by Gav Thorpe
The general began to have nightmares. Nothing distinct, nothing he could place when he woke, but every morning he would have a lingering feeling of dread and oppression. He could tell others were affected the same; a surly mood born of fatigue and worry enveloped the camp.
The snowstorm was almost permanent. It became a constant job for the legionnaires to shovel ice and snow into wagons and take it out of the camp. Tents were flattened and the walls needed continual repairs to guard against the weight of the cold deluge.
By Midwinter's day, as close as Ullsaard could reckon it, it had snowed for thirty-eight days without surcease. Sickness, death and desertion since the winter began had robbed him of more than two and a half thousand men. The bodies of a thousand had been buried in the forests a few miles from the camp: the army could not spare the wood to build pyres. Ullsaard had promised that proper ceremonies would be carried out in the spring, but he could feel the will of his legions being sapped day by day.
There was no open rebellion, but the grind of daily life that had once been the machinery of discipline had become a soulbreaking series of never-ending chores without end in sight. Not even in the blasting heat of Mekha had he known the morale of his soldiers to fall so low. There was no enemy to fight, no foe to blame for the misery they endured, and so the grumbling turned against the officers and, with an inevitability Ullsaard had feared, the camp talk began to whisper questions about Ullsaard's endeavour and the wisdom of his bid for the throne.
He discussed the matter with Anasind and the other First Captains, but there was not a lot they could do. Rumour and gossip was part of legion life and couldn't be stopped. The weather was beyond their control. All that could be done to keep the men warm and fed was being done. Ullsaard all but emptied the coin store giving the men advance pay, but it was nothing more than a gesture for there was nothing to spend it on. Parmia was only ten miles away, but in the blizzards it was a journey of several days and no man had neither the time nor the will for such an expedition just to drink wine, eat a fine meal or have sex with a prostitute.
Midwinter's night found Ullsaard walking the ramparts, trying to cheer up his men whilst showing them that he shared their predicament. They were respectful but quiet. He had always enjoyed a good relationship with the common soldiers, having been a legionnaire himself before ascending the ranks, but he sensed a divide. It didn't matter that he could have quit the camp and lived in Parmia in more comfort, but chose not to; it was no argument that he shovelled as much snow as the next man. Deep down, every soldier knew that they were here because of their general, and the old questions came to the fore: what were they getting out of it? Who were they fighting? What were they fighting for?
The questions were unasked; it was legion tradition not to openly defy superiors even in dire circumstances. That made it all the harder for Ullsaard to confront. He asked the men what was on their minds and got the same replies: the cold; the thin stew for dinner; the loss of a friend or officer. Nobody was saying what they were thinking.
Ullsaard returned to his tent feeling exhausted, knowing he had accomplished little if anything on his tour. He dismissed the servants after they had brought hot wine and sat in his campaign chair with both cloak and thick blanket wrapped around him. There he brooded until the early hours of the morning.
IV
Third captain Huuril woke up from a dream of spiralling shadows and golden eyes. Blinking in the darkness of the tent, he stared up, the whispers of the dream lingering in his mind. As he listened to the half-heard voices, the golden eyes came back to him, surrounded by a swirl of dark smoke writhing in strange patterns. The golden eyes hovered in the gloom just in front of him, staring unblinking into his soul.
He could not break his gaze as the eyes came closer, burning into him. He felt them upon his own eyeballs while the twisting black smoke writhed into his ears and nose and mouth. He closed his eyes and the golden orbs were there, inside his eyelids, burrowing into his brain. He could hear nothing except that rapid whispering, a litany of meaningless syllables pouring into his thoughts.
Huuril's eyes snapped open, flecks of gold in their veins. He looked to his right to see the others in the tent rising from their beds. He felt the urge that propelled them and stood. Together they put on their gear and took their weapons from the rack along the side of the tent. They mustered in a line outside, staring numbly ahead.
The meaningless whisper returned and the twenty men stepped together, turning towards the centre of the camp.
V
Noran was instantly awake. It took him a moment to work out what had disturbed him: the quiet tread of feet and jangle of armour. It was out of place, a break in the routine he had become accustomed to in the camp. Quickly slipping on his clothes, skin prickling in the cold, he padded to the door of his tent.
Behind him a servant, woken by his master's movements, asked if he could help. Noran shushed him into silence and peered through the tent flap.
The snow had stopped, but there was an icy tinge to the air, like a frozen mist. There was not a breath of wind, no singing across the ropes, no flap of canvas. Above, there was not a cloud in the sky, and no moon, but starlight shimmered through the strange fog. The stillness was unnerving and Noran instinctively grabbed his sword belt from the table close at hand. Strapping it on, he stepped outside.
A glance to his right showed the two sentries standing in front of Ullsaard's red pavilion. Further along the row of tents, he could see more legionnaires standing guard at the end of the street of wooden planks.
To the left, he saw a group of men approaching through the sparkling light; it was their noise he had heard. Noran shrank back beside his tent as he saw twenty legionnaires marching in step, heading directly towards him, shields and spears at the ready. He could hear nothing else across the camp save for the distant, muffled calls of men on the walls confirming the hour of the watch.
