  Ullsaard turned away and started back towards his army. He heard the Mekhani king's growl and tensed, expecting a blow to land upon him. He would not give Erlaan the satisfaction of seeing him look back. Heart hammering, Ullsaard fought the urge to run and kept his pace slow and steady.

  He made it all the way back to his pavilion, shooing away his officers as they crowded around him, before his legs gave way. Unseen, he staggered into his bed space and flopped down onto the bedding, shaking uncontrollably. He wanted to throw up, and was glad that his body had not betrayed him earlier, because it had been an effort of will to stop his bowels from emptying themselves. Taking deep breaths to calm down, he closed his eyes and rolled to his back.

  "I better win," he muttered.

  II

  Orlassai-Erlaan stormed back into the camp, bellowing for the army to assemble. While the warriors gathered in their tribal groups, the war engines were lifted from their positions and the behemodons roused. Eriekh emerged from somewhere, dodging between the assembling fighter bands.

  "We attack?" said the priest. "Your conversation with the usurper went so well?"

  "Not well at all," Orlassai-Erlaan growled. "He has something planned, wanted us to fight in an hour's time. I suspect he has reinforcements arriving. We must crush his army before they arrive."

  "Why leave the defences of the camp?"

  "You call these defences?" Orlassai-Erlaan snarled, waving a hand at the ditches and earth ramparts. "They will not protec
t us. We are losing, Eriekh. Unless you have received some word from Asirkhyr that he has brought my second army from the desert, we do not have the luxury of waiting."

  "We have yet to fight a battle, and you concede defeat?"

  "Ullsaard has trapped us here, leaving a trail of unburnt fields and intact towns like a line of seed to capture a bird." The king-messiah smashed a fist into the side of his helm in self-remonstration. "And I walked blindly into his snare! While we remain here, more legions will descend upon us. We must break through Ullsaard's army and into Okhar, and send word to Asirkhyr to bring fresh troops to us."

  "What is your plan, mighty Orlassai?" a voice asked from behind. He turned to see the group of shamans, eyes averted from him.

  "All-out attack," replied the king. "Extend the army past the right flank of the Askhans and envelop them. Use the behemodons to engage their left flank and stop them reinforcing. When we have encircled the end of their line, redirect the beasts against the centre and scatter all opposition."

  "As you command, lord of the skies, watchful guardian of the deserts," said the shaman, bowing low and backing away. The group held a brief conference and then hurried off in different directions, calling out for others.

  "And where will you fight?" asked Eriekh. "What if they withdraw to their camps?"

  "I am going to kill Ullsaard," said Orlassai-Erlaan. "His death will not win the battle, but it will certainly shorten the war. He has brought us here for a reason; he cannot simply let us walk away this time. He needs to win this battle as much as we do."

  The first tribes were already pouring from the camp, spreading out along the road towards the Askhan army. The ground trembled as behemodons lumbered forward between the clusters of warriors, the crews in the howdahs shouting and laughing down at those forced to walk.

  "And have you anything to add to our strength?" the king demanded of Eriekh.

  "I am not a master of the sword," the priest replied. "Our powers are subtle, and I possess no particular skill for battle. Remember the other gifts we have bestowed upon you, not just that fine body. Lead your army, let them hear your voice, let them see the slaughter you wreak. I shall do my part to aid you, do not fear for that."