by Gav Thorpe
In front of him, Gebriun pulled up suddenly, dropping his spear to clutch at his calf.
"Fucking cramp!" the legionnaire snarled.
"Step up!" bellowed the rank sergeant, Muuril.
Gelthius pushed into Gebriun's place as the legionnaire hobbled towards the back of the phalanx. Passing his spear into his shield hand, he grabbed Gebriun's fallen weapon and passed it back after the retreating legionnaire.
"Lock!"
The order came from the front, probably third captain Lonnir. Gelthius slid his shield across that of the man to his left, while the man to his right did the same to Gelthius. Putting his left foot forward, Gelthius braced himself against the legionnaire in front and felt the pressure of the shield from the man behind along his back. Glancing up from under the brow of his helmet, Gelthius could see enemy pike heads swaying against the cloudy sky.
"Step!"
Gelthius gave a shout and pushed, bringing his right foot up to his left and forcing his left foot another pace. As one, the phalanx heaved the enemy backwards.
"Step!"
Again Gelthius urged himself on, feeling the weight of the rank behind on his shoulders, his right arm tiring from holding his spear above the heads of those in front.
"Step!"
"I'll fuckin' step on 'im when we're back in camp," muttered the man in front.
"Brace to the right!"
And so it carried on, a blur of shouts and aches and surging bodies. Gelthius felt a tap on his right shoulder and he turned to see Loordin, one of the ten-year veterans, who had taught Gelthius how to maintain his kit and stand sentry. His face was covered in blood from a gash just below the rim of his helmet. The legionnaire winked through the crimson mask.
"Welcome to the legions!" the man laughed.
"What's happening?" Gelthius said.
"We're winning," Loordin said with a grin.
"How can you tell?" Gelthius could see nothing of the rest of the battle, engulfed by the press of bodies around him.
"You're still alive, aren't you?" came the reply.
II
From a bluff overlooking the battle, Ullsaard was pleased with what he saw. I'll teach you to patronise me, you old fart, he thought. Nemtun had come running for Narun like a child chasing a ball; straight into Ullsaard's army waiting for him a day's march from the city. Donar and the Fifth had been given a chance to redeem themselves, making a forced march to coldwards before swinging in between Nemtun's army and the Wall, cutting off their retreat. Giving Nemtun no time to turn his legions against Donar, Ullsaard had ordered eight of his remaining legions on a full attack, keeping only one back in case of some disastrous turn of events. The kolubrid riders had pinned the enemy in place with their bellows-bows, their heavy arrows forcing the opposing companies to form into defensive circles, shields raised against the attack while the infantry closed for the kill.
There had been a couple of dubious moments. Nemtun's lavathowers and spear thowers had been gathered in one place for the march and once set up they had reaped a bloody and burning toll of the Twelfth on the right flank. Jutiil had pushed his men on into the storm of the war machine fire taking heavy casualties, but had eventually overrun the enemy position.
Nemtun had also feigned a retreat on his right, dragging the Thirteenth and Second Magilnadan ahead of the rest of the army, which allowed Nemtun to turn his centre to attack them. This exposed the legions in the centre of the enemy line, but if Nemtun had broken through he would have turned the whole flank. The Thirteenth had done Ullsaard proud, holding even after the raw men from Magilnada had started to fall back, giving Ullsaard time to move his own central phalanxes to relieve the pressure.
When this gambit had failed, Nemtun had pulled back his attacking regiments and was now resetting his line on a ridge to coldwards. One legion had been left a quarter of a mile ahead of the main army; Ullsaard felt sorry for the poor soldiers in that vanguard, sacrificed to buy time for the other legions to withdraw towards the Wall.
Nemtun's army started to turn away, heading dawnwards away from the battle. Ullsaard could see the covered wagons and ailur-riding officers of Nemtun's staff at the head of the retreating column. The king's brother would be on one of the carts, no doubt shouting at the drivers to whip the abada as fast as they could.
