The Crown of blood tcob-1

by Gav Thorpe

  From the foredeck a large shape ambled towards Anglhan. It was Pak'ka, one of the Nemurians. He stood half as tall again as Anglhan, and almost as broad. He was covered with thick grey scales, darkening to black around his flat face and surprisingly delicate, long-fingered hands. His back and shoulders were patterned with pale orange stripes that faded away halfway down his knobbly spine. His loins were concealed behind a heavy skirt of studded leather, split at the back to allow his tail to move freely; the appendage was adorned with silver bands and ended in a knobbly club-like growth that thumped. The Nemurian's green eyes caught the sun with a flash as he bent down in front of Anglhan. Pak'ka's slit-like nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath.

  "Nothing to report." Like all of his kind, Pak'ka spoke in with a slight lisp. His voice was quiet and measured.

  "Let's hope it stays that way," said Anglhan. Pak'ka's cracked lips wrinkled back to reveal two rows of small, flat teeth in an attempt at a smile.

  "We hope, but the rocks are unhappy," said Pak'ka. With this baffling proclamation, the Nemurian turned heavily and rejoined his warriors basking in the sun by the starboard rail.

  The lookouts and guards were a necessary precaution these days, with the number of brigands and escaped slaves hiding out in the Altes Hills growing every year. Anglhan had heard tales from fellow debt guardians, of outlaws growing bolder and more organised with each passing season. Three landships had been lost since the turn of the growing season and Anglhan was not prepared to take any chances; he had brought on the Nemurian mercenaries and doubled his outunners for this long voyage to the coast.

  "Dusk or dawn," said Furlthia.

  "What's that?" said Anglhan, turning his attention back to the first mate.

  "Raiders usually strike at dusk or dawn, out of the sun," said Furlthia.

  "The king should send an army into the hills and clear them out," said Anglhan with a shake of the head. "I pay tithes for safe roads and freedom to trade."

  "It's a brave king who sends an army into the Altes," countered Furlthia. "The expense and risk doesn't match up to the complaints of a few caravan masters and landship captains."

  "The Askhans would do it," Anglhan said as he turned towards the quarterdeck, running his experienced gaze across the ropes and beams of the landship's workings. The road was rutted and the whole vessel sagged and swayed as it rumbled along the uneven stones. Despite the movement the mast and braces were sound, the wood and ropes creaking softly.

  "You'd want the Askhans here, wouldn't you?" said Furlthia. "You wouldn't keep Aegenuis on the throne for a moment, given the choice."

  "It's nothing against the man personally, it's a matter of trade, is all," explained Anglhan as he mounted the steps up to the quarterdeck. "In fact, if we became a protectorate there's no reason he couldn't stay on in some capacity. I've travelled a bit in Ersua and never seen trouble. Good prices too; their economy is far more stable. They don't have a king who fritters away half a year's taxes on statues, for a start."

  "The tribal chiefs would never stand for it," said Furlthia. "You want to be ruled from Askh, foreigners making decisions? Not me and not them. If the Askhans do come here next, I'll be leaving you and joining the army."

  "Then you'll be dead," snapped Anglhan as he took up his position in the shade of the broad sail. "Nobody fights Askhor and wins."

  The captain's expression softened.

  "Anyway, I'd miss you," he said. "Good mates are hard to come by and I would not see a friend march off on a hopeless cause."

  "You think the Askhans would allow you to keep your trade?" Furlthia persisted. "They don't have slavery, you know. Not of their own people."

  "Neither do I," said Anglhan. "I've told you before. Don't get squeamish about it. These men work off their debts. They earn money. Okay, so it all goes to me, but that's not the same as the field serfs or the slaves in the Labroghia mines, is it? They knew the risks when they got into debt."

  "Do you think the Askhans will see it that way?"

  "Like I said, I've never had any problems when I've been there, debtors and all," said Anglhan. "Of Askhor and Salphoria, which has rebels hiding out in the hills attacking people, eh? I tell you, it won't be more than a season or two before some clever bastard gets them organised and attacks Magilnada, and I don't see the garrison holding out until the king decides to do something about it. Say this about the Askhans, they're brutal but they get the job done.

