The Crown of the Blood

by Gav Thorpe

  "We can't stand here passing the time of day, pleasant as it is," Cosuas said, clearly not amused by Ullsaard's indifference. "We've got a battle to win."

  Ullsaard nodded and signalled to Prince Erlaan. The youth rode up on his ailur, leading Ullsaard's mount by its reins. Bred from the grey-furred mountain lions that had once plagued the tribes before the coming of Askhos, ailurs were regarded as a badge of office amongst Askhans and a leader's merit was often judged by the quality of his steed. In this regard, Ullsaard was very fortunate, for his was a prime specimen of the breed: Blackfang, a vicious she-ailur that was almost as old as Ullsaard and as tall at the shoulder as her master, her mane thick and black, plaited and bound with golden thread.

  She was placid enough at the moment, her head encased in a spiked metal mask that covered her eyes with plates, held on by riveted straps that left her jaw free. Though blinkered, Blackfang's hearing and sense of smell meant she was still more than capable of fighting. Ullsaard patted her shoulder and pulled himself up into the high-backed saddle, swinging his bloodstained spear into a strap behind him.

  "I don't understand why you walk everywhere," Erlaan said to Cosuas. "An old man like you surely needs whatever rest he can."

  "The day I need one of those piss-stinking, flea-ridden, hotbreathed rugs with claws to get me around is the day you can light my pyre," said Cosuas. His well-known disdain for ailurs was his only deviation from Askhan orthodoxy and a source of respectful amusement amongst the officers that had served him over the years. Ullsaard thought it an odd view, but unremarkable in comparison to some of the affectations and habits of other commanders he had fought alongside.

  Blackfang padded forwards, flanked by Cosuas on foot and Erlaan on his ailur, Render. Behind them slithered a coterie of messengers riding more kolubrids, ready to take Ullsaard's orders to his subordinates. In the desert valley the battle was quickly unfolding and Ullsaard was pleased to see the legions following the precise orders he had given them the previous night. Not that he had harboured any doubts: an Askhan legionary was highly trained and well-rewarded in return for his obedience and bravery.

  The Mekhani were herded into the centre of a sandy depression by the harrying of the kolubrid riders. Ullsaard wanted them forced together so that their numbers would be a hindrance more than an advantage. Their foes thus hampered, the Askhan spear regiments formed into tight phalanxes and closed for the kill from both flanks. With their attackers coming at them from two directions, the tribesmen huddled about their behemodons, sheltering under the bows and slings of the giant reptiles' crews. Against the bronze-bound shields and helms of the Askhan legionnaires, these missiles had little effect; here and there an Askhan bled on the sands but the phalanxes marched implacably onwards.

  Ullsaard knew the Mekhani's faith in their war beasts was misplaced. As the disciplined columns of the Askhans stopped a short distance from their unruly foes, six-man teams carrying lavathrowers emerged from between the advancing companies. Dragging wheeled barrels of combustible ammunition through the deep sand, the fire teams laboured to set up their engines, directing their iron muzzles towards the behemodons. Pumping furiously at the pressure-bellows, the teams readied their weapons.

  At a shout from their commanders, they unleashed the burning fury of their machines. Jets of black-red flame leapt out like incinerating tongues, lapping at the behemodons and setting fire to the howdahs on their backs. The panicked grunts of the beasts sounded over the roar of flames. The monsters ran amok, throwing off their crews and crushing tribesmen in their angry stampede. Ullsaard spared a thought of thanks for the Brotherhood, keepers of the lava-fire's secret since the time of Askhos.

  One of the behemodons loped into a charge towards the nearest lava-thrower. The men turned their machine clumsily towards it, a gout of burning fuel searing an arc through the air. Seeing that the enraged beast would not be stopped, they abandoned their engine and ran for the cover of the nearest spearmen. Behind them the behemodon, patches of fire still smoking on its hide, smashed into the lava-thrower and seized the machine in its jaws. As the gargantuan reptile lifted the lavathrower into the air the fuel tank exploded, splitting apart the creature's head and neck in a blossom of dark fire. Charred flesh rained down onto Askhans and Mekhani alike.