"Fuck that," said Ullsaard, turning to his messengers. "I'm not letting him get away. Send word to Jutiil. Full march to engage the enemy before they reach the road. Tell him to keep Nemtun busy until the rest of us catch up. Everyone else is to concentrate on the rearguard. I want them dead in half an hour. Remind my captains that every man that escapes will be fighting them again at the Wall. That should hurry them up."
As the messengers rode away, Ullsaard swung himself up into Blackfang's saddle. It was time to hammer home the advantage.
III
Nemtun's army had been broken and scattered. All but the Thirteenth had been let loose on general pursuit, and would chase after their fleeing foes until nightfall. Ullsaard had kept his legion with him, though Anasind had grumbled that the men wouldn't like being denied the spoils of victory.
"Don't worry, I'll give them some extra money," Ullsaard said as he marched the Thirteenth along the road towards the Wall. "And they'll get to see something they'll enjoy."
A quarter of a mile ahead a few hundred legionnaires escorted Nemtun's caravan. It was almost comical; abada plodding along the road, the legionnaires arranged to either side looking over their shoulders at the legion closing on them at a quick march.
The escort finally lost their nerve and bolted for the hills when Ullsaard was two hundred paces behind them. The wagons continued to rumble along the road even as drivers leapt from the boards and followed the legionnaires. Ullsaard urged Blackfang into a loping run and the companies of Thirteenth followed, charging along the road to catch the carts.
This is too easy, thought Ullsaard. He expected to find that Nemtun had sent the wagons away as a lure and was waddling to safety across the hills somewhere.
Catching up with the carts, the legionnaires leapt up onto them and pulled the abada to a stop. Ullsaard rode along the line of wagons and saw a legionnaire leaping down to the road a little way ahead, holding his hand to his side. Blood poured from a cut, no doubt inflicted by Nemtun. Ullsaard felt a moment of happiness he had not experienced except in Allenya's company. The Crown was the grand prize, but repaying the insult Nemtun had heaped upon Ullsaard was a worthy second place.
The general pulled his spear from behind his saddle and dismounted, leading his ailur by the reins until he came level with Nemtun's carriage. He tied Blackfang to the back of the cart and walked to the front, spear over his shoulder. There was nobody to be seen, the curtains at the front of the compartment closed.
"Don't make me poke you until you come out," Ullsaard called.
He waited as the carriage rocked from side to side on its axles. Nemtun appeared through the curtains, a bloodied sword in one hand. The former governor looked at the lines of legionnaires gathering around him and tossed down the weapon.
"Are you surrendering?" Ullsaard asked.
Nemtun nodded with a scowl.
"Even an Enairian cock-eater can win when he's got more men," he snarled.
Nemtun lowered himself to his knees and shuffled to the side of the driving board before swinging his fat legs over the edge and dropping awkwardly to the road. There was no hint of dejection in him as he walked up to Ullsaard, thumbs tucked into his belt.
"You still haven't won, you know?" Nemtun said. "You think my brother will barter for me? He doesn't give two shits for me, and even less for you. Don't fool yourself. You've got this far, but you won't get any farther. Ten legions hold the Wall against you."
"No, they don't," Ullsaard replied. "You're full of shit."
Nemtun met Ullsaard's stare.
"If you do beat my brother, I'll govern Okhar for you."
"No, you won't," Ullsaard said quietly. "I've promised Okhar to my
eldest son."
Incomprehension clouded Nemtun's features.
"So what are you going to do with m-"
Ullsaard's spear plunged through Nemtun's white shirt, catching him just below the right side of the ribcage. Red seeped through the cloth as the former governor, a Prince of the Blood, fell to his knees, cheek and chins wobbling. Ullsaard clubbed him across the face with the butt of his spear, breaking his nose and sending him sprawling to his back. Tossing the weapon aside, he grabbed the dazed man's wrist in both hands and heaved, dragging him a few steps along the side of the wagon.
"You're a fucking disgrace," said Ullsaard, rolling his shoulder as if he had strained something.
