by Gav Thorpe
"We'll carry on into winter if we have to," said Ullsaard. "It'll be a bitch, but it'll be worse for the Salphors than us. Next time we won't give them the space to lick their wounds."
The talk carried on past Midwatch, into the early hours of the morning. Orders were drawn up for every remaining legion in Salphoria, logistics were arranged to pool the meagre resources, and the positions of the defensive line were agreed.
Ullsaard was exhausted by the time his head hit the pillow of his cot. Still dressed in his armour, he was instantly asleep.
III
The sand beneath Ullsaard's feet was the colour of rainbows, swirled into hypnotising curves by steady waves of golden water. Whichever way he looked, he gazed out across that auric sea, the spectrum of the beach stretching out endlessly on the periphery of sight. Ullsaard held up his hand. The air shimmered around his fingers like quicksilver. There was no breeze. Even looking directly up he saw nothing but sparkling tide.
"It's a fucking dream," he said. "Where are you?"
"Where I will always be, Ullsaard," Askhos replied behind him. "In your mind."
Ullsaard turned quickly. The dead king sat on a rock of black glass shaped like two cupped hands. He wore a plain white tunic and kilt of dark leather, sandals on his feet and a sash of red across his chest. Jewels glittered in Askhos's braided hair and beard. He seemed younger. The light of the golden sea reflected in dark eyes made them dance with life.
"I thought I was too far from the Crown," said Ullsaard. "I thought I was rid of you."
The apparition of Askhos shrugged.
"I do not know how this works anymore than you," said the empire founder. "We both march across uncharted lands. In your case, quite literally. It is disappointing that you have had to halt your advance."
"So you know what has been happening?"
"I only know what you know. I told you that last time. Oh, and thank you for sparing me the embarrassment of rutting with your wife."
Ullsaard leapt at the king and seized his throat in one hand, dragging him to his feet. Ullsaard was shocked that such a thing was possible. He had acted out of instinct, half-thinking that Askhos would be formless and his hand would go through him as if he were smoke.
"I am real, as much as any man's mind can be said to be," said Askhos, unperturbed by his predicament. "What do you hope to achieve?"
"Perhaps if I kill you here…" Ullsaard squeezed tighter, until his fingertips touched thumb, the king's neck impossibly constricted.
"Your mind is not made up of flesh and bone, is it? Throttle me for as long as you like. Neither of us has bones to break, or lungs to choke."
The former king illustrated his point by poking a finger in Ullsaard's eye. He felt nothing except a sense of pressure, much like when skin is prodded. Letting go, Ullsaard stepped back.
"Did I bring you here? Did you bring me here?" he asked.
Askhos directed a patronising look at his dream-companion and said nothing.
"You said your tomb was a real place," Ullsaard said, kicking the multicoloured sand with his bare foot. "Is this a real place somewhere as well?"
"What is your obsession with reality, Ullsaard? You say things are real, as if that has any proper meaning. Are thoughts real? Are dreams real? Is love real? You are a terribly narrow-minded man."
"Everything I know tells me that this place is impossible. It is just a dream. It is… unreal."
"Do not confuse reality with the physical. You might just as well ask why water is wet, or what air tastes like." Askhos waited, but received only an uncomprehending glare in reply. The former king sat himself down again and crossed his arms and legs. "Let us talk reality. Your army is stuck, you have no supplies, and your campaign will fail."
"It has stalled, but it has not failed," said Ullsaard. "I will put things right soon enough."
"For the moment, perhaps, but what about the next setback, and the next? Do you think I was able to create Greater Askhor by sheer force of will? Of course not. Empires need to be organised. Endeavours need to be coordinated. No single man can control something as vast as Greater Askhor. Even your governors struggle to maintain their provinces."
"So, we are back to this? You will tell me to restore the Brotherhood. I'm not an idiot. I see where this conversation goes."
"But you will not admit the truth that can be found at its destination. I was the greatest leader Askhor has ever seen. The loyalty amongst my subjects was absolute. I wielded powers you do not know exist, had allies you are not aware of, and even I needed the Brotherhood. They are the empire."
