The Crown of the Conqueror (The Crown of the Blood)

by Gav Thorpe

  "Can't see anything," muttered Gebriun.

  "Stop a moment and listen," said Muuril.

  All Gelthius could hear was the thudding of his heart and the splashing of rain. After a few moments, there came a clang of metal, followed by a cry of pain and the splash of something heavy falling.

  "Off to the right," said Muuril. "Not far."

  They broke into a trot, grass and ferns whipping at Gelthius's bare legs, the thorny branches of bushes scratching at him as he pushed through the tangle of vegetation clinging to the shallow slope.

  A hazy figure appeared in the gloom, running full pelt. Gelthius brought up his spear out of instinct, teeth clenched despite the pain in his jaw.

  The shape resolved into Loordin, without shield or helmet, the broken haft of his spear in one hand. He shouted in alarm and turned away before Gebriun's call halted him. Wide-eyed, the legionnaire approached, wiping the rain from his face with a bloodstained hand.

  "Fuck me," said Loordin. "I thought you were all dead."

  "No such luck for you," said Muuril. He pointed at the blood staining the soldier's fist. "Been having your own fun?"

  "Got the drop on two of them," said Loordin, chest still heaving. "Ran away from the other three. One of them's got a bow. Almost winged me, the bastard."

  "Where's your shield?" asked Gebriun.

  "Too fucking heavy by far," Loordin replied with a smirk. "I didn't want those arseholes catching me, did I?"

  A warning shout from behind caused the legionnaires to spin around, weapons at the ready. The three surviving tribesmen emerged from the dark, looking this way and that as they headed back to the road. They stopped in their tracks as they saw the four legionnaires, ready and waiting. The two groups stood about twenty paces apart, eyeing each other cautiously.

  "What's your names?" Gelthius called out in Linghar.

  "It doesn't matter," the tallest of the three called back. Water streamed from the unkempt braids of his beard, his thick hair plastered across a helmetless scalp. He held up an open hand. "Look, we didn't have to see you, right?"

  "You were going to kill my family," Gelthius said. "What makes you think I'm gonna let you walk away?"

  "Nah, we weren't going to kill nobody," replied another of the group. He glanced at his two companions. "We was just told to stop you leaving."

  "You tell me what Naraghlin's planning to do, and I might persuade my friends to let you go. It better be quick, cos they're not happy about having to leave their nice, warm beds in the middle of the night."

  "We're abandoning the town," the first warrior shouted. "Naraghlin's got no stomach for a fight. It was Kalsaghan's idea to stop you returning to your camp. Him and Mannuis was going to use your family as hostages; send you back to your new king with a false surrender."

  Gelthius thought about this for a moment.

  "Naraghlin's right, you have to leave," he told them. "We'll be back with the legion in two days at the most, and another two days before they get here. The tribe's got three days to get moving."

  "You want us just to up and leave our homes?" This was from the third man, the youngest of the group, his blond hair tied back with a leather thong, his beard not long enough to plait. "Kalsaghan won't stand for it. He'll fight."

  "He's fucking dead!" snarled Gelthius. "You'll all be dead unless you leave. That's the choice, right enough. Stay here and die, or go somewhere else."

  "What are you talking about?" said Muuril, stepping next to Gelthius. "They're keeping us busy until the others arrive. Tell them to fuck off, or we're going to kill all three of them where they stand."

  "My friend here isn't happy," Gelthius told the Linghars. "If I was you, I'd start running now."

  The tribesmen gauged the legionnaires carefully. Not liking what they saw, they backed away until the darkness swallowed them. Gelthius heard the splashing of their feet as they broke into run, until even that noise was swallowed by the downpour.

  "Let's get the cart and get going," said Gelthius. "It's a ways around the mound back to the town, but it won't take them long to bring back more warriors. We need to get out of here."

  V

  The rain stopped after midnight, some time around the turn of Gravewatch by Gelthius's guess. His wife, daughter and youngest son dozed in the back of the wagon while Faeghun drove the abada. The others walked beside the cart, sloshing across the muddy plains in silence. As the first glow of dawn smudged the horizon in front of them, Muuril had to concede to the pain in his wounded leg and ride on the wagon; a decision that provided shallow entertainment for the other legionnaires for the next few miles.

  The sunrise ahead revealed low cloud, the whole sky tinged with foreboding grey. The wind kept the chill of the night and Gelthius marched on trembling legs, his face and arm sore. Though occasionally he looked back towards the place he had been born, he doubted the tribe would have pursued them any distance; the death of Kalsaghan would have dampened any spirit amongst the Linghar warriors. He hoped that Naraghlin would heed the warning and move the tribe away without a fight.

  As the morning brightened, the legionnaires agreed to take it in turns to ride on the wagon and snatch some sleep. All of them had been awake for most of a whole day and the fight of the previous evening had taken its toll, despite their conditioning and determination. Although Gelthius was supposed to be in charge, he was happy to defer to Muuril's organisation and gratefully sank into the pile of blankets next to Maredin when the sergeant judged it to be the start of Low Watch.

