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

by Gav Thorpe

  "You'll pay for that," said Ullsaard, hefting his golden-headed spear. "You killed my cat, you cock-eating son of a snake's cunt!"

  III

  It was hard to make any sense out of the confusion. Nemasolai sat upon the back of his xenosaurus, a blanket for a saddle, looking left and right across the groups of warriors fighting under the shadow of the Askhan camp. He tried to direct the attacks of his tribe with shouts augmented by gestures from his wand – a crooked branch from an irsakki tree tipped with the skull of a sand weasel. He could not tell if his orders were unclear, unheard, or simply being ignored.

  From the parapet above, Askhan youths pelted the Mekhani warriors with stones. The slingers did their best to reply, but the protection offered by the wooden wall proved impossible to overcome. Nemasolai had sent fifty of his warriors around the camp to attack from the other side, but there was no sign of them and he guessed that they had been slain. Ahead, the melee surged back and forth, companies of Askhans giving ground and advancing with the tide of battle as the tribal warriors attacked and regrouped.

  Dozens of dead and wounded from both sides littered the trampled grass and mud. Broken spears and discarded shields added to the debris of war. A few dozen paces to Nemasolai's left, the two sides parted for a moment and the shaman saw an Askhan crawling through the gore, dragging himself over the fallen with blood flowing from the stump of his right leg. A Mekhani warrior, himself bleeding from spear cuts across his arms and chest, heaved himself out of the murk and smashed his shield into the back of the wounded legionnaire's head. A spear thrust from freshly advancing Askhans finished him off in turn.

  Nemasolai heard a shout to his right and turned to see Manamosalai waving frantically with his stave. Nemasolai grabbed the rope rein hooked into the fronds behind the xenosaurus's head and tugged in the direction of his fellow shaman, urging the beast into a waddling trot.

  "What is it?" he called out as he approached.

  "Are we winning?" Manamosalai asked. "I cannot see what is happening."

  Glancing over his shoulder, Nemasolai could see nothing beyond the mobs of warriors around him; the lay of the hill obscured everything beyond a few dozen paces to his left, though the sound of fighting seemed to come from everywhere.

  "I do not think we are losing," he told his companion with a shrug. "I saw Orlassai striking down the Askhan dogs without pause."

  The clear notes of Askhan horns rang out over the din of battle, signalling some change or manoeuvre. Nemasolai had no idea what they meant, but as far as he could see, nothing changed. Shouting warnings, a cluster of red-skinned fighters fell back from a charging Askhan phalanx, some of them tumbling as they retreated down the slope. Manamosalai bellowed at his own warriors to press forward into the flank of the advancing spearmen, urging them on with shakes of his feather-hung staff.

  "I think we have killed as many as we have lost," Manamosalai said, returning his attention to Nemasolai, his words almost lost in the whooping war cries of his followers as they leapt to the attack. "That must be a good thing."

  "Watch out!" bellowed Nemasolai as he saw figures appearing at the camp wall not far from where he was. Manamosalai guided his reptilian mount away from the wall as a new hail of stones rained down on the Mekhani. The two of them rode a little bit further down the slope, out of range and were joined by a third chieftain, Annomasai.

  "We have some of the bastards pinned up against the wall," the new arrival declared with a grin. "Push your warriors forward and we shall finish them off!"

  "Which way?" asked Nemasolai, craning his neck to see what was happening. Annomasai pointed up and to the right, but nothing particular could be seen past the throng of bodies.

  Manamosalai kicked his xenosaurus into motion and called out the names of the senior warriors under his command. He waved them in the direction Annomasai had indicated and several dozen Mekhani peeled to the right and headed back towards the camp, shields raised against the shower of missiles that greeted them. Nemasolai looked to see if any of his men were able to help, but they were all fighting hard, trying to encircle two Askhan companies, jabbing with their spears and hollering.

  Nemasolai wiped the sweat from his face with the cloth of his poncho. It was hot work, even for warriors raised in the desert. The wind had died to nothing and the air was heavy with a gathering spring storm. As he turned his mount towards Annomasai, he happened to glance back to coldwards. He caught sight of metal and with a sensation that felt like a kick in the gut, he saw a column of Askhan soldiers curving around the hill on which the Mekhani had made their camp.

