by Gav Thorpe
Askhos threw his hands up to his head and snarled.
"That is madness! They will fight you and each other, scrabbling over the spoils. There are reasons I withdrew those rights, curbed the power of the nobles and the legions. The empire does not need them now."
Ullsaard shrugged.
"By the end of the summer, it will be irrelevant. Salphoria will be part of Greater Askhor and the nobles will be so busy counting their new riches and measuring their new lands they won't even have a second thought to my taking of the Crown."
"A bribe? That's all this is? A bribe to the nobles to stop them arguing your claim to rule?"
Ullsaard shrugged.
"I was quite pleased with the idea. I came up with it myself. I will be going to Salphoria as well, to make sure things do not get out of hand."
Askhos shook his head and slumped back against the coffin.
"Take the Crown with you. Leave it in Magilnada if you have to, but do not be so far from it that I cannot see what is happening. You will need my help, Ullsaard. I have ruled this empire for more than two hundred years. What better advisor could you have?"
Ullsaard considered this proposal for a moment.
"One that isn't dead? One that doesn't want me dead so that he can reclaim his throne? Those would be a good start. I'm through with you. If I never hear from you again, it would be for the best."
"Don't…"
The whole scene shimmered and faded. Ullsaard felt his body disintegrating, flowing back into greyness.
And then he slept again, and had no more dreams.
MAGILNADA
Spring, 210th year of Askh
I
The stink of beer and sweat was strong in the drinking cellar, tinged with urine from the piss hole behind a curtain in the corner. Gelthius was leaning against the uneven stone wall, his chair rocked back on two legs, feet up on the stained wood of the table. A half-full cup rested on his chestplate, kept in place by his clasped fingers. His helmet was tipped forward over his eyes, but he wasn't asleep.
On the other side of the table, Loordin and Sergeant Muuril were indulging in some drunken finger-wrestling, hands entwined as each tried to twist the other man's wrist far enough to make him submit. Further down the table, Juruun was picking over the plates for scraps of food; he was always a hungry drunk.
Next to Gelthius, Gebriun was slumped in a puddle of red wine, one arm used as a pillow, the other dangling uselessly. Gelthius's first thought was how much of a pain it was going to be to get the stain out of Gebriun's tunic. They'd all have to help; otherwise the whole company would be punished.
But that was not an immediate issue; they had another day of leave before they had to head back to camp outside Magilnada. For the last three days, the Thirteenth had whored, drank and eaten their way through everything the city had to offer. It was a last gasp of freedom before they marched on Salphoria proper.
Gelthius had mixed feelings about that. The advance duskwards would bring him closer to his family, but he was uncomfortable with the idea of Askhan legions tearing across Salphoria. There was no telling where they might end up and who they might kill.
"Smells even more like shit than normal."
Gelthius peered out from under the lip of his helm at a group of legionnaires staggering down the steps into the cellar. They had armfuls of cups and jugs with them, splashing wine and beer into the thin layer of straw covering the floor. He recognised them as members of the Fifteenth, survivors of the Greenwater campaign and the defence of Askh. As the twenty-or-so legionnaires fell along the benches and tables just across the cellar, one of them met Gelthius's gaze.
"And here's the reason it stinks," said the soldier. He nudged a few of his companions and pointed at Gelthius. "They let in fucking Salphor pigs."
There were sneers and jeers, but Gelthius ignored them. Muuril wasn't so forgiving. The sergeant pulled his hand free from the finger-wrestling and stood up. Loordin woke up Gebriun, who rose from his puddle with a snort.
"Didn't we just kick the shit out of you cunts already?" said Muuril.
There were scrapes of chairs as some of the other legionnaires in the drinking den turned to watch the inevitable fight. Most of them were from the Fifth, Donar's legion. If things got out of hand, they would weigh in with the Thirteenth, Gelthius hoped. After all, the two legions had fought side-by-side for two years during Ullsaard's grab for the throne.
"What did you say, pig fucker?" This was from the Fifteenth's sergeant, who emptied a goblet of wine into his mouth and tossed the cup to the floor in front of Muuril.
"What did you just call me?" Muuril cracked his knuckles, as much a part of the pre-fight ritual as the insults.
"Pig fucker."
Muuril looked around at his men, and then across to the soldiers from the Fifth.
"But I ain't never met your wife," said Muuril. Laughter filled the cellar for a moment while the Fifteenth's sergeant looked on impassively. "Tell you what, why don't you suck my cock for me instead?"
This brought a few gasps from the Fifth, spits and curses from the Fifteenth. This time it was their sergeant's turn to smile.
"But I don't want to know what your mother's shit tastes like," he said.
Gelthius didn't see who threw the first jug; it might have even been one of the Fifth. Within moments, the two groups of legionnaires were lunging at each other, fists ready.
A solid left hook caught Gelthius on the brow, knocking him back. A legionnaire backed away, shaking his hand painfully, knuckles likely broken against Gelthius's skull. Gelthius launched into the fray, kicking and punching, aiming for arms and legs.