  With their beasts slain, the desert warriors raised their crude spears and charged, churning up a huge plume of sand in their wake. Unintelligible battle cries hooting from their lips, the Mekhani hurled themselves towards the Askhan phalanxes.

  Ullsaard exchanged a knowing look with Cosuas. The Mekhani had just made the fatal mistake the generals had been expecting.

  Orders shouted along the line of companies, the drilled spearmen set themselves to receive the charge, forming a wall of shields and spears. Unheeding of the jagged barrier, the Mekhani leapt to the attack. Their stone spear tips crashed against shields while their bodies were spitted on the pikes of the Askhans.

  Ullsaard watched the butchery without emotion. It was bloody and it was one-sided, which was the best way to fight a war. He turned in his saddle and gestured to one of his subordinates, a youth with sunburnt skin and a shock of red hair.

  "Karuu, tell the cavalry to encircle the enemy," Ullsaard said to the herald. "I don't want any escaping to poison the wells or inflict other sabotage."

  "What do you want to do with the survivors?" Karuu asked.

  "Why don't we ask the young general-to-be?" said Cosuas.

  "What do you think, prince?" Ullsaard looked at Erlaan. "Let's pretend this is your army."

  Erlaan was deep in thought for some time; long enough for Ullsaard to think that he wasn't going to answer.

  "There is no market for slaves these days," Erlaan said eventually. "With the expense of sending them back to civilised lands, it would cost us heavily. We cannot have them roaming around the camp, they will just cause trouble."

  "So we just let them get away?" said Cosuas.

  "No," replied Erlaan. "These savages will not learn. They will only come back again. We have to kill them all."

  Ullsaard nodded in agreement, pleased that the young man had come to the right decision.

  "There will be no survivors," Ullsaard told his messenger, keeping his eyes fixed on the slaughter.

  As Karuu goaded his mount and slid away down the ridge, Ullsaard looked back to the battle. The phalanxes were driving into the heart of the Mekhani, their spears ruthlessly cutting down hundreds of tribesmen, their flanks protected from encirclement by lava-throwers and kolubrid riders. The Askhans advanced over a carpet of the dead, leaving piles of mangled bodies in their wake.

  Ullsaard felt Erlaan's stare upon him as the battle unfolded with bloody predictability. He looked at the prince and saw a hint of distaste in his eyes.

  "Horrible, isn't it?" said Ullsaard.

  "It's a massacre, not a battle," said Erlaan.

  "Good," grunted Cosuas.

  "You're enjoying this?" Erlaan said, and shook his head. "What can be good about this?"

  Cosuas did not reply immediately. He walked behind Blackfang to stand next to the young man's ailur. Erlaan stared down at the ancient general with faint disgust.

  "Don't look at me, look at them," Cosuas snapped, raising an arm to point at the ongoing fighting. Erlaan once more directed his attention to the bloody work before them. "Would you rather it was Askhans that were dying? Perhaps you would prefer it if those poor Askhos-cursed Mekhani bastards were left maimed and wounded, to die bleeding in the desert sun, or to perish from thirst or diseased wounds?"

  "They lost the moment they decided to fight," said Ullsaard. "The offer of peace was made and the Mekhani leaders refused it. We bear no responsibility for what follows. It is a mercy that we despatch them with the minimum of grief. We allow their families to collect the dead and perform whatever rites they wish to practice."

  "I understand the principles." Erlaan puffed out his chest and tried to appear unconcerned but his eyes kept straying back to the fightin
g.

  "You understand the principles, but here you will witness the practise," said Ullsaard.