  "Look! Look!" he shrieked, stabbing his wand at the enemy reinforcements. The other shamans gave startled shouts as they saw what Nemasolai had seen.

  "What do we do?" said Manamosalai. "Do we press the attack? Do we turn?"

  Annomasai seemed frozen in place, staring in horror as company after company of Askhans marched into view.

  "I shall seek the wisdom of Orlassai," said Nemasolai. "Keep fighting! Break the Askhans!"

  With that he wrenched on the rein of his mount and kicked his heels into its flank, forcing it into an ungainly run. Steering to the left, Nemasolai saw that others had witnessed the arrival of the fresh legion. Some were calling to their warriors to pull back; others were doing the same as he, running and riding in the direction of their king.

  IV

  With a casual thrust, Erlaan-Orlassai finished off Storm, driving the point of his blade into her throat. He stepped over her corpse and faced Ullsaard.

  "Are you ready to fight this time?" asked the Mekhani king. "No parley? No clever words?"

  Ullsaard answered with his spear, tossing it overhand at his opponent's throat. Erlaan-Orlassai brought up his shield, catching the spear with the edge, causing it to bounce harmlessly from the side of his helm. The twisted beast of a man laughed.

  "You will have to do better than that? Look at what I have done to your legionnaires. Think you can fare better alone?"

  Ullsaard pulled free his sword and broke into a run. He dodged to his right as Erlaan-Orlassai swung his sword, blocking the blow with his shield, rolling with the force of the impact. The Askhan king's momentum carried him back to his feet and he skidded in the mud, chopping his blade towards the exposed knee of his foe. Bronze bit dully at bizarre flesh, leaving the faintest of marks.

  Erlaan-Orlassai kicked out, forcing Ullsaard back.

  "You might need a sharper sword," said the king-messiah, grinning widely. He lunged, driving his blade at Ullsaard's chest, the blow ringing against the king's hastily raised shield, knocking him back two steps.

  "You might need more friends," said Ullsaard, nodding to Harrakil who stood behind the monstrous warrior with several dozen legionnaires. The First Captain gave a shout and led the charge as Ullsaard ducked beneath another swipe of ErlaanOrlassai's sword and brought his open weapon up and under the giant's wrist, the blade slashing through the bindings of a huge vambrace.

  "Coward!" roared Erlaan-Orlassai as a handful of legionnaires barrelled into him, throwing themselves at the back of his legs. He staggered but did not fall, slashing behind with his sword to open the face of one of the men tackling him.

  "Idiot!" Ullsaard snarled in reply. "I warned you never to accept a fair fight. Too late to learn now!"

  With a grunt of effort, the king of Greater Askhor hammered the edge of his shield into his foe's right knee but still ErlaanOrlassai did not buckle. The Mekhani's leader chopped down with his blade, moving with incredible speed for his size, the point missing Ullsaard's throat by less than the width of a finger. Startled, Ullsaard leapt back, shield raised against a return blow that smashed him from his feet. His breath exploded from his chest as he crashed onto the body of a dead legionnaire.

  Erlaan-Orlassai turned sharply, driving his shield into the face of Harrakil, buckling the First Captain's helmet and shattering bone. Harrakil flopped to the ground, knocked out. His men swarmed around Erlaan-Orlassai, raking and stabbing
with their spears. With another swipe of his blade, the enemy general cut through spear hafts and arms, sending both flying through the air in a shower of blood. Erlaan-Orlassai turned his back on the shrieking legionnaires and stepped toward Ullsaard, face twisted in a hateful snarl.

  "Fight me like a man!" the warped warrior demanded, gesturing with his shield for Ullsaard to stand. "Let us see who is better now!"