It was a brawl, not a proper fight. No knives were drawn and in the close press of bodies it was hard to land a proper blow. Bodies grappled and rolled over the tables; bottles smashed. There were as many curses and insults as punches. Muuril and the other sergeant made for each other immediately. Gelthius's superior landed a good blow against his opponent's chin, rocking him back a step. He followed up by driving his knee into the man's gut. That was a mistake. His kneecap rang against armour. Muuril howled and fell back, clutching his leg.
The Fifteenth's sergeant raised a foot to stomp on Muuril but Gelthius dived into the gap, tackling the other sergeant to the ground. He smashed his elbow into the man's nose before being shoved to one side, rolling out of the way as a legionnaire from the Fifth lost his footing and almost fell on top of Gelthius.
Gebriun caught Gelthius in the eye with a flailing hand as he fended off a punch. The Salphor heaved himself to his feet, driving his shoulder into the chest of another man, legs pumping until the two of them tripped over a fallen chair and collapsed in a heap.
Untangling himself from man and furniture, Gelthius heard the tramping of more feet on the steps. He looked over his shoulder and saw armed legionnaires jogging down into the cellar. The designs on their shields marked them out as the Second Magilnadan, their officer calling for peace.
"This will not be tolerated!" the captain bellowed.
The struggling slowly ceased as the officer reached the bottom of the steps.
"Your names and companies will be taken. You will be punished for this ill-discipline."
There were glances between the legionnaires; nods of agreement between men who had been trying to batter each other unconscious just moments before. Gelthius helped up the man he had hurled to the floor and received a pat on the shoulder as thanks.
Muuril and the other sergeant seemed to lean against each other. As they broke apart, the man from the Fifteenth spun around to his men.
"Run for it!"
The legionnaires – Fifteenth, Thirteenth and Fifth – needed no further encouragement. As a solid mass, they swept pass the officer and plunged into the legionnaires on the stairs, sending them sprawling. Gelthius ran with the rest of them, shouting an apology over his shoulder as he stepped on the arm of a man who had fallen.
There were more soldiers from the Second Magilnadan upstair
s; five of them between the erupting mob and the door to the street. Three had enough sense to jump out of the way; the other two were swept out of the tavern by the mass of legionnaires making a bid for freedom. Tumbling into the dirt street outside, shields and spears trampled underfoot, they were soon lost from view. Gelthius was one of the first to reach the door and broke left.
"Scatter! Back to the camp when you can!"
Gelthius didn't recognise the voice but took the advice anyway. With the others, he pounded down the cobbled road, the group growing smaller and smaller as others broke away into side streets and alleys. Laughing, Gelthius stumbled under an arched bridge linking two buildings.
He almost ran straight into another officer. Pulling himself back at the last moment, he twisted aside. The officer stopped and turned. With horror, Gelthius realised it was King Ullsaard. He straightened himself as best as he could, banging a fist to his chest in salute.
Ullsaard looked at him for a moment. The king cocked his head to one side, listening as the shouts of the hue and cry echoed through the archway.
"Are you running away from someone, legionnaire?" asked Ullsaard.
"Yes, your majesty," said Gelthius. There was no point denying it.
The king looked at him for a moment longer, and then his gaze moved past Gelthius and under the arch.
"Best keep running," said Ullsaard, gently but firmly pushing Gelthius to the left, back towards the centre of Magilnada.
With a grateful nod and a lop-sided smile, Gelthius set off, winking at the bodyguard of Thirteenth Legionnaires following their king. Just as the road took a sharp turn, he looked back and saw King Ullsaard haranguing the captain of the Second Magilnadan.
"Spirits bless you, general," Gelthius whispered to himself as he disappeared into the market crowds.
II
A second city as large as Magilnada stretched across the plains hotwards of the city gate. The gap between the Lidean and Minean mountain ranges was full of Askhans, nearly ninety thousand of them. More than ten thousand had already marched duskwards into Salphoria, led by impatient amateur commanders.
As he had done many times in the past days, Anglhan rubbed his hands with glee. All those men, who needed food, water, whores, abadas, rope, wine, sandals, and a hundred other things beside; all of them bringing chests full of askharins into his city. He had not hoarded it all to himself; he was greedy but not stupid. More than half the gold he had taken in taxes had been spent improving his two Magilnadan legions; recruiting and equipping three thousand more men, and ensuring both legions had plentiful armour, weapons and rations. He had invested in twenty of the Askhan spear-throwing machines, and had been disappointed to discover that with the Brotherhood prohibited by Ullsaard, lava-throwers were no longer available.
That was the money he considered his 'civic' fund, which he set aside for expenses concerning the city. From his personal fortune he had bribed quite a few Hillman chiefs to cease their raids from further into the mountains, persuading them that they could get more by staying at home than they could by harassing the caravans moving between Greater Askhor and the newly-conquered territories of the Free Country.
The rest he was spending as the mood took him. The palaces on the Hill of Chieftains at Magilnada's heart had never looked so grand, nor been filled with so many servants, administrators and general lackeys.