The approaching legionnaires were barely a dozen paces away. Noran looked at their faces and saw slack expressions, like men sleeping. Their eyes were open and by the light of the stars Noran thought he saw a strange glitter to them, with a hint of gold. He stayed immobile as the soldiers marched closer, armour jingling, feet tramping in time. They seemed intent on Ullsaard's pavilion.
Noran was going to shout a warning or a challenge, but stopped.
He was sure that they meant to slay Ullsaard, and he hesitated. Ullsaard's death would solve so many problems. This whole misadventure had been his doing, and with one spear thrust it could be ended. Noran could return to a semblance of normality. He would no longer have to worry about his indiscretion with Meliu.
Ullsaard's death would make life far simpler for Noran.
Crouched in the shadow of his tent, he watched the legionnaires pass, disturbed by their shining eyes. As they came level with him, he heard a faint whispering floating on the edge of hearing. It was not the soldiers, their lips were unmoving.
Guilt at his inactivity gripped Noran, but there was nothing he could do. Twenty men would cut him down in an instant and Ullsaard would still die. He clenched his fists and bit his lip as the men continued past, no more than twenty paces from the door to the general's pavilion. The sentries outside looked curiously at their fellow legionnaires, but they had no more chance of stopping them than Noran.
But the guilt was too much. Noran had betrayed Ullsaard badly enough, he could not salve his conscience with more treachery.
"Hey!" he shouted, stepping out from the shadow with his now-drawn sword in hand. "Stop there!"
The twenty legionnaires halted and turned on the spot to face him, moving in time with each other. Terror gripped Noran as flickering eyes stared at him and twenty spearpoints lowered in his direction. The mesmerised soldiers regarded him for a moment and turned away to continue towards the general's pavilion.
"Ullsaard!" Noran bellowed, running towards the closest legionnaire.
He swung his sword at the man's undefended back, smashing
it against the scale armour, bronze slicing bronze. The legionnaire fell wordlessly, collapsing on his face. The others rounded on Noran in an instant.
"Alarm!" Noran's voice broke into a wordless shriek as a spearpoint caught him in the shoulder.
He batted away another thrust, stumbling backwards. A third spear caught him in the thigh, ripping through the flesh. Noran fell with a cry of pain as the spear was pulled from the wound. He swung his sword blindly, slashing across the legs of the man that had attacked him. The legionnaire toppled to one side without even a grunt, his golden eyes staring at Noran past the bleeding stump of his leg.
More spears closed in on Noran as he shouted again.
VI
Hearing his name being called, Ullsaard snapped out of his fugue. He recognised Noran's voice just outside the pavilion, and heard the familiar sound of a sword blow. The general was on his feet in a heartbeat, throwing off the blanket. Unsheathing his sword, he dashed through the pavilion to the door, where he found his two sentries fighting against other soldiers.
Past the melee, Ullsaard could see Noran lying on the ground, blood bubbling from several wounds. He had no time to spare a further thought for his friend as a legionnaire lunged towards him with a spear.
Ullsaard used the flat of his blade to slap aside the attack and jumped into his attackers, slashing his sword backhanded into a man's face, cutting through nose and cheek. The legionnaire staggered back as blood spilled from the wound, but Ullsaard noticed a blank look in his gold-tinted eyes.
More soldiers had been roused by Noran's cry and they came running along the street with their weapons ready. Ullsaard kicked the feet from under another attacker and brought his knee up into the other's face as he fell, breaking his jaw. The man surged to his feet, spearpoint aimed at Ullsaard's chest. The general stumbled to his right to avoid the thrust and righted himself in time to duck beneath another swinging spear tip. He caught the shaft of the weapon in his free hand and wrenched it from the legionnaire's grasp. Without hesitation, the soldier came on again, swinging his shield against Ullsaard's shoulder.
Rolling with the blow, Ullsaard came to his feet and spun the spear in his left hand so that he was holding it overhand. He jabbed the point into the throat of the next man to come at him, the spear cutting through the side of the legionnaire's neck in a gush of arterial blood. The general waded into his assassins, using his sword to parry thrusting spears, his own finding limbs and guts and faces with each lunging blow.
Even wounded, the traitors tried to fight on, impervious to grievous injuries that would kill a normal man. One by one, they were slain by Ullsaard and those who came to his rescue; one by one, that golden light in their eyes dimmed and disappeared.
When the last of them was dead, Ullsaard tossed aside his spear and ran to Noran's side. Crouching down, he saw his friend's tunic soaked with blood from neck to knee and the ground was red beneath him.
"I'm sorry," Noran said weakly, flapping at Ullsaard with a blood-slicked hand.
"No apologies," growled Ullsaard. "Save your strength."
Ullsaard's eyes quickly took in the injuries: a wound in the leg, three in the gut, one in the chest and two in Noran's left shoulder. It was a marvel that Noran was still conscious. Ullsaard gripped his friend's hand tightly, feeling the blood oozing between his fingers. Noran's eyelids were drooping and his breath hissed through his teeth in shallow gasps.