Recovering his senses a little, Nemtun flapped a hand at his stomach, blood seeping through his pudgy fingers and dripping onto his bare legs.
"That's it?" Nemtun snapped. "Fuck you, Ullsaard! It'll take more than that to kill me."
Ullsaard said nothing. Nemtun's eyes widened with terror as he heard a growl from just behind him. Blackfang took a step towards the prince, sniffing the air, tongue licking out. Nemtun tried to edge away, sliding himself along the road, but the noise attracted the ailur's attention and her blinded face snapped in his direction.
She pounced, slashing and biting wildly in her blinkered state. Ullsaard watched silently while the legionnaires hooted and cheered the grisly display, laughter greeting Nemtun's girlish screams until he fell silent, flesh shredded to the bone, throat ripped open.
Blackfang settled down to feed, licking at the streams of blood pouring across the stone slabs of the road.
Ullsaard looked away from the ailur's feasting. He gazed down the road towards the grey smudge that was the Wall. He didn't see the miles of stone. He looked upon the city beyond; the towers and walls and streets of Askh; and at their heart, the palaces of the king. His mind's eye arrowed to the heart of the palace, to the audience hall, where an old, bitter man sat with the golden Crown upon his wrinkled head.
"You're next, Lutaar," he growled quietly. "Just a few more days of being king. I hope you're ready."
Askhor
Spring, 210th Year of Askh
I
It rained. As if all the clouds above the mountains had come together in one last act to defy Ullsaard, the skies poured down in a torrent that lasted three days. Much to the amazement and amusement of his men, on the evening of the third day of the storm Ullsaard strode out into the central drilling square of the camp, naked save for his spear, helmet and shield. He stood with arms raised aloft, water streaming from his body, dripping from his beard.
"Is that it?" he shouted with glee. "Is that all you have left? Ice and blood and the Wall didn't stop us! You think pissing on me is going to end this?"
Encouraged by their general's odd behaviour, some of the offduty legionnaires stripped away their armour and joined him, splashing each other and throwing handfuls of mud in defiance of the weather.
A crack of thunder brought them to a standstill. Lightning flashed down, striking the flag pole atop a nearby tent, splintering the wood.
"Come on!" bellowed Ullsaard, staring up into the storm clouds. "You can fucking growl all you like, I'm not going away!"
The deluge continued and the thunder rumbled on. Ullsaard closed his eyes and listened to the rain hammering on helmet and shield, felt the storm clawing at his skin. He had not been so invigorated since he had faced the behemodon singlehanded. His flesh tingled with excitement and the Blood coursed through his body, suffusing him with excitement and energy.
He opened his eyes and turned to coldwards, pointing his spear through the haze of rain in the direction of Askh, only half a day's march away.
"I'm coming for you, Lutaar!" he cried. "I'm coming!"
Still abuzz with sensation, Ullsaard laughed and stalked back to his tent.
II
The following dawn brought a cloudless sky. Ullsaard had not slept and at the first bell of Dawnwatch he put on his armour, ate a swift breakfast of dried fruit and bread and left his pavilion to see what was happening. The ground was a mire underfoot despite the plank walkways and he sloshed through the camp to the coldwards wall. He kicked thick mud from his boots and pulled himself up the ladder to the gate tower.
From this vantage point he could see Askh in the morning haze. The Royal Hill stood out in the rosy light against the blues and purples of the mountains. It was a beautiful city, majestic with its white stone and marble.
"General, is that a legion camp?" said the legionnaire behind him, pointing slightly to dawnwards.
Ullsaard could see a makeshift wall less than five miles away, built on a shallow rise. It was undoubtedly a camp, housing four or five legions judging by its size. Ullsaard's mood soured at the sight.
"Who is it?" the legionnaire asked.
"Cosuas," Ullsaard replied.