"Not any longer."
"You are all muscle, but you have no skeleton. The Brotherhood is the bones that keep everything else together. This little supply problem of yours? Expect it to get a lot worse. You have more enemies than you realise; the ones you know about and the ones you do not yet see. A thousand and one tiny cuts will destroy you. The Brotherhood is the salve for those little wounds."
"And your means to dispense with me completely and restore your immortal rule. You think I would sharpen the axe for my own execution and freely hand it over? No, I will never do that."
"Then you will die, and I with you, and the empire will fall. It is that simple."
"So be it."
IV
It took a further three days for Ullsaard to finalise his plans and despatch orders for the entrenchment of the Askhan position. When all was set in motion, the king lifted his camp and marched dawnwards with the Fifth, Thirteenth and Twentieth Legions. Along newly-laid roads, across bridges whose stones glistened with fresh whitewash, the eighteen thousand-strong army snaked back towards Magilnada.
On the nineteenth evening of the march, as the scouts returned bearing news of sites suitable for camp, one patrol brought back disturbing intelligence. Atop a hill a few miles from the road, the ruins of a legion camp had been seen. On hearing this, Ullsaard rode out on Blackfang, accompanied by Anasind and a bodyguard of five hundred legionnaires. Following the scouts, the detachment turned coldwards while the rest of the army continued on to set up camp.
"We should have made contact with the First Magilnadan by now," said Anasind, stepping easily alongside Blackfang's loping gait. "They were stationed to guard this stretch."
"Jutaar will have followed his orders," said Ullsaard. "He would have sent word if something was amiss."
As they continued, the blackened walls of the camp visible in the distance, the king doubted the truth of what he said. His second son was loyal and dogged, but Ullsaard was under no illusion regarding Jutaar's slowness of thought. It seemed incredible that some disaster might have befallen a whole legion without some news of it spreading, but the charred palisade on the hill ahead spoke a strong testimony; burning the camp was established practice when faced with an unexpected threat and something Jutaar would not have ordered without good reason.
Pressing on further than the scouts had investigated, the small column crested the hill. Ullsaard dismounted and walked amongst the ruin with his First Captain. The exact state of the camp at the time of its destruction told its own tale. Every legion broke camp in the same manner, and it was easy to decipher exactly when the site had been abandoned.
"This is a march camp," said Anasind. "The ditch is too shallow, the gatehouse not reinforced."
"No abada or wagons," said Ullsaard, pointing to the empty remains of the main corral. "They had time to send out the baggage train."
"Why were they here? They were meant to be thirty miles to dawnwards. What made them start out on a march?"
They wandered along rows of burnt canvas where piled tents had been set alight; between charred stacks of logs; past clouds of flies swarming over the latrines. The stench of smoke clung to everything, but Ullsaard was heartened that he did not smell rotting flesh. There was not a body to be found. It was further proof that the legion had torched their camp rather than been overrun.
"No way of telling how long ago this took place," said Ullsaard. "Perhaps the same th
ing that happened to Maalus happened here. They marched duskwards to confront a Salphorian army. They made camp after one day. In the morning they found the enemy stronger than they expected, abandoned the camp and retreated dawnwards with their baggage."
Anasind nodded, silent and not wholly convinced by this explanation. Through the ragged gaps in the wall, Ullsaard could see several miles further to coldwards. There was a smudge of forest in the distance. Seeing that green canopy reminded Ullsaard again of what had befallen Maalus and Lukha's legions. A quiver of nervousness over Jutaar's fate was becoming an insistent nagging in the king's gut.
A shout from past the collapsed remnants of the gate drew his attention. From the back of his kolubrid, a scout hailed Ullsaard and waved for him to approach. Sensing the soldier's agitation, Ullsaard strode quickly through the debris, booted feet kicking up ash. Anasind followed on his heel, his silence expressing concern more than any words could.
"What is it?" Ullsaard picked his way across the fallen timbers of the gateway.