"Stay with me," said Ullsaard, putting a hand behind Noran's head and lifting him up. "Who else is going to keep Meliu happy while I'm away?"
Noran's eyes flickered wide. His words came in halting gasps.
"You know about that?"
Ullsaard grinned.
"Luia had you stitched up like a legionnaire's sack, but I wouldn't have any of it."
"I… I didn't…"
"Yes, you did, but I forgive you." Ullsaard looked over his shoulder at the legionnaires gathering around. "Fuck off, the lot of you. And fetch the surgeons."
With a grunt, Ullsaard hefted Noran into his arms and straightened.
"Never thought such a streak of piss could weigh so much," he said. Noran hung an arm limply over the general's shoulder. Ullsaard felt blood trickling down his back. He bowed his head to speak softly into his friend's ear. "I didn't mean to take your wife either, but I did. If you want her, Meliu is yours."
He got no reply as he carried Noran into the pavilion.
VII
Ullsaard looked at the blanket-swathed body of his friend. His skin was drawn and waxy, his eyes closed, his hair matted. His pale flesh had a yellowish pallor and there was no movement at all.
"Will he live?" the general asked.
The man with drooping moustaches, sitting beside Noran, pursed his lips in a way that Ullsaard knew was the surgeon's equivalent of a shrug.
"Injuries like that, it might be better if he doesn't," said the surgeon, Luuarit. "He has lost a lot of blood and there's going to be damage to his organs."
"If he was a legionnaire, we'd have slit his throat already, put him out of his misery," added Anasind from behind the general. Ullsaard rounded on the First Captain, fists balled. "I meant no disrespect!"
"He isn't a legionnaire," Ullsaard growled. He turned his glare onto Luuarit. "You will keep him alive, whatever you have to do."
The surgeon nodded thoughtfully, but there was doubt in his eyes.
"You have a larger problem to worry about, General," said Anasind. "The army is on the verge of collapse. I have them assembled outside the camp waiting for your address. Whatever you say to them, it'd better be good. We've had three hundred desertions since the episode of last night, from companies not returning after forage duty."
Ullsaard stalked out of the pavilion to where a legionnaire was waiting with Blackfang. The ailur seemed as surly as her master, tossing her head in irritation as Ullsaard mounted and rode slowly towards the gate camps.
Outside, the three legions were drawn up in their companies, eyes expectantly following their general as he rode to a spot on a slight rise so all could see him. More than fifteen thousand pairs of eyes looked at Ullsaard, a mixture of hope and desperation, ambivalence and accusation.
The general cleared his throat and cast his gaze across rows upon rows of soldiers.
"You have given me more than I would ever have asked for," he said, pitching his voice to the farthest ranks. "From the sands of Mekha to this treacherous snow, you have followed me; out of respect for my rank; out of loyalty to me; some of you even think my claim is right."
There were scattered chuckles to this poor joke, mainly from the Thirteenth.
"You have done more than I have ever asked for and so I cannot ask for more than you have already given. It is my turn to give. You are my legions, and each of you receives his pay and has his pension, as you have earned. That is not enough reward for such fighting men. You have stayed with me against the wishes of your king. I have lost comrades I loved dearly and so have you. What price could be put on such lives? What reward is worthy of such sacrifice?"
Ullsaard allowed his words to sink in as he considered what he was about to say. In the last year he had thought he had crossed every line he could cross, bartered away every principle he believed in for the greater goal he sought.
He had been wrong.
He had betrayed and killed those he had called allies, even friends. He had bargained away a whole city to Anglhan in return for the support he needed. He had turned on his king, a man he now knew to be his father, and pretty much ordered his half-brother killed. He had raised his spear against his fellow legions and he had spilt the blood of Askhans. All of that he could stomach because they were necessary for the wider endeavour; sacrifices on the road to a greater empire and a stronger Askhor.
None of it counted for anything if he was to fail now; his claim for the Crown would be nothing but a vain venture, an exercise in pride, if he was to falter in his dedication. He had one hand on the Crown; he could feel it in his bones. Al
l he had to do was pry the aging fingertips of his father from it and Ullsaard would be proven right. As king, he would make the dream of Askhos a reality.
He remembered a stone, somewhere in hotwards Nalanor, inscribed with the rune of the Crown. He had made a vow that Greater Askhor would spread from sea to sea, as Askhos had promised. The empire was larger than any man; or any city. For generations Askh had been the empire and the empire had been Askh. Ullsaard saw now that his allegiance to the city and the king that ruled from there had been blind obedience. He had believed in the myths: Askh was the start and end of the empire. No more.
"In the spring we will march on the city of the king," Ullsaard announced. "I want you to march with me. We are all citizens of the empire, and in forging a new empire it is only right that you take your dues. When the city falls to us, we will be the masters of Greater Askhor. To us will come the responsibilities, but also the rewards.