III
The two armies faced each other across a stretch of farmland filled with the green shoots of cereal. Ullsaard's legions were arranged in two lines of phalanxes along a ridge facing coldwards, the companies interspersed with lava-throwers, squadrons of kolubrid riders and batteries of spear throwers; Cosuas's much smaller force occupied a solitary hill, forming a complete circle about its summit like the Crown they protected. Half a mile separated the two hosts.
At the chime of Noonwatch, Ullsaard mounted Blackfang and rode out towards the enemy, spear slung behind him, sword sheathed. Though the sun was drying the ground, the rutted track he followed was as much stream as road. Cresting a rise on the road, he saw a lone figure breaking from the enemy army, walking slowly down the hill towards him. The man carried a mace in his left hand and a large oval shield in the other.
The two of them met at the gate of a farmyard halfway between the armies. Ullsaard dismounted, tied Blackfang to the fence and waited as Cosuas strode up the road. Ullsaard stood patiently with his hands clasped behind him as the aging general set his shield against a gatepost and slung his mace to the ground beside it.
"I expected to see you here," said Ullsaard. "But I don't know how you made it."
Cosuas gave Ullsaard a lopsided smile and his eyes were bright with excitement.
"Found the end of the Greenwater, lad!" he said. "Can you fucking believe it? Nearly fifteen hundred miles hotwards of here, we reached the sea. Golden sandy beaches, strange trees with nuts the size of your head. Got word of what you were up to, built some ships and sailed all the way up the dawnwards coast, round Nemuria, and landed last winter while you were still stuck in the snow. You've had me running between the Wall and the coast and back again with your tricks."
"Never have a straight fight if you can avoid it," said Ullsaard. "You taught me that."
Cosuas looked Ullsaard up and down.
"Not as big as your nuts, I reckon," Cosuas said. "What the fuck are you doing? You don't want to be king."
"I'm not your son," Ullsaard said. "Just thought you should know that. I'm Lutaar's bastard, one of the Blood."
Cosuas took this news with a nod.
"I never figured for that," he said. "I wasn't sure you were mine, you certainly don't look like me. Thought your mother got knocked up by some other man."
"Why did you save her? Why didn't you hand her over to the Brotherhood like you were meant to?"
Cosuas wiped a hand over his bald head. The breeze was cooling, but the sun was strong and both men were sweating in their armour.
"What can I say?" Cosuas said. "I loved your mother. I didn't know what the Brotherhood would do with her, but I knew none of the poor bitches sent to the Grand Precincts came back. I didn't want that to happen to her."
"And during all those years we campaigned together, you never said a word about it."
Cosuas shrugged.
"It wasn't my place. If your mother wanted her secrets, who was I to stop her? What good would it have done?"
Ullsaard crossed his arms and nodded in agreement.
"That's the past," he said. "We need to talk about
the future. Don't fight me."
Cosuas said nothing.
"I know you like to see yourself as the simple general, but you can fucking count!" snapped Ullsaard, stepping towards his mentor. "I've got ten legions; you've got what? Four? Five?"
"Four and a half," Cosuas replied. "In a superior defensive position."
"Bollocks! You could be on a fucking mountain and you couldn't even those odds."
"If you're so sure, why are we talking?"
"Don't let me beat you," said Ullsaard. "What's Lutaar to you, anyway? He's just some cunt whose family killed yours. What do you owe him?"
"My allegiance," growled Cosuas. He waved a hand angrily at Ullsaard. "That's your problem, you traitorous shit. Your word is worthless. What have you done? You think you've solved something? All you've done is reduce the empire to a bauble that men can scrap and claw at each other over."
Cosuas took a few paces away and turned on Ullsaard, spittle flying from his lips.
"Don't you fucking get it, Ullsaard? You've broken everything! What happens the next time a general doesn't like his orders and decides to get even? What happens when a governor thinks he might just raise a legion or two of his own to settle an argument with his neighbour? Askh, the Crown, the Blood, none of it means anything if you take it for yourself."
"I am of the Blood," said Ullsaard. "I have been denied my inheritance."