  Ignoring a sharp pain at the base of his spine, Ullsaard pushed to his feet. Sweat dripped from his beard and soaked the bindings on his wrists and hands. He relaxed his grip on his sword and took a breath, narrowed eyes never leaving the monstrous thing that confronted him. A few legionnaires made another attempt to fell the warrior, using their spear butts as clubs, breaking them over Erlaan-Orlassai's back and legs to little effect.

  "You're an abomination," said Ullsaard, sword circling slowly in his hand. "Look at yourself. You're no prince of the Blood; you're an animal that talks."

  Incensed, Erlaan-Orlassai closed quickly, drawing his sword back for a backhanded slash. Ullsaard met the charge head-on, driving the point of his blade at the warrior's armoured thigh. Metal screeched across metal but the armour held as Ullsaard dashed past, Erlaan-Orlassai's blow cutting air just behind him. The two spun to face each other, swords springing out on instinct, meeting between them. Ullsaard's arm went numb as the force of the blow reverberated through him from hand to shoulder.

  Feet moving quickly through the mud, he side-stepped, flexing his fingers on the grip of his sword to restore some feeling. The Askhan king was having serious doubts about his course of action. His foe wore armour heavier than any normal man could bear and his flesh, covered with unnatural carvings, was like toughened leather. Still, Erlaan-Orlassai was bleeding from many cuts, and even if it took another hundred such blows, Ullsaard was determined to finish him.

  If he had the chance…

  The Mekhani warlord attacked with a combination of quick strokes, sword flashing, parried away by Ullsaard's shield and blade at each attempt. Erlaan-Orlassai towered over him, swathing the king in shadow. Without thinking, Ullsaard dropped his shield and grabbed his sword in both hands, swinging up into the beast's groin with all of his strength. Blade bit into flesh between thigh armour and loin guard, slicing deep.

  Ullsaard had no time to dodge the downswinging sword of his foe – as he had known would happen – and did his best to twist away, the edge of his opponent's blade carving a slice from his shoulder. The king could not stop the shout the sudden pain wrenched from him, but Erlaan-Orlassai was badly wounded too, staggering back as blood streamed from the cut in his groin.

  Snarling and cursing, his left arm useless, Ullsaard dropped to one knee, panting. Around him the battle still raged; neither side paused to witness the spectacle of their duelling generals. Ullsaard paid no heed to the ongoing fight, knowing that he had won the battle if he could bring down Erlaan-Orlassai.

  The other man limped closer, leaving a trail of thick blood across the muddy ground. A charging legionnaire was caught in the chest by the Mekhani general's shield, ribs crushed, organs burst by the strike. Ullsaard roused himself, forcing himself into a run. He dived under his opponent's sword as it descended towards him, angling the point of his blade towards Erlaan-Orlassai's foot. Bronze pierced the leather bindings around his foe's ankle and he felt metal scraping on bone. The twisted warrior roared in pain, drawing his foot back as Ullsaard scrambled to his feet, the king expecting a crashing blow against head or body at any moment.

  Ullsaard saw someone stirring just behind Erlaan Orlassai. Harrakil sat up groggily, sword still in hand. The Askhan king shouted wordlessly to attract his foe's attention, fearing for the First Captain. He need not have worried; Harrakil looked up from a mask of blood and slashed his sword at the back of Erlaan-Orlassai's knee. Wounded in thigh, knee and ankle, the beast's leg finally gave wave and the Mekhani general toppled to one side with a howl.

  "Pin him!" bellowed Ullsaard, sheathing his sword to pluck the spear from the hand of a dead Mekhani. He drove its point into Erlaan-Orlassai's exposed ankle, heaving with all of his weight so that the spear buried deep into the mud.

  Yet the warped prince was not yet done. From his back, he swung sword and shield, slashing off legs and snapping bone. Dozens of legionnaires pounced, dropping their shields to plunge their spears two-handed into their disabled enemy. The crack of splintering bronze and the wet splash of blood sounded loud in Ullsaard's ears.

  "His throat!" he heard a legionnaire call out. "Cut his throat!"