  "It's the Crown of the Blood, you see, and that book of theirs. They know what they want to do and just do it. King Aegenuis, on the other hand, has overturned half the things his father brought in, and no doubt that halfwit son of his, Medorian, will do the same again when he finally knifes his father in the back and takes over. Stability, Furlthia, stability."

  The mate said nothing and turned away to look over the starboard side of the landship. The purple hills of the Altes rose higher and higher to duskwards, the sun settling down behind them. Night would come quickly.

  "We best rotate the watch," Furlthia said.

  "Aye, do that for me," said his captain, casting another wary glance across the hills. "I'll be in my cabin."

  Askh

  Midsummer, 208th Year of Askh

  I

  Blackfang padded back and forth, mirroring her master's growing impatience. The city walls were but a stone's throw away and the general sat atop his ailur, glaring venomously at the blue-garbed official standing in front of him. Erlaan whistled quietly beside them, occasionally patting the mane of his mount.

  "What's the delay?" snapped Ullsaard. The official shook his head solemnly.

  "I do not know, General." He turned back to the gatehouse where the signal was to be flown. He gave a deep sigh of relief when a black and red flag fluttered from the tower. "They are ready!"

  "About time," growled Ullsaard, flicking the reins. Erlaan took his place beside the general.

  A roll of drums echoed from the walls and a solitary horn sounded, alerting the city to the return of their prince. Ullsaard's heart quickened as the noise of the crowd reverberated through the open gate. The pair rode into the shadow of the gatehouse as the noise swelled. A company of a hundred legionnaires broke into a march, keeping twenty paces ahead of the returning heroes.

  Coming through the gatehouse, Ullsaard and Erlaan were bathed by the setting sun. It glinted from their armour and helms, from the masks of the ailurs and the tips of their spears. To either side the crowd erupted into a roar. Ullsaard saw a sea of faces; men and women, old and young, merchant and soldier, all with eyes bright and mouths open. Young girls naked but for red cloaks skipped ahead of the parade, scattering offerings of salt and grain onto the road. Garlands were cast from the crowd, showering Ullsaard and the prince with leaves and petals.

  The general held up his spear in a salute and the noise became deafening. Lines of legionnaires shouted warnings and pushed back the mob as the people of Askh surged forwards to see their betters. A buxom woman broke from the mass, ducking beneath the cudgel of a soldier to grasp at Erlaan's leg. She reached up and stroked a loving hand inside his thigh. Her words were lost in the din and a moment later she was dragged away and pushed back into the throng.

  The prince leaned towards Ullsaard, his voice raised to a shout to be heard.

  "Shame we don't have a few Mekhani to show off. That would drive them wild."

  The crowd had made their own substitutes. Amongst the waving bouquets and hastily-daubed signs he saw rag dolls of red-dyed wool being vigorously waved. Here and there redpainted straw effigies burned atop poles, hung with tin coins on slender chains.

  In the crowd were many off-duty legionnaires and a fair number of veterans. Their close-cropped hair and scars marked them out amongst the mass, and Ullsaard took care to smile and wave at each of those he saw.

  The parade continued past the market forum, which had been emptied of its stalls save for a few licensed traders selling food, beer and wine. Here the street opened out into a vas
t cobbled square, packed with humanity. The windows of the upper storeys of the surrounding buildings were packed with the shopkeepers and their families; children excitedly waved bunting made from dyed twine and papyrus, their shrill cries cutting through the throatier roars of their elders. Buoyed up by the crowd's appreciation, Ullsaard beamed back at them, shaking his spear triumphantly.

  From the forum, the Royal Way continued upwards, straight into the heart of Askh, past the three-storey homes of the noble families, with their semi-circular facades and steepling roofs. Here the tumult was lessened, though servants packed the doorsteps of the street, while their masters and mistresses crowded balconies and roof terraces to wave appreciatively; more at Erlaan than Ullsaard, the general noticed.