  "Those families will tell stories of what happened here," Cosuas said, grinding home the Askhan logic of war. The screams of dying men and crash of weapons illustrated that logic. "News will spread that Askhor has no mercy for those that oppose us and benevolence for those that do not raise arms against us. Some will not listen and they will also die. A generation from now, nobody will remember why so many were killed in this pointless place, if they even remember at all. They will remember only that Askhor is merciless and from that fear, peace prevails.

  "News will spread that Askhor has no mercy for those that oppose us and benevolence for those that do not raise arms against us," the grim officer continued. "Some will not listen and they in turn will be killed. Over time, others will heed the warning and lives will be saved. A generation from now, nobody will remember why so many were killed in this desolate, pointless place, if they even remember this battle at all. They will remember only that Askhor is merciless to our enemies, and from that fear peace and harmony will prevail."

  "As Askhos decreed," said Erlaan. "I am one of the Blood; there is no need to teach me about Askhos' legacy."

  Erlaan's eyes were fixed on the fighting, unable to drag his eyes away from the gory scene, his expression perturbed.

  "What of glory?" he asked.

  "Overrated," grunted Cosuas.

  Ullsaard laughed and Blackfang padded left and right for a moment, sensing her master's mood.

  "This is glory," Ullsaard said, his humour gone as quickly as it had come. "Do you think that poets will write of Askhor legions butchering defenceless tribesmen? The noble houses of Askh will resound to verses about the brave soldiers of Askhor winning against hordes of red-skinned savages. Maniacal and bloodthirsty, in numbers without counting, the Mekhani terrors poured across the deserts intent upon rape and pillage until the bronze spears of our warriors held them at bay."

  "That is why I pay little attention to poets," Erlaan said.

  "Which would you prefer your husband, or brother, or father, or son to be? Called a hero or a murderer?" Cosuas said. "People don't care about the truth, they only care if their lands and children are safe, and they have a few Askharins to spend at the market. It isn't our place to give them other concerns."

  The clash of weapons and hoarse cries of soldiers were diminishing as the Askhans crushed the tribal warriors. Those Mekhani that tried to flee from the relentless press of spears were cut down by the fangs of the kolubrids or the bellows-bows of their riders.

  It was barely mid-morning and the battle was almost over. Ullsaard wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He needed a drink.

  III

  The walking wounded marched back to the Askhan camp while the honoured dead were set upon biers carried by their comrades. Those who had lost limbs or suffered other grievous wounds but still lived were gathered in three lines along the floor of the shallow valley, one hundred and thirty-eight in all. Some sat in groaning agony; others had slipped into fitful sleep. A few were lucid and sat muttering quiet thanks to Askhos while the rest endured the blazing sun in stony silence.

  Behind each injured man stood a soldier with his dagger drawn.

  Ullsaard stood with his hands on hips looking at the wounded, Cosuas beside him. Behind the pair, Erlaan sat upon Render holding Blackfang's reins. The ailurs bobbed their heads, flicked their thick tails and pawed the ground at the scent of so much blood. Ullsaard gave Cosuas a nod and the aging general took a step.

  "Soldiers of Askhor, we salute you," he said. "As a son will lay down his life to protect his mother, so you have given all for the defence of the realm that raised you. You are heroes, one and all, and the memories of your deeds will be respected and cherished alongside the other favoured fallen in the Hall of Askhos. The king mourns for your sacrifice, as do we all."

  At a signal from Cosuas the line of soldiers raised their blades and slit the throats of the wounded. None struggled, for they had been resigned to this fate since joining the legions. They knew that their families would be fed and sheltered by the king for three generations and each was thankful that he would not suffer a future as a crippled parasite suckling at Askhor's bosom. As blood dried in the sun, more biers carried away the newly slain.

  Though he kept his expression stern, Ullsaard felt a little pity for those who had to die in this manner. In the press of melee it was not bravery or skill that decided who lived and who died, but luck. Those who had just given their lives for Askhor had been no less devoted, no less worthy of life than those who had survived.