  That's the idea, thought the king, pulling free his sword again. He watched Erlaan-Orlassai thrashing desperately at more than a dozen spears piercing his arms and legs, as the legionnaire's cut through armour straps and used their spears to lever off plates of bronze; they gasped in amazement at the realisation that some of the armour was riveted directly into the monstrous king's flesh.

  A surge of achievement rushed through Ullsaard as he pushed through the crowd, sword at the ready. The last of Lutaar's spawn was about to die, leaving no one to challenge him for the Crown. He stepped up onto Erlaan-Orlassai's chest, his mangled left arm hanging at his side, sword raised. Erlaan-Orlassai glared venomously at Ullsaard from under the rim of his helm, his golden eyes filled with hate.

  "Time to join your grandfather," spat Ullsaard, bringing his sword down.

  He checked the blow at the last moment, turning the blade aside so that it rang harmlessly from the fallen king's helmet, slicing off part of the feathered crest.

  "Kill him, king!" shouted Harrakil, still on the ground. "Finish it!"

  Ullsaard could not strike that fatal blow.

  It was not mercy that stayed his hand, but self-preservation. In that moment as he swung his sword, he had realised what he was about to do: slay the heir to the Crown of the Blood. Aalun was dead, savaged by his own Ailur; Lutaar and Nemtun had both been slain by Ullsaard's hand; Kalmud had died according to the testimony of his son. The only two surviving descendants of Askhos were Ullsaard and Erlaan.

  If Erlaan died, that made Ullsaard the true heir.

  He stepped back, wondering what this would mean. Could he risk becoming the true heir now? What if Erlaan's death somehow completed the ritual that Askhos had devised, allowing the dead king to take full control of Ullsaard? So much was uncertain, it was not a chance the Askhan king was prepared to take.

  "Bind him with chains," Ullsaard snapped at his men, fearful they would slay Erlaan-Orlassai themselves. "He gets to live for now."

  "You are doubly a coward!" snarled the fallen warrior. "I do not want your mercy, usurper!"

  Ullsaard ignored him, and the complaints of his men, who muttered their desire to avenge the many that had fallen to Erlaan-Orlassai's blade. The king stepped down from the giant's chest and walked over to Harrakil, extending a hand to help him up. The First Captain said nothing as Ullsaard pulled him to his feet.

  "You have my orders, captain," said the king. "See that they are carried out."

  Harrakil nodded groggily and joined his men as Ullsaard surveyed the progress of the battle. It was far from won yet, but victory was certain. The Mekhani had broken the line in many places and there were thousands of dead on both sides but on the plain below, he saw the two reinforcing legions no more than a mile away. Without their general and with a fresh enemy at their rear, the Mekhani were breaking away in increasing numbers, streaming to dawnwards in scattered groups.

  Ullsaard found a rock to sit on. He glanced at his shoulder, wincing as he saw the extent of the wound. There were orders to issue, a pursuit to organise; he decided he could let it wait. He glanced over his shoulder to where Erlaan-Orlassai's raving was growing weaker. Victory today was not the end of the king's problems, but it heralded the opportunity to sort out some more.

  First on the list was the treacherous High Brother. Ullsaard had living proof of Lakhyri's involvement in the Mekhani attacks, though he was not sure what exactly it was that the High Brother had done.<
br />
  With a sigh, the king stood up and called for his heralds to attend him. There was no point thinking about battles yet to be fought when he still had one to finish.

  V

  Back in his pavilion, Ullsaard sat on a stool while the surgeon, Luaarit, swabbed the wound on his shoulder. Harrakil and Meesiu, the First Captain of the Sixth, were in attendance; the other legion commanders were leading the pursuit of the broken Mekhani army.

  "You were lucky," said Luaarit. "The blow just missed the bone. You could have lost your arm. As it is, you'll never have full movement again, there's too much damage to the muscle."

  Ullsaard grunted in reply, gritting his teeth as he lifted his arms at the surgeon's gesture, allowing him to wind a long bandage across the king's chest and shoulder.

  "Do we head hotwards again?" asked Meesiu. "We took Mekhani prisoners and they hint that another army is being raised in the desert. There's a lot of nonsense too, about this reborn king of theirs and a great city."