"Bodies, king," replied the scout. He pointed down the hill to duskwards, one hand held to the brim of his bronze cap to shield his eyes, the leather of his light armour creaking as he twisted in his saddle. His mount's forked tongue flickered in and out, excitedly tasting the air, no doubt the reptile's hunger roused by the closeness of carrion. "Legionnaires. Just left in the open."
Ullsaard swallowed hard but did not ask whether Jutaar was amongst the dead.
"Show us," said Anasind.
He made to lay a reassuring hand on Ullsaard's arm but pulled it back at the last moment, remembering that he was the king. Ullsaard nodded dumbly and waved for the scout to set off. The First Captain and king followed a little way behind, and then came the bodyguard, marching mutely, their questions and gossip silenced by the stares of their officers and the mood of their commanders.
The flash of metal sparkled far off at the bottom of the hill. The long grass that covered the slope had been flattened by the tread of many feet. It was clear that most of the legion had left the camp by this route, marching down the hill. They followed the trail for some time, until Ullsaard noticed a change. The trampling of the grass spread out. He called the scout to a halt for a moment and pointed out his discovery to Anasind.
"They formed line," said the First Captain. He paced away to the left, measuring each stride. At a hundred paces he turned and called back. "Looks like they were in formation, drawn up for battle."
"But no fighting here," Ullsaard muttered. There was some litter still around; mouldy apple cores, a few bits of bone, broken sandal buckles. All of the things that would have been left behind after a break in a march. But there was no blood, no bodies.
"Over here!"
Ullsaard turned at Anasind's shout. The First Captain was further down the slope. He held up what looked like a stout stave banded with bronze. It took a moment for Ullsaard to register what it was: the broken shaft of a legion icon.
Knowing that Jutaar would give his life rather than let the legion icon be taken, Ullsaard broke into a run, almost tripping over as he sprinted down to the level plain where Anasind stood.
The corpses were easy to see now. Clouds of flies hovered over them, their black bodies crawling across red cloth and bronze armour. The bodies were piled together, marked by wounds and the attention of scavengers. Ullsaard ran past them, paying no heed to the story they could tell. Scavenging birds hopped lazily away, gorged by the feast, their featherless faces slick with blood.
In his wake, the other legionnaires broke ranks, walking amongst the dead in amazement. Some — the most experienced — wasted little time on wonder and grief; they began to pull belts free, hooked off sandals and searched pouches for food. Ignoring the cloying clouds of insects, with knife tips they loosened spearheads from broken shafts and cut armour straps to free breastplates. Soon, the whole bodyguard were committed to the grim task; the officers organised their men into parties to pile shields and spears, collect water canteens and begin the gruesome job of bringing the bodies to one place so that they could be properly cremated.
Oblivious to the looting behind him, Ullsaard slowed to a stop beside Anasind.
"Where is he?" the king demanded. "Have you found him?"
"Over there." Anasind jerked his head to the left, eyes downcast, unable to meet Ullsaard's gaze.
The king took a few steps, scouring the haphazard corpses for Jutaar. He stopped in stunned recognition as his gaze fell upon his son's mutilated remains. Had it not been for the First Captain's insignia on the battered helm he might have missed him altogether. Ullsaard knelt down, pulling the helmet free, part of him still believing that the man wearing it was not his son.
The dried blood was almost black and maggots crawled in the many wounds inflicted upon Jutaar. His eyes were missing — probably taken by birds — and his skin writhed with larvae and beetles. Ullsaard could not bring himself to touch this disgusting thing, his hand held just above Jutaar's chest.
Shadow enveloped him as Anasind came up from behind.
"He died fighting," said the First Captain.
For a moment Ullsaard felt a burning rage. The mangled remains of his son were a horror he had hoped never to see. He was about to turn his anger on Anasind when the words sunk home. Those three words were a tribute; perhaps the finest any legionnaire could make of another man.
He died fighting.
"His sword has gone," the king mumbled.
With a ring of bronze, Anasind drew his weapon. He stepped past Ullsaard and crouched to place the hilt in Jutaar's dead grip.