  Ullsaard was reminded that he might one day share the fate of those being taken back to the camp in honour, for the oaths of service he had taken were the same as those of every soldier. Some men might be swayed to cowardice by that vow, to avoid the danger of injury, but such men did not become Askhan officers. They became clerks or engineers, or priests of the Brotherhood, and suffered no dishonour because of it. From the teachings of Askhos, the king and people of Askhan recognised that some served with courage and some with other qualities. Like many military men, Ullsaard had his reservations about those that risked less than their lives for their empire, but it was impolite to mention such thoughts openly.

  No Askhan legionnaire marched to war expecting to return, and such fatalism bred a stubborn courage that won battles other warriors would lose. If a legionnaire was fortunate enough to fight for ten years he earned himself a generous pension from the king and had a chance to live out his life in peace with his family. That more than half refused retirement at so young an age was testament to the appeal of life in the legions. Ullsaard knew well that the common man cared only for three things: his family to be safe, food in his belly and a little money to spend freely on whatever pleasures he saw fit when he could get them. For many, a life in the legions was preferable to labouring in the fields, or digging canals or building bridges.

  "How many dead and injured?" Ullsaard asked as Cosuas joined him.

  "Including those?" the general replied. "Seven hundred and forty-three dead, one thousand and six wounded but still capable of fighting."

  Ullsaard nodded solemnly. It was not a bad toll, in truth. He had expected the price of victory to be higher but the Mekhani's spirit had broken early and they had been cut down in their rout. He grunted and waved for Erlaan to bring Blackfang. Ullsaard looked at the youth.

  "Nothing to say?" Ullsaard said.

  The young man shook his head.

  "Good," said Ullsaard. "We'll return to camp and tomorrow morning escort the engineers and masons back to the bridge."

  Ullsaard decided to walk with Cosuas, and sent Erlaan ahead with Blackfang. The tramp of thousands of feet had packed the sand into a rough road, cutting across the desert towards the Askhan camp.

  "Why are we both here?" Ullsaard said after a while.

  "To push forward the borders of Greater Askhor," Cosuas replied with a frown. "What else would we be doing?"

  "No, I mean why send two generals to command a single army?"

  "Scared of having the old man looking over your shoulder?" laughed Cosuas and Ullsaard chuckled at the thought of the much smaller man looking over anything, much less his shoulder. "I can still teach you a thing or two."

  "I'm sure you can," said Ullsaard. "That's not my point. Either one of us can command this army, the other is a waste. Surely there are other campaigns that you or I could lead. Legions stand idle on the borders of Salphoria while you and I – and Prince Kalmud! – grub around in the sands. There is nothing here to fight over. The real prizes are to duskwards."

  "You'd war with Salphoria?" said Cosuas, his mood suddenly serious. "Salphoria is divided, no threat to Askhor. Why start a costly fight when we can simply help the tribes fall out with each other?"

  "Is that really what has become of us?" said Ullsaard with a sorrowful shake of the head. "Agitators? When did Askhor need any r
eason to go to war other than to expand the empire? Salphoria is rich with grain, ore and wood. Think of the great works we could undertake if we controlled those resources rather than paying the exorbitant prices of the Salphors? Askhos himself declared it our destiny to rule all of the lands between the seas. Yet what gains have we made in these last twenty years? Truly?"

  "The king is consolidating our power," Cosuas argued. "You can't simply lurch from one war into the next. You take ground, control it, build towns and roads and only then move on. You know this, Ullsaard."

  Ullsaard pointed ahead to the many pillars of smoke rising from the horizon.

  "The king wishes a new settlement to be built here," the general rasped. "What for? There's no real farmland for a dozen days' marching. The river isn't even that plentiful. It's a trinket dangled in front to keep us busy, nothing more. Give me a hundred thousand men and I could take Salphoria in a year. Raise more legions and give me two hundred and fifty thousand and I'd do it for the king in a summer."