  Ahead rose the Royal Hill, the highest point of the city, where centuries before Askhos had been born and founded his empire. The palaces sat like a crown atop the mount, surrounded by a white wall. A maze of flat roofs, towers and domes could be seen above the wall, flags of red and black hanging limply from dozens of poles. Wooden scaffolding obscured the dawnward wing of the main palace and several other buildings; Ullsaard had lived in the city for thirteen years and never known a time when there was not some construction work being undertaken.

  To coldward and duskward of the palaces, on top of a secondary crest just below the palaces, stood the Grand Precincts of the Brotherhood. The grey edifice was built on five levels, a ziggurat of drab stone surrounded by a flat plaza reached by winding steps that traced back and forth along the duskward side of the Royal Hill. The precinct was older than the city, the ancient centre of the Askhan tribes' culture, the hub around which their civilisation had revolved. Smaller versions of the temple could be found in all of the other cities of Greater Askhor, physical extensions of the power of the Brotherhood. It was from here, not the palaces, that the true power of Askh was wielded. The Grand Precincts had created the first laws of Askh, formed the first courts, kept the Archive of Ages; all of the foundations of the empire that Askhos had taken across the lands behind the spears of his legions.

  Half a mile more brought them to the central area of Askh, where a wide road encircled the landscaped palace grounds and gardens. The group turned dawnwards, to come around the palace past the bloodfields and racing track. More companies of soldiers stood to attention along the roadside, icons freshly polished, commanders calling them to attention. Their shields were etched with the device of a crown; the famous First Legion, bodyguard to the Blood. In a long ripple, spearpoints were dipped in salute and raised again when the pair passed by. The procession continued around the circuitous avenue, heralded by a clarion of horns when they came to the fields of Maarmes, where duels were fought and athletes contested in feats of speed and skill.

  Here the crowds ended. Instead there stood long lines of the Brotherhood, heads bowed in solemn silence; row upon row of shaven scalps and black robes. The higher Brothers stood at the end of each line, eyes ahead, faces hidden behind blank silver masks. After the earlier furore the quiet was profound; not even the birds stirred in the trees that lined the Maarmes circuit.

  Finally they came to the palace steps and dismounted. Dozens of functionaries flocked around the arrivals, to take the ailurs, offer wines and meats on gilded trays, and escort the pair up the long flight of stairs to the coldward gates of the palace. Ullsaard took a cup of light beer from one of the trays and downed the draught in one long gulp. With the note of a solitary gong, the gates opened into the palace's interior.

  Erlaan was the first to pass the threshold, as was his right by tradition and his rank. Ullsaard was happy to hang back as more flunkeys bustled around. The hall within was lit by a few oil lamps placed in front of curved mirrors, while the last of the sunshine trickled through narrow windows in the ceiling paned with thick triangles of glass that broke the light into dim rainbows.

  A clapping of hands sent the horde of servants scurrying to the sides of the hall, revealing a tall, slender man who looked a little older than Ullsaard. His hair was greying but still thick, cut straight at his shoulders. He was swathed in a long robe of vermillion, a sash of white embroidered with golden spirals across his chest. He sported long sideburns plaited with red and green beads, though his lip and chin were clean-shaven.

  "Erlaan!" The man welcomed the prince with a hug. He turned to Ullsaard. "My good friend! It is a pleasure to see you."

  "You also, Uncle," said Erlaan.

  Ullsaard and Prince Aalun gripped wrists in a warrior's greeting. The general said nothing, but nodded his head and smiled.

  "My father?" asked Erlaan, his voice breaking suddenly. Ullsaard realised that for all his own impatience, the young man must have been even more frustrated by the delays in organising the procession.

  "He is in the king's throne room, with your grandfather. Run along and see them now; we'll have important business shortly."

  The youth smiled his thanks and headed quickly up the hall, a swarm of servants descending upon him as he reached the arch at the far end.

  "You should have some time to see your family," said Aalun, turning his attention back to Ullsaard. "Come to the throne room in the last call before Howling."