"Now he has one again," said the First Captain.
Ullsaard slumped back, arms limp by his sides. It did not matter what had happened. Answers would come later. For the moment, all that filled Ullsaard was the certain knowledge that his son was dead. Anger melted into the bloodstained grass and was replaced by tears. Head bowed, the king sobbed, while Anasind stood beside him, watching over father and son.
V
Furlthia wanted to turn around the cart and head back into the wilds. Never before had he felt so scared. Even when he had been caught up in the madness with the rebels, and watched the fires spreading across Magilnada, he had felt safer than now.
The Askhan army stretched across the hills for half a mile to either side of the road; right flank anchored against the river, left flank secured by the still smoking ruins of a Salphorian settlement. Perhaps it was Furlthia's knowledge of why they were here that gave the blocks of legionnaires a vengeful air. The thousands of Salphors driven back to Magilnada were a sure sign that King Ullsaard was very unhappy with the current course of events. Tales of the Askhans' brutality had been brought along by the lines of ragged women and children, spread by the warnings of terrified old men, carried from the fighting like the refugees' packs and handcarts.
He was well aware of the strange sight he must present, emerging from the line of Magilnadan legionnaires and Salphorian tribesmen on his small, lupus-drawn wagon like a peddler who had lost his way. The lupus itself, a larger black-furred cousin to the wolves of the Altes Hills, was unknown in Greater Askhor; a gift from Aegenuis.
A mile separated the two armies, a short enough distance in itself, but the journey from one side to the other seemed to take forever and Furlthia's skin crawled with nervousness the whole way.
Ahead, Askhan companies drilled and shifted, as adjustments were made to the line. Squadrons of soldiers on kolubrids passed back and forth in front of the phalanxes, the shimmering bodies of the serpentine creatures catching the morning sun. At the heart of the Askhan line Furlthia thought he could see a small group of officers gathered beneath a shining icon, one of them mounted on an ailur. His gut clenched and his sphincter tightened at the thought of approaching the Askhan king. He patted the letter inside his jerkin and whispered an entreaty to the spirits that Anglhan knew what he was doing.
When he was halfway across, Furlthia noticed several of the skirmishers redirecting thei
r steeds in his direction. They closed in fast, ten of them, hefting heavy bellows bows to their shoulders, bronze arrowheads pointed at his wagon.
He pulled back on the harness and called the panting lupus to a halt. The beast settled to its haunches, a growl in its throat as it watched the circling kolubrids with slitted eyes, its ears folded back. The kolubrids hissed and swayed their heads, their riders hauling tight on their reins to keep their distance a few dozen paces away.
"Are you lost?" one of the riders called out.
"I bear a message for King Ullsaard." Furlthia's declaration was greeted with harsh laughter. He held up a hand to shade his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting back from the speaker's helm. The man's face was heavily tanned, creased with age, his eyes alive with amusement.
"I don't think the king is welcoming visitors just at this moment," the man said, affecting a cultured accent. "Perhaps if you made an appointment you would have more luck."
"The message is from Governor Anglhan."
The humour fell away like a dropped stone, replaced with such an air of hostility that Furlthia's stomach turned another somersault.
"Nobody cares what that treacherous cunt has to say. Best turn around now, you dog-fucker, before we send you back to your master with a bit more bronze to decorate your guts."
Furlthia dearly wanted to comply, but he knew that he had to deliver the letter. He tried a different approach.
"Anglhan isn't my master. I think he's just as much a cockloving traitor as you do. I'm just doing a job. Please, the king has to read this letter."
The scout's sergeant urged his mount closer and leant forward, eyes burrowing into Furlthia. The kolubrid and lupus eyed each other with similarly deadly intent.
"What's the message? We'll pass it on."
"Doesn't work like that. I have to deliver it myself, and get the reply. Please, it is very important. Thousands of lives depend upon this letter being delivered; maybe even yours."
The sergeant sat back. With a barest flick of the head, he sent one of his men heading back towards the Askhan line, a sinuous trail of flattened grass left in the kolubrid's wake.