  Gelthius slept in snatches, woken frequently by the pain in his arm and the jolting of the wagon. Eventually fatigue won over discomfort and he fell into a deep slumber.

  He was shaken awake by Gannuis. The early clouds were thinning and Gelthius blinked in the light, guessing it to be coming close to noon.

  "It's Gebriun's turn, ain't it?" he mumbled, sitting up.

  None of the others said anything. Gelthius pulled himself up using the side of the wagon and stood swaying in the back. The others were looking ahead, slightly to coldwards. Gelthius turned to see what had caught their attention.

  A ribbon of glittering sunlight was snaking over the crest of a ridge a few miles away. It took a moment for Gelthius to work out what he was looking at: hundreds of spears and helmets. It was impossible to tell the individuals apart at this distance, but the smudge of red and black was unmistakeable. There was other movement ahead and around the main body of men; outriders moving on swift kolubrids. It was the Thirteenth in full column of march.

  Never had Gelthius experienced such mixed emotions.

  On the one hand, the sight of his legion filled him with relief. Within the hour he would be back amongst his comrades, wounds properly tended, food in his belly.

  On the other hand, it was sight that filled him with dread. This was Askhor embodied, bearing down upon the lands of the Linghar with full force.

  Not even on that strange day in Thunder Pass when he had watched the Thirteenth butchering Aroisius's rebels had Gelthius feared so much what those legionnaires represented. They were the end of the Linghars, his people. He had fought in the legion, shed blood for Ullsaard, and even helped put the new king on the throne in Askh; only now did Gelthius realise that he was a part of Greater Askhor. When the Thirteenth reached the town, his past, the history and traditions of the people that had raised him, would end.

  Muuril laughed.

  "Looks like the king couldn't be arsed waiting for a reply."

  GREENWATER

  Late Autumn, 211th year of Askh

  I

  A lush wall of green bordered the river – giving the waterway its name – but Urikh knew that less than half a mile from the banks the vegetation petered out into rock and desert. The Greenwater expanded to more than a mile in width, more a sluggishly moving lake than a river, eventually dividing into a broad delta some four hundred miles further hotwards.

  The journey so far had been uneventful. The inhabitants of a few scattered fi
shing villages had been astounded by the appearance of the fleet and several times Urikh had played host to chattering local dignitaries whose people had been brought into the fold of Greater Askhor by the campaign of Prince Kalmud. Most of these brown-skinned men and women spoke hardly a word of Askhan, and instead made their feelings clear through elaborate presentations of fish and fruits, while boats jammed with screeching women and children carpeted the river with petals.

  Two days ago, these isolated settlements had disappeared. The forest crowded close to the water, the unearthly howls and bellows of strange birds and monkeys splitting the air at night, while swarms of flesh-biting insects descended on the ships every dusk and dawn.

  The reason for the absence of other people was obvious to Urikh; this was Far-Mekha, the heartland of the red-skinned savages, believed by most decent Askhans to eat their fallen enemies and infamous for the sacrifice of their babies to the beasts of the desert. The festival atmosphere that had accompanied the fleet in the earlier days waned, to be replaced by wariness and caution.

  It was close to this place that the last expedition to Cosuan had been waylaid by a surprise attack, and the governor of Okhar was taking no chances. Smaller vessels in the fifty-strong fleet scoured the banks of the river, looking for shelters harbouring the waiting enemy, their lookouts searching the thick swathe of trees and bushes for hidden inlets that might conceal the Mekhani. Behind this screen, the main fleet followed, twenty galleys with full holds, protected by an assortment of biremes and triremes carrying two thousand men of the Seventeenth Legion.

  Turning his gaze upon the tree-crowded shores, Urikh shielded his eyes from the sun rising almost directly to starboard, squinting at the light dappling from the water. At the heart of the fleet, he stood on the raised aft deck of the largest ship, the flagship of Narun given as a gift by the merchants of the city to the former governor, Nemtun. The ship was a monster of a vessel; more than a hundred paces long, built on three levels and carrying more than four thousand rowers, sailors, officers and legionnaires. The deck underfoot reverberated with the pounding of the oar-drums and the creaking of three hundred sweeps, while Urikh's ears were filled with the singing of the wind against the masts and rigging and the slap and splash of the oars. The crack of the flag atop the main masthead, the pattering of bare feet on wood and the shouts of the sailors as they trimmed the mainsail added to the noise.

  "Excuse us, prince."

  Urikh stepped aside as a gang of crewmen attended to the catapults mounted either side of the huge tiller arm. In the twelve days since setting off from Narun, he had become accustomed to the routine of the warship; at first light the two aft catapults and the one mounted on the low foredeck were untethered and loaded, ready to greet any dawn attack. Two spear throwers on each side of the ship were similarly armed, and the three hundred legionnaires aboard turned out in full kit.

  Like the legions they often carried, the warship crews of Askhor prided themselves on their professionalism and discipline, and Urikh had noted the similarities of routine between the two armed forces. He also detected an undercurrent of rivalry, with the sailors and legionnaires never missing an opportunity to deride each other in a casual manner. On occasion these friendly exchanges spilled over into something more serious, and a couple of times Urikh had been forced to intervene in arguments between the ship's captain, Eroduus, and Harrakil, First Captain of the Seventeenth. In the end, the governor had threatened to have both of them thrown overboard as food for the giant crested reptiles that made this stretch of the river their home.