  "Thank you, Prince," replied Ullsaard. He waited for Aalun to turn away and head after his nephew before crossing the hall to his right and pushing through a curtained doorway into the corridors that led to the apartment wing. He walked quickly, exchanging nods and smiles with a few familiar faces until he reached the wooden doors of his chambers.

  He hesitated, taking a deep breath.

  II

  "He'll be here soon and Luia hasn't even dressed!" Meliu slapped her hands on her thighs in frustration.

  "Sit down for a moment," soothed Allenya, guiding her youngest sister to the low couch by the window. "If Luia wants to play her silly games, let her."

  "But it reflects badly on us as well," Meliu said, tears forming in her eyes.

  "Stop that," said Allenya, snatching up the hem of her long yellow dress to dab at Meliu's cheeks. "You being all puffy-eyed is not going to help." Meliu huffed indignantly. "Luia always wants to spoil everything."

  "Yes, and now you're acting spoilt. The last thing our husband wants to come back to is one of your tantrums."

  "I suppose you're right." Meliu beckoned to one of the maids, who approached with a bowl of white powder and a fine brush. She dusted Meliu's cheeks heavily. "It's not fair, is it? Luia has skin like snow and here's me stuck with the ruddy cheeks of a farm girl. It's wasted on her!"

  "Believe me, Ullsaard will be just as happy if you were as red as a beet. Just smile and let those sweet dimples do the rest."

  Meliu couldn't help but comply, her smile hesitant.

  "Why is he keeping us waiting?" snapped Luia from the next room. She stalked through the door, her dark blue robe still unbelted, open at the front, servants trailing behind forlornly. "Noran said he'd be here by noon. It's just typical. The food will spoil and he can strut off to see the king, leaving us with mouldy scraps."

  "The procession was delayed, sister," Allenya said calmly. "I am sure he is as anxious as we are."

  "Anxious to see you, sister, perhaps." Luia turned her scornful glare on Meliu. "Askhos's cock, you look like a garden slut; or worse, a poet."

  Meliu pouted and was about to say something when Eriun, the head maid, slipped in behind Luia.

  "The master has reached the palace, mistresses," she announced quietly.

  With a wordless hiss, Luia darted from the room, scattering her attendants.

  "Let me have a last look at you," said Allenya, beckoning for Meliu to stand. She smoothed a few stray locks of her sister's golden curls, adjusted the hang of her low-cut dress to display her fine cleavage and smoothed out a crease in her broad white belt. "Nothing to worry about, sister, you look lovely. How am I doing?"

  Meliu laughed. Allenya was the tallest of the three sisters, with wide hips and long legs. Her hair was a deep brown, falling in oiled curls about her
shoulders, with no sign yet of greying. Her face was narrow, her chin and cheekbones prominent, with only the slightest wrinkles to testify her middle age. He eyes were a startling sapphire blue. Allenya wore a plain white dress, gathered tight about the waist with a broad belt of blue fabric embroidered with silver threads, bronze and gold chains about her wrists and neck.

  "You could wear a sack and shave your head and Ullsaard would still give you that look."

  "What look?"

  "Don't come all coy. You know, that longing look he gets whenever he says goodbye to you, the one he only gives you. I try, Askhos knows I try, but that look is only for you."

  "He loves us each in a different way."

  Meliu looked doubtful.

  "Even Luia?"

  Allenya let out a short laugh.

  "Well, perhaps not Luia. Still, she hasn't ruined it for the pair of us yet, so let's not let her start now."

  There was a whisper of warning from the next room and the two women linked arms and walked through to the main chamber of the apartment. Meliu could feel Allenya trembling as a foot scraped on the far side of the doors. It seemed like an eternity before the door swung open, revealing Ullsaard, skin dusted with dirt, streaked with sweat.

  As ever, his eyes went first to Allenya, and he crossed from the door in a few long strides to embrace her. He kissed her on each cheek, delicately stroking her back. As they parted, Ullsaard turned to Meliu, his eyes roving up and down her petite form, lingering on the curve of her half-exposed breasts. He clasped a hand to her neck and planted a long kiss on her lips, his body swallowing her up with its hard bulk. She returned the kiss, feeling his other hand roughly caressing her buttocks.