He huffed onto the gold and silver rings adorning his left hand and polished them on his woollen shirt, enjoying the lustre of gems and pearls. A clatter of feet on the gatehouse steps caused him to turn. Ullsaard was the first out of the tower. Seeing the Askhan king reminded Anglhan that he would need to despatch agents to procure him an ailur, purely for display; he had no intention of riding one of the fearsome war-cats.
"Hail King Ullsaard," Anglhan said with a grin. "I trust everything is to your satisfaction?"
"No, it isn't" said Ullsaard. "There's no decent road to march on beyond ten miles from the city and half of the legions haven't got campsites with fresh water."
"I have been sending water from our wells to help them," said Anglhan.
"Yes, and charging the First Captains for the pleasure," said Ullsaard.
"I have expenses," Anglhan said with a lugubrious shrug. "Wells don't dig themselves, and water doesn't leap into the buckets on its own, nor flow into barrels or drive abada carts."
Ullsaard answered only with a long, penetrating stare. Anglhan smiled.
"I promise that I have made no profit on the water, Ullsaard," said the governor. "My costs and charges are open to be examined."
"Yes, I'm sure they are," said Ullsaard. He sighed heavily. "What about the whores and merchants you keep sending into the camps?"
"I have not sent anybody, spirits strike me down if I lie!" said Anglhan. "It is not my place to tell proper tradesmen, and women, where they can and cannot go."
"You're a fucking governor, not a market stall holder," snapped Ullsaard. "I am issuing a general order tomorrow: any person found within half a mile of a legion camp without a token of passage will be killed. This whole area is full of mongrel bastards from all over the mountains and Salphoria. There's no telling what they've seen and who they're telling it to."
"And how does someone get a token of passage?" asked Anglhan.
"From me or a First Captain."
Anglhan pouted for a moment.
"Can a governor not issue them?"
Ullsaard's jaw twitched with irritation and his eyes narrowed.
"No, a governor can't," he said. "And if they could, I wouldn't let you near the things. You'd be selling them to the highest bidder quicker than they could be made."
Anglhan chose not to comment. He leaned his arms on the parapet and stared out over the assembling armies.
"This province needs a name," Ullsaard said, joining the governor. "Your patch is bigger than just Magilnada, and I'm not inclined to call it Free Country for long, it gives people the wrong idea."
"It used to be called the Faellina, or at least the tribes who used to live here were called that. That's how it works in Salphoria; the place is named after the people, not the other way around like you Askhans."
"I'm not Askhan, remember? I was born in Enair."
Anglhan waved away the quibble.
"The point still stands, Ullsaard. In Salphoria, the peoples and the areas are the same. There are no borders, none that you'd recognise. One chieftain says to another chieftain, 'The land this side of the forest is mine' and the other chieftain says that is fine with him or gets an axe in the head. That area gets named after the tribe, until the second chieftain gets brave enough to put an axe in the other man's head or his people grow numerous enough to gently shoulder the first tribe out of the way. You think Magilnada is a mongrel region? You're going to get even more confused the further duskwards you go."
Ullsaard cleared his throat, tapped his fingers on the top of the wall for a moment and then turned sideways to look at Anglhan.
"Faellina? Right. That's what we'll put on the maps."
The two of them said nothing for a while, both with their own thoughts. It was Anglhan that broke the quiet.
"Have you seen your family yet?"
Ullsaard shook his head.
"Haven't plucked up the courage for it yet. I'm going to get it in the neck because of the whole Meliu and Noran divorce… thing. I can't face my wives just yet. Ullnaar came with me; he headed to the house as soon as we arrived. I'll let him comfort his mother for a while before I show my face."
Anglhan said nothing. He had not delivered the letter from Ullsaard announcing his intent to divorce his youngest wife. Ullsaard must have seen something in Anglhan's face.
"Is there something else I should be worried about?" asked the king. "My wives are well? Noran is still alive?"
Anglhan couldn't meet Ullsaard's fierce stare.
"I didn't exactly hand over the letter…" said the governor. He continued before Ullsaard could say anything, the words spilling ou
t. "Look, it didn't seem the right time when Noran was so bad, and you weren't king yet, and Allenya was heartbroken, and so was Meliu. They didn't need anything else to concern themselves with."
Ullsaard growled and stalked away. Anglhan watched the king until he had stepped into the tower. It was clear that not everything was going as well as Ullsaard had imagined. The governor would have to tread lightly while the king was around.
And that reminded him of another appointment. If he hurried back to the palace, he would have a bit of free time before Furlthia arrived.
III
It seemed as if every third person on the streets was a legionnaire. Furlthia weaved through the crowds, his hood drawn up as a gentle shower enveloped Magilnada. From the shadow, his eyes roved over everything. He noted the shield insignia of the different legions – at least five that he recognised, two others that were new to him. He watched the captains and victuallers haggling with craftsmen and armourers, while groups of soldiers emptied entire stalls of meat and vegetables into their sacks. The army had taken so much grain there was barely a sack or loaf of bread for the people of the city.