  The men attending to the catapults worked quickly and with little comment, each knowing his task by rote. They removed the stones from the buckets and unwound the tension on the arms before securing the catapults' turntables with a maze of ropes and pins. Along the ship, fires were being re-lit and weapons stowed; the bulk of the legionnaires were dismissed, leaving a guard of fifty on watch.

  All of this Urikh saw but did not notice, intent instead upon the green shores racing past. So effortless was the ship's passage through the water, and so well did the other warships maintain their stations, it felt as if they sat on a lake and the trees and bushes were moving aft.

  Eroduus came up the aft steps two at a time, his long hair tied back, flapping behind him like a black and grey abada's tail. The captain's skin was the colour of aged wood, tanned and baked in the sun over many years, his face pocked and wrinkled, giving him an appearance much older than his forty years. The legend around Okhar held that he had not set foot on land for ten years, but Urikh had dismissed such tales as impossible.

  Dressed in a simple white tunic and going about barefoot like his crew, Eroduus might have been mistaken for any one of the lesser officers. His only concession to rank was a cord around his throat on which he wore a gold medallion cast in the likeness of Askhos. Already sweating profusely in his woollen shirt and heavy kilt, Urikh envied the lighter clothes of his subordinate, but could not bring himself to dress like a commoner; he had an appearance to maintain as a governor and Prince of the Blood.

  "Do you think they will attack today?" Urikh asked as Eroduus crossed the aft deck and stood next to him, legs braced slightly apart to effortlessly counter the regular swell and roll of the ship's movement.

  "I do not think so, prince," Eroduus replied, his deep blue eyes showing disappointment. Despite his rough appearance, the captain spoke with the cultured accent of the Askhan nobility; for all his simple manners and common touch, Eroduus owned more than a dozen vessels and was one of the wealthiest men in the empire with estates in every province and a villa on the Royal Way in Askh. A powerful, influential man in Urikh's estimation, and one he had been careful to cultivate as an ally since becoming governor.

  Urikh noticed that the captain was going to add something to his assessment, but had stopped himself.

  "What is it?" said the governor. "Come on, speak up."

  "I think you may have overdone things, prince," Eroduus replied with a wry smile. "Any Mekhani pirate who sees this fleet is going to shit himself and never come near the river again."

  "Would that be such a bad thing?" asked Urikh, ignoring the nobleman's crude turns of phrase. There was no amount of good breeding that would stop a sailor swearing.

  Eroduus shrugged, gnarled hands outspread.

  "If you plan to send a fleet like this every summer, it would work," said the captain. "As soon as these bastards see ships coming down the river in ones and twos again, I would bet first use of my sister's fanny they will come out of hiding quicker than a sailor running to a whorehouse. It would be better to bring them to battle and destroy their ships for good."

  "It worries me that these attacks have happened at all," said Urikh. "Nobody knew the Mekhani could build anything bigger than a rowboat. Are they using captured vessels, perhaps?"

  "Not from what Liitum and the other captains told me," replied Eroduus. "These were new-built galleys, with a different rig to our ships. I do not know where they learnt how to construct such vessels, but I would say it was in response to seeing Prince Kalmud's expedition to the coast. That and the king's last efforts to hotwards have stirred them up, no doubt. Nobody had ever sailed these waters in such numbers before, so there had been nothing worthwhile for the Mekhani to prey upon."

  Urikh wiped the sweat streaming down his face. Noticing this, the captain gestured to one of his officers and a few moments later a pair of crewmen appeared carrying a canvas-seated chair, which they set down in the shadow of the huge sail. Urikh sat down without word, stretching his long legs out in front of him, hands in his lap.

  "Perhaps we should split the fleet," the governor said. "Send a ship or two ahead as bait to lure out the red-skinned savages."

  "We could cram several hundred legionnaires into a couple of galleys and hold the rest of the fleet just out of sight upstream," said Eroduus with an appreciative nod. "All of the ships have beacons on their mastheads to signal warning. Once the Mekhani are committed, the ca
ptains would light the fires and we could sweep downriver and catch them without any problems."

  "Then that is what we shall do," said Urikh. A breeze stirred over the side of the ship, bringing a brief but welcome moment of coolness. The young governor closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. "Talk it over with Harrakil and get a plan organised by Noonwatch. Make sure there are no arguments. The liodons look particularly hungry today."

  Eroduus departed with a bow and a short laugh, leaving Urikh to contemplate the joys of authority. The prince allowed himself to relax, ignoring the prickling of heat on his flesh and drips of sweat down his back. It was good to have a plan, and it was even better when the plan was his.

  II

  Two columns of red smoke merged in the air downriver, dispersing swiftly across the trees to duskward, adding to the ruddy haze of the setting sun. The ships of the fleet were already moving at speed; the shouts and drums of the oarmasters had begun the first moment a smudge of crimson had been seen on the horizon.